Gospel Story Finder

Although Elder Wilcox’s father had to work seven days a week, he still found time to do things with his family. “I remember well his taking us kids swimming. On the way back we’d always stop at a certain shop to get ice cream. He also took us fishing. Every summer he would drive us up to Cache Valley, where all four of our grandparents lived. We would stay for three or four weeks. My grandparents were very loving, and, as a result, we loved them very much.
“Before the big dam was built near Hyrum, there was an open place called ‘the holler.’ That’s where my Grandfather Wilson had his pastures. One of the grandchildren’s duties was to take the cows down to pasture every morning. Nearby was a stream where we fished and swam. The ‘holler’ was located between Hyrum and the town of Paradise. The holler was truly a paradise for us kids. We’d get together there with our cousins and swim, fish, hunt, and play all day long. Toward evening we would get the cows and lead them back home to be milked.”
A large irrigation canal flowed near Elder Wilcox’s home, and the children were forbidden to go near it. One day, disobeying this rule, Elder Wilcox was playing near the canal and fell in. Although he immediately grabbed some low-hanging branches, he still couldn’t get out because the banks of the canal were too steep. He was too far away for anyone to hear him yell, but his mother came to his rescue because she had heard a “voice,” the prompting of the Holy Ghost, telling her that her son Keith was in trouble and where he was.
“The thing I remember most about my mother when I was a youngster was that she was the Primary president.” Elder Wilcox also recalls that a favorite Primary teacher, Sister Jones, was a Ute Indian whose father was a tribal chief. “Every year my mother and her counselors planned a huge Primary production for the ward. As part of it one year the Trekker class did an Indian show, wearing authentic Indian clothing and feather headdresses. We had real tomahawks, and Sister Jones taught us how to do an Indian dance. I can still remember the Indian war song we sang as we danced.”
Elder Wilcox’s interest in art led him into the field of architecture. “Art must have been born in me,” he said. “My mother told me that even before I could walk or talk, I drew a picture of a house on her wallpaper. She was so proud of it that she didn’t wash it off.
“My parents provided great role models for us. They were kind and firm, and we knew what the rules were. Our parents were very understanding; they disciplined us with love.
“My message to young people is to never let a day go by without telling your father and mother that you love them. Sometimes it’s hard for children to go up to a brother or sister and say ‘I love you,’ but that’s important too.
“Also, be obedient. Accept direction from your parents. And remember to do only those things that will bring honor to your father and mother, just as we are commanded by the Lord. Remember that no one loves you more than your parents.”

I’m nine years old and in the third grade. I love gymnastics, and last January I had worked hard preparing for a gymnastics exhibition. But as I sat and shivered through the evening, I realized that I was too sick to perform any of my routines.
Then things just got worse.
When I got over the flu, I came down with a disease that made my joints swell up so much I couldn’t walk. Big purple bruises covered my legs. I couldn’t do any gymnastics. I couldn’t even go to school.
Every day Mom went to my school and collected all the work I missed from my teacher. I sat at home all day and worked on it. Sometimes writing made blood vessels in my hands burst into new bruises. I really tried hard not to complain. Mom tried to cheer me up by telling me I was getting good at sewing and reading and other “sitting still” kinds of things. I’m not the “sitting still” type, though, and week after week of not moving around was really tough.
My 14-year-old sister, Jeanne, has a New Era poster in her room of a baby chick trying to crack out of an egg. The words say, “Adversity can make you strong.” I wasn’t sure what adversity meant, but I was sure that I was having plenty of it. I felt just like that little chick that couldn’t crack out of the egg.
It took six weeks for me to get better. Finally I could go back to school and gymnastics. Although I had kept up with my schoolwork, I was out of shape and far behind everybody else in gymnastics.
I knew the first gymnastics competition of the season was in May, and I knew I would have to work really hard to get ready. I did work really hard and was able to compete.
The next big competition was the state meet. My best friend, Natalie, and I did really well at all of our qualifying meets over the summer. We did so well, in fact, that we both qualified in all areas (vault, floor exercise, bars, and beam) to go to the state meet. We were so happy we were practically walking on air!
Then the unthinkable happened. Two weeks before the state meet I broke my ankle. When the doctor told me I wouldn’t be able to compete, I burst into tears. I had worked so hard to make it to state. I felt sorry for myself, and I was miserable. Why did everything always happen to me? I felt like I had a big, sad hole right in the middle of me.
On the day of the state meet, Natalie and her mom came to pick up Jeanne. I knew Natalie was really sad that I couldn’t go, so I tried my best to hold back the tears as I waved good-bye. After they left, I sat on the couch and cried.
When Jeanne got home from the meet, she told me that Natalie had done well and had won two medals. I was happy for her, but I still felt that big, sad hole in my heart.
The next day there was a knock at the door. I grabbed my crutches and hobbled over to answer it. It was Natalie. She was carrying a present for me in a small gift bag.
I opened the bag and pulled something heavy out of the tissue paper. It was one of Natalie’s state medals that she had worked so hard for! On the back was engraved, “To my best friend, Maria.” She said she knew I would have won it if I had been there.
The big, sad hole inside me melted, and I gave Natalie a giant hug. Suddenly the state meet didn’t seem so important. Being friends with Natalie was what was important, and I knew I couldn’t ever have a better friend!
That night when I went to bed, I thanked Heavenly Father for Natalie and for teaching me that love and friendship are more important than winning.

On his birthday, Luke had fun opening presents and eating cake and ice cream, but he could hardly wait for the best present of all—he was getting baptized today! Thinking about going under the water made Luke a little scared since he didn’t know how to swim, but he knew he could trust Dad. He and Dad had practiced how to stand, and he knew that Jesus would help him be brave. He felt ready.
Finally it was time to go. Luke and Dad left for the church building first. When they pulled into the parking lot, Luke hoped that he could be the very first child to be baptized. He and Dad changed into their white clothes and then sat in the first pew in the chapel to wait.
Dad looked down at Luke and smiled. “You are glowing with happiness, Luke,” he said.
Luke grinned back. He sat quietly as the chapel started to fill up with people. He watched as other children in white clothes came in with their families. Luke still hoped he could be first, but he knew there were a lot of other children waiting to be baptized. A thrill went through him as he remembered again that soon it would be his turn to go down in the water.
A man came over and told them that Luke was third on the list. Luke was a little disappointed until Dad put his arm around him and gave him a little squeeze. Luke leaned against Dad. “Today I’m getting baptized!” he thought.
Soft music started to play, and it gave Luke a peaceful feeling. He saw Mom and his brothers come in, and he waved at them. They smiled and waved back, and then found an empty pew to sit in.
Luke could hardly bear waiting any longer! Just when he thought he couldn’t wait anymore, a man got up and started the meeting. There was a hymn, a prayer, and some talks. As he listened, Luke thought about baptism. He thought about how neat it was going to be to have the Holy Ghost with him all the time. A boy got up to bear his testimony, and then a family sang the song “When I Am Baptized.”* Luke imagined a rainbow and how clean and fresh it feels outside just after a rain shower. He thought about how baptism makes a person clean.
A man announced that it was time for the first child getting baptized to go to the font. Then the man called the next child’s name. Luke’s heart started thumping loudly. His name was third on the list. Luke listened for his name. He grabbed Dad’s hand and scooted to the edge of the pew. Luke was about to stand up when the man read someone else’s name. Luke swung around and looked at Dad with wide eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Dad said. “He must have accidentally skipped you. I’m sure we’ll be next.”
But the next one wasn’t Luke’s name either. Again Dad whispered that they would be next. Luke’s stomach felt like someone had dropped a big rock into it. Would he ever get a turn? Another child was called, and Luke squirmed in his seat. More names were read. He noticed Dad was wiggling around a little now too. They watched as other children and their families left for the baptismal room. Luke wasn’t feeling special and excited anymore. He was tired and a little sad. Had they forgotten about him?
When the man started to close the meeting, Luke sat up straight and Dad stood up. The man saw them and his mouth dropped open. “Oh no,” he apologized. “I don’t know how I missed you!”
It was finally Luke’s turn to be baptized, but he wasn’t feeling excited anymore. They had forgotten about him! It must not be important to them that he was ready to be baptized. He walked slowly as he and Dad made their way to the font. Luke blinked a few times and tried to pretend that his eyes weren’t getting a little wet.
Dad stepped into the water. Luke could hear it slosh as Dad made his way to the center of the font. Luke tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he hesitated at the top of the steps. Then he noticed Dad’s face. He was looking up at Luke with a huge smile full of love. His hand was stretched out toward Luke. All at once Luke’s sadness melted away as he took Dad’s hand and stepped all the way down into the warm water.
Luke looked up and saw his friends and cousins kneeling near the edge of the font. They were all grinning at him. He could see his Primary teacher, his bishop, some of his aunts and uncles, and Grandma and Grandpa smiling at him. Mom even had happy tears in her eyes. Luke knew then that everyone there understood how important his baptism was. They were all here because they loved him and they wanted to watch and celebrate with him. Luke found himself smiling too.
Luke closed his eyes as Dad said the baptismal prayer. Then he bent his knees as Dad dipped him under the water. As Luke came up he felt so happy and clean! None of the things that had gone wrong mattered anymore. He wiped the water out of his eyes and saw everyone still smiling at him. He knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus hadn’t forgotten about him on his special day, and that They never would. It was his best birthday ever.

Elder Byron J. Gilbert, a missionary, reported that in 1992 he and his wife, Emma, traveled from Nairobi to Chyulu to teach and interview eight candidates for baptism, but 75 people came for the discussion. During church, they had to fill the sacrament trays three times.9 Another missionary, Sister Linda Leavitt, who served in Chyulu for more than a year, said that many who desired to join the Church waited three months before their names could be placed on a waiting list to be taught the missionary discussions. During the three-month period, all attended church and most lived the law of tithing, kept the Word of Wisdom, and fasted.10

When he was a mission president, age 32, in Toronto, Canada, he woke one morning and felt a strong impression to visit a small branch up north. It was a change of plans and a quite a drive so he had to hurry. He arrived just after the meeting started and went in and sat down on the backbench. The branch president said to the congregation, we have a surprise, President Monson is with us today. We are going to ask him to come sit on the stand. So he began the walk to the front.
Unknown to him was the plight of one of his missionaries assigned to the branch. He had been out only a few months and was so discouraged he had decided to go home. In his mind, he and his companion had no investigators, no one was listening to them, the members were not helping; no one cared about him or even knew he was there. He had determined it was pointless to stay. He had packed his bag, slipped it under his bed intending to leave just after church and catch the train west.
So Mission President Monson is walking up to the front and feels impressed to stop—just for a second—and pat that new elder on the back. Then he leaned over and whispered in his ear, “The Lord loves you. He loves you for how hard you are trying and so do I.” And then he went up and sat on the stand.
That young elder didn’t go home. He stayed and became a great missionary. “I knew that he loved me,” the missionary has said. “That’s what I needed.” And he points to that moment when President Monson, prompted by the spirit—as he always is—had heard the voice of the spirit say, “Stop, say something.” And he did.

Our priest quorum meeting had come to an end.
“That’s all the announcements and assignments,” said our quorum adviser, Brother Reed. “Oh, but I would like to see Greg and Tom Glenn after class, if you boys wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, no” I thought to myself. “I guess we’re in some kind of trouble.” I bowed my head, folded my arms, and hoped that the closing prayer would never end.
We both knew why Brother Reed wanted to see us. Tom and I hadn’t been on time to priesthood meeting for weeks. Sometimes we didn’t get there at all, and sometimes we crept silently through the door and slipped into the back row, just in time to get our sacrament meeting assignments and leave.
Now, it wasn’t because we were sleeping late or wasting time at home. On the contrary. We were wide awake every morning at 4:30 to do the chores on the dairy farm where we lived. Dad had recently had a heart attack, so Tom and I had the responsibility to milk the cows and clean the place, and do all the other dairy work. We had the cows on an established schedule which easily got us to school on time during the week; but on Sundays, finishing everything, then showering and dressing for priesthood at 7:30 was difficult. With all the work that needed to be done, we thought we were doing well to get to priesthood meeting at all.
Evidently, though, our priests quorum adviser didn’t think so. After everyone else had left the room, Brother Reed pulled a chair up close to us. “Boys,” he said in a surprisingly gentle tone, “there’s really something missing from the quorum when you’re not here. What am I doing wrong? Are my lessons bad, or is it something I do personally that offends you?”
We thought we were going to be chastised, but here was Brother Reed, thinking he was the reason we were late. We both started explaining that it wasn’t his fault at all, and we told him about the work at the dairy.
“Well, would it do any good if I came over early on Sunday and helped with the work a little? It would be a privilege for me, and might help you get to priesthood meeting on time. What do you say? What time does the work start?” he asked.
Tom and I had the same thought at the same time. We couldn’t let Brother Reed do that. First of all, 4:30 was far too early to get anyone out of bed and away from his family on a Sunday morning. Second, we didn’t want him to have to endure the below freezing winter weather. And third, there wasn’t that much he could do anyway because we wouldn’t give him any of the really dirty work.
So when he asked us when we started, we told him 3:30 A.M., thinking that no sane person would get up that early, no matter how helpful he wanted to be. We thanked Brother Reed for his sincere offer to help, shook his hand, and assured him that we would try to make more of an effort to be at our meetings on time in the future.
We didn’t think about his offer much for the rest of the week, until Sunday when I got out of bed at about 4:15 on a very cold morning. I looked out the window and was shocked to see Brother Reed’s old car parked outside our house. I quickly put my clothes on, ran outside, and tapped on his car window.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully as he opened the car window. His words formed small icy clouds in the air between us. He reached out to shake my hand, and I noticed his grasp was one of the coldest I’d ever felt. It was obvious he’d been waiting for some time—probably since 3:30.
“Come inside while Tom gets dressed,” I said as I led him into the house. Then I ran to make sure Tom was ready for work.
In a few minutes, Brother Reed, Tom, and I were trudging through the snow to the barn. The one thing we hadn’t exaggerated about was the amount of work there was to do, and Brother Reed did the best he could.
As we milked the cows, Brother Reed paused for a second and rather timidly asked, “Do you suppose I could have just a little sip of that milk? I’ve almost forgotten what fresh milk tastes like.”
We felt great concern for our quorum adviser. Not only did we give him a drink, but we packaged several liters of milk for him to take home to his family. It was the least we could do for him.
It was getting closer and closer to the time for priesthood meeting to begin, and the work still wasn’t finished. Finally Brother Reed told us he would have to go home and get ready for church. “Now I understand why it’s so hard for you boys to get to class on time. I’ll try to be a little more considerate in the future,” he said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and walked out of the barn to his car.
You should have seen the look of surprise on his face when he arrived at church to find Tom and me already there. We had decided that if he cared enough to come out on a bitterly cold morning to help us, we could work a little faster and help him. I can’t honestly say that we were both on time for every meeting from then on, but we did always see that at least one of us was there every Sunday.
And we discovered that Brother Reed’s lessons were actually very good. But none of them ever compared to the lesson he taught us about service and love on that cold winter morning.

Allow me to illustrate with a personal experience. When I was a young child, I was not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Perhaps many of you are also converts and can identify with my story. Our family lived in a small trailer. A neighbor family, the Kimballs, belonged to the local LDS ward.

The mother of that household, Betty Kimball, invited my younger sister and me to attend Primary with her two daughters. My mother granted permission. For more than a year, we attended Primary at the chapel in a nearby town, Valpariso, Florida. Betty Kimball always drove us there and brought us home. Betty Kimball reached out. It proved to be an unexpected benefit in my life. We moved away from that area and so did the Kimballs. We lost contact.

More than fifteen years later, when some members encouraged me to listen to the missionaries, I knew something of what they spoke. Betty Kimball's kindness to reach out to the poor and needy-a nonmember child-had prepared me.

We are encouraged to warn our neighbor. [D&C 88:81] A testimony of the gospel should not be offensive in its delivery, but should be delivered in a kind and loving manner. What could be more tender than taking a child to Primary?

Maria Sanchez also has a story to tell. “When I was in secondary school,” she says, “I was very sad. I felt inferior to my friends. I was timid and didn’t like to stand up and speak in front of my classmates, although I studied hard and always knew the material. I had to make a class presentation one day, and I was very frightened, so I prayed to my Heavenly Father and said, ‘Today I have to speak in front of the class, and I’m scared. Please help me.’ I prayed with all the faith I had, and when my turn came, I stood up and started talking. I can’t remember what I said or how, but they all told me afterwards that my presentation was the best in the whole class. Since then I’ve known that I can always conquer my fears with the help of the Lord.”

When I was 20 and in the military, I had a friend named Brent. He was four-years-old. His father, Bob, was an Air Force fighter pilot with 120 missions in Vietnam to his credit. Whenever Brent would not behave as his father wished, his dad would say teasingly, “If you keep doing that you will grow up to be a bomber pilot”—the worst possible curse for a fighter pilot’s son!

That encouraged Brent until he was 15. One day his father tried the old line again and Brent responded, “I don’t care! I’ve never wanted to be a pilot of any kind.”

With wisdom, his father added, “Then be who you will be, but be Christlike as you do it.” The fighter pilot father knew something about the process of working toward perfection, of becoming more like Christ. He was a returned missionary. He had married a worthy young woman in the temple. He had served where called in the Church. He was striving to keep the commandments.

Bob’s closest brush with death was while making a bombing run into North Vietnam in 1966. His F-4 Phantom jet, fully loaded to knock out an important enemy bridge, was shot out of the sky by a ground-based cannon. He got the aircraft turned around and did not eject from the cockpit until the last possible moment. That strategy got him ever closer to the friendly borders of Thailand.

On the ground he ran from the enemy soldiers and their dogs for 36 hours until he was rescued by a helicopter gunship. While running back toward Thailand, he prayed that he would see his young bride and baby again. But, if captured, he would try to be like the Savior. His faith would allow him to exercise courage.

It was never easy for any of them. Bob has worked hard in his service as a stake president. Paul has worked diligently to be a good young father. Mom has dealt with many crises in her life. They all have tried to face their obstacles in a Christlike way. Pain, hurt, and dread have been a part of their lives. It was part of Christ’s life, too!

Bob doesn’t fly jets anymore. He is now serving as a mission president. Paul is now a stake missionary. Mom has never danced professionally, though she has used her musical talents on numerous occasions. She is now serving a full-time mission with her husband. Each has lived a good and faithful life.

My friend, the former four-year-old, is a returned missionary, recently married, and now continuing his education. He did not grow up to that “awful curse” of becoming a bomber pilot. He is growing up wanting to become like the Master.

I remember going to a stake conference in the East many years ago. On the plane coming home, I felt that I had been a total failure. I felt I had not touched anyone for good. I was miserable with a sense of inadequacy.

Then, some years later, I was at another conference in California. At the conclusion of the meeting a man came up to me and said, “You were at a conference a few years ago in such-and-such a place.”

“Yes,” I said, “I was there, and I remember the occasion.”

The man said: “You touched my heart. I came to that meeting out of curiosity. I really had no interest. I was on the verge of leaving the Church. But when it was announced that one of the Twelve Apostles would be there, I decided to go.

“You said something that started me to think. It touched me and stayed with me and stirred me. I decided to alter my course. I turned my life around. I am now living here in California. I have a good job, for which I am grateful. I hope I am a good husband and father. And I am now serving as a counselor in the bishopric of my ward. I am happier than I have ever been at any time in my life.”

I thanked him, and when I left him I said to myself, shaking my head: “You never know. You never know whether you do any good. You never know how much good you do.”

Peace McBride, an apprentice seamstress, and her mistress, Mrs. Root, have heard the Prophet Joseph Smith preach, studied the Book of Mormon, and been baptized into the Church. Now Peace has received Sister Root’s permission and the necessary money to visit her family in a distant county to share her joy in the gospel with them.
On the eve of a brand new decade, December 31, 1839, Peace was bundled in a warm cloak and sitting on top of a coach. Only something as important as the gospel could make Peace take such a journey. Sister Root had tried for days to find someone who was traveling toward the town of Chester Springs, but there were few travelers this time of year. Even so, not a seat was left inside the coach, and no one had been willing to give up his seat to the young girl. I won’t think of the cold, Peace decided. I’ll think of how warm I was after my baptism, of Sister Root’s warm parlor, of anything but the cold.
Cheerfully she hugged a paper-wrapped parcel to her chest. It was Sister Root’s copy of the Book of Mormon. She had given it to Peace as the excited girl had boarded the stage. “I shouldn’t let you be doing this,” Sister Root had fretted. “But since you’re going, here, take the book. It won’t do you much good to just talk about it—your folks need a chance to read it.”
Feeling cold creep around her toes as the coach got farther and farther from Philadelphia, Peace wriggled them and thought about the past few weeks. There had been such a change in her employer! Peace could remember when sour words and slaps were served up regularly to her. Sister Root’s whole manner had changed from the time that she first listened to the Prophet.
Glancing around, Peace noticed that the slush in the road had frozen. She stomped her feet and moved her arms to keep warm. Finally she saw the inn up ahead. It was a two-day trip home, and whenever she made it, she always stayed there.
After a warm meal, Peace felt better and hurried to her room. She knew that the coach would leave shortly after dawn, and she needed all the sleep that she could get. Wrapping herself in the quilts, she drifted peacefully to sleep.
Several hours later she awoke as cold again gripped her. The cozy little room that she had enjoyed in the summer was far from any heat source. Seeing frost forming around the window and on the panes, Peace knew that it was frightfully cold. Reaching for her cloak, she hastily put it on over her nightclothes. Back under the covers, she shivered until she was warm enough to fall asleep again.
The frost was so thick on the panes when Peace awoke a second time that light from the feeble sunrise hardly penetrated the room. She dressed under the covers, then hurried to the gathering room. The other travelers were already huddled around the fire, so she had to stand behind them, where she could barely feel its warmth.
A warm breakfast and cheerful words from the inn-keeper helped. Bracing herself, Peace again took her seat on top of the coach. This time she wore all the clothes that she had brought with her. Yet, before noon, her throat was scratchy. By evening, she was really sick. As the coach approached Chester Springs, she was so ill that she hardly knew what was happening around her.
A kind farmer going her way agreed to take Peace to her family’s farm. It was only two miles outside of town, but to Peace the trip took forever. Each time the wagon hit a rut, her head seemed to explode with pain.
Hearing her mother’s voice was almost like being in heaven. Peace tried to rise from where she lay in the back of the farmer’s wagon, but she sank back weakly.
“Peace!” her mother cried. “Whatever are you doing here?” She bustled around and fussed as the farmer and Mr. McBride carried the girl into the house.
It was bliss for Peace to lie in a soft, warm bed in the safety of her home. Her mother helped undress her and started to take the paper-wrapped parcel from her.
“No!” Peace mumbled. “I need to keep this with me. It’s why I came here, and it’s very important.”
“Important or not,” her mother said firmly, “it’s going on the dresser. It will be there when you get better.”
It was a week before Peace felt well enough to even sit up. She had developed a fever and a deep cough and was able to do little but lie there and try to get well.
“You’re awake!” her mother said cheerfully one morning as she came into Peace’s room. “After breakfast and a wash, you’ll feel much better, I’m sure.”
Peace smiled at her mother. It was so good to be home. Looking over at the dresser, she noticed that the parcel was gone. “Where did my book go?”
“I have it, but not for long.”
Peace looked up in surprise at the angry tone of her mother’s voice.
“How did you come by such a book,” her mother asked.
“Sister Root gave it to me.”
“I should never have let you go off on your own.”
“But, Mother, you know I had to. It was an opportunity for the whole family for me to train with such a great dressmaker.”
“She promised to watch over you!”
Peace smiled at her mother and hoped to get her in a better mood. “She watched over me very well. Do you know anything about the Book of Mormon?”
“Reverend Thompson said that the book is of the devil. He told me to burn it!”
Peace sat up in bed. “You didn’t, did you?” she cried.
“Not yet.” Her mother’s face softened. “It seemed to mean so much to you. And you came so far to bring it to us. I’ll admit that I was a little curious about it, because you value it, so I read a little of it.”
“Did it sound like the devil wrote it?” Peace asked softly.
“Well, no,” her mother admitted and smiled back at Peace. “I read a beautiful story about the Savior visiting a strange people in a land that I never heard of.”
“Bountiful?”
“Yes, that’s it. I have to say that it was a beautiful tale!”
“Oh, Mother,” Peace said fervently, “it’s more than a tale. It’s true—every word of it! If you read about it and pray about it, you’ll know that too.”
“Reverend Thompson said that no God-loving person would get involved with this book. He’s a good man, and he’s been our minister since you were a baby.”
Peace didn’t know what to say. Reverend Thompson was a good man. He’d been more than kind to her over the years. “Have the Mormon elders been in this area?”
“Yes, they have,” her mother answered. “Why?”
“Did many people listen and join the Church?”
“Yes. In fact, the number of people in our church has dwindled. And Reverend Thompson is very unhappy about it.”
“There, Mother. That’s your answer. Reverend Thompson is afraid that he’ll lose his congregation.”
Now it was her mother’s turn to look thoughtful. “You may be right. …”
“Mother, will you and Father read the whole book—and pray sincerely about it? Then if you have any questions, we can ask the elders to come visit.”
“I’m still not sure.”
“Please? It means so much to me.”
Peace’s mother loved her oldest daughter very much. She had been parted from her for a long time, and she felt that it wouldn’t hurt to do as Peace asked.
“All right. I will read it, and I’ll ask your father if he will too. I can’t promise more than that.”
“I know,” Peace said understandingly. “Sister Root didn’t want to believe, either. She wouldn’t let me be baptized until she knew more about the Church.”
“Rightly so,” her mother agreed. “I guess that maybe she was caring for you well.”
With just a few days left till she had to go back, Peace spent all the time that she could with her two brothers and three little sisters. She talked to them about the big city and the things that she had seen. “Not long ago I went into a big church near Mistress Root’s shop. There was a man speaking there,” she told them. “His name is Joseph Smith. He’s a very great man, and he’s a prophet.”
“Like Moses?” Jimmy asked in wonder.
“Yes, like Moses. When he talked, I felt that he had great power. We all felt it, and it changed my life.” She told them all that had happened to her. She told them, too, about the Savior and His visit to the New World. They listened eagerly as she told them stories from the Book of Mormon.
Because it was winter, the McBrides spent most of their time indoors. Peace read the Book of Mormon to her father as he mended harnesses and to her mother while she knitted. They listened intently to what Peace read, and her brothers and sisters did too.
Peace attended sacrament meeting at the small branch. Afterward she invited the elders to visit her family. When they came, her father asked many questions. He didn’t say much but nodded his head as the elders answered him.
The time soon came when Peace had to leave. Her heart was heavy because her parents still had not committed themselves to joining the Church.
Her father took her in their wagon to the inn and placed her bag inside the boot of the coach. Peace had a seat inside this time. She also had a warm quilt that her mother made for her to wrap up in.
“Good-bye, Peace,” her father told her, giving her a big hug. “I know what you want from your mother and me. I’m proud of you for believing your religion enough to suffer hardship to try to bring it to us. We’re not ready yet. Don’t give up on us, though. Just give us time.”
Peace left with a warm feeling. She knew that no matter what happened, she had done what she could to teach her family. Now she would give time and the Holy Ghost a chance to finish the work.

It’s difficult to work eight hours a day in the extreme conditions of a desert in the same two-by-two-foot hole of dirt with someone from a completely different cultural and religious background without coming to know and appreciate his uniqueness. The gospel suddenly became more significant to me as I realized the contrasting way of life it offers. As I sat with my equally tired and thirsty German, Israeli, Indian, or Dutch brother who had dumped those last hundred buckets I had filled, and he thanked me for the drink from my canteen, the words of the Savior filled my mind: “Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again: But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.” (John 4:13–14.)

Just as an example to show you how easy it is, let me tell you about these names, William and May Brown. In January 1979, when we first arrived in England, there was an unusual amount of snow. We had no snow shovel; there were none for sale. I tried to sweep the snow, but it was too heavy. Phillip Brown, a young man, and his friend stopped and asked if they could clear our yard. They did a nice job. Sister Reeve called Phillip Brown’s mother to ask him if he could come and clean the yard again and to tell her what a good job her son did for us. Mrs. Brown said, “Why don’t you come over to our home and have coffee and get acquainted with the neighbors?”
Sister Reeve went, but she had orange juice; and, of course, that gave an opportunity to tell them why—that we were Mormons. Mrs. Brown said, “I met some of your missionaries, and they’re surely a fine group of young men. If I were going to change churches, I’d join yours.”
On February 19, our forty-second wedding anniversary, we didn’t have anyone to share it with, and so we thought, “Why don’t we call William and May?” So we called them and said, “Won’t you come over and help keep this anniversary with us?” We’ve had just one pleasant experience after another. They have a Book of Mormon and an LDS hymn book (Mrs. Brown plays the organ in her church). We send cards as we travel; they are fine people. We are keeping in touch with them. They are good friends.

“I know the Church is true because when I pray, He answers,” says Nicole, who is 10. “When I ask Him for help, He helps me.”
Nicole tells about a time when her friend got very sick and the doctors decided to fly her to Peru’s capital city, Lima, because they didn’t know how to treat her. “I didn’t want her to go because she was my best friend,” Nicole says. “I asked Heavenly Father to bless her. He heard my prayer, and she was healed.”

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

I feel prompted to share a story from my mission that I don’t share often because it has deep personal meaning but can come across as lighthearted. Seven months after arriving in Chile, I was assigned to be the mission’s financial secretary. It wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted to teach the gospel and was worried it would be a long assignment. I developed a bad attitude, feeling sorry for myself with a sense of righteous indignation.
About this time, then-Elder Dallin H. Oaks visited Chile to speak to two missions in Talca, about a 4.5-hour drive south of Santiago. My companion and I were responsible to drive the mission van and pick up the San Fernando zone on the way. This meant leaving by 4 a.m. Somehow, we slept through our three alarms. I rolled over and looked at the clock at 5:45 a.m. (about three hours before the conference started). I shouted, “Elder, we are late!” We sprang into action and threw on our clothes. I was driving within 10 minutes.
I felt terrible and appropriately chastised, thinking to myself, “Here I am, a missionary of the Lord in a country far from home, failing in my calling to do what the Lord needed me to do.” A whole zone of missionaries needed to hear the words of an Apostle of the Lord, and I was letting them down. In that moment, I said a silent prayer. From my journal: “I told God that it wasn’t logically possible to get there that fast but I knew there were people I was in charge of getting there that needed to be there.” I promised to change my attitude and asked for help to get the San Fernando zone to the meeting.
It was dark and the roads were empty. I was making good time. As I left the city and started the long countryside drive, where I knew I could drive faster, I ran into a thick wall of fog. I slowed to a crawl. I’d given it a good try, but there was no chance of arriving on time. In that moment, a small sports car raced past me. I sped up to follow. It felt like an angel from God … traveling at 80 mph. I followed that car for 45 minutes before emerging from the fog. We picked up the missionaries and arrived at the conference at 8:58 a.m.—two minutes to spare!
I am sure Elder Oaks’ talk was great; I don’t recall a word of it. However, I vividly remember to this day the talk by Elder Carlos E. Asay (the General Authority who was traveling with Elder Oaks). He spoke about being an instrument in the Lord’s hands. He told a story of a dream he had about being in a medieval horseback joust and, while charging toward an oncoming rider, he went to raise his lance only to realize that he had a dinky dagger instead. This message spoke to my soul. I didn’t want to be a dinky dagger when the Lord needed me to be a lance. I committed to doing God’s work, no matter what that meant, instead of doing it my own way. That was a turning point in my mission.
I’m not sure if the San Fernando zone needed to be at that conference, but I needed to be there. God was aware of me. He cared for me so much that He wanted me to be better. I learned an important lesson about being prepared to serve.

With one of my daughters, I was baptized a member of the Church on 25 July 1993. One of my other daughters, however, listened to the missionary discussions with us but was not baptized. She later took the discussions again but still was not baptized. I eventually decided to give her a subscription to the Liahona (Spanish). This added help opened the way for the Spirit to witness to her, and a few months later she was converted. Now I wait eagerly for the messages that inspire and uplift the spirit.
Mireya Josefina Almea de Rodriguez,Bolívar Branch, Barcelona Venezuela Stake

When I was a little boy, Christmas was not as meaningful to me as it was to other children because of the very modest economic situation of my parents. In our country, Haiti, it was, and still is, a tradition for parents with the financial means to place one or more gifts under the pillow of their children on Christmas Eve. When the morning came, my brothers, my sisters and myself would read the joy on the faces of other children while sadness was clearly on ours. Personally, I used to wonder if Santa favored those children more than he cared for us. He gave more toys, I thought, to those who already had while he forgot about us poor children who never received a gift during this special time!
But as I grew up, I realized that Christmas was more than just gifts. By becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I have instead learned that Christmas is a time of sharing, joy, love, compassion, gratitude and charity. For it is in the true spirit of Christmas that Our Heavenly Father, in His divine love, has given us His precious Son, Jesus Christ, as a gift for the well-being of all mankind.
Today, as an adult, I no longer have to look for a gift under my pillow on Christmas Eve because, thanks to the restored gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, I am constantly blessed with this gift that illuminates each of my steps and those of my family. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles invites us to follow Christ and to become His disciples: “During this Christmas season and throughout the entire year, may we seek with our hearts and souls our beloved Savior, the Prince of Peace, the Holy One of Israel. For this desire, in large part, defines not only who we are as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but even more who we really are as Christ’s disciples.1”

When we ask ourselves whether we are keeping the Sabbath day holy, we may sometimes answer, “Yes. I attend Church meetings, spend time with my family, read the scriptures, write in my journal, and refrain from working.” But one particular experience caused me to search my soul, asking, “Is this enough?”
Each week I travel from Octavo, Argentina, to Cordoba to buy merchandise for my business. During one trip, I found that for each purchase I made from one vendor, I could participate in a contest. The contest’s top prize was a ticket to a basketball game played by the top team in Cordoba.
When I won one of the tickets, I was excited—until I realized there was a problem. The game was on Sunday, so I wouldn’t be able to go myself. But I quickly figured out how I could use the ticket. I had some advertising space on a radio station in my city, and I could give this ticket away in a promotion for my business.
The following week I made a purchase from the same vendor and strangely enough won another ticket to the same game. Now I could give away two tickets. I knew my promotion would be even more successful.
A few hours after winning the second ticket, I had an unusual feeling. It was a soft, quiet voice telling me I should not run the promotion. When my wife asked why I was canceling the promotion, I responded that if we couldn’t go to a sports event because it would be dishonoring the Sabbath, I felt it would not be right to encourage others to do so through a radio promotion.
This experience helped me understand that honoring the Sabbath is more than just following a list of things we should and should not do. Although prophets have not spoken about the particular situation I found myself in, when I felt the Spirit’s prompting, I knew I needed to keep the spirit of the Sabbath by helping others to enjoy it as well.
I am grateful to my wife for supporting this decision and to my Heavenly Father, whose Spirit helped me understand how to better honor His holy day.

In 1931 a small six- by nine-meter chapel was constructed on a piece of ground measuring only twelve by sixteen meters that the Church had managed to acquire. It remains the only chapel in use on the island today. Faithful members recall that the last visit made to them by a mission president before their 1976 voyage was in the late 1950s by President Joseph R. Reeder. Then somehow, over the next fifteen years, the mission leaders accidentally forgot Taenga.
Though the branch finally was no longer officially functioning and meetings were being held on an informal basis only, the members kept their faith. “We always lived the gospel as best we could,” says Sister Teuruhai Buchin, now a worker in the Tahiti Temple. Kaheke Temanu, the man who would later be called as branch president, had faith that one day the little island would be visited by the mission president. He built a small residence on the island, reserved for the sole purpose of housing this hoped-for visitor. So it was not so surprising that when these steadfast members somehow learned by word of mouth that a prophet of the Lord was coming to Tahiti, they were inspired to make the difficult journey, bringing along beautiful handcrafted tokens of their love and respect to offer President Kimball.
Since 1976, little has changed in Taenga. The island remains fairly isolated from the others of French Polynesia and does not have an airstrip as do many of its neighbors. The easiest way to get to Taenga is to fly to nearby Makemo on a twelve-passenger plane, then travel by motor boat on the open sea for some three hours. If the weather is bad, however, this “three-hour” journey can take twice as long.
This isolation encourages a simple life-style, without the pressures and complexities of modern society and largely unchanged from what it was decades ago. The crushed coral soil sustains very little in crops or gardens. The islanders eat mostly fish and coconut, supplemented by occasional goods shipped from Tahiti. The only income-producing activity on the island is the production of copra—dried coconut meat from which oil is obtained.
One thing that has changed in Taenga is Church activity. For many years the Saints did not have the opportunity to practice their faith as they desired. Shortly after their voyage to Tahiti in 1976, the Taengans received that long-awaited visit from the mission president, President Baudin, who officially organized again a branch on the island and called Kaheke Temanu as branch president. President Temanu was born on Taenga but had moved to Tahiti. In 1969, he and his family moved back to Taenga, and he was appointed as the local police officer by the French government.
When the branch began to function officially again, members returned to the meetings and ten converts were baptized. Of the seventy-six inhabitants of Taenga, only seven are not members of the Church. President Temanu says that not only are all the Church members active, but even the nonmembers regularly attend and participate in Church meetings. He is especially happy that several couples from his island have been sealed in the Tahiti temple since its completion in 1983.
The members in Taenga feel that the Lord has blessed them in many ways because of their faith. This faith is put to the test every time they make the voyage to Makemo. Though Polynesians have traditionally been skilled navigators, it is rare to see these skills still used as they are in Taenga. The trip to Makemo is so difficult because the flat coral atolls are hard to see from a distance, and thousands of of square kilometers of open sea separate them. Yet the trip is made without compass or other navigational instruments but, as the boat’s pilot explains, with “the stars, instinct, and trust in the Lord’s inspiration and guidance.”
For every Church leader who visits Taenga, this voyage is a memorable one. All have been impressed by the faith of President Temanu, the boat’s pilot. Before leaving Taenga’s lagoon, he stands in the boat (a three-meter motorboat holding a maximum of six passengers) and offers a prayer for direction, then never forgets to offer one of gratitude upon arrival.
President Baudin describes his second voyage to Taenga as one of the most unforgettable experiences of his mission. President Temanu had come to get him, and soon after they left Makemo, stormy weather set in, with the wind and waves buffeting the boat through the waters and altering its course. “Imagine my concern,” relates President Baudin, “when after six hours there was still no land in sight.
“Suddenly, President Temanu stood and pointed with his finger and calmly stated that the island was in that direction. Almost immediately, the wind died and the sea became calm, and as if they had come to greet us and guide us to the pass in the reef, dozens of dolphins appeared, leaping out of the water in front of the boat. As if this weren’t impressive enough, we also saw a whale some thirty meters to the side, spouting water and unhurriedly keeping pace with our forward movement.”
Taengan members believe Heaven has tempered the elements on their island. In recent years, five major cyclones have swept across the area, and though surrounding islands were seriously affected, Taenga was not touched by even one of these devastating storms.
Likewise, Taengans are quick to point out how the Lord has blessed them in providing sufficient water for their needs. Since there are no mountains, rivers, or springs in the Tuamotu atolls, all drinking water must be collected in rain barrels and water tanks. During the dry season, most islands are plagued with constant water problems and periods of serious rationing. But Taengans have not faced those difficulties. And somewhat ironically, in one aspect of modern living Taengans can boast a higher standard of living than Tahiti, which is not yet entirely served by electrical power. In Taenga, every household enjoys solar-generated electricity.
Several Church leaders from Tahiti who recently visited Taenga were impressed by the strong feeling of security on the island and the overwhelming spirituality that exists among the entire population. “This is what paradise is all about,” commented Georges Bonnet, the Church’s regional manager for temporal affairs.
One morning Brother Bonnet was awakened by an unusual sound. When he got up and looked out, he discovered the sisters of the Relief Society sweeping away the leaves that had fallen onto the village road during the night. “I’ve never seen such cleanliness,” he observed. “The entire village is spotless, and it is obvious that the people take great pride in their island.”
President C. Wayne Mack and President C. Jay Larson, who succeeded President Baudin as mission presidents in Tahiti, also have special feelings for the island. Interestingly, during their first missions, both served on Taenga. President Larson, who returned from Tahiti in July 1984, says, “Taenga has always impressed me as being perhaps the most spiritual and the most united branch in the mission. This was true when I served on that island as a missionary thirty-four years ago, and it is true today.”