Gospel Story Finder

Let me illustrate with an experience the Europe Central Area Presidency had while traveling by train to a meeting. We were taking advantage of the time together by discussing our assignment. A man seated across the aisle became curious about our conversation. He finally asked, “Are you Protestant or Catholic?” We replied, “Neither. We are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He acknowledged that he had heard of the Church but then went on to say, “You’ll never get very far in this country. The government only recognizes the Catholic and Protestant churches. They are the only ones who receive government financial support. A church cannot exist without government financial support.”

We tried to explain that our Church manages very well without government help—that we use the Lord’s system of tithing. He insisted our Church would not get very far in his country and suggested that perhaps we should place our efforts in some other part of the world. Of course we testified that the Lord’s system does work and told him about all the chapels and temples we are constructing throughout the world without having to resort to borrowed funds to build them. He seemed very surprised but still unconvinced.

Seeing that we could not persuade him that a church could exist without government support, we tried to change the subject. I asked, “What will happen in your country with the changes that are occurring? The declining population and the influx of an increasing number of immigrants will eventually make you a minority in your own land.”

With great national pride, he replied, “This will never happen.”

I countered, “How can you support such a position with immigration exceeding your country’s birthrate?” He kept insisting this would never happen in his country—“Why, they would close the borders of our land before they would allow it to occur.”

I pressed on, “How can you prevent it with your current trends?”

His next statement shocked me: “I’m 82 years old. I will be long gone before we have to face that problem.”

A major problem we face in preaching the gospel in this area of the world is the general apathy toward religion, toward things spiritual. Too many are very comfortable with their present lifestyle and feel no need to do more than “eat, drink, and be merry” (Luke 12:19). They are not interested in anything but themselves—here and now.

On a quiet November night in 1943, Nellie Middleton heard her doorbell ring. It was dark outside, but she knew enough not to have the lights on when she opened the door. Nearly three years had passed since German bombs had first fallen near her home, and Nellie continued to darken her windows at night to keep herself and her daughter safe from air raids.
With her lights out, Nellie opened the door. A young man was standing on her front step, his face in shadow. He extended his hand and quietly introduced himself as Brother Ray Hermansen. His accent was undeniably American.4
A lump came to Nellie’s throat. After their branch disbanded, she and other women in Cheltenham had longed to take the sacrament more regularly. The United States had recently sent troops to England to prepare for an Allied offensive against Nazi Germany. Once it had occurred to Nellie that some of the American soldiers stationed in her town might be Latter-day Saints who could bless the sacrament, she had asked her stepsister, Margaret, to paint a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and place it in town. Below the picture was a message: “If any soldier is interested in the above, he will find a warm welcome at 13 Saint Paul’s Road.”5
Had this American seen her poster? Did he have authority to bless the sacrament? Nellie shook his hand and welcomed him inside.
Ray was a twenty-year-old Latter-day Saint soldier from Utah and a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. Although he was stationed ten miles away, he had heard about the Salt Lake Temple painting from another Church member and obtained leave to visit the address. He had walked to Nellie’s home on foot, which was why he had arrived after dark. When Nellie told him about her desire to take the sacrament, he asked her when he could come to administer the ordinance to her.
On November 21, Nellie, her daughter, and three other women welcomed Ray to their Sunday meeting. Nellie opened the meeting with prayer before the group sang “How Great the Wisdom and the Love.” Ray then blessed and passed the sacrament, and all four women bore testimony of the gospel.
Soon other Latter-day Saint soldiers heard about the meetings at Saint Paul’s Road. Some Sundays, Nellie’s living room was so full that people had to sit on the staircase.6

For a couple of weeks I had been noticing a small tremor in my right hand. I persuaded myself it was only stress. Raising seven children can be a challenge, but when five of those children have multiple disabilities, life can be overwhelming at times. My schedule was filled with doctors’ appointments, therapies, daily medication routines, and the constant challenge of helping children struggle with seizures, mental retardation, bipolar disorder, and congenital heart disease.
My husband, Ron, had recently been called as bishop of our ward. We were grateful for his opportunity to serve and prayed daily that he would be able to bless the lives of those in our ward. Little did I realize that we would be the ones receiving the blessings.
Finally, I could ignore the tremor no more and sought medical help. As I left the doctor’s office that day, my life had changed forever. Parkinson’s disease was the diagnosis. Questions and fears flooded my mind. How would the disease progress? How would I care for my family? How would I continue to support Ron in his new calling? I longed for answers and desperately needed peace and comfort. The Savior’s words came to my mind: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
Over the years I had become comfortable with the idea that the Lord had given me my quota of trials; I thought my life would be spent caring for my children with their special needs. I did not resent this idea and even felt great peace and joy as I looked to my future. We had accepted the challenges and disabilities of both our sons, along with raising our two beautiful daughters. We even felt the strong desire to add to our family by adopting three more children with special needs. Each time we entered the adoption process, we experienced miracles as we were guided through each step of the way. There have been tremendous challenges but also tremendous blessings.
In the weeks following my diagnosis I often found myself on my knees, pleading with the Lord. I learned that Parkinson’s is a progressive disease and that I would continue to lose control of my muscles. The more I read, the more frightened I became. I spent many sleepless nights. I also felt an impression from the first words of the diagnosis that there would be no miracles to remove this trial from me and that I needed to learn something from this experience. I felt so alone and wondered if the Lord was displeased with me, if He still loved me.
Then one night, as Ron was getting ready to go to Mutual, there was a knock at our door. We opened the door and found a delicious meal left anonymously on our front porch. A loving note stated that every week on this night a dinner would arrive. As I tasted the goodness of this delicious meal, not only was my body fed, but my spirit also. I realized I am not alone and the Lord does love me. I tasted again of the sweet peace He has promised us. I was grateful for these dear secret angels who honored their baptismal covenants “to mourn with those that mourn” and “comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). I knew that through the ministering of these “earthly angels” I would find the strength to make it through each day.
It has now been more than three years since we found that first dinner. Every Mutual night since then we have received a wonderful meal, always left anonymously on our front porch. Ward boundaries have changed, and people have moved in and out of our ward. But the meals continue to come. Often I have struggled with a particularly difficult day, forgetting it is our “Secret Angels Day.” And then the doorbell rings, and I find another delicious gift of love.
My disease continues to progress, and there are still many unanswered questions. But I know I am not alone. I have felt the peace that comes from trusting the Lord and accepting His will. I know that many of the trials we encounter in this life are for our good and help turn our weaknesses into strengths. I also know that we do not have to bear our trials alone. The Lord always answers our prayers, but often the answers come through those who are willing to serve and be His “secret angels.”

My friend Max was baptized when he was eight years old. His father was not a member of any church, and Max could go to church or not go.

As a teenager, after not attending for several months, Max had the feeling that he needed to go back to church and determined one Sunday morning that he would return. But his resolve weakened as he approached the front door of the church; his stomach tightened.

There, standing at the door, was the new bishop. Max didn’t know him, and he felt sure the bishop didn’t know Max. As Max approached, the bishop’s face lit up, and he put his hand out and said, “Max, it’s so good to see you!”

“As he spoke those words,” Max said, “a warm feeling came over me and I knew I had done the right thing.”

Knowing someone’s name can make a difference.

The other day I had a friend over who is not a member of the Church. He saw a picture of Jesus on our refrigerator, and told me that he did not believe that Jesus was real. I said, “Jesus is real, and I believe in Him!” I then told him that Jesus really lived on this earth a long time ago and that He died, but on the third day He was resurrected. I told him that because of Jesus, we will be able to live again after we die too.
My friend listened to what I was saying as he looked at the picture of Jesus. He seemed to believe that what I was telling him was true. I want to give him a Book of Mormon with my testimony written in it for his birthday. I know this Church is true, and I am thankful when I can share my testimony with my friends.

Before I became president of the Church, I was assigned as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to visit some of the countries of South America for various gatherings with the Saints. We were received well by the countries, by their officials, and by the press.
I was interested in a comment made by a representative of one of the largest papers in Brazil. She had heard my sermon the day before, on Sunday, in which I had spoken rather strongly about the restoration of the gospel. She asked me why Christ was crucified.
I answered: “Because he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”
And her next remark shocked me: “He should not have said it, should he? He really was not, was he?”
I thought she was joking. I looked into her eyes for a moment and thought she was going to smile. But she did not. And I said firmly: “He said he was the Son of God because he was the Son of God.”
Later I read an article in the Easter paper of one of the largest cities in South America. The author was a minister with letters after his name. I read the entire article and in the half a page given front page notice, he never mentioned the Lord of heaven and earth, the Redeemer, the Savior. He always spoke of “Jesus.” He quoted two or three scriptures which mentioned Jesus of Nazareth as being more than the carpenter’s son, but never in his writing did he ever give any other title to the Christ who shed his precious blood for him.
During the same trip, I asked 400 missionaries gathered in a meeting, “What think ye of Christ and the claims that are made?” And I heard 400 inspiring testimonies from youth—sure testimonies, ringing with conviction.
I am reminded of what Paul said: “And I, brethren, when I came to you, came not with excellency of speech or of wisdom, declaring unto you the testimony of God.
“For I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (1 Cor. 2:1–2).
I could not see how we could really celebrate an Easter without discussing the Lord Jesus Christ. Why even the devils know that Jesus is the Christ. On one occasion the devils came crying out and saying, “Thou art Christ the Son of God. And he rebuking them suffered them not to speak: for they knew that he was Christ” (Luke 4:41). On another occasion “the evil spirit answered and said, Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are ye?” (Acts 19:15). And another time, “they cried out saying, What have we to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God? art thou come hither to torment us before the time?” (Matt. 8:29).
I believe that there was a considerable conviction in the heart of Pilate, who was constrained by his conscience to let the Savior go free, but because of political ambitions and other reasons, in spite of his wife’s importuning, he delivered him to be crucified. But even after that, he wrote on the cross in three languages—Hebrew, Greek, and Latin—this famous statement: “Jesus of Nazareth the King of the Jews.” The Jews, offended, came and said:
“Write not, The King of the Jews; but that he said, I am King of the Jews.
“Pilate answered, What I have written I have written” (see John 19:19–22).
You have read of Nathanael, the man without guile, who said, as he saw the Christ: “Rabbi, thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of Israel” (John 1:49).
Paul had hardly made his transformation, had just barely received back his sight from his unusual experience when he went straightway into the synagogues and preached Christ, “that he is the Son of God.”
Why will the divines of the day purposely avoid the names of the Deity whom they would choose to call only Jesus? There are tens of thousands of Jesuses in the world. In all the Spanish-speaking countries you find them on every hand. They pronounce it Ha-sús, but it is Jesus. But there was only one Jesus who became the Prince of Light, the Author of our salvation.
Joseph Smith said: “I had actually seen a light, and in the midst of that light I saw two Personages, and they did in reality speak to me; and though I was hated and persecuted for saying that I had seen a vision, yet it was true; and while they were persecuting me, reviling me, and speaking all manner of evil against me falsely for so saying, I was led to say in my heart: Why persecute me for telling the truth? I have actually seen a vision; and who am I that I can withstand God, or why does the world think to make me deny what I have actually seen? For I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it; at least I knew that by so doing I would offend God, and come under condemnation” (JS—H 1:25).
You remember what Peter said when the disciples were asked, “Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?” They spoke up and said men thought him to be Elias or one of the other prophets, and then the Lord said again, and I can imagine his piercing eyes, wondering and expectant eyes, “But whom say ye that I am?” And the answer was one of the most stirring and glorious of all statements made, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And the next statement must never be overlooked: “Flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven” (see Matt. 16:13–17). In other words, man has not told you this, but my Father has revealed it unto thee; a great revelation has come unto thee, and thou knowest it.
I asked 400 missionaries the Lord’s question which faces every man, woman, and child on this earth: “Whom do ye say that I the Son of man am?” And I was gratified at the hundreds of replies saying “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
And that is my testimony to you, that Jesus is indeed the Christ, the living Son of the living God.

When one of my great-grandfathers, Philander Colton, marched off with the battalion from Council Bluffs, he didn’t realize he was being followed. His nine-year-old son, Charles, secretly ran away to join the battalion. He couldn’t bear having his father leave him behind. The night Charles sneaked into the battalion’s camp in Nodaway, Missouri, he sang to the men around the campfire. His clear soprano voice softened the soldiers’ hearts, and they decided to let him stay with his father in the battalion as an officers’ aide.
I can imagine how carefully Philander protected Charles on their journey—he had already lost one son in Nauvoo, Illinois. Charles’s love for his father kept his little legs marching—all 2,000 miles from Iowa to San Diego.
Map by Tom Child
Today San Diego is a panorama of skyscrapers and freeways, but when the Mormon Battalion arrived after their long march across the country, San Diego was little more than a few dozen adobe structures. Even so, Charles, Philander, and the other exhausted soldiers shouted for joy when they arrived.
Philander was a brick maker. He and three other men made 40,000 bricks that were used in a building, some chimneys and wells, and a walkway of Old Town. With the help of Philander’s strong, weathered hands, the battalion began to improve this desert village, which is now a beautiful coastal city.
Making bricks isn’t easy. They are put under intense heat. I learned from Philander that people are like bricks. His life was a fierce furnace of trials. But he emerged rock solid, with a testimony strong enough for others to build on. Philander and Charles marched for me and all who would come after them, to show us that if we endure trials well, we don’t have to crack.

Both of my parents served missions. At a young age I heard their mission stories and dreamt of the day when I would be able to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary.
Preparing for my mission was one of the most precious times of my life. I was closer to the Lord than ever before. I received my mission call to the Budapest Hungary Mission and entered the Provo Missionary Training Center (MTC), determined to give my all to my Heavenly Father.
Being at the MTC was an incredibly spiritual experience for me. As I grew closer to the Lord, I sincerely prayed that I was willing to do anything He asked and promised that I would love the Hungarians with my whole heart.
Near the end of my MTC experience, I became ill. After a short stint at home to recoup, I was given the opportunity to continue my mission to Hungary. I was placed with a wonderful trainer, Sister Sunshine Nestor, who taught me how to recognize the daily tender mercies and miracles of the Lord.
After a few months, I became ill again. Although Sister Nestor and I continued to work the best we could, I had to return home yet again.
In my mind I had let the Lord down because I had not served a “full” mission. I was convinced that there were still Hungarians that I “should have” taught if I hadn’t become sick. I wondered if I did not have enough faith to be healed because, after all, the Lord protects His missionaries. I had never considered that my sacrifice to the Lord would not be to give a year and a half of my life, but rather to sacrifice the kind of mission that I had anticipated.
As I walked off the plane coming home, I couldn’t help but think that I had left the most important work of my life behind in the mission field. It took time, but I learned that there was work at home that would bring my life meaning as well.

Shortly after I returned from my mission, I received an invitation to go to a dance. At the dance, I misplaced my phone and a young man offered to help me find it. As we talked, we discovered we were both returned missionaries and shared many ideas and goals.
Our relationship continued to develop, and we became engaged. It was our dream to be sealed in the Washington D.C. Temple before it closed for remodeling in March 2018. But after making that decision, we were tested. First, I lost my job and had no way to save money for our trip to the temple. Next, a hurricane was on track to hit Puerto Rico just before our wedding date.
When Hurricane Maria struck, it devastated our beautiful island. Stores closed. We lost electricity; water, food, and other basic items became hard to find. We lost everything we had planned to use for our reception. We had to cancel the reception, and it looked like we would also have to cancel our wedding. Travel in and out of Puerto Rico was limited, and no one knew for how long. I began to feel discouraged, and I was filled with doubt and confusion.
One night, my fiancé and I talked about our situation. Travel was uncertain, and we would have no reception or wedding clothes, but the Spirit confirmed that we needed to trust the Lord. The most important thing was to be sealed in the temple. We prayed to Heavenly Father for help.
Once flights out of Puerto Rico resumed, we had to make new flight plans and reschedule our sealing date. We were without communication for weeks after the hurricane, but a friend’s cell phone worked. She let us use it to contact the temple. We were able to rearrange everything so we could still be sealed! A few weeks before our trip, family members and friends donated shoes and clothing and helped us obtain many things for our wedding.
When we finally entered the temple, we left all our worries behind. We held each other’s hand to enter our future together. I can truly say I felt the Lord’s hand guiding and reassuring us that as long as we trusted Him, everything would be OK. Today, we are blessed with a beautiful son and we are a family sealed for all eternity.

Preston ran down the court. He caught a pass from his teammate. Swish! He made a basket just as the recess bell rang!
I wish I could have made one more basket, Preston thought as he walked into the classroom and sat down at his desk. He could hear his classmates laughing behind him and turned around to see what was going on. They were making fun of a boy named Jacob. Again.
Preston didn’t know Jacob very well. He knew Jacob liked to draw. The boys were passing around one of Jacob’s drawings and laughing at it. Jacob was looking down at his desk.
I need to do something, Preston thought.
He walked over and grabbed the drawing. It was a picture of a police officer. “Hey, I like this picture. Do you have any others?” he asked Jacob.
Jacob smiled. He showed Preston drawings of a robot, a dog, and a dinosaur. They were good! The police officer was Preston’s favorite.
“Can I have it?” Preston asked.
“Sure,” Jacob said.
That night while Preston was doing his homework at the table, Mom saw the picture of the police officer. “What’s this?” she asked.
“A kid named Jacob in my class drew it,” Preston said. “Some of the boys were making fun of it, so I asked if I could have it. Everyone stopped making fun of him after that.”
Mom smiled and hung the picture on the refrigerator with a magnet. “That was a kind thing to do,” she said.
Seeing Jacob’s drawing on the fridge gave Preston an idea.
“Hey, Mom, you know how we’re submitting drawings to the county fair?”
“Yeah,” Mom said.
“What if we submitted Jacob’s drawing? I bet it’d win a ribbon!”
“That’s a great idea!” Mom said.
“Can we make it a surprise?” Preston asked. “I want to see Jacob’s face when he sees his picture!”
Mom nodded. “I’ll give Jacob’s mom a call to make sure it’s OK with her.”
The next day, when Preston was playing basketball at recess, he saw Jacob sitting alone. Preston walked over.
“Hey,” he said as he sat down next to Jacob.
“Hey.”
“My mom and sisters and I are going to the fair next week,” Preston said. “Want to come with us?”
“Sure!” said Jacob.
The next week, Preston and his family picked up Jacob and drove to the fair. There were lots of fun games and rides, but Preston wanted to go straight to the art booth before anything else.
Preston looked at all the drawings, but there was one he especially wanted to find.
“All right!” Preston shouted. There was Jacob’s police officer. And attached to the drawing was a blue ribbon!
Jacob’s eyes got big. Then he smiled. “That’s my drawing!”
Mom and Preston’s sisters caught up. “Mom, look what Jacob got!” Preston said, pointing to the drawing.
“That’s great!” Mom said.
“And look at yours,” Preston’s sister said. Preston’s drawing of a tiger had won a blue ribbon too!
Preston gave Jacob a high five. No matter what other people said, he was glad they could be blue-ribbon friends.

A beautiful illustration of Joseph F. Smith’s love for his family comes from his early years as a father, when he was existing on a poverty wage and was paid only in commodities. In these destitute circumstances, he made a trip to town one day before Christmas to buy “something for my chicks.”
“I wanted something to please them, and to mark the Christmas day from all other days—but not a cent to do it with! I walked up and down Main Street, looking into the shop windows … everywhere—and then slunk out of sight of humanity and sat down and wept like a child until my poured-out grief relieved my aching heart; and after awhile returned home, as empty as when I left, and played with my children, grateful and happy … for them.”

Buddy Conatser and his wife, Marteena Lanae, had been inactive for almost sixteen years, ever since their baptisms when they were eighteen. No one in the Church had been able to talk to them—certainly no missionaries at least until Vern and Wilma Richins of Draper, Utah, came. When Elder and Sister Richins knocked on their door in Jamestown, Tennessee, Buddy started his usual excuses as soon as he realized who they were. But Elder Richins gestured at the deer head on the living room wall and asked, “Brother Conatser, isn’t that a white-tail deer?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Let me look at it. Who mounted that?”
“I did.”
Buddy invited them in, and for the next two hours they never mentioned the Church. But before they left, Brother Conatser agreed to let them offer a prayer.
Sister Richins also asked, “Wouldn’t you like us to teach your three young daughters about the church you belong to?”
“They go to the church down the road here,” he replied. “They don’t need another one.”
But after a little more conversation, Buddy consented. That was Thursday. Friday was the first discussion. Sunday, the whole family was at church. A week later, the family had attended church the second time and had received four of the missionary discussions. The oldest girl asked, “Brother Richins, when are you going to baptize us?”
“When your mother and father want us to.”
“I want you to,” said Buddy. “Since the first discussion, we’ve quit our smoking and we’ve quit our drinking. And we know the Church is true. We’d been hunting for something without knowing we had it all the time.”
Elder Richins baptized the girls that weekend and ordained Buddy Conatser a priest the next Sunday. During the following months, Elder Richins ordained him an elder, and under the direction of the stake president, set him apart as the second counselor in the branch presidency, then as its president. The Richinses also witnessed the Conatsers sealing ceremony in the Washington Temple.

I would like to give you my own experience. While serving as president of the Calgary Stake in Alberta, Canada, I was attending the general conference in Salt Lake City in October, 1960. On Friday evening I received a call at the Hotel Utah, where I was staying, advising me that President McKay wanted to see me Saturday morning—the next morning. Naturally, not knowing what he wanted, I slept very little that night. I met him in his office at the appointed hour. As I sat in a chair facing him, he looked me in the eye, put his hand on my knee, and said, “President Tanner, the Lord would like you to accept a call as a General Authority, as an Assistant to the Twelve.” Then he asked how I felt about it.
I do not know exactly what I said. I tried to assure him that I felt highly honored and very inadequate, but ready and willing to accept a call and to give my whole time and effort in the service of the Lord.
That morning my name was read, along with the names of Elders Franklin D. Richards and Theodore M. Burton, to be sustained as Assistants to the Twelve, with the other general officers of the Church. We were approved by the conference. Officers throughout the Church are selected in much the same way at their particular level.
At this point I might answer the question of how we deal with a dissenting vote. We had one at the October 1977 conference. Some of you heard the proceedings and will remember that the dissenter wanted his vote recorded. This is the way we deal with a dissenting vote: all the people other than this one voted to sustain those who were presented, so I asked him to see a member of the Twelve. The purpose of asking him to see somebody is so that he can report why he was not prepared to support the slate of officers. That gives him an opportunity, if he knows some good reason why a person should not be or is not qualified to be sustained, to tell the person assigned to see him; this person can then advise the First Presidency.
I should like to tell you of an experience I had when I was called to go to New Zealand to reorganize a stake. I had never met anybody living in New Zealand, other than the president of the stake at that time. I asked for a list of the bishops and high council in that New Zealand stake, and as I read over the list I saw one name that just seemed to stand out. The name was Campbell. Each time I read the list I noticed it. Bishop Vandenberg was with me, and we interviewed all these people, after having prayed that we might be guided.
After all the interviews I said to Brother Vandenberg, “Let us call upon the Lord for direction.” We did, and as we stood up I asked, “If you had the responsibility, whom would you choose as president of this stake?”
He said, “Bill Campbell.” I had never mentioned his name to Bishop Vandenberg. This was another evidence that the Lord does direct these appointments.

But on Sunday, 11 September 1983, at about three o’clock in the morning, I had a dream. I dreamed that I saw a native American woman with long braids streaked with gray. She was stirring something in a cooking pot. In my dream, I was in her home. Stretched animal skins formed the walls and roof, and poles of clean natural wood supported the walls, which were lashed together with leather strips. The home was small in circumference, but the roof was high enough for me to stand comfortably.
The woman spoke with me, and we talked for some time. I felt comfortable being with her and felt her warm hospitality. I don’t remember what was said, but she told me her name over and over again—Nanah-ku-chi. Another woman was with her, holding a child about two or three years old, with black shoulder-length hair. Their clothing, simple in design, appeared to be made from animal skins, cleaned and softened.
Three times the Spirit prompted me to get up and write, until I finally climbed out of bed and found paper and a pencil. I then sat at the dining-room table and wrote the words that came into my mind.
The Spirit made known to me that, if I were faithful, I would be led to find my ancestors’ names, and that Nanah-ku-chi, one of the women I had seen in the dream, was my ancestor. I seemed to hear in my mind, “Now is the time to labor for thy dead.”
I felt prompted to go to Philadelphia, Mississippi, where I would be given the names of those whose temple work needed to be done. “Be faithful, and it shall come unto thee line upon line,” the Spirit seemed to say. I have always believed in personal revelation, but this experience carried with it a force far beyond what I had expected.

Uncertainty can be frustrating and scary. Some of the people I talked with in my job couldn’t stand uncertainty. They wouldn’t allow themselves to even contemplate the possibility of the existence of God or life after death. They’d made up their minds before they even asked me questions, and they only heard what they wanted to hear.
I remember one man who said, “You can’t show me the golden plates, so I can’t believe they ever existed.” To which I responded, “Suppose I could show you the plates—would that be enough for you?” And he replied, “No, because I would be looking at forgery.”
No matter what I said, he had already made up his mind that “no” was the right answer—because “no” could eliminate his uncertainty.

In conclusion, may I testify of the blessings of missionary service. Last year, my father passed away at age 88. As a young man, he was called on a mission during the Depression, when few were able to serve. It was hard and difficult. He always said that his decision to serve a mission was the best decision he ever made. When he died, he left 10 children, 9 living; 56 grandchildren; and 116 great-grandchildren. Of his posterity, 32 served full-time missions and 15 spouses who married into the family had served missions, resulting in 47 full-time missionaries or almost 100 years of full-time missionary work. All of this resulted, in part, because one man served a mission. I shall be forever grateful that my father served a mission and that I was motivated and taught to follow his example.

The bus load of excited seminary students were singing their way from Santiago, Chile, to the Andes Mountains. From my seat on the bus, I listened with delight as some fifty young people from all over Chile sang hymn after hymn together, sharing the spirit of the gospel with brothers and sisters they had just met. The joy on their young faces made me think of small children playing with a Christmas toy.
It was 1973, and I was a teacher in Chile’s pioneer early-morning seminary program. Together with my wife and several other adult leaders, men and women, we were on our way for a day at the beautiful Morales Baths in the Maipo Canyon of the Andes.
When we arrived at our destination, our group was ecstatic to see and touch snow for the first time. Immediately, the young people began running through the snow, throwing snowballs, and even rolling down the hills. Even though our smooth-soled shoes were not suitable for hiking in the snow, we enjoyed our play. Then a mountain guide, a member of the Andean Club, saw our group. He warned us of deep pits covered with snow and other dangers of the mountainside. Then he led us, single-file to a shelter at the summit of the mountain, where we would camp and eat.
Our high spirits were subdued a little by his warning, but it was when we started for home that afternoon that we met dangers that required us to listen to another guide—the Holy Ghost.
By the time we boarded our bus, it was getting late and we were tired. As the driver started the bus, a wheel spun deep into the snow. We all got out to lighten the vehicle’s load. Then someone suggested that some of us could walk on ahead while the driver solved the problem. Twenty of us—all men—began our descent, confident that the bus would soon catch up with us.
Suddenly, it began to snow, and as we went along, it snowed harder. Before we knew it, night had fallen, covering the sky and the snow-covered ground like a black mantle. By this time we had walked for about an hour. Fear came upon us, and we stopped walking. One of our group who was a Boy Scout had us form a circle and sing cheerful songs with body movements to warm and entertain ourselves. But as we searched in vain for reflected light from the bus headlights, we began to feel the seriousness of our situation.
After a while, the bus did come along. But when it finally reached us, we saw that it was empty except for the driver. He told us that the bus had a broken part and that he must go down the mountain for repairs. He had left the women at the shelter, he said, and we should return there and wait for him to come for us the next day.
With that, the bus drove away, leaving us to make the long walk back to the shelter. Snow quickly covered the tracks of the bus, and we could not see the road. As we walked, our clothing got soaked and cold, and our feet sank into the soft snow with each step. Some sang, and others walked in silence. But I know that there was a prayer in each heart.
We reached a point where we had to decide whether to turn right or to keep going straight. There were various opinions, none of them based on knowledge. In that moment, we prayerfully entrusted our steps to the direction of our Father in Heaven, who guided Lehi safely through the desert. We did not have the Liahona to guide us. We had no leader to show us the way, but we did have the gift of the Holy Ghost.
We turned to the right and continued our march further into the snow-covered mountains. Suddenly someone cried, “There they are! See that light!” Our enthusiasm and hope were reborn, and, like a well-trained choir, we began singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Then someone in our group said, “Quiet! Listen!” And in the silence we heard the distant voices of our brothers and sisters at the shelter joining in our grateful chorus: “Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on.”
We tried to keep singing, but our emotions kept us from doing so. In vain we tried to stop the tears that rolled down our cheeks. But as we hurried on to meet the rest of our group, we thanked our Heavenly Father for guiding and protecting us.
The next morning was Sunday, and we awoke to the wonder of a world covered with new snow. Warm inside the shelter, we gathered for Sunday School and sacrament meeting. An older couple and another young man who had also been trapped in the storm and the caretaker of the shelter also met with us. There were heartfelt messages, prayers, and songs of praise. Afterward, the nonmembers expressed their gratitude for being able to attend our meeting and for the opportunity to meet with such exceptional young people.
Later that day, the bus arrived to take us back to Santiago. What had begun as such a carefree adventure had become an experience we would always remember. Never would we forget that our Heavenly Father had saved us on that dark mountain through the guidance of the Holy Ghost.

Life couldn’t have been finer for Carlos Espínola in 1967. Baptized at age seventeen, he had served a mission in Uruguay and was now pursuing a degree at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. He was also earning what he considered to be an enormous salary, writing and preparing materials for the Peace Corps on how to teach the Guaraní and Spanish languages—both of which are spoken in Paraguay.
To make the dream complete, Nelly, his fiancée from Uruguay, was ready to join him. They would marry in the Salt Lake Temple, he would finish his degree, and they would settle down to a wonderful life in the United States.
But, unexplainably, Carlos felt that something wasn’t quite right. Seeking spiritual direction, he asked for a patriarchal blessing. “My blessing said that I was to help my own people to know the Church, and that I was going to be a leader among them,” he says. “When I received that blessing, I thought a lot about those words.”
He fasted and prayed to know how to interpret the blessing. Finally, “after receiving the confirmation of the Spirit, I felt that this was not the place for me. I felt that the Lord really needed me in South America. So I made the decision to return.”
Even though his visa was good for another year, he gave it up—along with his apartment, his furniture, his schooling, and his job—and went home. He and Nelly were married in Uruguay. There he continued his schooling and earned two degrees—one in business administration and another in construction. And he got a job for less than a third of the salary he was making in the United States.
“My friends told me I was crazy. But I said, ‘No, I am happy, because I want to do it.’ And I knew the reasons I was doing it. The blessings we have received by staying here have brought to pass many promises in my patriarchal blessing.”
In 1979, Carlos became the first stake president in Paraguay. Nearly ten years later, he became the second Paraguayan to serve as a mission president. (He opened the Chile Antofagasta Mission.) And he has been blessed professionally. For twenty years, he has worked for the Presiding Bishop’s Office in Uruguay and Paraguay. He is now regional manager for the Presiding Bishopric in Paraguay.
“We are very satisfied with our lives here,” says Sister Espínola. “For us, the brothers and sisters in the Church are like family. The Lord has greatly blessed us and our children spiritually.” She and Carlos were sealed in the temple and have four children: Alejandra, 22; Alvaro, 20; Ariel, 16; and Arturo, 14. They speak of rich experiences they’ve shared as a family, both on their mission and at home.
“Our children are our best inheritance,” says Carlos. “They are having experiences that are helping them gain their own testimonies. I can see that they are living on their own light.”

Young John was also prepared to accept the restoration of the gospel through other spiritual experiences while yet in his youth. As a very young boy he had seen in the heavens an angel holding a trumpet to his mouth. When Elder Pratt announced that God’s angel had indeed restored the gospel to the earth, John remembered this manifestation of his youth and recognized it had been given to him as a sign of the truth he would receive so many years later. And this was not the only spiritual manifestation he had received, for he reported that “often when alone, and sometimes in company, I heard sweet, soft, melodious music, as if performed by angelic or supernatural beings” (Life of John Taylor, pp. 27–28).

Another early African pioneer is Anthony Obinna of Nigeria. He relates that one night in the late 1960s “I was sleeping and a tall man came to me [in a dream], took me to one of the most beautiful buildings, and showed me all the rooms.” In 1970 he read an article in an old Reader’s Digest titled “The March of the Mormons,” which included a picture of the Salt Lake Temple. “It was exactly the same building I had seen in my dream,” he said. Brother Obinna wrote to the Church for LDS literature.

In 1978, when the Obinna family learned of the revelation on the priesthood, they wrote to the First Presidency: “We are happy for the many hours in the upper rooms of the temple you spent supplicating the Lord to bring us into the fold. We thank our Heavenly Father for hearing your prayers and ours.”

When the missionaries arrived in Nigeria, they found many people prepared for the gospel as a result of Brother Obinna’s teaching and leadership. The first LDS chapel built in Nigeria is near the Obinnas’ home in Aboh Mbaise.