Gospel Story Finder

I remember one particular day when my commitment to those principles was put to the test. I was 14 years old; I loved to swim and dreamed of swimming in the Olympics. I did not compete on Sundays, but still I progressed. Finally, as the Olympics in Mexico City were approaching, a coach invited me to participate in special training.
The training, however, was every Sunday morning during Sunday School. I rationalized that I could go to practice and miss Sunday School because I would be back at church in time for the evening sacrament meeting. I saved for the bus fare and planned everything. The Saturday before the first training, I told my mother of my plan.
I saw the sadness and disappointment in her eyes, but her only reply was that the decision was mine and I had been taught what was right. That night I could not get the words to “Choose the Right” (Hymns, no. 239) out of my mind. The words sounded in my head like a broken record.
On Sunday morning, I had my swim bag in one hand and my music bag in the other, hoping to lead my mother to believe I was going to church. I went outside to the bus stop. It so happened that the bus stop going to the swimming hall was on my side of the street and the one going to the chapel was on the opposite side. While I waited, I became irritated. My ears were ringing with the music of “Have I Done Any Good?” (Hymns, no. 223)—the hymn planned for Sunday School that day. I knew from experience that, with the difficult rhythm, complicated lyrics, and high notes, this hymn would become a disaster without strong accompaniment.
As I was deliberating, both buses approached. The bus to the swimming hall stopped for me, and the driver of the bus to the church stopped and looked at me, puzzled because he knew I always took his bus. We all stared at each other for a few seconds. What was I waiting for? I had chosen the Lord (see “Who’s on the Lord’s Side?” Hymns, no. 260). I had promised to go where He wanted me to go (see “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go,” Hymns, no. 270). My decision to keep the commandments had been made long before (see “Keep the Commandments,” Hymns, no. 303).
Before my brain caught up with my heart, my body took over. I made a mad dash across the street and waved the other bus driver on. I paid the fare and went to the back of the bus headed to the church, watching my swimming dreams drive in the opposite direction.
Everyone thought I cried that day because I felt the Spirit. But really I cried because my childhood dream had just come crashing down and because I was ashamed that I had even entertained the idea of swimming on the Sabbath. But that Sunday, like those before and after, I fulfilled my calling.

Seven-year-old Joseph has grown up around water. Or rather he has grown up with water all around him—surrounded by the cold waters of Lake Titicaca in Peru. That’s what happens when you live on a small island made of floating reeds.
Joseph and his family are part of the Uros people, who have built and lived on floating islands on Lake Titicaca for hundreds of years. They fish in the lake. They bathe in the lake. They row across the lake to get from island to island.
You might think that Joseph, being so used to the water, wouldn’t be nervous about standing in a baptismal font in a few months to be baptized. But he feels the same way many other children feel.
“I’m excited,” he says. “But I’m worried about going under the water.”
With water all around them, Uros children are taught to be careful with water. So after Joseph told his parents about his worries, the family talked about baptism during family home evening, and Joseph and his father practiced what to do.
“My father will baptize me,” Joseph says. “He helped me to not be so afraid.”
Now Joseph is diligently preparing for his baptism. He is trying especially hard to pay attention during Primary and to learn the Articles of Faith. He knows that will help him now and in the future.
“I’m going on a mission,” he says. “Like Nephi said, I will go and do the things the Lord commands” (see 1 Nephi 3:7).

Joining a church where members teach and speak and pray publicly can be intimidating to those for whom church membership was once a more passive experience. Today Aileen Figuerres serves on the Relief Society general board, where she teaches Relief Society leaders throughout the Church. She joined the Church in Hawaii at age 21, and she still remembers how worried she was the first time she was asked to pray in a meeting and teach a lesson as part of a teacher improvement class. In the Buddhist church she grew up attending, she recalls, “The minister did everything, and we sat and listened.” Having come from a non-Christian background, she also found the scriptures difficult to understand at first. She confided her feelings to a friend, and the friend offered to study the scriptures with her. Friends also taught her how to pray.
Sister Figuerres now emphasizes how important it is for new members to reach out to make connections with other Church members. She says it’s important to be brave enough to let others know what you need so they can help.
In retrospect, Sister Figuerres also realizes that as a new member she need not have been so concerned about the “form” as opposed to the “substance” of her service. To keep new challenges from feeling burdensome and overwhelming, Sister Figuerres recommends that new members try to approach challenges with a sense of joy in the learning process. “Because I had sufficient experiences of feeling the Spirit and God’s love, I could proceed in my own conversion process in spite of feelings of inadequacy and fear,” she recalls.

Further tests of President Young’s faith were still in store. The severest one came during 1857 and 1858 as thousands of U.S. troops—one-third of the standing army of the United States—marched to Utah escorting Alfred Cumming, who had been sent to replace Brigham Young as governor. President Young knew only too well from their experience in Missouri what enemies can do when backed by military authority. Yet he was confident that if the Saints did all in their power, the Lord would help them. President Young declared martial law and mobilized the territorial militia to do everything short of bloodshed to slow down the advancing troops. Grasslands and supply wagons were burned, provisions and cattle confiscated, and the advance units harassed day and night. Still they kept coming—ever nearer—until winter struck in their favor as the timely arrival of heavy snows stopped the army in its tracks, forcing it into winter camp 80 miles from Mormon settlements.

One of the lessons he taught me was the importance of paying tithing. He told me about my father, who was born in 1912, and my uncle, who was born a few years later. Both of these boys grew up in the Depression, a tough time. Because of the economic circumstances of the time, most of the young people didn’t get a chance to serve missions or they had to serve missions late.
Despite these circumstances, my grandfather said, “You know, we were really blessed because both your dad and your uncle got to go on missions. And I’ll tell you why they got to go. Because we were always honest in paying our tithing, so the Lord blessed us.”
He said they never had enough money, and people wondered how they sent not only one but two boys. He told me that they worked hard and saved money and were very careful, but they were also very blessed. He emphasized that the blessings were evident because they didn’t have any money fly out of heaven. Instead, grandfather was always able to get extra work and extra jobs.
He was a hard worker and had always worked 12 hours a day six days a week and sometimes more. He said, “Every time we thought that we’d be out of money, somebody would call me and ask me to build a room on their house or ask me to build a set of stairs or to do some painting for them.”
Because of those blessings, my father and his brother were both able to serve missions. I have a copy of my father’s missionary journals, and I saw the record he kept during his mission of when he got money from home. Although those dates were somewhat sporadic, they are evidence of my grandfather’s testimony of tithing.

At 4:30 A.M. my alarm went off as usual. I reached over and shut it off as I do every morning. I sat up in the dark and asked myself why I do this to myself every morning. After I was done complaining about how stupid early-morning seminary was, I got up and got ready to go.
Just like every day, I arrived five minutes late and sat in a seat in the back row farthest from the teacher. It seemed that lately my testimony had been going down the tubes. Things had not been going right. My grades had been suffering. I thought that if I were living right then everything else in my life should be good too.
As I sat in the back, not listening to the lesson, I began to wonder if the Church was really true. The thought scared me. I was worried that the things I had been taught all my life were wrong. It made me afraid. Right there in class, I started praying mentally to my Father in Heaven for help. I was asking him for help in finding out if the Church was true or not.
By this time, I had totally tuned out of the lesson being taught. Finally seminary was over. My brother and I were getting in my car when I noticed a piece of paper on the windshield. I took it and saw that it was from another church down the street. At first I thought it was an advertisement. I opened the paper and in big bold letters at the top it said, “In Which Shall We Believe?” I began reading it. It was a list of scriptures and quotations from the Book of Mormon and other Church books and leaders that seemed to contradict each other.
We took the paper home to my parents. We went straight to them and told them we got this anti-Mormon flier on our windshield. They read through it. We talked for a few minutes about one of the statements, which Mom helped answer for me. Then my parents put the paper on the desk. We had to leave for school.
A couple of days later, I took the other church’s flier and started reading through it. I started looking up each quotation in the scriptures and in other books. The paper was wrong. I found that the statements did not contradict each other. The people who had prepared the flier had only taken part of the scripture or part of a quotation. This made me remember what one of my Primary teachers had told me. She said, “Read the scriptures as a whole and not a part.”
I knelt down beside my bed and prayed. I asked Heavenly Father if the Church was true and if what I was reading in the Book of Mormon was correct. I said amen and stayed on my knees for a few minutes and listened. When I got up, I was totally energetic. I felt so good and so happy. I knew by how I felt that it was true. That was my answer.
Since that time I have studied the scriptures more. In a funny way I was grateful to those people who had been trying to tear down the Church. I even wrote a letter to the other church thanking them for the flier. I told them they had really helped me a lot with my testimony. Because of them, I was motivated to find out for myself. I found out it was true.

Because of the attacks on the United States on September 11, 2001, my grandma was stranded in Colorado. She was visiting my Uncle Bryan, and she could not get a flight home because they were all cancelled. She needed to get home so that she could take some medicine that would cost a lot of money to get in Colorado.
I asked my mom if I could fast for my grandma, even though it wasn’t fast Sunday. Mom thought that that was a good idea. My mom and dad and little sister all fasted and prayed with me, and my grandma was able to make it home safely and get back on her medicine that she needed to take.
I know that Heavenly Father answers prayers, and I know that He loves us and wants to help us.

The second story is a little closer to home. It involves an eight-year-old grandson. It seems as little Sam, our wonderful grandson, has been collecting Yu-Gi-Oh! Cards (I had not heard of them before and know little about them) and happened to acquire one of the most cherished and sought-after cards called the Blue-eyed White Dragon. A friend learned Sam owned the rare card and attempted to negotiate a trade. After much give and take, a deal was struck between the two boys. Sam would receive a whole stack of his friend’s cards and in turn Sam would surrender the Blue-eyed White Dragon card. During Family Home This evening on the day after conference Sam’s family talked about conference talks. On Sunday, Sam had attended General Conference to render much needed support to his grandfather. Sam, of course, heard the more can be less talk. Late Monday evening Sam came to his mother sobbing. She inquired why he was crying. Between sobs he tearfully said: “Grandpa is right. More is not better. I want the Blue-eyed White Dragon more than all the cards I received in trade.” Mother and son had a soothing conversation.

The rest of the story follows. Unbeknownst to Sam his older brother was a witness to the negotiations and the ultimate trade. He quietly negotiated a trade himself. By parting with a popular toy he gained possession of the valuable card. He didn’t share his secret with Sam. On Tuesday morning Sam asked his mother if it would be OK if he went to his friend and asked him to reverse the trade. Sam’s wise mother said, “You can ask but know that you likely will not be successful and remember a deal is a deal.” It was when he approached his friend that Sam learned his own brother was the owner of the favorite card. Appropriate arrangements were made, and now Sam has resumed ownership of the much revered Blue-eyed White Dragon and is also much wiser when it comes to more may not necessarily be better.

One night I was sitting at home thinking about what I was going to do about a specific friend. She was getting involved with the wrong kind of people. I didn’t want to get the reputation she was getting, but I still wanted her good friendship.
That’s when I picked up the January issue of the New Era. I read the Questions and Answers section that talked about having rowdy friends. It said that I should be an example to her.
I really needed that article. It came at the perfect time. Now I know that with the help of that article, and the help of my Heavenly Father, I can better help my friend. Thank you so much.
UnsignedFruit Heights, Utah

Another Latter-day Saint in the same stake, Richard G. Murray of the First Ward, was honored with a similar plaque from the same organization for saving the life of an automobile accident victim. When his family heard a noise behind the house, they rushed outside to find a car upside down and filling with water in a drainage ditch. Brother Murray scaled a six-foot fence and slid down the embankment to rescue a woman caught in her seat belt. Moments more and the woman might have drowned. Sister Murray tied a garden hose to the fence and threw it down to help both victim and rescuer climb up the slope to safety.

One of my favorite compassionate heroes is a man named Richard Kirkland. This is part of his story.

It was December 1862. The American Civil War had been raging for over a year and a half. Among other groups of Confederate soldiers, the 2nd South Carolina regiment was stationed near Fredericksburg, Virginia, determined to prevent Union forces from entering the state. Their post was a hilltop called Marye’s Heights, where, standing four men deep behind a stone wall, the men of the 2nd South Carolina poured volley after volley of cannon and small arms fire into the oncoming Union ranks. No Union soldier ever reached closer than 25 yards from the wall before being cut mercilessly down by enemy fire. The suffering cries of the wounded and dying were heart-rending.

On the morning of December 14th, the Union troops had been pinned in place for two nights and a day. Over 1,000 Union soldiers lay dead on the ground before Marye’s Heights; over 7,000 more lay wounded and freezing in no-man’s land, many unable to move. None of their friends could come to their aid without inviting almost certain death. "The Yankees were literally piled in our front," remembered one soldier, "dead and dying together, the living crying, ‘water, water!’"

One wounded Union soldier cried out in desperation, "If my friends cannot give me water, will my enemies give me some?"

Twenty-year-old Sgt. Richard Kirkland of the 2nd South Carolina could not ignore the cries of the suffering. Kirkland approached his commanding officer, Gen. Joseph Kershaw, for permission to cross the barricade and take water to the suffering Union soldiers. Naturally, Kershaw discouraged him, saying, "Kirkland, don't you know that you would get a bullet through your head the moment you stepped over the wall?" "Yes, sir," the young man replied, "I know that; but if you will let me, I am willing to try it." Concerned for his soldier’s safety but recognizing his courage and greatness of spirit, Kershaw reluctantly gave Kirkland permission to go. Since only the commanding general could negotiate a truce, no white flag could be flown to call for a protective cease-fire. Kirkland remained determined despite the obvious risk.

Loaded with as many canteens as he could carry, Kirkland jumped over the wall that protected his fellow troops and dashed out onto the open plain. Bullets struck dangerously close. The firing ceased however, as Union soldiers realized what Kirkland was doing. Reaching the nearest soldier, Kirkland knelt down, opened a canteen, and gave the suffering man a drink. He then took the soldier's pack and placed it under his head and laid the man's coat across him for warmth. Having done what he could, Kirkland then hurried to the next wounded man—and the next, and the next.

Firing resumed when Kirkland returned to his lines to fill more canteens, but as soon as he came over the wall again, the bullets stopped. Some soldiers on each side even cheered his bravery. For an hour and a half, Kirkland continued his mission of mercy until he was unable to reach any more wounded.

We are all familiar with John 15:13, which reads, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” In a truly heroic gesture of compassion, Sgt. Kirkland placed his life on the line not to save the life of a friend, but to minister to the needs of an enemy. I think Kirkland understood that Jesus Christ laid down His life for all who would accept His sacrifice, and in so doing, offered to everyone on every side of every battle the opportunity to be His friend—and deserving of compassion.

My mind has been much on this topic because of an experience our family has had in the last few months. Our daughter and her husband took a while to find each other and then, though they wanted children with all their hearts, over a number of years had difficulty realizing that dream. They prayed and they sought priesthood blessings and medical help, and eventually were thrilled to learn they were expecting twins.
Things did not go smoothly, however, and three and a half months before the babies were due to arrive, the mother-to-be found herself in the labor and delivery section of the hospital. The doctors at first were hopeful that they could stop the labor for a few more weeks. Quickly, however, the question became, would they even have the 48 hours necessary for medication to prepare the babies’ immature lungs to function?
A nurse came in from the newborn intensive care unit to show the couple pictures of the machines the babies would be hooked up to if they were born alive. She explained the risks for eye damage, for lung collapse, for physical impairment, for brain damage. The couple listened, humbled yet hopeful, and then, despite all the doctors could do, it was obvious that these babies were coming.
They were born alive. First the baby girl and then the baby boy—weighing less than four pounds together—were rushed to the intensive care unit and put on ventilators, with umbilical tubes and intravenous lines and constant attention. They can’t have too much light, they can’t have too much noise, their chemical balances need constant monitoring, as the hospital, with millions of dollars of equipment and many wonderful doctors and nurses, attempted to replicate the miracle of a mother’s womb.
There are multitudes of little miracles every day: a collapsed lung heals and then, despite the odds, continues to function properly; pneumonia is beaten back; more deadly infections invade and are overcome; IV lines go bad and are replaced. After two and a half months, the baby boy has gained two pounds and can breathe with an oxygen supplement. His ventilator is gone, he learns to eat, and his grateful parents take him home with monitors attached.
The baby girl keeps pulling her ventilator tube out, setting off alarms across the nursery. Maybe she wants to keep up with her brother, we think, but her throat closes off each time, and she just can’t breathe on her own. Her throat is so inflamed that at times the respiratory therapists have great difficulty reinserting the tube, and she almost dies. Her normal progress is stymied by her continued dependence on the ventilator.
Finally, after her baby brother has been home for two months, the doctors feel they are forced to suggest surgery for her—a surgery that will allow her to breathe by opening a hole in her throat, a surgery that might solve the stomach problems by opening a hole in her side, but a surgery that will impact her little body for many more months and maybe for the rest of her life. As the parents wrestled with this decision, a beloved aunt sent a message to all the family. She explained the situation—the critical issue of timing, the importance of getting off the ventilator—and suggested that we join our faith once again, and in prayer and fasting ask for one more miracle—if it was the Lord’s will. We would culminate our fast with a prayer the evening of December 3.
Let me read from a letter that was sent to the family the morning of December 4. “Dearest Family, Wonderful news! Blessings from the Lord. Our heartfelt thanks for your prayers and fasting in behalf of our little girl. Yesterday morning she came off the ventilator and has been off for 24 hours at this writing. To us, it is a miracle. The medical staff are still guarded about predicting the future, but we are so grateful to the Lord and to you. We are praying that this will mark the beginning of the end of her hospital stay. And we even dare to hope that she’ll be home for Christmas.”
She did make it home for Christmas, and both babies are currently doing “just fine.” Our family has had its own “parting of the Red Sea,” and we are prepared to testify that there is today, as there was yesterday and will be forever, a “God of miracles” who loves His children and desires to bless them.

A story shared by our beloved associate Elder Henry B. Eyring illustrates this principle of commitment still further. This story is about his father, the great scientist Henry Eyring, who served on the Bonneville Stake high council. He was responsible for the welfare farm, which included a field of onions that needed to be weeded. At that time, he was nearly 80 and suffering from painful bone cancer. He assigned himself to do weeding even though the pain was so great that he pulled himself along on his stomach with his elbows. The pain was too great for him to kneel. Yet he smiled, laughed, and talked happily with the others who were there that day weeding that field of onions. I now quote what Elder Eyring said of this incident:
“After all the work was finished and the onions were all weeded, someone [said to] him, ‘Henry, good heavens! You didn’t pull those weeds, did you? Those weeds were sprayed two days ago, and they were going to die anyway.’
“Dad just roared. He thought that was the funniest thing. He thought it was a great joke on himself. He had worked through the day in the wrong weeds. They had been sprayed and would have died anyway.
“… I [asked] him, ‘Dad, how could you make a joke out of that?’ …
“He said something to me that I will never forget. … He said, ‘Hal, I wasn’t there for the weeds.’”

I had put my trust in those large hands many times. My thoughts returned to the day that I was stuck halfway down a turret at Caernarfon Castle. The turret, like the rest of the castle, was dark and made of huge granite blocks. The stairs spiraled upwards and were worn from centuries of footsteps. Tourists milled around the ancient landmark. Laughs, shreaks, and voices speaking several languages echoed off the damp, cold walls. Climbing up the turret had seemed relatively easy. I kept to the outside wall where the stairs were wide and headed toward the light at the top. The route down, however, meant teetering on the sliver of stone step in the center of the tower while hordes of huge adults streamed by me, flailing cameras and bags that hit me as they passed. Instead of heading toward the light above I was going down into a pit of darkness. I was terrified.
I could hear people above me beginning their descent. I knew that I would cause a huge traffic jam unless I moved, but I was frozen. “Dad,” I whispered. “Dad.” The sound bounced back hauntingly. I heard footsteps, then a strong voice that I recognized. “Sian, take one step down; just one.”
“No,” I gasped, “I’ll fall.”
“It’s okay,” came the reply. “I’m right in front of you.”
I looked down, my stomach churning. I saw his hand reach out around the central pillar. I took a deep breath and stepped down.
“Good girl. Now one more,” came the encouraging voice. I kept my eyes on my feet and my hand on the clammy stone pillar as Dad coaxed me onward.
Suddenly there was light and green grass and safety. I ran through the archway into the castle’s courtyard. I was down. I was free. I looked for my father. He was standing at the archway watching me, smiling at my excitement and conquest.

What would you do in the following situations?
It’s Christmas eve, but instead of singing carols and reading the Christmas story from the Bible, you’re huddled in an upstairs room while armed men search the lower portion of the house for goods they need. As the men leave, one of them shoots his gun toward the upstairs room where you are hiding.
A rebel group is on its way to the town where you live. It quickly becomes clear that your life and the lives of all your friends and family are in danger. Quickly you dress in warm clothes and shoes. With a small blanket strapped to your back, you and your family wait breathlessly for instructions on what to do next.
A nonmember friend reads some literature she was given at her church. At school she confronts you by saying, “I’m afraid that if you keep going to your church, you’re going to go to hell.” She says some other things that make you feel uneasy about your beliefs and about your friendship with her. What she thinks about the Church will depend a great deal on what you say to answer her questions.
Obviously the first two situations are somewhat different from the last. But is the last scenario any less perilous?
“I think that today our challenges are more spiritual than physical,” says Candace Wagner, a Laurel from Dublan, Mexico. “We have to face difficult temptations and problems our ancestors never dreamed of.”
Candace’s ancestors were among the first to join the Church. Her forebearers crossed the plains to Utah and then immigrated to Mexico. Many of them faced persecution for their beliefs. She also knows something about what it feels like to be on the defensive about the Church. She was the one being confronted by a nonmember friend at her school in McAllen, Texas, where her family lived until recently.
“A friend of mine had read some things about Joseph Smith that weren’t very favorable,” says Candace. “She came to me and asked me about them. My mom and I looked up the scriptures they had quoted in the article to see what they really said.”
After much study and prayer, Candace had her answer. She knew for herself that the Church was true. She was ready to speak calmly to her friend about the gospel.
“Opposition can make you stronger,” she says. “But so can this environment.”
When Candace refers to “this environment,” she is referring to the “Mormon Colonies” in Mexico where she now lives with her family. The colonies were established in the late 1800s by Latter-day Saint settlers from Utah, and they have been home to Candace’s friends and various family members almost continuously since that time.
The LDS community is well known in the area, and the youth are busy from morning to night with school, seminary, and Church programs. Both colony towns, Juarez and Dublan, are quiet and peaceful most of the time. Many of the temptations and challenges youth face in other places simply don’t exist here.
“It’s fun not to have to worry about things like peer pressure, since there’s not as much of that here,” says Brandon Hatch, a priest from Dublan. “It’s a lot easier to do what’s right because most of your friends are doing it too.”
And even though living in a small community can sometimes make you feel that you don’t have enough privacy, most of the youth agree that it’s nice to live in a place where everyone is concerned enough about you to want you to do the right things. It really is an ideal place to live the gospel.
But it hasn’t always been that way.
During the Mexican Revolution, it was Candace’s great-great-uncle, Anson Bowen Call, who hid in that upstairs room while Mexican revolutionaries searched the house. When they didn’t find all they wanted, one shot his gun in the direction of the room in anger and frustration.
“One of the guards shot into the room where we were,” wrote Anson, who was 15 years old at the time, in his journal. “A piece of flying glass cut my head over my right eyebrow. When I saw the blood running down over my eye, I thought I had been shot and felt the back of my head to feel the hole where the bullet had come out. But there was none, much to my relief. … It is a Christmas Eve I won’t ever forget.”

Clipper was a beautiful sorrel. He was half thoroughbred and a well-trained cow pony. When we turned him loose in the field after a hard day’s ride, he would kick up his heels and run and buck just like a frisky colt. One day I was trying to drive our cow home but to no avail; so I roped her, wrapping the rope around the horn of my saddle. Just as she came to the end of the rope, the cinch on my saddle broke, and both the saddle and I ended up on the ground under Clipper. He had been running hard and was excited, yet he stopped instantly and did not move a muscle until I was out of danger.

A number of years ago I had an assignment to accompany President Spencer W. Kimball to a regional conference. We had many meetings. After the conference a lovely dinner was held in the Prophet's honor. Eighteen stake presidents and their wives, together with a few others were in attendance. We were assembled in a large banquet room with tables covered with white linen arranged in a square. I was seated about as far from the head table as you could get. My seatmate was a long time friend Jerry Cahill who represented the public affairs department of the Church.
The master of ceremonies made a few remarks and turned the time over to the prophet. President Kimball rose to his feet, thanked everyone for their hospitality and then said, " I think I would like to hear from you. Would a representative of each of the couples please stand and tell me a little about yourselves, your families, and your experience in the Church."
As the president was giving these instructions Brother Cahill whispered to me, "This is going to be so great! I was with him in another conference when he did this. I have never been in a more spiritual meeting in my life. After they are through speaking President Kimball will stand again and say, 'Now let me introduce myself to you. My name is Spencer W. Kimball. Some say I am a prophet of God. Let me tell you a few things that have touched my soul today.'"
Just then the master of ceremonies jumped to his feet and took the microphone from the prophet. He was certain he knew what God wanted. He was certain that he knew what would be best for the stake presidents and their wives.
He said, "O we don't want to do that President. We can listen to them any time. We want to hear from you." President Kimball looked at him for a moment and said, "I think I'm feeling a little tired. I believe I would like to go to my room now."
And while that master of ceremonies may have had a testimony of the gospel, he didn't have a testimony of obedience. Like Sidney Rigdon, he didn't know what it meant to sit at the feet of a prophet, and his certainty that he knew what the Prophet wanted, kept him from hearing what the Lord might otherwise have taught him.

I started going to church with Joe, and we made a plan to deal with my concerns. The first step was to identify what, exactly, bothered me about the gospel. We bought a small journal that I brought with me every Sunday. Whenever someone made a comment that irritated me, looked at a scripture with a perspective that I thought seemed odd, or talked about a policy that rubbed me the wrong way, I wrote down my feelings.
I scribbled in that journal for months. I would say things like, “I hate it when people say … ,” “Doesn’t anyone fact-check?” and “That makes no sense to me.” Expressing my feelings as I had them made them easier for me to understand and process. Before, when something bothered me, I would hold on to it all day, and it would poison my church experience. But as I wrote in my journal, I became free to enjoy more of church, in between the moments I struggled with. I was getting more out of it than I had in a long time.
Now that I had identified what bothered me, the next step was determining why these things bugged me. As we would eat Sunday dinner, Joe and I would discuss what I’d written in my journal. Sometimes I would simply say, “This is how I feel. I don’t know why.” Figuring things out took a lot of discussion, personal thought, and prayer. One thing I’ve always believed is that prayer is the most important and accurate source of information on pretty much everything.
Working together, Joe and I realized that when you know who you are and what you believe, it builds a wall of protection around your heart. And so, after a while of writing in my journal and discussing it with Joe and with Heavenly Father, I ran out of criticism regarding the Church.

On August 25, 1975, a big bully who operated a shoe repair shop, along busy Herran street in Paco, Manila, resenting Elder Mabunga’s protest over the obvious overcharging for the repair of Elder Larkin’s pair of shoes, held the Filipino missionary by the collar and started to manhandle him.
The ensuing commotion caught the attention of an off-duty cop who was by chance in the vicinity and who came to the aid of the missionaries. The incident ended with a brief interlude of friendship with the cop, to whom they related their experience a week before, who in turn promised to help in the apprehension of the holdup men.
They shook hands and parted ways—but the harrowing experience of two unnerving incidents in a week’s time apparently was disconcerting to the two missionaries. Both forgot to take note of the cop’s name and address! That evening, they prayed hard for an opportunity to cross paths with him again.
One evening during the same week, they were teaching the gospel to the big Molinos family residing at Fabie Estate, Paco, Manila when someone knocked on the door. The elders momentarily stopped as the head of the family excused himself to open the door.
The Lord, indeed, works in strange ways. Who should come knocking on the door but the cop whose name the two elders forgot to take note of, and who turned out to be a relative on an unscheduled visit to the Molinos family without any purpose in mind.
The reunion resulted in a new turn of events in the life of the cop. He joined the Molinos family in listening to the message of the elders, hardly realizing that Elder Larkin and Elder Mabunga were silently thanking the Lord for an opportunity that came at the least expected moment.—P. Ocampo Jr.
Notes: The cop, Patrolman Antonio Buenaflor Molinos of Precinct 5, was baptized September 27, 1975, almost a month ahead of the big Molinos family of 2174 Road 5, Fabie Estate, Paco, Manila.
One of the holduppers was apprehended and jailed.

It is sometimes amazing to see the difference this peace can have in the lives of those who accept it. While I was presiding over the Canada Toronto Mission many years ago, our missionaries began teaching a family that was in spiritual darkness. They were poor and uneducated, and their personal appearance reflected a lack of appreciation or concern for normal hygiene and grooming. But they were good, honorable people—among the honest in heart that we always pray for our missionaries to find—and they responded spiritually as they felt for the first time in their lives the peace the gospel offers.

When we learned that they were going to be baptized, Sister Ballard and I attended the baptismal service. I happened to be standing next to the bishop of the ward when the family arrived. In all honesty, I must tell you that they were quite a sight. They looked unkempt, unclean, and somewhat scruffy. Because he had been out of town for a period of time, the bishop had not yet met the newest members of his ward; so this first impression was, to say the least, unimpressive. As they walked away, I thought I could feel his knees begin to buckle.

I put my arm around this good bishop to give him my support—physically as well as spiritually. I felt prompted to say to him: “Bishop, isn’t this wonderful? We will make good Latter-day Saints out of them!”

He looked at me, and he smiled. I just couldn’t tell if he was smiling because he agreed with me, or if he thought that I might be just another overenthusiastic missionary.

The baptismal service proceeded, and the family was baptized. The next day, we decided to attend that ward to make sure the family was well received when they came to their meetings as new members of the Church.

As the family came into the chapel for sacrament meeting, I was sitting on the stand next to the bishop. The father was wearing a clean white shirt. It was not large enough for him to fasten the top button at the neck, and he was wearing a tie that I could remember seeing on one of my elders. But his face radiated with happiness and peace. The mother and daughters looked like they had been transformed from the previous day. Their dresses were not fancy, but they were clean and lovely. They too had that special gospel glow. The little boys wore white shirts that were several sizes too large for them, even with the sleeves rolled up. And they were wearing ties that almost extended down to their knees. It was obvious that the missionaries had put their own white shirts and ties on these little boys so they could come to sacrament meeting appropriately dressed.

They sat with their missionaries, and the light of the gospel literally shone from them. Alma describes this as “[receiving God’s] image in your countenances” (Alma 5:14). I leaned over to the bishop again and said: “See, Bishop? We will make Saints out of them!”

Of course that overnight physical transformation was merely superficial when compared to the overwhelming, more significant spiritual transformation that took place in that family as the gospel entered their hearts and lives. Through the instruction of the missionaries and the subsequent fellowshipping of their good bishop and the ward members, this entire family emerged from spiritual darkness into gospel light and truth. In that light the family was warmed, refreshed, and revitalized by the peace that comes from knowing the Lord Jesus Christ lives. The light of the gospel truths restored to earth through the Prophet Joseph Smith began to show this family the way to the temple, where one year later they received their eternal blessings.