Gospel Story Finder

One girl who was introduced to the gospel by Mutual was Candace Read of Colorado Springs, Colorado. She says that when she was 15 she wanted to find a friend she could trust not to swear around her. She met Kimberly in algebra class. Kimberly invited Candace to eat lunch with her friends. Candace says, “I really liked all of them. They all seemed so good-natured and free of the distasteful things of the world. Kimberly invited me to come to Mutual. All of these friends that I knew from school would be there. Of course I went. I loved the way Mutual made me feel.”
From there, Candace was invited to meet the missionaries. She learned to pray, and she learned of the truthfulness of the gospel. When it came time for her to marry, she married in the temple, and she and her husband have six children, all actively working on gaining the blessings of the gospel. Candace says, “I am so grateful to have a friend who set a good example for me that I might have these blessings in my life.”

A pang of the same old fear shot through me as I realized the old woman trudging up 400 South about a half block ahead of me was Miss Bickersheim, my old typing teacher. The shopping cart she was dragging behind her was the giveaway. Miss Bickersheim had dragged that cart to school every day with her materials in it, year after year after year.
It was her all right. I tried to smile at the return of my old terror. How silly. She couldn’t hurt me now. But then I had to admit Miss Bickersheim had really never hurt me or anyone. She had taught me, my classmates, and hundreds of students before us to type and type well.
My mind raced back to my first day in her classroom. Miss Bickersheim and I had gotten off to a terrible start. “My dear young lady,” she had said, her eyes glaring, “I’m afraid you and I are not going to do business well together.” I could still remember her exact words and how precisely she had said each one. She was not amused that I had mustered the courage to defend my fingernails which tapered to beautiful ovals: I had stopped biting them just the summer before, and at last they looked exactly the way fingernails should look, gorgeously, perfectly, uniformly oval. Miss Bickersheim had held up my hands to show the class how fingernails should not be for typing.
“But, but … they don’t show over the tips of my fingers … much.” I had said the words with a trembling, hopeful voice, shocked at my courage. That’s when Miss Bickersheim had glared at me and uttered those frightful words.
That night I begged my mother to let me check out of Type I. “Oh mom, she’s just awful. Awful! She never smiles. I mean never. She just glares. And she hates me now. I can’t go back. I can’t.”
My mother smiled sympathetically at my plight. “I’m afraid you’d be sorry later if you checked out,” she said. “I know how badly you want to learn to type. Miss Bickersheim may be frightening, but she is also the best. Sometimes we have to do things in life that are hard, but we’re glad later. Of course, you’re the one who has to decide.” Slowly I walked to my room where I would ultimately look for an emery board.
During the next few months, typing became a 24-hour part of my existence. At movies my fingers typed the words the actors said on the screen. While I studied for other classes, my fingers typed the words I read. One night I woke up to find that my fingers were typing on my invisible typewriter. I was typing in my sleep. And each morning before Type I, I shuddered and got a stomachache, but each morning I went.
Because Miss Bickersheim took typing very seriously, her students did too. Miss Bickersheim stressed steady, rhythmic, accurate typing. Ten points were deducted for each error. She taught blind copy typing. No lower form of typing would do. A whack on the desk with her ruler revealed the guilty student who was sneaking a peek at the cylinder or keys. And Miss Bickersheim’s five-minute timed writings were precisely that: five minutes. When she shouted her terrible “STOP!”—a stop that made the stomach jump and the hair stand on end—we stopped typing and stopped immediately.
Although we hoped for a substitute, Miss Bickersheim never missed a day. Never once did she relax long enough to lose her sternness. Never once did she joke or laugh with the students like the other teachers. And never once, no not once, did she smile. Using her own unique methods, she taught us to type. I hadn’t liked those methods, but because she had taught me to type, I had been able to land the excellent summer job I had at the Wilcox Insurance Company. Even though I was one of the younger applicants, the company had been impressed by my performance on the timed typing test, a standard part of the application. I had made only one error. But then, timed writings were “a piece of cake” without the anticipation of Miss Bickersheim’s terrible “STOP” at the end.
The Wilcox company had said I would be able to continue working part-time during the school year, again, because of my accurate typing ability. My job would help me get through college and someday I hoped typing would help me achieve my dream of being a writer. No, Miss Bickersheim hadn’t hurt me—that was certain. In fact, I knew I really needed to thank her. But I didn’t want to.
Ahead of me, she had stopped to adjust the wheel of her shopping cart and had turned slightly. Her body was slumped awkwardly over her cart and her profile looked just as frightening as ever. I wondered if her eyes were glaring. I also wondered if I would speak to her when I caught up with her in just a few yards.
My throat felt dry, and my heart was beginning to pump more vigorously. But what was she doing now? Miss Bickersheim had reached the corner, and instead of stopping at the curb of the same street I planned to cross, she had turned to face the other crosswalk. If I didn’t speed up, she would be gone. I had an excuse now. Maybe I wouldn’t have to face her after all. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to face those glaring dark eyes again anyway.
The light changed, and I knew that in just a few seconds she would be out of my life again and perhaps I would never have another opportunity to thank her. Opportunities cannot be resurrected with each dawn. Maybe that was all right with me. She was so mean and, well, I was scared. But then I thought again of what that one typing course, the only one I’d ever taken, had done for me, and I knew I would thank her, not only because I had to, but because a warmth was encompassing me. The feeling of obligation had been replaced by an urgent, happy desire. I suddenly wanted, really wanted, to thank the old woman just a few feet ahead of me.
“Miss Bickersheim!” All those years of hearing close to 30 typewriters going at once had apparently made her a little deaf. “Miss Bickersheim!” I was almost out of breath from running the last few yards. “Stop, Miss Bickersheim!” She stopped just before she stepped off the curb. I was close enough to touch her arm, and she turned and looked at me with unglaring eyes, eyes that—was it possible that there was a flicker of good humor in them?
“You were one of my students,” she said.
“Yes, I was.” I smiled and wondered what I would say next. I took a deep breath and talked fast. “I just wanted to thank you and tell you how much I enjoyed—appreciated—your class. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was in your class about five years ago and I was the one with the too-long nails.” What a dumb thing to say, I thought, as I realized she had probably taught hundreds of girls with nails that had initially needed trimming. “Anyway,” I continued, “I have an excellent summer job now because you taught me to type so well, and it’s helping me through college. So thanks!”
Miss Bickersheim didn’t speak for a moment, and her thick wrinkled face contorted slightly. “I wish I could say I remember you, but I had so many students.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” I assured her that I understood. After all, I had changed, and it had been a long time.
“I wish I could remember you because you’re a lovely girl—I can tell that.” Her bottom lip was beginning to tremble slightly. Was this the same Miss Bickersheim I had known? Where was the sternness? Why, this old woman was nice. And my short speech seemed to have touched her. Again there was a silence for a few moments. “I taught for many, many years, you know, 32 to be exact.” Her eyes had a glazed look. “And I taught thousands of students. But when I retired, no one said anything, not one student, and I thought, well …”
“Oh, but we all appreciate you now. Now that we realize how well you taught us, we’re all so glad we took type from you. I’m sure all your former students feel the same way I feel.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.”
She patted my arm with a wrinkled, slightly shaking hand, and it was then that I saw the miracle. Miss Bickersheim’s thick lips parted, revealing aged, slightly protruding teeth. She was smiling! It wasn’t a pretty smile. No, it wasn’t that. But it was nevertheless a genuine, from-the-heart smile. And although it only lasted a few seconds, I had seen it.
“I did my best. I did my very best,” she said with a raspy voice.
“You were the best,” I said.
The light had changed again, and after we said good-bye, I watched Miss Bickersheim until she stepped up to the opposite curb, her old shopping cart thumping up behind her. The sun’s reflection on the silver metal made the old cart appear to be an object of beauty. She raised her hand to me before she continued her trek. And it was gratifying to see that her step was much livelier than it had been before. As for me, I felt like skipping. I felt like skipping and laughing and hugging the world because Miss Bickersheim had smiled at me.

I remember the story of Emma Smith trying to escape the persecution in Missouri. The Mississippi River was only partially frozen—not enough that a wagon with people and their possessions could travel on it. It is a wide river, and it was dangerous to cross. Emma had a six-year-old child holding onto one side of her skirt, an eight-year-old on the other side, a two-year-old in this arm, and an infant in that arm.

The sister-in-law of one of Joseph’s scribes had sewn cotton bags that buttoned around the waist. In those bags under her skirt, Emma carried the only copy of Joseph’s translation of the Bible, which he had been working on for months. With the documents and with her children, she took one step after another across that frozen river, hoping she wouldn’t fall in.

To me, that is the consummate signal of courage and faith—that when you need to do something for what you believe, you just move forward, one foot in front of the other.

When I was 15, I was invited to live with a Latter-day Saint family. Their daughter, slightly older than I, took me to Mutual. Everyone there welcomed me and paid attention to me. For the first time in my young life, people treated me with love and kindness.
I was introduced to the missionaries, who began teaching me. Soon I realized that I had a loving Heavenly Father, who had protected me throughout my life. I accepted the gospel and was baptized on Christmas Eve 1978. That evening I received my first and still most cherished Christmas gift: membership in the Lord’s Church.

It was Sunday, and the brethren of the Constitución Ward, Guadalajara Unión México Stake, were convened in priesthood meeting. The elders were listening to a lesson by the quorum president, a gifted teacher. Among those present were a newly ordained elder and his father, who was returning to church after a long period of inactivity.
The lesson that day was on the elders quorum itself. “What is a priesthood quorum?” the president asked, and the brethren in the class gave several responses. It is like a family, they said, and the brethren in the quorum should be genuinely concerned about each other’s welfare and help one another.
As bishop of the ward, I joined the group in time to hear the end of the lesson. Raising my hand, I asked for permission to speak. “I’ve just learned this morning that Brother Noriega, one of our quorum members, has not been able to get the machinery he needs to plant his crops,” I said. “Since the rains have already begun, it is urgent that the seeds be planted right away. Brother Noriega could run the risk of not getting his crops planted, because he is elderly and doesn’t have anyone to help him.”
I suggested that on the following day, we all go help Brother Noriega get his seeds planted. Certainly all of us together could do the job, even without the needed farm machinery. Everybody became excited about this opportunity to put the day’s lesson into practice, and the quorum president made the necessary arrangements.
The next day, Brother Noriega was waiting for us with tools and seeds. He hadn’t been able to sleep, he said, knowing that the elders quorum was coming to help him. While some of the brethren cleared the ground, others broke the soil or dropped in seeds and covered them. Two of the most enthusiastic participants were the recently reactivated member and his son.
It was dark when we finished our task. Dirty and weary, we had blisters on our hands and thorns in our clothes. But we all felt great satisfaction in having served one of our brethren—and we felt that we had really learned the meaning of our lesson in priesthood meeting. Brother Noriega expressed his gratitude, saying that he felt young and strong again as he worked side by side with his brothers in the quorum. The newly reactivated man also said that taking part had given him new strength and courage.
Just as we were leaving, rain began to fall, and we all got wet. But we felt that the shower was a blessing. Heaven’s rain was just what we needed to truly complete our day of sowing.

Troy knocked on the door of room 803.
Mrs. Palmerton, his high school teacher, opened the door, but only a crack because of the chain lock.
“Yes?” she asked, her voice weak.
“I got the Alka-Seltzer you wanted.”
She opened the door wide enough to take the package. Troy could see beads of sweat on her forehead.
“Are you still throwing up?” he asked.
“Twice since you left for the medicine. Maybe it’s the flu—or food poisoning. Except we both ate the same thing on the plane, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, whatever it was.”
“Troy,” she said, her voice momentarily resuming the authority of a teacher, “be sure to practice your presentation tonight. Remember you give it tomorrow morning at 11:00. If I get to bed now and rest, I’ll be okay by then. Now here’s 20 dollars for supper. You can eat downstairs in the hotel restaurant. But don’t go outside by yourself tonight, will you? New York isn’t a place you can just walk around in. There are pickpockets and gangs and who knows what else waiting out there to prey on tourists like us. So just stay in your room tonight. But tomorrow, after your presentation, we’ll take one of those nice bus tours where you don’t actually have to get out …”
She would have continued but got sick again and had to leave him.
His room was next to hers. All expenses were paid for by the school board back home in Idaho as a reward for winning the state competition.
He entered his room and chained it the way Mrs. Palmerton had told him. Then he walked to the window and looked out. Across the street was a building with cubicle offices stacked in endless rows and columns. There were people in the offices. He wondered what they did all day.
Half a block away stood a huge billboard of a girl wearing designer jeans. She was winking at him.
Farther away, down a side street, he could see a flashing neon sign outlining a woman’s form. It flashed consecutively in oranges, reds, and pinks.
On the street, January winds swooped through the concrete canyons, giving momentary life to the cardboard and plastic litter. Taxis and buses and black limousines driven by men in dark suits honked and intimidated their way home.
It was 4:30 New York time, but only 2:30 on his watch, which was still set to Mountain standard time.
He took one last disapproving glance then turned from the window.
At least I can always watch TV, he thought.
On top of the TV he discovered a small metallic black box. In front there was a white button and, below that, three black buttons marked “A,” “B,” and “C.”
A poster on the box told about full-length uncut movies available to hotel guests. All you had to do was to push the white button then one of the lower buttons to make a selection. The cost was only five dollars and was automatically added to the bill.
A booklet described which movies were being shown that day. Two of them, the ones designated by “A” and “B,” he had seen, but not the third one. Movie “C” was X-rated.
The booklet said that by turning to channel 3 he could see a preview of the three movies available that night.
He decided it wouldn’t hurt to see the preview.
When the preview was over, he realized he was in trouble.
He wanted to watch movie “C.”
He watched the preview one more time, then became ashamed for even watching that, and then turned the TV off and began to pace the floor.
The white button and then the “C” button, he thought. That’s all there is to it. It’s all done with a computer. Nobody even knows.
Mrs. Palmerton will know when she pays the bill, he thought.
No she won’t. The bill will just say I saw one of the three. I can tell her I saw the “A” movie. There’s nothing wrong with the “A” movie. She doesn’t need to know. Besides, it’s her fault I’m trapped in this room tonight anyway.
In his hometown there was a theater that only showed X-rated movies. People had tried to close it down but had never succeeded.
One time in priesthood meeting, the priests’ adviser asked if they had ever thought about going to any of the movies at that theater.
“Troy, how about you?”
“I guess I’ve thought about it, but I’d never go.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just my luck you’d drive by just as I was going into it,” he said, only half joking.
“Is that the only reason you don’t go?”
“No. I don’t go because I know it’s not good to have that stuff in your mind.”
He stood before the black box, touching its smooth surface. Nobody would know, he thought. It’s all done with a computer. Nobody knows what you watch.
He turned the TV on to see what was on the network channels. News and reruns and a cooking show with a lady plucking a goose.
Nothing good on, he thought, turning it off again.
He returned to the window. The girl in jeans was still winking at him.
But she winks at everybody, he thought. Millions of people a day.
He went back to the TV and looked up the movie schedule. The next showing of movie “C” was at 5:30, just 15 minutes away.
It’s just a movie, he thought. It’s not going to kill me to see a movie.
He looked outside and thought how dirty everything looked.
Finally he took some hotel stationery from the desk and sat down and drew a long line through the middle of the page. On the left he put a heading, “Why I should,” and on the right another heading, “Why I shouldn’t.”
Quickly he wrote down the reasons why he should watch movie “C”: (1) Because I want to. (2) I don’t have anything else to do. (3) Nobody will know. (4) How do I know it’s bad unless I see for myself?
Then he listed the reasons why he shouldn’t watch it.
The first reason he listed was: Karen.
Karen was a girl in his ward. They had dated for the last few months.
“Do you know when I like you most?” she had asked a few weeks ago.
“When I wear my aftershave and my sweater and get to use my dad’s car,” he answered.
“No, not then,” she smiled. “It’s in sacrament meeting when I watch you break the bread and bless the sacrament. You look so, well, clean.”
He grinned at her. “After all the money I’ve sunk for aftershave, you tell me that.”
“It must be neat to hold the priesthood, to realize that the Savior was the first one to give that prayer and that in a way you’re standing in for him.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that before,” he said quietly.
Another time he had driven her home from church. They sat in the car while she told him about her lesson that day. The bishop’s wife had come to talk to the Laurels.
“She said one thing that really impressed me,” Karen said. “‘You never know but that the guy you’re dating may some day turn out to be your bishop. It happened to me, didn’t it? You treat him like a future bishop.’ So that’s what I’m going to do, Troy.”
He wasn’t sure if he really wanted that or not, but it turned out okay. She still let him kiss her, but now only on the steps to her house, not in a parked car.
The second reason he listed was: The bishop would find out.
He’d find out because I’d end up telling him, he thought.
It was only a month ago since he had had an interview with the bishop.
“Are you morally clean?”
“I think so.”
The bishop didn’t leave it at that. “What does it mean to you to be morally clean?”
“Well, you know,” he stammered, “keeping your body clean, and things like that.”
“Okay—what kinds of things?”
Bit by bit Troy told what he understood. With each new addition to the definition, the bishop had asked, “And are you free from that problem?”
At that time the bishop was satisfied. But if he pushed the “C” button, the next interview would be different, because he knew he wouldn’t lie to the bishop.
The bishop would be disappointed in me, he thought, staring again at the “C” button.
The third reason on the list was: Dad.
It was just over a year since his father had ordained him a priest. He still remembered part of the ordination. “Always remember the priesthood isn’t like clothing you can take off when you enter a room. The priesthood goes wherever you go. Don’t take it into places or situations where it doesn’t belong.”
The fourth reason was: It won’t tell the truth about love.
Three years ago his mother had brought home from the hospital her sixth baby, a girl named Becky. He had held her that first day she was home and touched her tiny fingers and toes. She was beautiful to him.
His mother nursed Becky, and Troy sensed that experience was good for the baby, to have the time and closeness with her mother.
Troy knew his mother and father loved each other very much, even more than they loved any of the children in the family. They kissed and hugged in front of the children and held hands sometimes in church.
That was love, he thought, not like movie “C.”
The fifth reason was: God would know.
Even though I am alone in the room, He would know what I do. I can’t hide anything from Him.
The last reason: I would know.
He finished the list and stood up. It was 6:00. He had missed the time for the 5:30 showing of movie “C.”
I’ve won, he thought. I am strong. Nothing can weaken me.
He decided to go down to the lobby and look around. There was a store in the lobby, and he decided to buy some gum.
At eye level, there were magazines with pictures on the covers like none he’d ever seen in the small grocery store in his hometown.
I could buy one of those, he thought.
No, I’d be too embarrassed to buy one. The lady at the cash register would wonder what kind of person I am to buy something like that.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see her again.
I’ve got to get out of this rotten place, he thought, leaving suddenly.
He walked around the lobby and watched people and tried to imagine what they were doing in the hotel. Some had French or German accents.
A few minutes later he returned to his room.
He turned on the TV to see what was on the regular channel. More news and a mayor telling people to fix the drips in their faucets.
I’m strong, he thought. I could watch the preview again and still not push the “C” button. Nothing can weaken me.
He watched the preview again, and the same battle erupted all over again.
The next showing was at 7:30—just 45 minutes away.
Then after that, he thought, there’s one at 9:30, then 11:30. I’m going to give in sometime—it might as well be now.
He glanced at his list on the desk, read it again, then crumpled it up and threw it away.
Looking outside, he saw the flashing lights blinking on and off outlining a woman’s form in harsh reds, oranges, and pinks.
Then he watched the preview again.
Finally he turned it off. Except for the noise from honking taxis, the room was quiet, but inside his head a battle raged on, and he knew he was losing.
He walked to the set and glared at the buttons as if they were the enemy. The white button and then the “C” button. That’s all there is to it.
The TV was off, and he knew it didn’t count, but he pushed the white button and then the “C” button.
Now just turn it on and do that, he thought. It’s so easy. Nobody will ever know. lt’s done by a computer, and computers don’t care what you do.
“No!” he said loudly.
He turned and sunk to his knees by the bed.
“Father in Heaven, I need help, and I need it now.”
He pleaded with the Lord for help and, when it was over, he decided he had to leave the room until 7:30 had passed.
He put on his jacket and went downstairs.
I should eat sometime, he thought, walking aimlessly around the hotel lobby. lt’s 5:30 in Idaho—Mom is fixing supper.
On his third lap around the lobby he noticed a list of churches on a bulletin board. He decided to see if the Mormon Church was listed. It was.
If I skip supper, I can go there and see what it’s like.
In his pocket he felt the 20 dollar bill Mrs. Palmerton had given him for supper. He remembered she advised him not to go out because of the bad things that lurked outside, but they didn’t seem as threatening as what lurked in his own room.
He walked outside. A man in a red uniform asked, “You want a taxi?”
He nodded his head.
The man put a whistle to his lips and blew hard. A taxi, one of a long line, pulled up. The man in the uniform opened the door and Troy got in.
“2 Lincoln Square,” he said, faking confidence.
They drove very fast through the streets. He enjoyed looking at the passing buildings.
In a few minutes they were there. The ride only cost three dollars.
He stepped out and looked around and wondered where the church was.
There he saw two girls, talking quickly in Spanish. They entered a door of a building on the corner.
They look like Mormons, he thought, following them inside. The first thing he saw was a display case telling about the gold plates. A nice lady sat at a desk and smiled at him.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m a Mormon from Idaho.”
“How nice. My husband and I are serving a mission here, but we’re from Pocatello.”
When her husband came down, she let him take over while she showed Troy the visitor’s center. There was a lifelike scene of the Prophet Joseph Smith in the grove.
When they finished the tour, he asked about the two girls he had seen.
“They belong to the Spanish-speaking ward that meets here also. They have activity night tonight. If you’d like to look in, we can get on the elevator and I’ll show you where to go.”
When he stepped out of the elevator, it was just like any Mormon meetinghouse. They were having a dance in the cultural hall. He walked inside and sat down to watch.
A lady was teaching the group how to dance the rhumba.
Their only problem was a lack of guys.
A girl walked up to him, and in a machine-gun-like stream of Spanish, asked him something.
“What?” he grinned.
She started to laugh.
“I’m from Idaho,” he said.
She didn’t seem to understand, so he tried another word she might know. He pointed to himself. “Cowboy.”
“Cowboy?” she asked in awe.
“Cowboy.”
She called one of the guys over and pointed to Troy and said, “Cowboy.”
“Cowboy?” the guy smiled. He knelt down, challenging Troy to an arm wrestling contest.
Before long they all gathered around and watched. The two were evenly matched, but finally Troy’s arm began to ache, and he lost.
His opponent laughed and began slapping him on the back.
A minute later, the girl grabbed his arm and took him out on the dance floor.
He didn’t understand the words of the dance instructor, but he could watch and learn. Before long he had it down.
Then it was time for refreshments. He and the girl ate and giggled.
The bishop came over and introduced himself. He spoke English too. The girl’s name was Maria, and the guy he’d arm wrestled was her brother. They’d come to the states only a few months ago. Maria and her brother had been members of the Church only three weeks.
Maria began talking very seriously, and although he couldn’t understand the words, he knew she was bearing her testimony.
They danced for half an hour more; then they had a closing prayer.
Before they left the cultural hall, Maria gave him a huge crepe paper flower used as a decoration for the refreshment table.
They went down to the first floor. When the bishop came, Troy asked him how he could get a taxi.
“Easy,” the bishop smiled. He walked a little ways into the street and stuck his arm straight up. A few seconds later, a taxi pulled up and stopped.
Troy got in the taxi, waved at them, and said with a cheerful confidence, “Take me to the New York Hilton.”
A few minutes later he entered his room. It was 10:00.
The phone rang. “Troy, is that you?” Mrs. Palmerton said. “I’ve been calling for the past hour. I was so worried. Where have you been?”
“I took a taxi down by Lincoln Center and went to a dance. I learned to do the rhumba and the bossa nova.”
She gasped. “You went outside?”
“I took a taxi.”
“But who were you dancing with?”
“Friends.”
“You have friends in this town?” He smiled and thought about the Church. “I have friends in every town.”
She gave him a parting list of instructions, then hung up.
He placed the crepe paper flower on the TV. It was so big it covered up the black box.
A few minutes later, his teeth brushed, pajamas on, he took one last look outside.
Nice town, he thought to himself.

Elder and Sister Rakotovao are a delightful and dedicated couple who are natives of Madagascar and who cannot stop smiling while serving the Lord as senior missionaries in the city of Ansirabe, Madagascar. When they joined the Church 17 years ago, they were already married and too old to serve as young missionaries. But they are now showing the Lord their gratitude by serving their third mission as a senior couple. In 2010 they sold their land and everything in their house so they could serve as senior missionaries in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. Of this experience they recently said, “Serving in the temple is serving others. While serving others we felt like we were serving our Lord God. It is this strong feeling in us that drives us to serve a mission again.” And so, after serving faithfully in the temple for two years, they returned home and began preparing for yet another mission. Earlier this year they once again left their home in Antananarivo to serve where needed under the direction of the mission president. They are grateful to be missionaries in the Lord’s Church and are an inspiration to all Latter-day Saints as they serve their third senior couple mission with great devotion and personal sacrifice.

Owen woke up suddenly in the middle of the night and peeked out the window. It was hailing and the sky had turned green.
“Is that what I think it is?” Mitchell asked, sitting up in bed.
“A tornado,” Owen whispered. His eyes scanned the sky for signs of swirling.
Both boys jumped as Mom opened the door, a flashlight in her hand cutting through the darkness. “The power is out, and the storm’s coming,” she said. “Everybody get down to the bathroom.”
Owen grabbed Mitchell’s hand and followed Mom to the downstairs bathroom, the center of their home. They had talked about what to do during a tornado, but Owen’s hands were shaking. What if it hit their house?
When they were halfway down the stairs, a high-pitched alarm filled the air. Owen felt Mitchell’s hand tighten around his. Those were tornado sirens, and they only went off when a tornado was nearby. Owen froze, but Mom gently pushed him toward the bathroom, which was lit by a small lantern.
Owen’s two sisters were already huddled on the floor, so he crouched in a corner to make room for Dad, who came in holding a radio. The space was small for six people, but Owen was glad they were all together.
Dad turned the radio dial until he found a station reporting the storm. “We have four tornadoes in the area,” the announcer said. “Everybody within the sound of a tornado siren is to stay inside until further notice.”
Owen gasped. Four tornadoes? He imagined them barreling down the street toward his house, and he reached out his hand to Dad for comfort. His little sister started crying in Mom’s arms. Owen’s panic grew when the announcer read off a list of streets near the tornadoes. Owen recognized all of the street names. One was even right by his school. The tornado could hit them at any moment! He had never felt this afraid before.
Owen knew exactly what he needed to do to feel better. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer. When he finished praying, he felt a little better—he was still nervous, but he felt peaceful too. Mom saw his bowed head and said, “Good idea, Owen. I think we could use a family prayer right now.”
Dad prayed aloud, and Owen’s fear went away a little more. He turned to Mitchell, who still seemed scared. “Want to play I Spy?” he whispered. It was one of Mitchell’s favorite games, and the lantern gave them just enough light to play. Mitchell nodded, and Owen started.
“I spy something … pink!”
“Mom’s robe!” Mitchell giggled, and the game began. The wind still howled, but Owen’s little sister stopped crying. Owen could feel peace in the small bathroom, surrounded by his family.
It seemed like hours later, but the sirens finally stopped. Owen took a deep breath, knowing the tornadoes had moved on. Dad turned up the radio again, and the announcer said it was safe to leave cover. Dad opened the door and squeezed Owen’s shoulder as they walked out into the hall to stretch.
“I’m proud of you, buddy,” Dad said. “You were really brave tonight.”
Owen hadn’t felt very brave, but he’d felt more peaceful after his prayer. He hugged Dad back, took Mitchell’s hand, and led him back to bed. The storm was over.

While serving with her husband, George C. Pingree, as he presided over the Nigeria Port Harcourt Mission, Sister Pingree focused some of her efforts on promoting literacy, especially among auxiliary leaders. “I’ll never forget how joyful the sisters were when they learned to read. When they stood up in training meetings and read simple sentences about their leadership responsibility, the other women there would clap for them, they were so happy,” says Sister Pingree. “It opened up a whole new world.”

Keeping the commandments. Our family’s income dropped considerably during the divorce process, and we struggled financially. I faced the dilemma of whether to pay tithing when there clearly was not enough money to feed and care for my large family and to make the essential house repairs. I sought counsel from my priesthood leaders and knew my answer. I decided I would pay a full tithing. I believe this single act of faith opened the windows of heaven, for many blessings were showered on our family. While I was deeply grateful for help from others, I also found myself struggling to develop humility and graciousness, as my family had never before required help. My first trip to the bishops’ storehouse resulted in tears, but I sought from the Lord what He would have me learn from the experience. Besides struggling with pride, I learned much about love and the purpose for the welfare program. Although we no longer need welfare assistance, I am grateful for that experience.

“One of many little romances—the night before we left, my true lover, Henry Ridgley, came to bid me farewell, and under our trysting tree (a big tree close by) we each vowed eternal constancy—for four years at least. At the end of that time he would be of age, and then he would come to claim me for his own, even if I was at the end of the earth. Well, he did come to see me, but it was forty years after instead of four years. He had a wife and three children. I had a husband and was the mother of thirteen children. …”

A few weeks later I was at a lake with my family. Still not knowing how to swim, I waded around in the shallow water. I was there about 10 minutes when I saw one of my friends coming into the lake. I was horrified. “What if Stephanie finds out I can’t swim?” I thought. I’d be so embarrassed. So I quickly dropped to my knees and began to pretend to swim—I walked on my arms while kicking my feet. Stephanie jumped in the water and began swimming for real. This only added to my embarrassment. After a while she came over and talked to me. Then she dived off in another direction, leaving me in the wake caused by her perfect, coordinated strokes. I resumed my fake swimming, feeling foolish.
After a few minutes I decided to stop being so scared and try to swim. I was in shallow water, so I lifted my arms from the ground and started dog paddling. It worked. I floated. It was only for a few seconds, but I floated. I did it again and again throughout the evening. By the time we left, I could dog paddle across the entire lake.

Eighteen years ago, my wife and I received a phone call from President James E. Faust, then Second Counselor in the First Presidency. He called us to serve as mission president and companion in Portugal. He told us that we had only six weeks before we started the mission. Although we felt unprepared and inadequate, we accepted the call. Our most important concern at the time was to obtain the visas required to serve in that country because, according to past experience, we knew the process took six to eight months to complete.
President Faust then asked if we had faith that the Lord would perform a miracle and that we would be able to solve the visa problem faster. Our answer was a big yes, and we started making the arrangements immediately. We prepared the documents required for the visas, took our three young children, and went to the consulate as fast as we could. A very nice lady met with us there. In reviewing our papers and getting acquainted with what we were going to do in Portugal, she turned to us and asked, “Are you really going to help the people of my country?” We firmly answered yes and explained that we would represent Jesus Christ and testify of Him and His divine mission in the world. We returned there four weeks later, received our visas, and landed in the mission field within the six weeks, as a prophet of the Lord had asked us to do.

Last year Chantal auditioned for a prestigious gala presentation that the media attend to report on the best new talent in Montreal. Chantal passed the audition and was scheduled to perform, but when she found out the concert was to be held on a Sunday, she withdrew.

“I fasted about it. Even though I really wanted to sing at the gala, if the Spirit says don’t go, you don’t go. So I didn’t. The important thing is always to follow what Heavenly Father wants us to do. But I know that because I listened to the Spirit, other opportunities have come my way,” says Chantal.

She recently found herself singing for a seminary film produced by the Church. Last year both sisters were asked to help with French translations for the film. Chantal told the producer she liked to sing and was asked to record several songs for the project. She went to the studio, put on the earphones, and surprised everybody when she did an outstanding job in record time. A technician told her she had professional talent, which was encouraging.

“If I sing professionally, my commitment to God will always take first priority,” she says. “I look at my singing as missionary work.”

Years ago, my wife and I drove to visit the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple. Our four young sons stayed home with a babysitter.
As we got ready to go home, one of the temple workers told us that the Teton Dam in eastern Idaho had collapsed! Much of our city was underwater.
My wife and I knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father for the safety of our children and the thousands of people affected by the flood. These words came clearly to my heart and mind: “Whatever the outcome, all will be well because of the temple.” We were grateful later to learn that our boys were safe.

These powerful truths were life-changing for my friend Jen,12 who as a teenager caused a serious car accident. Though her physical trauma was severe, she felt exquisite pain because the other driver lost her life. “Someone lost their mom, and it was my fault,” she says. Jen, who just days before stood and recited, “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us,”13 now questioned, “How could He love me?”
“The physical suffering passed,” she says, “but I didn’t think I would ever heal from the emotional and spiritual wounds.”
In order to survive, Jen hid her feelings deeply, becoming distant and numb. After a year, when she was finally able to talk about the accident, an inspired counselor invited her to write the phrase “I am a child of God” and say it 10 times daily.
“Writing the words was easy,” she recalls, “but I couldn’t speak them. … That made it real, and I didn’t really believe God wanted me as His child. I would curl up and cry.”
After several months, Jen was finally able to complete the task every day. “I poured out my whole soul,” she says, “pleading with God. … Then I began to believe the words.” This belief allowed the Savior to begin mending her wounded soul. The Book of Mormon brought comfort and courage in His Atonement.14
“Christ felt my pains, my sorrows, my guilt,” Jen concludes. “I felt God’s pure love and had never experienced anything so powerful! Knowing I am a child of God is the most powerful knowledge I possess!”

“If there is anything that qualifies me for this calling it is the testimony that I gained at age 18 while I prepared for a mission,” says Elder James Joseph Hamula. “I had a most remarkable experience where I received a strong witness of the divinity of the Lord and of His Church.”
Born on November 20, 1957, in Long Beach, California, USA, to Joseph and Joyce Hamula, Elder Hamula remembers reading the account of the First Vision. He read of how the young Joseph Smith wanted to know what was right, and felt that he too needed to go to the Lord in prayer. “So I knelt at my bedside and earnestly prayed to the heavens. And in response I got an answer that was as clear and as unmistakable as anything that I’ve experienced in life. I got up off my knees knowing that the Church was true.”
Elder Hamula has also served as a bishop, stake president, and Area Seventy. “All my experiences in the Church have been refinements of that singular experience as a young man of 18 preparing for my mission,” he says. “That was the foundation of it all.”

As a teenager, Sister Kalombo Rosette Kamwanya from the D.R. Congo, now serving in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission, fasted and prayed for three days to find the direction God wanted her to take. In a remarkable night vision, she was shown two buildings, a chapel and what she now realizes was a temple. She began to search and soon found the chapel she had seen in her dream. The sign said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Sister Kamwanya was baptized and then her mother and her six brothers. Sister Kamwanya said, “When I received the gospel, I felt like a captured bird that had been liberated. My heart was filled with joy. … I had the assurance that God loves me.”9

With a day in Rome we wanted to devour all of the great works of art that we could possibly see. We began at Vatican City. So much beauty is in that place, it was impossible to digest it all. As we left the Sistine Chapel, our guide asked us if we had noticed the floor. Only a few had done so. The awesome beauty of Michelangelo’s artwork on the ceiling was so tremendous that many of us never looked down.

Then a once in a lifetime experience. We walked into St. Peter’s Basilica and sang. It is the first time any BYU choir has done so.

Tour groups walking through stopped; even their guides, who are usually caught up in the tape recorder-style recitation of facts and history, stopped and listened. In this cathedral, the very center of the Catholic church, the message of the restored gospel was sung to many people. What an experience to sing in such a building!

Our final concert was held in the beautiful city of Florence at the Duomo, the third largest cathedral in the world. But this cathedral is different. The beauty is on the outside, where the entire surface is tiled with different colored marble. Inside it is very plain, and we were told it was done this way so that people would not be distracted when they were worshipping.

One priest was so moved by the concert we gave there that he asked us to sing for the mass which followed. It was thrilling to sing to our brothers and sisters as they worshipped the Lord in their manner.

We poured all of our love we had learned in Israel into the songs we sang. Singing from behind the congregation, we created a spirit not felt by these people before. The mass ended, and we sang, “Come, Come, Ye Saints!” Never before have I heard it sung with more power and conviction. The spirit created was indescribable.

One small, frail woman worked her way, cane in hand, through the crowd and in broken English synthesized the feelings of our entire tour: “You sing. You love.”

Once, in company with Elder Gene R. Cook and the mission president, we traveled in a very remote region on the Altiplano, or high plain, in Bolivia. We had traveled much of the day in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. We had crossed an arm of Lake Titicaca on an ancient ferry. We followed mountain roads first built by the ancient Incan Indians.
Once, we had to build a stone ramp to emerge from a river bed which formed something of a road in the dry season. Lifting stones at an altitude of more than thirteen thousand feet is no small task.
We came eventually to our destination, Huacuyo. It is really not a village so much as houses scattered about the mountains, as high, I suppose, as men live anywhere on earth.
There we found what we were seeking—a little adobe and stone chapel. The few Saints in the region had built it themselves with no help from the Church.
The distance and forbidding terrain made this, I’m sure, as remote from Church headquarters as any place on earth.
The chapel had a dirt floor and rude hand-hewn benches. The interior walls had been whitewashed. Hanging on the front wall were three pictures: the President of the Church and his two counselors—the First Presidency.
I repeat the words of Paul:
“Continue thou in the things which thou hast learned, … knowing of whom thou hast learned them.” (2 Tim. 3:14; italics added.)
Even in that remote little branch the members could identify those who hold the keys of authority.

I saw something else on the wall of that little chapel in Huacuyo. It was a rudely printed poster. I could not hold back the tears as I read the heading “preparacion para ser estaca”—preparation for stakehood.
There followed a list of qualifications for a stake of Zion. A stake of Zion there in the remotest village atop the Andes Mountains? Oh, yes! That will be one day. And when it comes, one of us will be there to give authority to the leaders. When a stake of Zion is organized anywhere on earth, a man sitting on this stand must be there to confer the keys of presidency. Only from those who have the authority and it is known to the church that they have authority can they receive them. There is yet a further witness. Any seeking soul—any member—has the right to know by the gift of the Spirit about the call of our leaders.