Gospel Story Finder

The Angell family continued to move wherever the main body of the Saints settled. They suffered from mobs and persecution in Missouri and Nauvoo. Over the years, several of Truman’s and Polly’s young children died. While the last of the Saints were being driven from Nauvoo, Truman and a few other men remained behind to complete the temple and dedicate it to the Lord. He must have been heartsick to hear how that sacred building was later desecrated and burned.

One of the best lessons on choice I learned was from my dad. Whenever the carnival came to town, I was eager for one more ride or one more something. One summer day my dad gave me a silver dollar. He said, “Go buy what you want.” That was a lot of money for me because the rides and refreshments only cost a nickel or fifteen cents back then. I remember going with my friends to the carnival. I priced everything—cotton candy, the rides, the side shows—and I figured out how many of each thing I could get. At the end of the day, I came home with my whole dollar. I had realized that it was my dollar, and it had become more valuable to me because it represented choice. By keeping the dollar, I still had the choice. Once it was gone, the choice was gone.

Taking to heart the theme of their youth conference, Be Thou an Example—Strength through Service, youth from the Reno Nevada North Stake showed a lot of strength. One day of the conference was spent on a spring cleanup project at the Rancho San Rafael Regional Park. More than 134 youth were grouped in “families” and worked a total of 670 hours and filled 225 large garden bags with leaves and debris.
That evening youth-conference “families” performed cultural presentations from various countries or regions around the world to reflect the theme of being an example to all the world. The conference concluded with a testimony meeting.

Family is important to eight-year-old Shonesty Johnson. When she turned eight, her father, Alexander, was out of town, working in the oil fields. She postponed her baptism a month and a half so that he could perform the ordinance. Her fifteen-year-old brother, Alexander, Jr., (Zack), sang “When I Am Baptized” as part of the service. Shonesty says, “I liked being baptized. It made me feel good—especially because Dad baptized me and my brother sang to me.”

The Prophet was then inspired to raise money to purchase Chandler’s mummies and the accompanying papyri, even though he did not know exactly what the writings would disclose. Kirtland Saints contributed the funds for the purchase. The price was $2,400—not an inconsequential sum at the time, considering that the Kirtland Temple was under construction, but the faith of members who knew the Prophet and his works led them to help.4

The Prophet recorded: “With W W. Phelps and Oliver Cowdery as scribes, [I] commenced the translation of some of the characters or hieroglyphics, and much to our joy found that one of the rolls contained the writings of Abraham, another the writings of Joseph of Egypt, etc., a more full account of which will appear in their place, as I proceed to examine or unfold them. Truly can we say, the Lord is beginning to reveal the abundance of peace and truth.”5

I bought the first one several years ago in a drugstore in Alexandria, Virginia. At 77¢, it was the least pretentious bound notebook I could find. At the time, I didn’t know I was starting a journal. I only knew I needed a place to organize my thoughts.
Before then, I had written ideas on any convenient scrap of paper—on the backs of tithing slips, on church programs, in small spaces on calendars. As I lost those bits of paper, I lost my only record of my best insights. The time had come to make them more lasting.
From grade school through high school I had kept diaries, but the small, hand-size pages didn’t allow for long entries. And the word diary on the front seemed too lofty, like the record an explorer would keep of an Antarctic exploration. I wrote only the activities of my life in them, never my thoughts. (A typical entry: “Today I did horrible on my history test, but tonight Mike in my French class called me.”)
There was little emotional substance to those entries, but at least they were entries. Regrettably, as l attended college, I became “too busy” to keep a diary.
Therefore, when I bought the 77¢ notebook, I wasn’t thinking “diary” or “journal.” I was just tired of losing those insights that would make good Sunday School talks. As I wrote in that first notebook, I was fascinated by how easily words came. I began looking forward to writing in my notebook at night. Sometimes during the day I would write myself a note about ideas to record that night. Some mornings I awoke before dawn and wrote fervently for five minutes or even an hour, undisturbed by the need to get up and get dressed. Some nights I wrote several entries; some nights I wrote none.
I liked the inexpensive notebooks because I wasn’t afraid to make mistakes in them, or to write about the mistakes I made in living. I began setting aside time to write. I wrote in the same place—curled up on the sofa, by the lamp. I recorded in the margins events that were significant, such as a new car or the date of my cat’s vaccinations. The actual writing space was used to record my reactions to the day, my observations and conclusions.
It was only when I went back to the drugstore several months later to buy another notebook that I realized I was keeping a journal. I decided to give the series of notebooks a name: Janet. The first volume, Janet 1, hadn’t exactly assumed journal form, since I had dated few entries, and none mentioned daily activities and impressions. As I realized I was keeping a journal, I modified the format so that I would at least know what day each entry was written.
It became interesting, too, to note where I was each day I wrote. No matter where I went—on trips or to stay with nearby friends—I found that I was the same person, with the same personality.
When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of bantering with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote with a purple felt-tipped pen, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend. Because of my frustration with my ability to think and express myself I wrote: “My brain has been like a vacuum cleaner, sucking in all sorts of garbage and dirt. And gold dust. So I must empty the bag and sort out the particles one by one until only the gold dust is left.”
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgment. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were sound.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet Strikes Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “On Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with each line-upon-line discovery of living. Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was picking on me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, through each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant, a friend, tucked on a bookshelf or into a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal answers for the curious challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but it’s far from the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic, if rough, artwork.
The Janet series is steaming ahead in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages. I have to confess—I bought a leather-bound journal last time (but it was on sale). And I did make quite a concession on the journal before that; it actually says “Journal” on the cover!

Kim was excited about family home evening. Grandma and Grandpa were coming to stay for a visit, and they were going to share a special lesson.
Grandma and Grandpa arrived at Kim’s house on Monday afternoon. Kim, Cody, Kate, and even baby Connor could hardly wait for family home evening.
Grandma started the lesson with a question: “What does it mean to go the extra mile?”
Kim, Cody, and Kate thought and thought. They didn’t know.
Mom spoke up. “If someone asks you to go one mile with them, you would go two miles.”
“If the bishop asks us to help someone, we can do what he asks us to do and then see if there is something more that needs to be done,” Dad said.
“I get it!” Cody said. “If Mama asked me to clean my room, I could clean up the living room too. And go the extra mile!”
“Great examples,” Grandma said. “Do you have any more ideas?”
Kim said, “If Mama asks me to watch Connor while she fixes dinner, I could play with him instead of just watching him.”
“If Mama asks me to water the plants, I could put water in Toby’s dog dish too,” Kate said.
“If Daddy asks me to carry a bag of groceries, I could go back and carry another bag,” Cody said.
“I love your ideas!” Grandma said.
“Grandpa hasn’t said anything,” Kim said. “What could you do to go the extra mile, Grandpa?”
Grandpa thought for a few seconds. “If Grandma asks me to eat one cookie, I could eat two cookies,” he said.
Kim laughed. “Oh, Grandpa, you are so silly,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Grandpa asked. “Don’t you think it would be going the extra mile to eat two cookies instead of just one?”
Kim, Cody, and Kate laughed.
Grandma laughed too. Then she asked everyone to remember the lesson and go the extra mile whenever they could.
After Grandma and Grandpa’s visit was over, they went back to their own home. Grandma called Kim, Cody, and Kate every once in a while to see what they were doing to go the extra mile.

My friends also set a good example for me when they chose to serve missions. Although I faced some opposition, I decided I also wanted to serve a mission. That decision has shaped the rest of my life. When I served in the Samoa Apia Mission, the missionaries carried much of the priesthood leadership responsibilities, and I could see that the Church in the islands needed to be strengthened. I made up my mind to do my part—I would return to Samoa after finishing my mission and my education.

After graduation from college, my wife and I moved to Samoa, where we raised our children and worked to strengthen the Church and the community. My father, not a member of the Church, was actively involved in local business and community affairs. His motto was “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” As my siblings and I discovered the gospel and lived it to the best of our abilities, he noticed the changes for good in our lives. In 1999, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) stayed in my father’s home on his return from the groundbreaking of the Suva Fiji Temple. During that visit, the Spirit touched my father’s heart, and I was privileged to baptize him when he was 80 years old. He found great joy in the gospel and was unashamed and bold in sharing it with others during the last days of his life.

I know the importance of being an example of the believers and the happiness it brings into our lives and the lives of others. Because of my friends’ good examples and the love of a prophet, my family and I have been blessed with the joy the gospel brings.

Every day we influence others by our actions. Let us be sure to reach out to others and share the truth of this scripture that it may bring happiness to their lives too: “Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall” (Helaman 5:12).

A lovely lady of more than 90 years visited with me one day and unexpectedly recounted several regrets. She mentioned that many years earlier a neighboring farmer, with whom she and her husband had occasionally disagreed, asked if he could take a shortcut across her property to reach his own acreage. She paused in her narrative and, with a tremor in her voice, said, “Tommy, I didn’t let him cross our property but required him to take the long way around—even on foot—to reach his property. I was wrong and I regret it. He’s gone now, but oh, I wish I could say to him, ‘I’m so sorry.’ How I wish I had a second chance.”

As I listened to her, words written by John Greenleaf Whittier came to my mind: “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, / The saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”

I will never forget the family home evening lesson we had during a power outage. Without power we could not read anything, and I thought that family home evening was going to be a disaster.
“How will we have family home evening without being able to read a message from the Liahona, or how will we be able to sing from the hymnbooks without light?” I thought to myself.
Fortunately my sister came to the rescue. She had the great idea for us to sing the hymns we knew by heart and then share what we had learned the Sunday before. We all shared a principle and learned from one another. In my opinion, learning together is the purpose of family home evening. I am certain that the Lord was very pleased that we kept the commandment to have family home evening, even without lights.

School had recently started, and Brian was excited. His family had just moved to a new town, and he was anxious to make new friends. It wasn’t long before he discovered that William, a boy in his class, lived just around the corner from his home. Soon Brian and William started walking home together.
Brian liked William a lot. But there was something about William that bothered him. Sometimes William swore. When his friend took the Lord’s name in vain, Brian felt very uncomfortable. He knew that this was wrong, and he didn’t like to hear William talk that way. Brian remembered the covenant he had made at baptism to always keep Heavenly Father’s commandments and to stand as a witness for Him. I’m going to ask William to quit swearing, he decided.
The next day, on the way home from school, William took Heavenly Father’s name in vain again. Brian stopped walking and said, “William, do you know that you just swore?”
“I did?”
“Yes, you took Heavenly Father’s name in vain. It’s wrong to do that. Heavenly Father doesn’t like it, and it hurts Him to hear anyone use His name like that.”
William was surprised and didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he quietly said, “I never knew that. No one ever told me that before. I won’t say it anymore if you don’t want me to.”
“OK! Thanks, William. You’re a good friend!” Brian told him. Now Brian felt good inside and couldn’t wait to get home to tell his mom what had happened.

“OK, Randal,” Mom called to Dad from the kitchen. Dad turned off the dining room lights. When four-year-old Sarah saw my cake with ten flaming candles, she clapped with excitement and squealed.
Mom set the cake in front of me. “Make a wish, Birthday Boy!”
I stared for a moment at the dancing flames and the butterscotch frosting, then at the pile of presents in colorful wrappings. On top was the fanciest present of all, and I was sure that inside was the tiny, portable TV that I wanted. I wasn’t going to take any chances, though, so I shut my eyes tightly as I silently repeated my wish. Then I took a deep breath and blew out the candles.
Mom handed me my presents one by one: new dress pants, new school pants, and a shirt. But she saved the fancy package for last.
My heart thumped excitedly as she handed it to me. It was just the right weight, too, and I wondered if we had enough batteries for it. The ribbon came off with a tug, and I tore open the paper. And there …
There in my hands—I couldn’t believe it—was a block of wood! I stared at it numbly, then looked at Dad.
“It’s mahogany,” he said, looking both serious and happy.
“This present has a special message for you, Randy,” Mom said.
I turned the block over, hoping that one of its sides might have a picture tube and controls on it, but no such luck.
“We’ll give you a couple of clues,” Dad said, “but you’ll have to discover the meaning of the special message yourself.”
Mom started clearing the table as she added, “The first clue is ‘desk.’”
The only desk in our house was my father’s desk in the den, so I took my block of mahogany to the den, still hoping that maybe there would be a television for me there.
But there was no TV there and no notes telling me to look some other place. The desk itself was wood, but that didn’t tell me anything. And the only other wood on the desk were the eagle bookends Dad had carved years ago. Did they mean anything? I had no idea.
I went back into the family room and grabbed the remote control for the television. One of my favorite comedies had already started. As the television screen came to life, I noticed in front of it four narrow rectangular pieces of wood standing in a row, like four letter I’s or four number 1’s. They were old, gray, and cracked.
It had to be the other clue. They knew that I’d see them there. Dad’s always saying that I spend too much time watching television. “You have too much talent, too much potential to waste so much time in front of that TV set. Remember, action unlocks potential!”
“OK, Dad,” I’d tell him. “I’ll just watch my favorites.” The problem was that I had several favorites every day.
When a commercial came on, I took the four old pieces of wood into the kitchen. “These are the other clue, aren’t they?”
Dad smiled. “And what do you think they mean?”
I laid them on the floor, putting one piece horizontally on top of another and putting the bottoms of the other two together to spell TV.
Dad laughed and shook his head. “Randy, what kind of wood is that? Do you know?”
I shrugged.
“It’s pine,” he said. “Remember that tomorrow when we go to Grandma’s.”
The drive to Grandma’s took about a half hour. During the drive I glanced often at the piece of mahogany, wondering why Mom had said that I should bring it. I didn’t think that Grandma would be too excited about seeing a block of wood, even if it was mahogany. And I wondered why Dad had wanted me to remember that those four old pieces of wood were pine.
“Randy, do you remember Grandma’s address?” Dad asked as we got closer to his old neighborhood.
As I thought, I could see in my mind the numbers on her porch—“One-zero-seven-five.”
“One-zero-seven-five what?”
“I don’t remember.”
When we turned onto Grandma’s street, I looked up at the street sign. Pine Street! Maybe, just maybe I’m starting to understand one of the clues.
After we snacked on cookies and I opened my presents from Grandma—a book and a sweatshirt—I asked, “Grandma, is there a house at eleven-eleven Pine Street?”
Grandma grinned. “That’s old Mr. Evangelesi’s house. He’s such a nice man, and he certainly was good to your father when he was growing up. It’s about time you met him, Randy. He’s expecting you.”
I walked down the street until I saw four narrow, weathered strips of wood above a porch: 1111. I mustered all my courage, then rang the doorbell. After a minute the door opened, and on old man with white tufts of hair above his ears looked out. He glanced at the block of wood in my arms, then squinted at me through his glasses.
“You look just like your father,” Mr. Evangelesi said. “A real chip off the old block.” He chuckled and held the door open, then stepped back a couple of steps and motioned for me to come in.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just held up the block of wood. He took it and turned it over, looking at it from different angles. Then he looked at me. “What is this?”
I was proud to know the answer. “It’s mahogany.”
“Yes, yes. Of course it’s mahogany!” he held it in front of me. “But what is it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Wood. It’s a block of wood.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. Come with me.”
Mr. Evangelesi walked through a doorway and down some wooden stairs, leading me to the basement and into a large workroom. When the light came on, I was amazed at what I saw—shelves filled with beautiful wood carvings. If it hadn’t been for the large worktable and the saws, knives, chisels, and clamps, it would have been easy to think that this was a room in a museum.
I walked slowly around the room, looking at everything: a horse rearing with the wind blowing its mane, a lion stalking its prey, two muscular men wrestling, a beautiful woman praying, a large graceful vase with swirling rings of color in the wood, a twirling ballet dancer, a fish jumping out of the water.
“Go ahead. Pick it up,” Mr. Evangelesi said as I studied a wooden chain.
I was amazed as I picked it up and saw each link attached to its neighbors—all carved from a single piece of wood!
I got more and more excited as I examined a race car, an airplane, a small totem pole, a pirate ship, a flintlock pistol, and the most beautiful baseball bat that I’d ever seen. “Mr. Evangelesi, they’re just awesome! Everything!”
“You know, Randy, you could make things like these.”
“No, not me.”
Mr. Evangelesi smiled kindly. “Your parents think that you can, with a few lessons and the right tools. You know, your father said that he learned some important lessons about life when I taught him how to carve wood.”
I thought about the eagle bookends on Dad’s desk.
“Do you know why I have a basement full of beautiful wood carvings and those old beat-up house numbers outside?”
I shook my head.
“Contrast! Nothing was done to those numbers. They just sat out in the wind and the rain and the sun. And now they look old and ugly. But you know what? Even those four pieces of wood had a beautiful grain once, just like your mahogany here.” He picked up my block of wood. “But nothing was done to bring out the potential of those four pieces.”
He walked across the room, pointing at his carvings. “All these carvings were once like this piece of wood that I’m holding. But after I studied the grain, I began to see what each piece of wood could be. Then I worked until I brought out its potential.” He placed my chunk of mahogany back in my hands. “There’s a work of art inside there,” he said, nodding at the wood, “waiting to get out, waiting to be almost anything that you want and can imagine in there.”
“But you’re an artist, Mr. Evangelesi.”
“Well, thank you, Randy. But I don’t think of myself as much of an artist, I think of myself more as a doer. I have a motto that I’ve always tried to live by: ‘Action unlocks potential.’”
Those words hit me forcibly. Dad had picked up that phrase from Mr. Evangelesi. Until now, they had been just words to me. But now. …
I looked at Mr. Evangelesi and his beautiful carvings. I thought of my Dad and all the good things that he had done and all the good that he was still doing. Then I picked up the block of mahogany and turned it over in my hands. I started to see some of the things that it could become. I saw some of its potential.
Most importantly, I started to see my own potential, to see that by working on myself, instead of sitting around watching television, I could become a person of worth just as by working on my block of wood, it could become an object of worth.

May I underscore this call to action by discussing a concept I was reminded of recently while watching a basketball game.

In that game, the first half was a seesaw battle, back and forth. Then, during the last five seconds of the first half, a guard on one team made a beautiful three-point shot. With only one second left, his teammate stole the inbound pass and made another basket at the buzzer! So that team went into the locker room four points ahead with a palpable surge of momentum. They were able to carry that momentum into the second half and win the game.

Mark Bennett from Camarillo, California, is not only into Russian, but has been into Russia as well. As a priest from the Camarillo First Ward, Camarillo California Stake, Mark was one of three high school students who participated with several college students in a four-week travel study program in Moscow and Kiev in the summer of 1977.
“We studied the language three hours each morning, and spent the afternoons visiting places of interest in Russia,” explained Mark. Because he was the only LDS participant, he conducted his own personal worship services on Sunday.
Mark’s firsthand experiences in the Soviet Union helped him earn the title of champion of the Southern California Regional Olympiad of Spoken Russian last February. A panel of teachers and professors asked contestants questions on everyday life in Russia, literature, culture, geography, and history. Participants were then given a half hour to prepare an oral summary of a story in Russian. After winning the Southern California title, Mark went on to place third in the Olympiad’s Pacific Coast regional competition in Seattle, Washington.
Mark, a 1978 graduate of Camarillo High School, is a freshman at Brigham Young University.

I can understand in some small part how joyful the Lord must be when His servants obey without murmuring. Recently, my dear wife and I participated in a meeting during which our responsibilities were to be explained. We had no idea, at that time, what our assignment would be or where we would be serving. I was privately advised that we would be called to serve in West Africa. I was surprised and delighted with the assignment, but there passed through my mind the thoughts that would inevitably arise in the mind of my companion of almost 39 years. How would she receive this assignment? I knew she would agree to go. In all our years together, she has never refused a call from the Lord. But what would be the feelings of her heart?
As I sat next to her, she discerned in my eyes that I knew our assignment. She said, “Well, where is it?” I simply said, “Africa.” Her eyes brightened, and she said with cheerful heart, “Isn’t that great!” My joy was full.

I returned home early from the Philippines Cebu East Mission. The “what ifs” and not fitting the “returned-missionary mold” made adjusting hard. Since I served in my home country, I struggled with thinking that I had let my branch down and knowing that I did not meet their expectations. Comparing myself to “legit” returned missionaries made me see myself as less worthy or as an outcast.
Eventually, the Lord taught me that a mission is just one of the many ways to serve Him. It is not where or how long but how you serve that counts. He taught me to be humble and to stay on the gospel path even if things get rough and do not go my way.
Jasper Gapuz, Philippines

The day I received my mission call, I drove up to Gus’s gas station. I saw him standing by the cash register counting a wad of money. He scratched his beard and pulled back his long hair as he puffed a cigarette. He looked perturbed, as if he hadn’t made quite enough cash that day. I read his lips as he recounted the money and watched his mouth form numbers and then a four-letter word.
When the wheels of the Martian Mobile (my olive green, ’64 Ford Falcon) rolled over a black hose by the gas pumps, the customer bell rang. It startled poor Gus and caused him to swear again. He jumped when he realized it was me, spit the cigarette out, stamped on it, and crammed the money into the cash register. The entire reaction spanned a time lapse of two seconds.
I watched in amazement. I wasn’t supposed to know he smoked, swore, or worshipped money. What? Did he think I was born yesterday?
He walked out of the station office with his hands reaching into his pockets. He pulled out a tiny can of breath spray and sprayed it into his mouth.
“Hi Paul!” he greeted smiling innocently.
“Okay, ten bucks regular.” I pretended to be gruff. “And make it quick.”
His response came in the character of a southern hillbilly.
“We ain’t serving yer kind here, mister. Only transients, hippies, motorcycle gangs—if they ride Harley-Davidsons, that is—and other general public nuisances.”
I watched as he pumped 12 dollars worth of gasoline into my dilapidated car.
I handed him a ten and two one-dollar bills. He kept the ten and tossed the ones into my back seat. From the time I had started talking about a mission, he’d been giving me two extra dollars worth each time I got gas.
“I sho ’nuff ’preciate it,” he drawled, “but I ain’t receivin’ no charitee’ from some short-haired, prospective missionaree.”
I raised my eyebrow, then asked, “Even if that ‘missionaree’ received his call today?”
I held up the unopened envelope. It had just arrived in the mail from Church headquarters, and I had rushed over to tell Gus.
“You got it?” he squealed, forgetting the drawl. Then embarrassed by his own excitement, he calmly added, “So where are you going, Paul?”
“I haven’t opened it yet. That’s why I came.”
“Well hurry up!” he insisted.
We sat in two greasy chairs in the gas station’s office. He was honestly more anxious and nervous than I was. I patiently held the envelope up to the light, then obnoxiously passed it from hand to hand.
“Are you ready, Gus?” I teased.
“Just open the thing!” he snapped.
He reached for the drawer where he kept his cigarettes, but remembering I didn’t know he smoked, sat on his trembling hands. He crossed his legs, and the dangling foot began dancing anxiously.
My missionary papers had been submitted a month before. I thought Gus was going to have a nervous breakdown as we had waited out the month to see where I’d be going.
Gus’s mysterious excitement about my mission call was something else I wasn’t supposed to know about. One day I had overheard him yelling at the poor mailman about how slow the U.S. mail system was.
He’d lock up his gas station and come home every day at noon, when the mail came, to see if it had arrived yet. I really couldn’t understand why he cared so much.
I opened the envelope and slowly began reading. I stopped cold when I read the place.
“I’m staying in the States!”
“Well, at least it ain’t one of those Communist countries,” he sighed, speaking with the drawl again. “Ya won’t be thrown in jail or come back with some weird disease.”
“You are so strange,” I told him.
He just looked at me for a moment. He took a big breath, uncrossed his legs, settled his nervous feet on the floor, grasped the arms of the chair with his trembling hands, and spoke seriously, no drawl, his voice shaking a little.
“So you’re staying in the good old U.S. of A? Well that’s neat, little brother, that’s really neat.”
He stood and put forth his greasy, dirty hand. I went to shake it, then hesitated when I realized how grimy it was.
“Oh shake it, ya pansy,” he barked. “Don’t ya know missionaries have to shake hands all day?”
I hugged him. I just reached right up and put my arms around his thick neck and hugged him. I didn’t worry that his greasy overalls would stain my clean shirt. I was holding back tears, and I knew he was too.
“I’m gonna miss ya, Gus.”
He didn’t say anything.
Right then a beautiful blonde in a Corvette convertible drove over the black hose, and the customer bell rang again. He pushed me away. Macho men don’t hug their little brothers. When the girl asked who I was, Gus was embarrassed. I had to chuckle. He’s never been as tough as he thinks he is.
I left him romancing his customer. His charisma is what had made his gas station the “hang out” for most of the gorgeous blondes in town. He does indeed charm the ladies. I hope I have some of it when I’m ready to look for a wife.
I went straight home to tell my parents. They were pleased I had shared the experience first with Gus.
“You’ll reach him yet,” my Dad told me, and that made me feel really good.

When I was growing up and would have frustrating times, my Dad would always say: “Well, just remember this will pass, it won’t continue forever.”
I found myself in the midst of one of those times recently, wishing that some of my problems would go away and some of my dreams would come true. But neither seemed to be happening. I began to wonder if sometimes things did continue forever. I wondered why some prayers seemed to go unanswered and why some blessings were withheld.
While visiting my parents I found some answers in the corn patch.
It was Saturday and the vegetable garden needed to be irrigated. Since I was home, I volunteered for the assignment.
“Water everything but the corn,” Dad had said as I headed for the ditch with my shovel. I wondered what Dad had against corn.
“Are you sure it doesn’t need any water?” I asked. He decided to come and check. We walked out to the garden together and looked at the corn, which was about 60 centimeters high. The leaves were wilting and had begun to droop from the heat.
As usual, we had planted the garden at our family home evening in the last week in May. A frost had come a few days before the end of the month, and then summer weather had begun.
This year Dad had planted peas, beans, corn, potatoes, and squash. Our garden was growing according to the usual schedule this year. Everything had been watered two or three times since it had been planted, except for the corn. It was getting close to July, and still Dad hadn’t watered it.
“I guess now it’s time to water it,” Dad said as he inspected the droopy leaves. Then he explained to me why he had waited so long.
“If you water corn when it first starts to grow, it’ll shoot right up. But it won’t develop a root system to support its height, so it won’t be good for much of anything.”
As he left me, I began thinking about what he had said. He was disciplining the corn so it would be well developed and there would be a balance between the roots and the stalk.
I looked at my own life and thought how much I was like the corn. Crying for water before I’d developed my roots.
I remembered a talk Elder Neal A. Maxwell gave at Ricks College. He talked about being “grounded, rooted, and established.” Maybe the Lord was allowing me to go a little while without water so I would become grounded and well rooted in the gospel. Perhaps there were roots of patience that I had not established. I could work on tolerance and love. I thought of many areas of my life where my roots were shallow.
I have learned not to mind so much the dry spells in my life because I know the Master Gardener will send water in His own due time. And when it comes it will be, as Elder Maxwell calls it, the Malachi measure: “there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)

I did want to be baptized, but when I got home my parents thought I was brainwashed and they did everything in their power to dissuade me. The awful thing about it was that I let them. I lost contact with all my LDS friends, and I let my testimony die. At one point in my life, I had wanted nothing to do with the Mormons, and I no longer believed in the doctrine.
But that still, small voice in me kept telling me to write in my journal. On one occasion I wrote:
I feel empty, I don’t feel complete, there is something missing. Why do I feel like I’m searching for something to grab on to? I’m lost; I desperately need direction. My testimony has been shattered. I feel I should hold on to my Catholic beliefs, but I don’t know what to do.
Well, even though it wasn’t a complete prayer, the Lord heard my plea. My friend from Quebec phoned to see how things were going. I tried to mask my feelings, but she saw through me. She pleaded with me to go to church. I finally told her I no longer believed and wanted nothing to do with the Mormons. She saw through that also. She told me she knew I had a testimony; it just needed to be revitalized. She told me that she loved me so much and wanted so badly for me to do the things that were right. We talked a little longer, and the last thing she told me was to go back to my journal and read what I had written. Well, that night I turned to my journal and read what I had written. Something came over me. I felt such a strong urge to pray. As I prayed and read, I felt that sweet, reassuring comfort of the Spirit. The Lord knew that I so very badly wanted to believe but that there were many obstacles in my way.
The next day I went to church contrary to my parents liking. I was so very scared, but right away some girls in the ward recognized that I was new and welcomed me. After many sleepless nights and long discussions, I was finally baptized. What really helped me when I needed it most was my journal. I said to myself, “I must have felt these things or I wouldn’t have written them.” Even at the time when I didn’t believe, I knew the Lord prompted me to write the things which I felt at the time. My journal saved me. It was a way the Lord was communicating with me, and it was something I knew I had to trust because it was coming from within.

The first thing you can do is talk to them. It may not be easy at first, but it will be worth it. “My dad and I talked,” says a teenage school student I know, “but we never really sat down and had serious talks about what’s going on in my life, about problems I had, or things I wanted to accomplish. As a matter of fact, the first time I ever had a serious talk with my dad was when he was a bishop and had to interview me on my birthday.
“That interview really helped me see that I could improve our communication if I made the effort to help him. Things didn’t change from one day to the next, but since then, he and I both have tried harder to find the time to sit down together once in a while and talk.”