Gospel Story Finder

Growing up in the Church, I have always been engaged in a battle of knowing truths and keeping my testimony strong. I remember one Thursday morning in seminary, my instructor was teaching us about prophets and apostles. He said a phrase that was burned into my memory: “President Thomas Spencer Monson [who was the prophet at the time] is a prophet of God, and whoever has the desire to know if this is true can sincerely pray to find the answer.” His words really touched me.
When I got home that day, I got on my knees and asked Heavenly Father to let me know if President Monson was called as the prophet by Him. At that moment, I felt a great and sweet joy fill me—something inexplicable. From that day on, I knew that the warmth I felt at that moment came from God, and it confirmed my faith in the prophet. My love grew to the point that I knew I needed the prophet’s guidance in my life. I couldn’t do without it. I always wanted to listen and obey all his words from general conference. When I learned of President Monson’s death a few years later, I was deeply saddened, because my love for him was so strong.

Bishop Robert Millet told this experience in the forward of a book he wrote entitled “By Grace Are Ye Saved.” The topic is repentance.
I’m quoting:
Some years ago I sat in my office just before sacrament meeting was to start. A young woman from my ward knocked on the door and said she would like to visit with me for a moment. I told her we could chat for a bit but that sacrament meeting would be starting soon. She assured me that this would only take a minute or two.
After we had been seated she said: “Bishop, I need to confess a sin.”
I was startled with the suddenness of the statement and offered the following: “Well, that could take some time, couldn’t it? Shall we meet after the block of meetings today?”
She quickly responded: “Oh no! This will just take a second.”
I asked her to go ahead and she proceeded to describe in some detail a very serious moral transgression in which she had been involved. It was now about one minute before the meetings were to start, so I tried again:
“Why don’t we meet together after Priesthood and Relief Society meetings.”
She then staggered me by saying, “Well, I don’t know why we would need to, unless it would be helpful to you, or something.”
I indicated that such a meeting might prove beneficial to both of us and she agreed to return.
Three hours later we sat in my office and I asked her, “How do you feel about what has happened?”
She responded, “Just fine.” I must have shown my perplexity, because she added: “For a number of hours I felt bad about what happened, but it’s okay now because I’ve repented.”
I couldn’t ask her the question fast enough, “What do you mean when you say that you have repented?” (She had explained to me earlier that the transgression had taken place on Friday night, and it was now Sunday afternoon.)
She reached into her purse and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper.
Pointing one by one to various headings that began with R, she said, “I’ve done this, and this, and this and this, and finally I’ve confessed to you.
I’ve repented.”
“It seems to me that you’ve skipped an R, that your list is missing something,” I said.
A startled but persistent look was in her eyes, and I noted a slight impatience with me as she said, “No, that can’t be. I have everything listed here!”
The R you’re missing,” I responded “is Redeemer. You have no place for Christ on your list. I mean, what does Jesus Christ have to do with your transgression? What does what happened in Gethsemane and on Calvary some two thousand years ago have to do with what happened to you two nights ago?”
She answered: “Jesus died for me. He died for my sins.”
To almost every question I asked thereafter about the Atonement she gave a perfect answer – at least, a perfectly correct answer. She had been well trained, and her answers reflected an awareness of the doctrines associated with repentance. But the answers were all totally cerebral, straight from memory and mind –not from the heart. She obviously saw not real tie between her own ungodly actions and the infinite actions of a God. We spent several hours that day and many days thereafter – searching the scriptures, praying together, and counseling over the way back to the straight and narrow path. She came, in time, to know the correct answers - this time by feeling, that is, from the heart.[7]
This young woman understood the doctrine by learning but not by faith. I don’t want to be too hard on her. She did have a sincere heart and was faithful in following the counsel of her bishop and did come to know the Savior and eventually repent. However, even though she was sincere in her effort to repent it seems that she was ignorantly applying the incorrect principles taught by Korihor. She acted as though she prospered according to her own genius and intellect. She thought that if she did certain things she would be forgiven. She believed that she could control the repentance process by her own actions not by faith in the Savior.

A few years ago, Jill and I were speaking with President Russell M. Nelson. He asked us if we would be willing to accept a different assignment. President Nelson has always been so kind to us and has treated Jill with great love and respect. After he asked the question about our willingness, Jill said, “We’d do anything for you, President Nelson.” He immediately responded, “Do it for Him.” This was striking for both Jill and me. He taught us a great lesson. President Nelson wanted us to have the proper motives and to keep our eyes where they should be directed.

My name is Ginger Lyn and I’ve always loved Christmas, but last year was the best one we’ve ever had.
It all started on Thanksgiving Day as our family knelt in prayer to give thanks for our blessings. We were all so happy that we talked about some of the things we could do to help others have that same happy feeling.
Together we came up with many ideas, but the best one of all was our plan for Christmas Day. What we like most is our large family, and the happiness the gospel brings to us. We decided to share both these blessings as our gift to others.
The Salt Lake Temple is only a short drive from our home, and going there was part of our plan. We decided that on Christmas Day, after opening our gifts and eating breakfast, we would clean up the house, fix a big dinner, and then go to the templegrounds and find someone to spend Christmas with us. Before going down to the Visitors Center on Temple Square to find our unknown guests, we would set the table with candles and our best silver and crystal, lay a fire in the fireplace all ready to light, and turn on the Christmas tree lights.
We pasted a picture of our family inside the cover of some copies of the Book of Mormon, wrote a message under each picture, and signed our names. These books were to be given to our dinner guests as we sat around the fire and talked in the evening.
We were excited about our plan, and we knew the Lord would help us. In all our family prayers from Thanksgiving until Christmas, we asked Him to prepare for us someone in need of our love who would be ready to hear the gospel.
Christmas Day finally came and we were all excited. It took us a lot longer to cook the dinner and clean the house than we thought it would. Because of this we arrived at the Visitors Center later than we had planned. We were afraid everyone would have eaten by then and we wouldn’t find anyone to share Christmas dinner with us. We talked with a number of people and invited several of them to our home. Some said they had already eaten and others looked a little puzzled and said, “No, thank you.” But we just kept asking because we knew that our Heavenly Father had prepared somebody for us. And sure enough, He had!
We found a father and mother from Michigan and their seventeen-year-old son. They were surprised at our invitation, but said they were very hungry and were just going to look in the phone book to find a place to eat. The father and mother had been to the Visitors Center before on another vacation, and on this visit they wanted their son to learn a little bit about the Latter-day Saint people. The father said, “There isn’t a better way for us to learn about your church and lifestyle than to go right into one of your homes. We’d be delighted to come!”
We also invited two young women who were on vacation from Australia to our home. They seemed excited too. They said they hadn’t eaten dinner and would enjoy being with a family at Christmastime.
We had a wonderful time on that Christmas night, eating and talking and answering questions about the Church. Before we said good-bye to our guests they thanked us over and over again. The Michigan family said they would always remember their Christmas dinner with us as a highlight of their trip, and before they left they took a picture of us around the Christmas tree.
The girls from Australia were a little teary as we gave them each a copy of the Book of Mormon with our picture inside the cover.
After the visitors had left, our family gathered in the kitchen to do the dishes. We agreed that the real spirit of Christmas had touched each one of us and that it had been the best Christmas ever. We learned, too, that we don’t have to wait for Christmas to have a Christ-like feeling—all we have to do is share the gospel with others and it can be Christmas every day of the year!

It was a hot summer day, that day long ago. I sat listening to the snip, snip of the barber’s scissors around my ears, anxious to have him finish so I could get out of there. And it wasn’t only the heat that seemed oppressive. My barber was some kind of missionary for the Mormon church: a “stake missionary,” I believe he said—whatever that was. He had sensed my negative attitude to his church on previous visits.
“What church was it you said you belong to?” There it was, the subtle remark to pull me into a conversation on religion. Instinctively I knew what was coming, and just as instinctively came my reply. “Just cut my hair and don’t preach to me!”
The next week was a fun one. I hurried to my barber. “Give me a special haircut. I’m going to join the Church.” His mouth popped open, and he couldn’t speak for a short time. When he regained his composure, his reply, in all seriousness, was, “Which church?”
Then I talked with the barber and learned that he would be my first bishop after my baptism. To our mutual surprise and joy, we discovered that we had met once before, two years previously, when he was on a stake mission and a rude person had shut the door in his face and left him standing on the doorstep.

During the final phases of World War II, I turned eighteen years old and was ordained an elder—one week before I departed for active duty with the United States Navy. A member of my ward bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a book. Its title, the Missionary Handbook. I laughed and commented, “I’m not going on a mission.” He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”
It did. During basic training our company commander instructed us concerning how we might best pack our clothing in a large sea bag. He advised, “If you have a hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom of the bag, your clothes will stay more firm.” I suddenly remembered just the right rectangular object—the Missionary Handbook. Thus it served for twelve weeks.
The night preceding our Christmas leave our thoughts were, as always, on home. The barracks were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a Mormon boy, Leland Merrill—was moaning with pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”
He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”
I advised him to go to the base dispensary, but he answered knowingly that such a course would prevent him from being home for Christmas.
The hours lengthened; his groans grew louder. Then, in desperation, he whispered, “Monson, Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so; whereupon he asked, “Give me a blessing.”
I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing. I had never received such a blessing; I had never witnessed a blessing being given. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the sea bag.” Thus, at 2:00 A.M. I emptied on the deck the contents of the bag. I then took to the night-light that hard, rectangular object, the Missionary Handbook, and read how one blesses the sick. With about sixty curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could put away my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child.
The next morning Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood.” His gladness was only surpassed by my gratitude.

When I was about eight years old, my dad bought each of us boys a six-month-old horse. We started riding them when they were young. We rode them in the Ogden Pioneer Days parade.
When I was a few years older, Dad sometimes took us into the mountain canyons on horseback. One day, I needed to return home before the others for some reason. I had never done this alone before. When I came to one fork in the trail, I did not know which way to go. But I knew that Heavenly Father knew. So I got off my horse and knelt in prayer. After I got back on my horse, something inside me said, “Give the horse his rein and let him go where he wants.” I did that, and in about fifteen minutes, I came into a clearing and could see the way to go.

A new animal was coming to live in the zoo, and the other animals were excited. One morning a big truck backed up to an empty cage, and out stepped the new animal. The zookeeper hung a sign outside the cage that said “ZELMGID.”

The other animals stared in amazement. The zelmgid did not look like any animal that they had ever seen. He had a long neck and a long tail, and when he opened his mouth, he barked. One by one the other animals turned away from the cage. Because the zelmgid was so different, they were not sure how to treat him.

The zelmgid was very lonely. The animals ignored him, so he had no one to talk to. He was so sad that he didn’t eat. The zookeeper began to worry. People stopped visiting the zoo because the new animal was sad and the other animals hid in the backs of their cages.

One day the elephant heard the zelmgid barking to himself. “The zelmgid does have a good trunk,” he told the giraffe. “It’s not as long as mine, but it’s really quite nice.”

The giraffe stretched her neck to take a closer look. “Look at his strong neck. He can reach as high as I can.”

The lion was looking quietly at the new animal’s mane. “My goodness! He has an excellent mane—almost as thick as mine.”

Just then the zebra trotted by the cage. “His coat has a very nice pattern,” she said.

“And his horns are curved just right,” the ibex said, “just like mine.”

When the monkey came swinging from the trees, he said, “Look at that handsome tail. I wonder if the zelmgid would like to play tag?”

Finally the duck waddled by the cage. “What fine feet you have. You probably can swim faster than I can,” she said to him.

The zelmgid stopped crying and thanked the duck for the compliment. Soon all the animals were talking together. They felt much happier. Even though the zelmgid looked different, the other animals had all found something about the new animal that they liked.

Alone in my home and on my knees in tearful prayer, I asked Heavenly Father why things were not working out for me. Personal challenges during the previous two years had convinced me that I needed to move from the small town where I lived and find a different job. Despite many efforts, however, I had not yet been able to find an appropriate position.
As I sobbed and prayed to know why I did not seem to be receiving the help I needed, a peaceful, warm feeling came over me. I stopped speaking and just knelt there quietly. I knew that Heavenly Father was comforting me through the Spirit. To my mind came the passages of scripture that I had read many times during the previous two years and that had been a source of great comfort.
One passage was 2 Nephi 4:16–35, particularly verse 28, where Nephi says, “Rejoice, O my heart, and give place no more for the enemy of my soul.” The other passage was Doctrine and Covenants 98:3, which reassured me that my prayers were heard and that “all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord.”
So now, even though I still felt that I wanted to move from that town, I knew with all my heart that I would be OK. Heavenly Father was there, and I felt fine about staying if He wanted me to.
Just three months later I learned that my 24-year-old son, who was attending medical school in a neighboring state, had cancer. I spent the next three weeks with him at the hospital. Had I gotten a new job, I would have had no vacation time, no release time, no sick leave. I would have had to quit the new job in order to be with my son, thereby adding unemployment to my challenges.
I couldn’t help but think that the Lord knew what was ahead and so for the moment had said no to my prayer.
My son underwent chemotherapy, and during the first few months we had no assurance he would live. I felt I needed to move to the neighboring state where he was; I could not stand to be so far away when he was sick and still making the effort to attend classes at medical school. Thankfully, through a chain of events that indicated to me the Lord was helping me, I was able to get a job in the area where my son lived.
I lived in that area long enough to see my son marry his childhood sweetheart, regain his health, graduate with honors, and present me with my first grandchild. Soon I was blessed to marry a wonderful man who was a longtime and respected friend.
“Rejoice, O my heart, and give place no more for the enemy of my soul.” “All things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord.” When the time was right, the Lord opened the windows of heaven and blessed me. I continue to remember those blessings and the comforting words of the scriptures, and I pray never to forget.

Mexico City, 1972: Those Saints came from the deserts. They came from the industrial cities of the north. They came from the small pellittos in the east and west. They came from the tropical coastlines down south in Central America. Throughout the summer those Saints had saved and borrowed and sold whatever they had to try to get together the two hundred pesos per person that was necessary for bus tickets. I’ll just use one illustration. Four busloads came from a very distant area. There was no money left over for food, but that didn’t matter. This group decided that they could fast for the three or four days of the conference. Most of the Saints arriving at the area general conference in Mexico City didn’t have two pesos (about sixteen cents American currency) for a cot, and so they spent those nights on hard floors. But, oh, what an inspiration it was to witness sixteen thousand members of the Church sustain President Harold B. Lee for the first time in a general conference as the President and the prophet, seer, and revelator of the Church! There were so many choice experiences that time will not permit me to relate all of them.

From the day I went to the temple and received my endowment two years after my baptism, I have loved the sacredness of the temple and the work there. When my father died four years later, I was devastated. He was my hero. Thanks to the gospel of Jesus Christ, I know that he still lives.
When I entered the celestial room after doing my father’s vicarious work, I felt his embrace. At that moment, I knew that my father had accepted the gospel and the love the Lord has for His children.

A sister in Mexico City was 16 years old when the missionaries came to her door. She says that as they taught with the Spirit, “it seemed like they had taken the bandages off my eyes and that the Lord was clearing my understanding. … The word of God and my prayers strengthened [me] to overcome my next trial, to face my father. When I met rejection from my family because of my baptism, the Spirit of the Lord strengthened me by whispering: ‘Keep on. Go on. Some of your relatives will become members of the Church.’”

I moved to a small town at the beginning of the school year. I was at lunch with a group of kids when they started talking about an inappropriate word. They were saying that if a teacher heard them say it, they would get in trouble.
Then one of them said, “Everyone says it … everyone but Sarah.” I looked up in surprise. I was glad they recognized that I do not say that type of word. And they respect that I am different.
This happened before those people really knew my standards or which church I belonged to. I know I have to watch what I say because others are listening to me, and I want to be a good example.

The enthusiasm the dogs have for pulling is obvious the minute Tawnya walks outside with harnesses in hand. The dogs prick up their ears and begin barking and jumping. They’re eager.
“I learn lots of things from these dogs,” Tawnya says. “Enthusiasm for what you’re doing is one of them. Another is obedience. You don’t use reins with them, just voice commands. If they didn’t listen to what I told them, I could have had some really bad accidents. Once, if the dogs had followed their instincts and kept running, rather than stopping right when I told them to, we would have gone right between a mother bear and her cub. I don’t think any of us would have survived that.”

Too many blind members find that their opportunities to serve are limited because of others’ attitudes. Clair Todd, a sister from Norwich, England, who now lives in Homestead, Florida, says, “In some wards—fortunately not my current one—I have not been considered for Church callings because I am blind. These were callings that I could have done without difficulty! In one instance, the bishop was inspired to call me as Young Adult representative, but he kept rejecting the prompting with, ‘But Heavenly Father, she can’t do it!’ Again and again the prompting came, and finally the bishop approached me. Of course I was able to do it!”

In a typical Samoan family, a young man does the family cooking in a umu (fire pit oven). His little brothers are usually right there to watch and help him. One of the first things this young cook does is to slash off a few palm fronds with his big bush knife. Then he slits them in half down the thick middle of the stem, fastening the rib into a loop and quickly weaving the leaf fringes into sturdy workbaskets.
Later, the older brother gets into his pao pao (dugout canoe) and goes to the plantation for taro (an edible root). By the time he returns with his baskets full of taro, his little brothers have a pile of wood ready for the fire.
When the fire is hot, the special rocks layered on top begin to glow red. The young cook slashes the leaf fringes off a small coconut tree branch, trims the green rib, and bends it in the middle to make fire tongs to arrange the hot stones in the cleared-out fire pit. Over them he spreads layers of banana leaves, taro, breadfruit, green bananas, a leaf-wrapped fish or chicken, more leaves, more hot rocks, and then leaves and earth. In a few hours the family’s food is cooked for the weekend.

Hanna twisted the dish towel and snapped it at the imaginary enemy in the middle of the kitchen. “Take that, Black Knight!”
Her friend Ashley leaned against the counter, holding her sides. “That towel makes a silly sword, but I’m sure you finished him off,” she laughed.
Hanna made a cape of the dish towel and put her foot on the imaginary evil knight.
Her mom peeked in. “Speaking of finishing things, girls, if you want me to drop you off at the skating rink, you’ll have to hustle. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
Ashley jumped. “Let’s hurry.”
“Don’t worry,” said Hanna. “We’ll let the rest soak and drip dry.” She dumped the silverware and utensils into a bowl, squeezed in some soap, and turned on the tap. The mess was soon lost in bubbles. Hanna and Ashley turned over the clean, wet dishes and pots to dry.
“That looks better,” said Hanna. She doubted whether her mom would get angry in front of Ashley.
Hanna’s mom reappeared. She scowled at the dishes, but then smiled. “Well, let’s go.”
In the car, the girls talked about skating backward and about rounding corners on one leg. Hanna stopped in the middle of a sentence when her mom pulled to the curb, reached across their laps, and opened their door.
“What are you doing, Mom? We’re only halfway there. We’ll be late for our lesson.”
“I know,” said her mom.
Hanna looked confused, but Ashley tugged at her friend’s arm. “Come on, we’ll walk the rest of the way.” Then she thanked Hanna’s mom for the ride.
The car pulled away. Hanna stared at Ashley. “Why did you say thank you?”
“That’s just the kind of thing my mom would do. She calls it a ‘consequence,’” answered Ashley. “Remember, we only did half the dishes.”
“Yes, but we were counting on my Mom’s help,” objected Hanna.
“And she was counting on ours.”
“Now you sound like a parent,” Hanna said. She looked betrayed. “Consequence sounds like a fancy word adults would use instead of punishment.”
“In our family it isn’t. We have meetings where everyone decides what rules will make us a good family.” Ashley found it hard to explain. “Come to our family meeting tonight, Hanna. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Right after I do the dishes,” joked Hanna.
That evening Hanna cleaned up quickly. She was curious about family meetings. As she slipped through the gate that separated their yards, she thought about Ashley’s comments.
Ashley invited her in and told her that the family knew that she was there to watch. Then she led her to the kitchen, where the others had gathered. Beth, the oldest of the four children, had a notepad and pen. John was combing his hair, and Eric tapped the table edge as if it were a drum. Ashley’s mom and dad greeted her with smiles.
It doesn’t exactly look like a courtroom, thought Hanna. She took the empty seat and leaned forward.
After a prayer, John started. “Beth borrows my basketball and doesn’t let me know. I don’t mind sharing, but I’d like to be asked.”
“I know how you feel,” said Beth. “Ashley borrows my T-shirts without asking.”
Hanna waited for an argument to start.
“Sometimes we all forget to ask before we borrow. Let’s talk about consequences that would remind us to ask first,” Eric said.
“How about fifty lashes with a wet dish towel?” Ashley winked at Hanna. Everyone laughed. “Seriously,” she went on, “how about, whoever you borrow from gets to claim something of yours for a day?”
Everyone nodded. “That was easy,” said Beth, jotting down the decision.
“Here’s a problem that doesn’t seem simple,” said Ashley’s mom. “What should we do about people being late for dinner?”
“That seems easy to me,” snickered John. “The people who are on time get to eat it all.”
“That’s a consequence,” admitted Ashley’s dad. “But it’s too tough. We could keep a plate of food warm in the oven.”
“Then it would seem like my consequence,” said Mom, “especially if I want to clean up right after dinner.”
“The late person could have to settle for a cold sandwich,” suggested Eric.
“That doesn’t sound like a bad consequence to me.” Hanna wasn’t sure she should participate. Her face reddened. “I love peanut butter sandwiches.”
“Hanna is right,” said Dad. “Sometimes that consequence would seem more like a reward.”
“Mom did say that cleanup is harder if there are stragglers,” said Beth. “I think the consequence should involve cleanup.”
“That’s logical,” agreed John.
Mom smiled too. “How does this sound: anyone who is late for dinner will be responsible for putting away leftovers and clearing the table. And whoever misses the meal does the dishes alone.”
Everyone liked the idea. Beth added it to the family notebook.
“Does anyone else have a problem to work on today?” asked Dad.
“Just one,” said Eric. “I made a carrot cake and some cocoa. Now I have to find someone to eat them.”
“I think,” Hanna said, smiling at Ashley, “that we should get ready for an enjoyable consequence.”

A remarkable example of President Monson’s kindness occurred in 2012. As the beautiful Brigham City Utah Temple was nearing completion, I met with the First Presidency to discuss plans for its dedication. With Brigham City being only one hour north of Salt Lake City, it would have been very easy for President Monson to travel there for the dedication.
Instead, President Monson said, “Brigham City is the hometown of President Boyd K. Packer, this great Apostle who has sat beside me for so many years in the Twelve. I want him to have the honor and blessing of dedicating the temple in his hometown. I will stay away, and I’ll assign President Packer to dedicate the Brigham City Temple. I want it to be his day.”
It was a wonderful day for President Packer and for Sister Packer, who also grew up in Brigham City. I was very touched by President Monson’s kind and magnanimous gesture to his fellow Apostle. We can all be that way. We can share and be kind and think more of those around us.

July 1990: I had come home. I was back in Prague, in my native country of Czechoslovakia—a country I had left twenty-two years before. I left because I couldn’t tolerate the political climate of the time. Now, within a few months, an overwhelming change had been wrought in the country, and I was free to return.
I suppose I expected to feel the same as I had so many years before. But I felt like a tourist. Everything seemed smaller and shabbier, and I felt as though I had lost my family and childhood roots.
But a few days after I had arrived, as I was walking along a crowded street, I suddenly felt a kinship with the people around me. I was among my own people. A great feeling of love and belonging came over me, and I felt the joy of the freedoms that they had gained after forty-five years of strict control.
It was exciting to meet with family and friends to tell them what I had been doing since I left home and to introduce them to the gospel. At a meeting I had with former school friends, I explained that I was a member of the Church and shared my testimony with them. I gave each one of them a copy of the Book of Mormon, along with any other Church literature available in Czech, and I referred them to the missionaries. I told them that now they had the freedom to choose, and that the best thing they could do for themselves and their families was to choose to accept the gospel. “If you are going to build a new home,” I told them, “start with a good, solid foundation.”
Eagerly I attended church in Prague, where the members met in a rented room. They were very happy to be able to gather together publicly and to openly discuss the gospel with relatives and friends.
My oldest son, David, had the opportunity to pass the sacrament, and later, at a testimony meeting back home, he said the experience made him realize the responsibilities and blessings that came with the priesthood.
A special experience for me was meeting with my sisters. One of them, Ilona Kebrt, and her daughter, Olga, went with me to church. Olga was very impressed with the appearance and behavior of the full-time missionaries. “I have never seen boys my age act and look like this,” she said. “They look as though they came from a different world.”
We had the opportunity to meet President and Sister Richard W. Winder. He is the first mission president in Czechoslovakia since before World War II. My sister was very curious about President and Sister Winder, the life they had left behind in Salt Lake City to fulfill their mission assignment, their unpretentious way of living in Czechoslovakia, and the love they showed for the people. She felt of their spirit, and cried.
Five days before I was due to leave Czechoslovakia for home, President Winder informed me that President Gordon B. Hinckley of the First Presidency would be visiting Czechoslovakia and holding a meeting in Brno, 160 kilometers from Prague. President Winder asked if I would attend the meeting and act as an interpreter for President Hinckley. I accepted, and with Ilona, I drove to Brno.
That meeting was a highlight of my visit. With President was Sister Hinckley, and President Hans B. Ringger, president of the Europe Area, with Sister Ringger, President and Sister Winder, and my brothers and sisters in the gospel. President Hinckley understood how nervous I was, acting as his interpreter and translating Church terminology into Czech, and he was very considerate. It was a very spiritual experience for us all. My sister didn’t take her eyes off of him, and her face shone at me from the congregation.
Since my visit, I have learned that the gospel seeds I planted have started to bear fruit. My niece, Olga, has been baptized, and she is now living with a family in London, England. She wrote to me: “When you visited with us, I heard you share your testimony of the gospel, and although I didn’t completely understand what you meant, I wanted to know more. Now, as a member of the Church, I know. I feel as though I have grown in wisdom beyond my years. Life makes sense to me, and for the first time I know what to do.”
In returning to Czechoslovakia, I found my family and friends—roots that I thought were lost. And I have come to realize that the basic desire for truth is never dead. I am sure that the gospel will spread in Czechoslovakia and that the Czech and the Slovak Saints will take their rightful place in the worldwide family of the Church.

Anya lives in Russia. When she was only 14 years old, she was being taught the gospel by the missionaries. One day in her school class, the teacher was saying false things about the Church and about the Book of Mormon. There were no Latter-day Saints in the school to defend it; but little Anya, who was not even a member, only an investigator of the Church, knew that what the teacher was saying was wrong. She stood up in front of the whole class and defended the Book of Mormon and the Church. What courage! She told them that what they were saying was not true and that she knew the Book of Mormon was true, and if anyone wanted to know the truth for themselves, she invited them to read it like she had done. Then Anya went home and told the missionaries she was ready to be baptized. I love Anya’s courage as she stood as a witness at an important time.