Gospel Story Finder

It is the hidden, and not so hidden, secret: "What should I do?" a TVA student once asked me. "I hear the fighting. I hear the hitting and the pleading, and I think I should do something, but I don't know what." I understand this sense of helplessness. When my husband and I encountered a battling neighbor couple on our country road not long ago, we didn't know what to do either. Their van was blocking the road, she in the driver's seat, he outside attempting to drag her from it. Both were yelling, each was beating on the other. Our efforts to distract them failed, and after some moments, she drove into the nearby field and out of view. He quickly followed. A few weeks later they and their three children moved from our neighborhood. Need I say that they haunt us? Like the TVA student, we were unprepared to act. What we saw, and what he heard, we abhorred, but none of us had thought to rehearse our intervention, what we would do to cross the threshold into action. And few of you have thought what to do should you find yourselves in an abusive relationship, abused or abuser. Or what to do, being there at this time.

During my last phone call home as a missionary, I was saying goodbye after telling my family about all the blessings and miracles I’d been seeing, when my dad said, “Jake, I hope that all of these experiences are helping you to become fully converted.” Now, that sounds nice, but at the time, I was just a little offended. Did my dad think I still wasn’t converted? Of course I was converted! Wasn’t I? I mean, I was a full-time missionary! I’d spent two years teaching, baptizing, and converting others. What did he mean he hoped I was becoming converted?

True conversion requires much more than a two or three-year commitment. It requires what President Dallin H. Oaks once described as “the steady dedication of a lifetime.” In retrospect, I’m grateful for my dad’s reminder that the end of my missionary service was just the beginning of a lifetime of discipleship. I’m grateful he warned me that if I didn’t continue to strengthen my faith in Christ and maintain the spiritual habits I’d learned as a missionary that I might be sifted as wheat.

Adjacent to the bird-of-prey sanctuary, the location of my main assignment as a service missionary, there is a large fishing pond where many wild ducks live. Every morning and evening the ducks come to the sanctuary, as we throw grain out for them to eat. One morning we noticed a small American wood duck (what it is doing in England, we still don’t know) that was tangled in a fishing line, with a sharp triple-hook caught to its left leg and wing. We tried to catch and help it, but it kept on escaping.
Finally, one afternoon, we managed to catch the duck using a large net. As we took it out, the duck put up quite a fight, but we were able to restrain it. Then, we carefully tried to remove the sharp fishing hook. The duck panicked and cried out in pain. It thought that we were trying to harm it but, we were trying to help. Eventually, the fishing hook and line were removed, and we released the duck back into the pond. As it ran away from us, I thought to myself, “That poor animal will never know that all along we were just trying to help it.”

From the day I was baptized until I graduated from high school, I was the only member of the Church in my school. My classmates would say, “You don’t smoke? You don’t drink? You aren’t a man; you’re a sissy!”
At the end of the school year when I was in 11th or 12th grade, some of my classmates brought alcohol to a party. They grabbed me, held me down, and tried to pour champagne in my mouth. They didn’t want to hurt me; they just wanted to make fun of me. Luckily, I was able to get away. I never regretted keeping the Word of Wisdom. Some of my classmates have since passed away, but I’m thankful to still be alive, healthy, and trying to serve the Lord.

The fourth thing I remember was when I was about nine years of age, our family had an experience that greatly impacted my understanding and feelings regarding the importance of the temple. My parents were called as temple workers to serve in the occasional Spanish sessions of the Mesa Temple. There were no "temple films" in those days and all the workers in the sessions had to speak the language of the session. My parents were both born and raised in Mexico and were fluent in both English and Spanish. That calling to serve in the temple created a serious problem for my parents.

There were four young children in the family, I being the oldest, and there was no money in the family budget to pay a babysitter. My parents had always believed that you never turn down a calling from the Lord, so they felt considerable anguish over this calling that would take them away from their four small children in the evenings. In prayer they pleaded with the Lord for guidance in this matter. About this time a neighbor came to them with a dog, a large male tri-colored collie, and offered them the dog. The neighbor explained that the dog was a very intelligent dog which had received extensive obedience training and had competed in dog show obedience trials.

The dog was a registered pedigreed tri-color collie. His official name was "Lucky Lad". We just called him Lucky. He was getting a bit old, but he loved children, and the neighbor thought our family would be a perfect environment for the dog to live out his "golden years." My parents saw this as an answer to their prayers regarding the temple calling and the budget shortfall for baby sitters.

So from that time forth, when my parents went to the temple in the evening, the four children of the Pratt family were left in care of a very intelligent tri-colored collie and a 9-year-old boy of questionable intelligence. I can tell you that dog was a very effective baby sitter. I remember an occasion when I got in an argument or fight with my next younger sister, in a flash old Lucky was between us and pushing me away. Lucky knew he was in charge. If ever anyone came to the door when Lucky was in charge, he was the one who decided whether they could be allowed into the home.

All of the Pratt children survived that experience. But most significantly we began to understand the extreme importance of the temple in our parents' lives and consequently in our own. Each of the Pratt children eventually married in the Mesa Arizona Temple.

What do you love to do? I’ve always enjoyed playing sports. After trying different sports, I settled on American football. Through hard work and great coaching, I became an All-American quarterback in college. When I graduated, I joined the Houston Oilers professional football team.
I’ll never forget that first game. The other team’s defensive linemen were bigger than any I’d ever gone against. I was nervous! In my first big play, two huge players tackled me at the same time—harder than I’d ever been tackled before. My leg throbbed, my shoulder ached, and I wanted to quit right then. I had a decision to make. Would I give in to my fears, or would I have the courage to keep trying?
I couldn’t just give up, so I got up and played with all my might! Through courage and lots of teamwork, we won the game. I learned a lesson I’ve never forgotten: never quit when things get tough.

Blessings come in surprising ways. In February 2013, I had been serving for six years as an Area Seventy in the Pacific Area and had been asked to extend for a seventh. We had, however, been invited to the Office of the First Presidency, and my wife, Kay, and I were waiting to meet with then-­President Dieter F. Uchtdorf in his office. The thought that he was about to call me as a General Authority had not entered my mind, and we were even more surprised when he told us that we would be living and serving in West Africa until we received a new assignment some years in the future.
We did not suspect that our hearts were about to be filled with love for the wonderful West African people. But they quickly were. Immediately we arrived in Accra and began to meet the members of the Church and others in the countries of Ghana, Nigeria, Côte d’Ivoire, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Togo, Benin, Senegal, Guinea, Mali, The Gambia, and Burkina Faso. What incredible blessings we have received, and what wonderful eternal relationships have been forged.
“I think the Spirit of the Lord is brooding over Africa,” said Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve in the first of two videos about the growth of the Church in Africa after years of political strife. “His hand is on the work. His Spirit is stirring the people,” said Elder Holland.
This has been most evident to Kay and me in the incredible growth we have witnessed here. Just before our arrival, and earlier in July 2013, the 38th stake of the Africa West Area had been created by Elder Joseph Sitati in Warri, Nigeria. And then in June 2018, I was blessed to preside over the creation of the 100th stake in the Africa West Area in Lagos, Nigeria. These 62 additional stakes (29 in Nigeria, 13 in Ghana, 9 in Côte d’Ivoire, 4 in Sierra Leone, 4 in Liberia, 2 in Togo, and 1 in Benin) were created in less than five years!
And the 100th stake was formed just 30 years after the first ever West African stake. I have personally had the privilege of forming the first branches in Dakar, Senegal; Conakry, Guinea; and Bamako, Mali; and of witnessing the land of Senegal dedicated for the preaching of the gospel by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I have accompanied this same Apostle as he dedicated the new Ghana missionary training center, and I have been blessed with numerous other spiritual experiences.
The growth, however, has not simply, or even primarily, been in numbers. Kay and I, together with the other members of the Area Presidency, are witnesses almost daily to incredible faith in the face of adversity and temporal poverty. But there is no spiritual poverty in West Africa. The region is rich in those things most precious—the faithful sons and daughters of God. And the mandate of our Saviour for West Africa as so clearly stated in the following verses has been accepted: “And if any man among you be strong in the Spirit, let him take with him him that is weak, that he may be edified in all meekness, that he may become strong also. . . .
“Behold, this is the way that mine apostles, in ancient days, built up my church unto me” (D&C 84:106, 108). In fact, it has been embraced as our united call for action in the phrase “one take one.”

It is November and cold outside. I can hear the wind whistling through the trees down in the woods. I am sitting in front of my fireplace in my old leather-back chair with Mother’s old knitted shawl over my lap. There is a little table by my side, and I am writing on a lined tablet. The lines are wide because my eyesight is not as good as it once was. The dancing flames from the fire seem to stimulate my thoughts, and I relive the years when my beloved wife and I first joined the Church. The wind was blowing off the ocean when we waded into the water off the coast of Wales. Bess’s health was poor, she being with child, and she was concerned about the effects of the cold water on her and the unborn baby. The presiding elder blessed her that all would be well, that there would be no bad effects from the cold water. It turned out that way. There are other places in my history where I have told of the persecutions we endured, but now I must tell you about my three sons.
William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew. He became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk on his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over the mountains out my window? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair that curled a little. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair that curled a little, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away my two sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that just a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen, Dad,” and across the valley came the plaintive call of a cuckoo bird. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the birds will sing joyful tunes. Oh, Dad, its a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first Latter-day Saint funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Mr. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the wagon with the casket with a pair of black horses.
It was only a short distance to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the wagon. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on the mountains. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my son’s letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from the second son read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a twelve-year-old cannot stay sad very long.
“Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a little curl to it.”

Fish Sticks appeared out of nowhere.
One late summer evening, just when I was beginning to think I might get a college dorm room all to myself, there he was, standing in the doorway and grinning like a self-satisfied explorer who’d found a lost tomb.
“Frank Calio,” he said, sticking out his hand into the room and willing me to get off my bed to shake. “You can call me Fish Sticks.”
I shook his hand and then he disappeared down the hall. A minute later he reappeared with two envelope-yellow suitcases and a laptop computer. He threw the suitcases on the bed and popped one open.
“What are you in for?” he asked, not looking up from his unpacking.
“Huh?”
He turned to me and spoke slowly. “What are you stud-eee-ing?”
“Oh. I don’t know yet. Maybe business.”
“Hmmm,” he said, “I’m music education. Gonna be a junior high music teacher.” He stood up straight and ruffled his hair like a mad scientist. “I’m going to be rich, I tell ya. Ha, ha, ha, ha.”
“Not,” I said.
He nodded, then rearranged his hair. It was long in the front, and he let it hang in his eyes.
“Why do I have to call you Fish Sticks?” I finally asked.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“But that’s what people call you? Is it your nickname?”
He flipped his front hair to one side with a quick half-turn of his head. “Yep.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I may tell you about it one day,” he said. “If I like you.”
That first year, Frank spent most of his time at the music building—in class or teaching piano lessons to local kids. On Saturday nights, if there wasn’t a dance at the institute, we’d order pizza and watch TV in the lounge.
One night in January, when there was nothing good on, Frank finally started talking.
“You know, I taught myself to play the piano,” he said.
“I taught myself to whistle,” I added, spinning the empty pizza box on one finger.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“So am I.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I was gonna tell you about Fish Sticks.”
I dropped the pizza box on the floor. “I’ll be quiet. Tell me.”
He pushed the remote to mute the TV. “I was about ten,” he said, “and I learned to play a few songs out of the Primary songbook. You know, just simple tunes. But that got me hooked. And after a while I figured out a few real pieces—classical pieces.”
“You like classical?”
“Love it,” he said. “Anyway, all that time I dreamed about something. You know how most kids dream about playing in the Super Bowl or the World Series? Well, I spent my teenage years inside at our piano playing Bach or Chopin. And I dreamed about playing at Carnegie Hall. You know, my fingers flying along the keyboard in a blur, the music rising to a crescendo, the crowd carrying me off on their shoulders.
“That is a pretty weird dream for a kid.”
“I guess.”
“So you must be pretty good … at the piano.”
“Uh, no. I started taking lessons when I was about 14, but I’ve never really gotten what you’d call good.”
“C’mon, you can’t be that bad. You got into music school, didn’t you?”
“I got in ’cause I know my theory.”
“Oh.” I tried to remember where the conversation had begun. Oh, yeah. “What’s this got to do with Fish Sticks?”
“Okay. One afternoon I was playing the piano. It was hot, the window was open, and a couple of my friends walked by and heard me. So they climbed up, you know, to look in the window—and they saw me playing. That’s when they laughed and called me Fish Sticks.” He shrugged. “And it’s true. When I play the piano my fingers move like stiff, frozen fish sticks.”
He held his stumpy fingers up and wiggled them for my benefit.
I nodded. “But why would you want people to call you Fish Sticks?”
“That’s another story. I’ll tell you one day if I get to liking you a bit more.”
Just before summer vacation, I bumped into Frank on campus. Looking for any diversion from studying for finals, I walked with him to the music building.
As we walked, Frank repeatedly flipped the hair out of his face. Sometimes, on a windy day, and in a frustrated attempt to free his face of hair, I’d seen Frank spin his head and body a full 360 degrees, often losing his balance and staggering to stay upright.
When we reached Frank’s practice room, a young girl was waiting. She was about ten, with long fingers and large brown glasses that sat awkwardly on her bony, high-cheeked face. She was quiet.
“Hey, Cheryl!” Frank said, barging into the room while throwing his book bag to the side of the piano. “You been practicing?”
An almost inaudible “Yes,” from Cheryl, like she was talking through a pillow.
“Fantastic,” Frank snapped back, holding up his hands like a triumphant boxer. Cheryl and I couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm.
“I just picked up a new book on alternating melodies. Just off the presses. You up for something a little challenging?” Frank asked.
Cheryl shrugged.
“Okay!” He made a show of pulling the book out of his bag, like it was a rabbit. Cheryl watched closely as the blue and gray cover emerged. “Looks fun, huh?” he added, sarcastically. “Those crazy people playing football in this spring weather don’t know what they’re missing.”
He cracked the book open and placed it over the keyboard. Cheryl swallowed at the intimidating lines and lines of black notes.
“Just ten minutes of theory,” he said. “Then we’ll learn a song. Okay?”
Cheryl shrugged again and placed her long fingers on the keys.
There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.
When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.
“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.
They stopped talking and considered.
“We just got here,” one said.
“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.
“Good,” said Frank.
One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.
I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”
They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.
He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.
I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.
Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.
He raised his hands above the keyboard.
“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.
He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.
That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.
“So, how was it?”
“What?” I played dumb, stalling.
“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”
“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.
He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.
“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.
“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”
I looked over at him.
“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”
I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.
We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.
“So why didn’t you?” I asked.
He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”
I waited for more.
“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.
I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.
“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.
“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”
I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”
“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”
Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.
“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”
I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.
“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”
Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

Jessica gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She felt very grown-up. Nana (her grandmother) had made her a new Sunday dress for her baptism this week. It was a beautiful dress with daisies and a green sash. The sleeves reached to her elbows and were trimmed with the same delicate lace that Nana had sewn on the hem. It looked like a dress from a fancy department store. Nobody would ever know the material came from a dress Jessica’s mother wore at a senior dance! That was what made Jessica feel so grown-up.
She sat on the edge of Nana’s bed and tried to remember her mother. Sometimes it was awfully hard! She looked at her family’s last picture on Nana’s dresser. Mommy and Daddy were posing with a wheelbarrow full of vegetables from Poppy’s garden. They had put four-year-old Jessica at the top of the heap. They were laughing at Jessica because she had peeled a small ear of corn and was eating it.
The memory of that day was like a dream, but the pain of it was still sharp four years later. After everyone had posed for pictures, they had gone in to clean up. They were tired from working in the garden all day. Nana had decided to take a nap.
Poppy and Daddy walked down to the barn to check a sick calf.
Mommy said that she was going to make a salad and grill hamburgers for supper. First, she would need to buy some hamburger buns at the market in town. Jessica asked Mommy if she could go with her to the store. Her mother smiled and said, “Sure, sweetie!” She strapped her daughter into her car seat. Mommy drove down the dusty, unpaved road to town.
They had not gone far, when a dog ran in front of their car. Mommy swerved to avoid the animal and ran the car into a tree. Jessica was unharmed, but her mother was hurt. A passing motorist stopped, put them into the back of his station wagon, and took them to the hospital.
Jessica remembered the prayer her mother whispered over and over as they bumped along the dirt road in the back of the stranger’s station wagon: “Heavenly Father, take care of my family.” Then, after they arrived at the hospital emergency, Mommy spoke once more before they separated mother and daughter—“Jessica, I love you.” Jessica watched them put her mother on a bed and take her away.
Jessica did not remember much about her overnight stay in the hospital. She did remember that her mother did not go home when Nana and Poppy picked her up. Daddy said Mommy fell asleep and never awakened. He told his little girl that Mommy went to live with Heavenly Father.
The happiness Jessica had enjoyed a few moments ago slowly seeped away, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She missed her mother so much! If only Mommy could see how pretty she looked.
It would be so nice if Mommy could be at her baptism.
Jessica felt prompted to kneel beside Nana’s big bed. She folded her arms and began to pray. “Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for blessing me with a neat dad. And I thank Thee for Nana and Poppy. I love them! But Heavenly Father, I miss my mom. I wish she could be here for my baptism on Saturday. Sometimes it is hard not having a mom like my friends. …” She began to cry.
A calm feeling crept into her. She lifted her head, remembering when her family had been sealed in the temple shortly before her mother died. Because they were sealed, Daddy said, they were a family for eternity. He said that even though Mommy was no longer with them on earth, she was waiting for them in the spirit world. He said that Mommy could see their family and still loved them. So, Jessica thought now, Mommy will be at my baptism in her own way.
Once more the eight-year-old stood to look at herself in the full-length mirror. This time her grin grew wide as she understood what it meant to be an eternal family. When she wore her new dress this Sunday, Jessica would feel very close to her mother.

I have pleasant memories associated with the fall season of the year and the time of the harvest. After eight years of living in sunny California, we moved to New York, where I was again reminded of the more dramatic seasonal changes of a cooler climate.

One morning as I was walking down the street on the way to the train station, kicking through the leaves that had fallen on the walk overnight, I suddenly had the urge, the strongest urge, to bite into a beautiful crisp, red apple. The association of the rustle of the leaves and that taste of an apple just seemed to go together. I could hardly wait to arrive in the city and find a fruit stand to buy one. I was not disappointed; the falling leaves and a big, red apple were just as pleasant to enjoy as I remembered from my boyhood.

When the bishop asked me to share my testimony in the sacrament meeting after my baptism, I felt scared and inadequate. I had never spoken in front of a congregation.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked the bishop.
“Yes!” he said.
In sacrament meeting, I testified about how Heavenly Father loves me and how He answered my prayers by helping me find the restored gospel. When I stood at the podium, I felt the Holy Spirit so strongly. I felt blessed to be a member of Christ’s true Church. My heart was full of happiness and peace. Heavenly Father turned my fear of speaking into a beautiful experience.
The next month I had the opportunity to give a talk in sacrament meeting. I felt scared again—who was I to teach those who knew more about the gospel? But I prayed for the Holy Spirit to help me speak. Once again I felt the Spirit touch me, and I received the impression that Heavenly Father was pleased with my baptism and that my sins were forgiven.
I know from my experiences that I am a precious child of God and He loves me. Speaking in sacrament meeting was a valuable opportunity for me to serve God by testifying that Jesus Christ has restored His Church upon the earth.
Pamella Sari, baptized in Indonesia in 2012

A more recent example of courage and inner strength comes from a young man from Grants Pass, Oregon. Parker Jarvis was a heavyweight wrestler favored to win the Oregon state championship. He was unable to wrestle his sophomore year because of COVID-19, and then he broke his wrist his junior year. In his senior year he was undefeated in Oregon during the regular season and was the clear favorite to fulfill his dream to be a state champion.

Unfortunately, a snowstorm caused the finals of the state wrestling tournament to be delayed from Saturday to Sunday. In spite of all his hard work and dreams, Parker courageously told his coach that he would not wrestle on Sunday. The competition officials allowed him to continue to compete on Saturday to see how far he could get, and he successfully pinned every opponent he faced. In Sunday’s championship match, he would have faced someone he had already beaten three times during the season.

After his final match on Saturday, knowing he was forfeiting his dream of a state championship, Parker walked over to his mom, dad, and coach and tearfully fell into their arms. He later wrote to his sister: “Wrestling is important to me, but I have to know that I have control of my life. I have to know that I can sacrifice things that are important to me for something of greater value.”

Just a few weeks later, Parker did become a state champion in track and field when he became the Oregon state shot put champion. Shortly thereafter, he entered the mission field to serve in Romania.

Almost eight and half years later, spring of 1994 I received a phone call inviting me to apply for the faculty position as a head athletic trainer here at BYU-Hawaii. This was the third call in four years but this time I felt it was time to go through the application process. When the job was offered I hesitated, because I loved the people that I was working with, the network of professionals and the university community. The new, Stan Sherriff Arena, was scheduled to be opening the following year.

Elder Ronald A. Rasband shared, “President Monson has taught, ‘As we pursue the journey of life, let us learn the language of the Spirit.’ (Thomas S. Monson, “The Spirit Giveth Life,” Ensign, May 1985, 70.) The Spirit speaks words that we feel. These feelings are gentle, a nudge to act, to do something, to say something, to respond in a certain way.” (“Let the Holy Spirit Guide,” Ensign, May 2017, Sunday Morning Session.) (7)
I struggled with the thought of leaving all that. Knowing I had to make a decision soon, I turned off the radio on my drive home from work. I debated in my head pros and cons of both jobs. I finally thought, “okay, maybe I should pray about it,” when a clear and distinct FEELING came into my mind . . . “Why? You already know the answer.” The prompting of the Holy Ghost was piercing and clear. I knew what I needed to do. The turmoil in my head was silenced. The weight of the decision was gone. Again the load was lifted and a feeling of peace settled my uncertainties.

It’s early Saturday morning. You have lots to do—hang out with friends, maybe catch up on your homework. Then the phone rings and you remember that this Saturday is your ward’s youth serve-a-thon. You groan and think about getting in one more hour of sleep, right?
Of course not. Getting up is easy if you’re in the Richmond Ward, Richmond Virginia Stake, and today much of your service will be for those who aren’t members of the Church. Today you get to join with the missionaries and meet a lot of new people.
This Saturday morning, youth from the Richmond Ward are spread out in five different locations around the city. The first stop is a small house in the middle of Richmond. Fourteen-year-old Zack Harton and his friend Will Jones are stationed here, raking leaves, pulling weeds, and having fun.
Zack doesn’t personally know the family his group is helping, but he does know that this family is investigating the Church. Therefore, he knows that he’s also setting an example. “It makes me feel good because I’m helping someone in need—just as I would help my own brother and sister if they needed help,” Zack says.
His friend Will is also investigating the Church and is glad that Zack invited him to come along today. Will has already caught on to the wonderful feeling that comes from service. “I feel that I have an obligation toward other people,” Will says. “I started coming with Zack to Scouts and never knew it was going to get into this. But I just think it’s wonderful that somebody would care enough to do this. While we were working in the yard, everyone would help one another. You didn’t even have to ask. I could feel God around me.”
Will’s enthusiasm for service touches Cary Fleming as she, too, helps clean up at this stop. “The house looked pretty bad when we got there,” Cary says. “I wondered how we were going to clean all this. But then Will started singing nonstop, and I kept on pulling weeds, and we had a blast.”
Cary found out that what her mom said last night was right. “I did not want to go, but she told me it would strengthen my testimony if I really prayed about going and asked to have a good time. So I knelt down and prayed, and I’ve had the best time.”
A couple of kilometers away, Charity Holderness is cleaning bedrooms and bathrooms for a part-member family in the Richmond Ward. For Charity, this is a little out of the ordinary. “When I clean my own room, my mom thinks I’m sick,” she says.
Today she’s feeling something different. “I can’t even explain this feeling. I know that I haven’t done even a fraction of the work some people do. But I feel so much better knowing that I can keep doing small things. Maybe I’ll sweep the kitchen floor when I get home.”
Thirteen-year-old Caity Ingles is also here. She is not a member of the Church but came when her friend April Lacy invited her. April asked Caity to come because, she says, “I want her to know that I like to serve and help other people.”
The two missionaries at this stop like April’s idea about setting an example. Elder Jeffrey Mortensen, from Visalia, California, says: “We’re just the missionaries serving in this area for a short time. But when a ward member can make a connection with a nonmember, that is awesome.”
Building relationships—as well as cutting down some unwanted trees—is in full swing where a third group of youth are stationed. Todd Swenson, age 17, is here, and he’s a little tired from pulling up roots and clearing leaves. But his attitude is not the least bit tiresome. “This is my first time doing anything like this, but I want to do it again. I think it makes the people we are helping feel that they have friends, that someone is looking out for them,” Todd says.
Ben Mullins, age 14, agrees. “I hope it makes them feel that Church members like to help other people. It also gives me a better attitude about serving.”
Besides, according to Heather Swenson, there’s not much better to do on a Saturday. “I can spare one Saturday. I’ve got a lot of time left in my life to help other people. I need to use that time well.”
Across town at a less-active ward member’s home, Chris Odell knows all about using his time well. “I know this is the best thing I could do today,” Chris says. “When I serve, I feel close to heaven.”
Lindsay Lansing, age 14, nods in agreement and says, “Service shows that you love and respect others.” She is helping the sister missionaries gather leaves and stuff them into a garbage bag. This is not the first time she has joined them to provide service for her neighbors and less-active ward members. “I do this whenever I get the chance.”
Lindsay, Chris, and the rest of the group here finish quickly, but they don’t want to quit yet. So each of them jumps into a leader’s van to find another group that may need some extra hands.
By lunchtime, the last group of Richmond Ward youth are putting finishing touches on a wall at Svetlana Iskiyayev’s Village Shoe Shop. They have spent the morning tidying and painting the back room of the shop.
Svetlana and her husband left careers as a doctor and a lawyer when they came to Virginia from Russia several years ago. Now they are building their dreams here. And Helen Capehart, age 16, is happy she can help them. She has invited two nonmember friends to help her today and hopes that they, as well as the Iskiyayevs, will see the light of the gospel through her service.
After all, examples of service are what drew Helen herself to the gospel just a short time ago. She says: “I’m so grateful that the Lord led me to this Church and for the awesome examples my friends here have been to me. My biggest example now is Jesus Christ, and I find so much joy in serving him. I hope I always have this feeling in me.”
Most likely, that feeling will stay with Helen because she has found an important key to sharing the gospel—service.
As youth from the Richmond Ward close their day of service with a testimony meeting, Helen once again captures the essence of this activity. “I don’t think I ever feel the Spirit as strong in my life as when I am serving the Lord,” Helen says. “Look at all the magazines with beautiful people on the covers. The world says that’s beauty. But when I was working today, I got paint and dirt all over me. And I think that is the Lord’s true definition of beauty.”
She is probably right. What could be more beautiful than a child of God who has found happiness in following the example of the Savior?

In 1938 Hitler had his armies invade western Czechoslovakia, and he soon ruled it. All Americans were warned to leave the country. Before the mission president, Wallace Toronto, left, he set apart Josef Roubícek, a Czech and a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, as the acting mission president. For the next five and a half years, Church headquarters received no word from the Saints in Czechoslovakia.

During that time President Roubícek held regular meetings. For a few months the government outlawed public meetings. When that happened, President Roubícek kept in touch with members by mail. In his letters, he encouraged them to study the Book of Mormon with their families.

When the war ended in 1945, an American soldier took a letter from President Roubícek and mailed it to President Toronto. “I wish to inform you,” President Roubícek wrote in the letter, “that after six years of war all members of the Church have remained well and alive. It has been a terrible time. … The [Saints’] … testimonies of the truthfulness of the gospel have not wavered even in the worst moments of this great conflict.”*

I grew up in South Africa. South Africa has wonderful game parks where wild animals such as lions, elephants, giraffes, and zebras roam free. When I was a boy, our family would often visit these game parks. Seeing the beauty of the animals and the wilderness was always a spiritual experience. It gave me a love for the creations of the Lord. Visiting South Africa’s game parks is a tradition my wife, Diane, and I have continued with our own four children.
Other traditions I grew up with that have continued in my own family today are family prayer and scripture study. Although we were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was a boy, my parents had strong Christian roots and taught us good values.
Our regular prayer and scripture study prepared us for when the missionaries knocked on our door. I was 20 years old at the time. We immediately recognized the truths the missionaries were teaching as we learned about modern prophets, the Book of Mormon, and the Restoration of the gospel. As I read the Book of Mormon, from the very first verse I knew it was true. Our entire family was soon baptized.
I hope you young children will look forward to being baptized and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost. I did not receive those blessings until I was 20, so I remember well what it was like not to have the power of this gift in my life. I read the Bible every day starting when I was a young boy, but I understood the scriptures so much better after I received the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Even at a very young age, children can feel the influence of the Holy Ghost. I remember a family home evening in which tears started streaming down the cheeks of our five-year-old daughter, Chanel. I thought her brother, Christopher, might have pinched her or something, so I asked, “Chanel, why are you crying?” She answered, “Daddy, I feel so happy.”
I can’t remember what the family home evening lesson was about, but I stopped and said, “Chanel, what you’re feeling is the power and influence of the Holy Ghost.” She replied, “Yes, Daddy, I know that is true.” Like Chanel, you can feel the happy, peaceful feeling, which will tell you when something is right or true.
The Holy Ghost will also help you to do what is right, even when that seems very difficult. I hope you children will never be afraid to stand up for what is right. I still remember an experience I had in primary school. Primary school includes first through seventh grades. When I was about 12 and in my final year of primary school, the head boy, who was supposed to be the school leader, was actually the school’s biggest bully. He and three or four of his pals would go around teasing other kids.
I was new at the school, so one day he tried to intimidate me. When he discovered I would not respond to his intimidation, he gave up and bullied other kids, especially the weaker ones. One day when I saw this happening, I walked over and told him to stop. I said that if he did not stop I would defend the smaller boy. There stood the bully with his three or four friends, surrounding this small, timid boy and myself. It was very scary. I thought they were going to beat me up. To my surprise, the bully withered under my words. He and his friends made some smart remarks and left.
Throughout the rest of the year I continued to defend other boys from these bullies. Others started to do so too, until the bullies gradually lost all their power and influence. Children, the lesson I learned from this experience was that when we do things for the right reason, even when it is very difficult, the Lord will bless us and help us. He needs courageous people to stand up and defend what is right and reduce the influence of evil. You are never too young to begin doing so. When you stand for what is right, you will discover that good triumphs.

In our infantry battalion of some 500 men, there were three of us who were Latter-day Saints. Sundays in Vietnam usually found us somewhere in the jungle. But we would find a few moments to get together. We would take some canned bread from our C-rations and a cup of warm water from a canteen, one of us would bless these humble emblems and pass them to the rest of us. We would share our testimonies and have a prayer. Then, we would pick up our rifles and return to our duties. My dear brothers and sisters, I testify to you that never in any of our beautiful chapels have I felt the Spirit of the Lord more profoundly than I did in those simple jungle sacrament services. Those words: “that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” took on a literal meaning that they have never lost.

When I was in high school, a counselor read the results of my test scores and told me she did not think I would do well in college. But after I prayerfully studied my patriarchal blessing, I felt I should not abandon my lifelong goal. So, because I had insight into the Lord’s plan for me, I had hope in my heart, and I was able to move ahead confidently. I discovered that I was successful in that setting, and I earned a university diploma. When we know who we are and what we are supposed to do, it is easier to make important decisions about education, careers, and marriage. It is easier to shine our light in our families, with our friends, and in all other places.

In the Old Testament, a prophet of God asked that same question of a woman whose name we are not told. As the prophet Elisha went about fulfilling his prophetic duties, he often passed through a town called Shunem. Whenever Elisha passed by, this woman constrained him to stop and eat bread. After one of Elisha’s visits, the woman turned to her husband and said:
I perceive that this is an holy man of God, which ­passeth by us continually.
Let us make a little chamber, I pray thee, on the wall; and let us set for him there a bed, and a table, and a stool, and a candlestick: and it shall be, when he cometh to us, that he shall turn in thither.2
Now, just as this woman had envisioned, the next time Elisha came, he stayed in the room. The account reads: “And it fell on a day, that he came thither, and he turned into the chamber, and lay there.”3
The scriptures do not tell us how the woman felt as the prophet went into the little room that she had prepared just for him. But the scriptures do tell us how Elisha felt. He asked his servant to give the woman a message directly from him. It was, in effect, “What can I do for you?” Or, to be scripturally precise, “Thou hast been careful for us with all this care; what is to be done for thee?”4
Then the servant offered two options for the woman to consider: “Wouldest thou be spoken for to the king, or to the captain of the host?”5 Certainly these suggestions were within the rights of the prophet to make. He had already been of great help to both the king in Israel and the king in Judah. He had helped them obtain victory in war. Certainly the king and the captain would help Elisha in any way they could. So this woman could probably have negotiated anything she desired in response to the question “What is to be done for thee?”
This is the foundation for our question this morning: What would each of you ask for? How would you answer the prophet today?
I personally love the response she gave. She answered, “I dwell among mine own people.”6 Or, as I interpret it, “I have everything I need; I am at home with family.” Or perhaps, “We have plenty and to spare.”
Does her answer surprise you? It did me. Whatever her motivation, her answer caused me to think about what my response would be. Do I know enough about God’s plan? Am I secure enough in what God has given me and in my discipleship to His Son that I could say to the prophet, “I have everything I need”?
How about you? Do you have everything you need?

Some here may be wondering, “Are these all the gifts I need to return to Heavenly Father? In these spiritually perilous times, don’t we face some challenges that are unique to us—challenges that require something more?”
The answer is yes. Which is why you need to hear the rest of the Shunammite woman’s story—the part that is critically important for you and me as Saints living in the latter days.
After the Shunammite woman gave her answer, she went away. But the prophet Elisha could not rest. He still wanted to know what more he could do for her. In response, his servant pointed out that she had no child and that her husband was old. So Elisha called for the woman to come back. Elisha then promised her a son, which she later delivered, just as the prophet had said. And I love how he said the promise to her:
About this season, according to the time of life, thou shalt embrace a son. . . .
And the woman conceived, and bare a son at that season that Elisha had said unto her, according to the time of life.21
But that is not the end of the story. After several years this son would die and then be brought back to life by the prophet Elisha, miraculously giving this woman’s son to her twice.22
But even that is not the end of the story. After several more years, Elisha told this woman to flee into a different land because of a famine that was going to last seven years. She took her husband and son and fled, returning only after the famine had ended.23
The prophet of the Lord knew what the Shunammite woman needed—needs she probably believed could not be addressed and future needs she couldn’t possibly anticipate. But because she answered the call of a prophet and believed in his promises, her needs were met.