Gospel Story Finder

After completing his mission in 1972, Ron found a job, enrolled at the University of Utah that fall, and joined Delta Phi Kappa, a fraternity for returned missionaries. At the fraternity’s social activities, he couldn’t help but notice an attractive young woman named Melanie Twitchell. Melanie was one of Delta Phi’s elected “dream girls,” who helped with the fraternity’s service activities.
Like Ron, Melanie came from an active Latter-day Saint family. Her father, a career military officer, and her mother never let the family’s frequent moves become an excuse for missing church.
Melanie was impressed by Ron’s kindness, courtesy, and gospel knowledge. “I said to myself, ‘He is such an amazing man that it doesn’t matter if I never get to date him. I just want to be his best friend.’”
As their relationship grew, the Spirit confirmed her impressions of Ron and of his commitment to the Lord. Soon their friendship blossomed into what Melanie calls a “storybook, fairytale romance.”
Elder Rasband says she was a perfect match. “Melanie was every bit my equal in gospel devotion and heritage. We became best friends, and that’s when I asked her to marry me.”
They married on September 4, 1973, in the Salt Lake Temple. Since then, he says, his “selfless eternal companion … has helped mold me like potter’s clay into a more polished disciple of Jesus Christ. Her love and support, and that of our 5 children, their spouses, and our 24 grandchildren, sustain me.”3

When we had five young children, our family struggled to follow this prophetic counsel. It took us about 18 months to finally finish reading the Book of Mormon. Most days we read a page. Each of us read a verse and we helped our youngest daughter, aged four, repeat a verse after one of us read for her. To celebrate, we all went out to eat, and at the table I asked my family what their favourite Book of Mormon story is. The stories included Alma among the Zoramites, the journey to the promised land by Lehi’s family, Helaman and the stripling warriors, Mormon and Moroni, the missionary labors of Ammon, and the conversion of Alma the Younger. Finally, our four-year old daughter added her voice. She said, “Just Jesus!” She taught us a powerful lesson of childlike faith that day.

Mark Halladay, 13, learned a lot about the Christmas spirit by organizing hot meals and Christmas baskets for 70 homebound senior citizens. The meal was prepared by a local hospital, and the baskets were delivered by volunteers Mark recruited. A local florist donated cut flowers for the baskets, and a businessman donated a pen for each. Mark was impressed by the willingness of people to help other people and found that he had twice as many volunteers as he’d anticipated. The people who delivered the baskets stayed and talked with the senior citizens for a while, and all the participants made new friends. Mark is a member of the Meridian Fourth Ward, Meridian Idaho Stake, and is deacons quorum president. The Christmas baskets and meals were part of his Eagle project.

With that note on the breadth of life at BYU, may I describe a recent morning when I sensed some heights of life at BYU. On the morning of June 21, I welcomed the Institute of Applied Statistics to our campus. Those number crunchers were ecstatic to be meeting at the nation’s largest private, church-related university on the longest day of the year, the warmest June 21st in 23 years, following the wettest Utah May in 17 years. They quivered with delight to discover that the Talmage Building has 130,893 square feet and that the BYU campus has 638 acres, 482 buildings, and 399 miles of sidewalks. They loved learning that the BYU Statistics Department has done a special study on skiing accidents to help those who come to Utah for the 2002 Winter Olympics. According to these statistically valid data, most skiers who break their legs on Utah slopes do so on the last run of the day.

As I left the statisticians to go to my office that morning, I saw Hugh Nibley walking toward me near the ASB parking lot. Suddenly he stopped walking, turned around, and began looking intently northward. The inimitable Nibley removed his sunglasses, tipped back his canvas hat, and stood transfixed, as though his eyes drank in a vision. Then I saw what had stopped him—and an aesthetic and spiritual view of BYU replaced the statistical one. A clearing storm and rising sun had left a ring of heavy, low clouds around the neck of Mt. Timpanogos, like a richly flowered lei. The familiar Timp skyline poked above the clouds, glistening in the sunlight with a light layer of fresh snow, the white peaks contrasting brilliantly with the blue sky and the full green foreground. I stopped, too, looking not just at Timp but at Hugh Nibley looking at Timp. No matter how many hundreds of times he had seen that mountain, no matter how full his head from his latest reading and his always brimming stream of consciousness, Hugh looked up longingly at Timp. He doesn’t take it for granted. For Nibley, Timp is like a wonderful poem or painting or scripture or trip to the temple—always revealing new meaning and new inspiration to those who probe its depths.

In a very memorable sacrament meeting, I felt the truly universal nature of the gospel. The sacrament was administered in French and German. Talks were given in Italian, English, and Portuguese. A verse of “I Am a Child of God,” was sung in ten languages—Japanese, Korean, German, Spanish, Italian, French, Tongan, Samoan, Dutch, and English. The whole congregation was touched through the spiritual language of the soul.
Unusual as it seemed to me at the time, this kind of sacrament meeting would become more familiar to me for I had recently been called to serve as branch president at the Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Provo, Utah. I realized that this would be a unique experience.
The missionaries in my branch came from many nations. On one occasion, we had missionaries from eighteen different countries brought together by the common cause of testimony and love for the Savior.
The excitement of seeing missionaries from many countries, interviewing them, and trying to help them, lasted throughout the time I served at the MTC. Most of all, I enjoyed getting to know the missionaries. Learning from their experiences and watching them grow in the gospel was a blessing that overwhelms my feelings and occasionally still brings me to tears when I think or speak about them.
As I interviewed missionaries and heard them speak, I learned something about their spiritual maturity, their degree of preparation, and their dedication to service. I found great variety among them. Some missionaries were well prepared, while others were not. Some were spiritually mature, and others were not spiritually minded at all. Some were very dedicated in their service, and others were not so dedicated. As I listened to them, I heard them use the words sacrifice and privilege.
I noticed that every missionary used at least one of these words and sometimes both to describe his or her feelings about serving a mission. Some said they were happy to sacrifice two years of their lives, possessions, and girlfriends in order to serve the Lord. Others said they felt it to be a privilege to serve him. I heard these two words so often that I began to watch how the missionaries matched their words to their actions.
An elder from Germany told me how he had “always known” that he did “not know the truth.” He described how he sometimes “prayed to God” to find it. After leaving the military service, he was employed in Switzerland. One day, living alone and feeling lonely, he prayed again, “Please God, send me the truth.” A few days later when he was walking down the street, a stranger approached him and said, “Young man, I am supposed to talk with you, but I don’t know why.” In this missionary’s words, “I looked into his face and knew he had the Spirit of God. His face was beautiful.” The stranger was a Church member who had been walking down the same busy street and felt inspired to speak to a young man he didn’t know. This new elder spoke of his mission as a privilege.
A sister from Spain had already completed one full-time mission and immediately went to work as a nurse in order to earn money for another. At first the local Church leaders would not let her go, but she persisted in her attempts until they finally consented. She was called to serve in Chile.
An elder from Mexico happily showed me a picture of his family. “Look,” he said, “my father saved for two months to buy me these shoes. My branch contributed money so I could have this suit.” They both described their missions as a privilege. One elder arrived from Samoa. When he introduced himself for the first time he walked to the front of the congregation holding up a copy of the Book of Mormon. He said, “I am here because this book is true.” He was one of fifteen children. He had been told by his father before leaving home that other men, Church leaders, would be his father for the next few years. He was to obey them. He thought his mission was a great privilege.
Another missionary told of hearing about the gospel in France. The missionaries were not fluent in his language, but he knew that what they were telling him was important, so he studied English in order to better understand them. After hearing the discussions, he had difficulty breaking some of his bad habits. The missionaries told him to ask the Lord for help. One night he was having extreme difficulty and, remembering their advice, went to his bedroom to pray for help. An hour or two later he heard a knock at his door. The missionaries were standing there, drenched from having walked five kilometers in a heavy rainstorm. “Why are you here?” he asked them. “We were asleep,” they said, “and woke up feeling you needed us.” He paused at this point in his talk and looked out over the audience as if looking for someone. Then he said, in a voice trembling with love and gratitude, “I want you to meet my missionaries.” They both lived near the MTC, and he had invited them to hear him speak at our meeting. He spoke of his mission as a privilege.
An elder told of traveling from Vietnam and arriving at a refugee camp near Seattle, Washington. While trying to learn English so he could live in the United States, someone gave him a small card with a picture and an address on it. He kept it for some reason. Later, when he was asked where he wanted to live he showed this card to the customs official. “I can’t send you there,” he was told “but I can send you to a place nearby.” He was sent to live with a Latter-day Saint family in Salt Lake City where he learned about the Church. As he finished telling me this story, he showed the card he had been given in the refugee camp. It was a picture of the MTC. “I am here, President,” he said. Like the others, he thought it was a privilege to go on a mission.
The privilege of serving the Lord on a mission is felt and demonstrated in many ways. One missionary had struggled with family problems since he was a boy. While still young, he was expelled from his home and went to live with another family who introduced him to the Church. The gospel gave him direction in life where his natural parents had not. A few years later, after becoming one of the best players on a college football team, he decided to serve a mission. Before leaving on his mission, he gave copies of the Book of Mormon to his friends at school. This included his team coaches, fellow players, and teachers. He distributed more than 200 copies before entering the Missionary Training Center.
The missionaries who looked upon a mission only as a sacrifice were often honestly dedicated to the Lord’s service. However, I found they had not experienced personal revelation and inspiration. They were usually less informed about the Savior. But as they studied their scriptures and came to know Him better, their hearts seemed to soften and enlarge. They began to more deeply feel His love and know of the importance of missionary work as a continuation of this love extended to others. Many of those who began by telling of their sacrifices left the Missionary Training Center talking about privilege.
During my last sacrament meeting at the MTC, an elder stood who was older than most missionaries. He apologized for his poorly-spoken English, but hoped that he would be understood. His voice was deep and strong. He told of growing up in Cracow, Poland. He felt uncomfortable attending his family’s church and said that he “instinctively” knew some of its practices were not correct. He stopped going to his church and instead began to study the Bible. As he grew he became increasingly unhappy with the government, and at age eighteen he asked for political asylum in Austria. It was granted, and he left his home to start a new life. He spent nine very difficult months in the refugee camp near Vienna before seeking permission to migrate to the United States. Once he arrived he was contacted by missionaries from many churches. “They were nice,” he said, “but I could tell they did not have the answers I was looking for.” One day he saw a television program on the Mormons. He felt good about what he saw, and he decided to learn more of the Church. He met the missionaries, heard and accepted the gospel, and at age twenty-five was serving a mission. “It is a privilege to be here,” he said softly in his deep Polish accent. “I have been looking for a long time.”
It is a wonderful privilege for anyone to serve the Savior. It is a privilege to have any part in the great missionary work of the Church. I have thought about young men who have an easy life, or who do not know of the Lord, or who are afraid, or who are uncaring. I wish they would come to understand that it is a privilege to study the words of eternal life, to learn about their Redeemer, and seek opportunities to serve him by serving their fellowmen.

In 1976 I joined the BYUH rugby program. A year later I was hooked on the sport. There was nothing else in my mind but rugby. What made things worse, Coach Inoke Funaki announced that BYU-H Seasiders team will be on a tour to the South Pacific: Samoa, Tonga, New Zealand and Fiji. I could visualize this as an opportunity to go home; a chance to see my family.
I knew that it would be a tough thing to accomplish but I was determined to do my best. I knew that only 26 players of the 70 players would be selected on the tour.
The other players were fast, experienced, heavier, and stronger. In comparison with other players, I was skinny, inexperience, light and uncoordinated. I decided to train hard during the week and played my best on Saturdays.
I made it a goal to be on the field for practice before anyone. During the practice I trained hard as if I were playing a real game. I was not fast but it my goal to outrun everybody. The "pain barrier" weeks came and went and I was physically fit. No distance was ever too far for me to run.
When the season started, a miracle happened; I almost made a touch down every game. It was simply from the opponent dropping the pass, and I was the first player to get to it. I was known as the tireless runner.
What most players did not know, I did more work off the field in my preparation for my games. From Monday to Friday, I practiced hard, and I played my best on Saturdays during the games. On Sundays, I fasted for rugby. I suspected that it was probably a silly thing to fast for, but that's the Lord's problem. He promised that if you ask He will give, and that's his to decide. As a result, I was not only doing well as a player, but also off the field as a student.
I made the team and went on the tour, and it was a memorable experience. I achieved far more than I expected from playing the game. I knew the Lord answered my prayer and I gained a stronger testimony of prayer and fasting. That's the best result of my rugby career.

Sometime ago I was assigned to a stake conference in San Diego, California. When I arrived in the air terminal lounge my eyes scanned the waiting crowd to find the stake president. Finally I spied a man whom I thought must be him. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie on a hot Saturday afternoon. He was smiling and his eyes met mine with a knowing look. As I reached out my hand to his I asked, "How are you, President?" His response was a quick and pleasant, "I'm happy!" At the time I thought how appropriate his reply had been. We walked to his car and headed for the stake center and the Saturday meetings of the conference. All day I noticed that he gave the same response to every one who inquired about 'how he was,' "I'm happy!" That evening as he and I were traveling to his home, he interrupted the silence with this statement: "Elder Pinegar, you want to ask me a question." I asked what he had in mind. He responded by stating that I wanted to know why he said, "I'm happy" to every inquiry about how he was doing. I admitted that the question had been on my mind and invited him to explain. He told me the following experience from his life as a young missionary. When the stake president had entered the mission field he informed his mission president that he didn't want to be on a mission and asked to be released and sent home. The mission president replied that he could not release the young missionary because he was not the one who had called him; he had been called by the Lord. The missionary would need to stay until the Lord released him. The young man decided to stay, but each time he met or wrote to the mission president he included a request to be released, to be able to return home. Several months had passed and still the request persisted.

One afternoon following a Zone Conference and interview the missionary was surprised to hear the mission president say, "Okay, Elder, today you are going home. Pack your bags. You can go with me when I leave today." The young Elder was very happy. He went to his apartment, gathered his things, bid his companion and one of the Assistants goodbye and rode away with the mission president. He repeatedly told the president how happy this was making him to be able to go home. The mission president then said something like this: "Elder you are going home, I'm taking you to my home. I'm turning you over to my wife!." The missionary quickly responded that he did not want to go to the mission home, he wanted to go to his own home. The mission president did not give in, he merely drove to the mission home where his wife was waiting for them. As the dejected missionary got out of the car and approached the door of the mission home, the mission president's wife came out. She had a warm smile on her face and reached for his hand with a kind word and asked, "How are you Elder?" He quickly responded that he was not happy and wanted to go to his own home. This wonderfully sweet lady said, "Wrong answer Elder. Now look at me. Smile, and say, 'I'm happy!'" With a half hearted smile, and head bowed he said, "I'm happy." She smiled even more warmly and said she was glad to know he was happy. The young Elder quickly followed with the reply that he was not happy and wanted to go home, to which she responded, "Wrong answer. Now look at me, smile and say, 'I'm happy.'" He obeyed but not with any enthusiasm. They went inside the mission home where she had a nice meal awaiting them after which the missionary retired to a bedroom for the night.

For the next four days and nights the "I'm happy" conversation took place every time the president's wife and the young missionary met. On the fourth night as the Elder walked down the hall of the mission home he saw the president's wife approaching and he knew what was certain to happen. He decided to surprise her. When she reached out her hand in greeting, he smiled and responded with, "I'm happy!" He couldn't help giving a genuine smile. She was so pleased that she said, "Right answer, Elder. Now you are ready to go back to work." He quickly stated that he didn't want to go back to work, he was not really happy and only wanted to go back to his home. The mission president's wife then invited the young missionary to listen to her counsel. She knew he thought by going home, by getting away from the hard work and responsibility of his mission, he would be happy. She reminded him that he had every blessing that would lead to happiness because he had been taught the Gospe Happiness. There is no other way to find happiness than through Jesus Christ and His atoning sacrifice. He has prepared the way for all mankind to become happy through obedience to the truth; through the promise of forgiveness upon the conditions of repentance and obedience to the commandments of the Savior. She also reminded the missionary that the Holy Priesthood of God has been restored to the earth and that the keys of its power rests in living prophets and apostles who lead and guide us and serve as His witnesses in the earth. Through these keys of the priesthood, power has been given to bind husband and wife, children and ancestors together on earth and they would be bound in heaven. This plan of happiness was the very message the young missionary was called to teach.

This young missionary was humbled as he realized how very blessed he was to know of our Father's Plan of Salvation. He made a promise at that time that he would never complain again but would pursue the prepared path to happiness with renewed faith and determination. He went back to his labors and completed a successful, happy missionary service. From that time to the present, a period of over 37 years, he had always responded with "I'm happy!" to those who ask how he is doing. I know something of this man. Life for him has not been easy. Many challenges have come his way, but happiness has accompanied him throughout his life because he has come to understand and pursue the Lord's plan of happiness, the path He has prepared for us.

Joseph V.’s great-grandmother has Alzheimer’s disease. That means that she can’t remember things and sometimes doesn’t recognize people. Joseph started keeping a journal about his experiences with his great-grandmother’s illness, and then he wrote a book. Because of his book, My Grandma Has Alzheimer’s Too, Joseph has been in the newspaper, on the radio, and on TV. Now his book is going to be published.
Joseph says, “When the media ask me how my book started, I tell them first I kept a journal for two years then started to write my book. Then they say, ‘How did an 11-year-old boy learn to keep a journal?’ I tell them, ‘My church.’ ”
Joseph is happy that he can bring people’s attention to the disease and to the Church. He also wants to encourage young people to keep records and journals.

Illustration from Getty Images
As parents of a toddler and a newborn, we had faced difficulty fulfilling Church callings. So when my husband was called to serve as the bishop of a young single adult ward, we were both filled with hesitation.
Questions flooded our minds regarding our ability to manage everything with the added responsibility. We found out a few days after receiving the call that I was pregnant with our third child. Due to my medical history, previous pregnancies had been difficult. As we discussed what we would expect over the next few months if my husband accepted the call, we weren’t sure what to do. We began to pray earnestly for comfort and guidance.
At one point, my husband wondered if he should explain our situation to the stake president and turn down the calling. This made the most sense to us, but as we prayed and fasted, we were reminded of the words of President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018): “When we are on the Lord’s errand, we are entitled to the Lord’s help” (“Duty Calls,” Ensign, May 1996, 44).
Our hearts were comforted and our worries eased. We received the assurance that this call did not come from the stake president. It came from the Lord, and He knew before we did that I was pregnant when the calling was extended. He could do more for our family than my husband could on his own if he did not accept this call.
With faith in our hearts, my husband accepted the call and we took each day as it came. My third pregnancy proved to be a great miracle, and our son was born healthy and strong. The years I spent attending our home ward with our children helped us grow closer not only as a family but also to fellow ward members as well. While my husband diligently labored in his calling, I learned to turn to my ward family for help with my children.
My husband and I are grateful to many faithful Saints and, most important, to our Heavenly Father for helping us as we strived to balance work, family, and service in the Church.

These two beautiful missionaries taught me about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness, about The First Vision, and the Book of Mormon. They taught how Joseph Smith, seeking to know what church he should join, read the book of James and prayed to God with faith his prayer would be answered.
The missionaries bore testimony that in answer to his prayer, God the Father and His beloved Son Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith, that he was called to be a prophet, and that the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored through him.
This was all new to me, but they promised that I could know for myself if this did happen. They gave me a Book of Mormon, with an invitation to read, ponder, and apply Moroni’s invitation to ask God if the book is true.
When they returned two days later, I explained that after reading the introduction, the testimony of the witnesses, and the account of Christ visiting the people in 3 Nephi, I pled with God to know if it was true. I felt warmth all over me but didn’t understand what that was. The elders then taught me that the Holy Ghost was bearing witness to my spirit, which brought excitement to my heart. My mother and three younger brothers joined our next lesson, and we all got baptised into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Prior to my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I associated for many years with another Christian denomination. There, the notion of prophets and apostles was a thing of the past. Discussion about topics such as modern revelation or living prophets and apostles were prohibited.
In 1995, I was still working on my understanding of this doctrine when President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) visited London. We were invited to a special meeting at Wandsworth Stake center. There, something indescribable happened which strengthened my testimony of a living prophet. As the company started entering the chapel, my attention was immediately drawn to President Hinckley, and I had an overwhelming feeling as if a voice spoke to me saying “This is the living prophet on the earth today. He is the mouthpiece of the Savior”. I am grateful for that personal experience. This became an anchor to my understanding of the need for a living prophet and the importance of following his counsel.

Our motives and thoughts ultimately influence our actions. Let me share a personal experience from my own youth about the power of righteous motives.
After the turmoil of the Second World War, my family ended up in Russian-occupied East Germany. When I attended fourth grade, I had to learn Russian as my first foreign language in school. I found this quite difficult because of the Cyrillic alphabet, but as time went on I seemed to do all right.
When I turned 11, we had to leave East Germany overnight because of the political orientation of my father. Now I was going to school in West Germany, which was American-occupied at that time. There in school all children were required to learn English. To learn Russian had been difficult, but English was impossible for me. I thought my mouth was not made for speaking English. My teachers struggled. My parents suffered. And I knew English was definitely not my language.
But then something changed in my young life. Almost daily I rode my bicycle to the airport and watched airplanes take off and land. I read, studied, and learned everything I could find about aviation. It was my greatest desire to become a pilot. I could already picture myself in the cockpit of an airliner or in a military fighter plane. I felt deep in my heart that this was my thing!
Then I learned that to become a pilot I needed to speak English. Overnight, to the total surprise of everybody, it appeared as if my mouth had changed. I was able to learn English. It still took a lot of work, persistence, and patience, but I was able to learn English!
Why? Because of a righteous and strong motive!

Some years ago, while living in Arizona, the company that I worked for gave me the responsibility to organize and direct a week-long high school youth tour of Washington, D.C. This became an annual event that required months of planning and organization. It was no small task to bring 30 to 40 students and chaperones to our nation's capital for a week-long tour.
The hard part was to make all the preliminary arrangements for flights, hotel rooms, tour busses and other accommodations. Once that was accomplished, the actual trip itself was always enjoyable and rewarding. Many of the students had never been to Washington, D.C. before and it was a real pleasure to take them there and enjoy the wonderful and interesting sights the capital city has to offer.
One of the highlights of the tour was to visit the impressive monuments located along the National Mall. It was always an inspiring sight to see the Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials and to reflect on the remarkable accomplishments of these men. There were many other monuments to visit. All of them brought deep feelings of gratitude and veneration for the founders and protectors of our nation.
Out of all the monuments, one in particular stood out to me. This was the Vietnam Veteran's memorial which honors the men and women who served in the Vietnam War. The Memorial is made up of two massive rock walls more than 200 feet long. The smooth, black, stone walls have been polished to the point that they appear as giant mirrors sunk into the ground with the earth behind them. Engraved on these reflective walls are the names of fellow Americans who gave their lives in service to their country. More than 58,200 names are permanently chiseled in the gleaming stone.
When I visited this memorial for the first time, I noticed a distinctive change in the way the tourists approached it and viewed it. The normal chatter from visitors diminished and the whole area seemed to invoke a quiet reverence as each visitor began to move down the slightly sloping path along this wall.
Some of the visitors left notes, flowers and other sentimental items near this wall. Others placed small pieces of paper over specific names and with the use of pencils carefully produced rubbings of the names of loved ones and friends. Although the wall was designed in a simplistic style, it seemed to have a remarkable capacity to beckoned each visitor to stop, reflect and examine it closely. I have never forgotten my first visit to the Vietnam Memorial. I have been privileged to return many times over the years. Each time I visit, it always invokes the same attitude of reverence, honor and gratitude.
A question came to my mind. Why? Why did this particular memorial invoke such powerful feelings of respect and veneration from the visitors? Certainly it was because these were common ordinary people who were willing to do uncommon things and lay down their lives in valor and service for their country. But perhaps it was something else. The Wall gives tribute to each name individually. For me the names became more powerful than the artwork or canvas they were written on. There is a reverence that comes when each individual name is distinguished, respected and valued.

I recall yet another story from another setting that has convinced me of the power of prayer.
A few years ago a young man named Dean from the Midwest was on a hunting trip with several Latter-day Saint friends from California. They met in Wyoming, drove up a mountain, and camped the night. When they awoke in the morning they found that during the night 14 inches of snow had fallen. The car was deep in snow near the edge of the road. Dean’s father-in-law, Roy, and brother-in-law, Ron, were skilled and rugged men, accustomed to adventure, but their skills could not help free the car. The snow continued to fall, and their chances of getting down from the mountain were slim.
Another member of the group was a counselor in his stake presidency, and because of the seriousness of their situation he asked the small group to assemble in prayer and plead with the Lord for help. Dean was asked to offer the prayer, and in deep humility he petitioned the Lord for direction. At the conclusion of the prayer one member of the group who was not a Church member asked Dean, “Do you think the Lord will answer your prayer?” Reflective and thoughtful, yet with full faith, this young man answered, “Yes, he has never disappointed me yet.” What faith!
Moments later Dean felt inclined to walk down the narrow, snow-laden path, and he stumbled upon a set of chains buried deep in the freshly fallen snow. They fastened the chains on the tires of the car, and the group slowly and cautiously made their way down the mountain.
A thousand miles away Dean’s parents had knelt in like fashion to petition the Lord. Two prayers had been answered.

One of our goals as a family is to save enough money to make a down payment on our own home. Without that goal, I might waste my weekends watching television, waiting for financial opportunities to come to me.
As a driver for a mining company in northern Chile, I work four days away from home at the mines and then have three days off—Saturday through Monday. To supplement our income and savings toward a home, we decided to start selling eggs. Our plan was to take orders from friends, neighbors, and Church members; buy about 1,000 eggs each week from a wholesaler; and then pick up and deliver the eggs on Saturdays and Mondays.
My wife, Laura, and I decided we would bring our two children with us on deliveries and enjoy the time together. As we were on our way to buy our first batch of eggs, however, disaster struck. One of our children, playing with a small metal pencil sharpener, tossed the sharpener and it landed squarely in the empty cigarette lighter receptacle. Sparks flew, and our van lost all electrical power, coming to a sudden stop right in the middle of a highway. We had blown a fuse.
As we sat there holding up traffic and wondering what to do, we became so frustrated that we felt like crying. But at that moment, I remembered that the Lord has promised to lift us and help us if we put our trust in Him. A calmness came over me. I realized I couldn’t just sit there complaining. We had a problem, and with God’s help, we would solve it.
Laura and I turned to each other and said, “We have to show faith.” We said a prayer and dried our tears. Then, with Laura steering, I got out to push the car. Several people jumped out of their cars and helped me.
We pushed the car about 200 meters before finding a safe place off the highway to park. As the car rolled to a stop, I noticed that we had parked right in front of a car stereo shop.
I located the blown fuse, walked inside the shop, and asked, “Do you have one of these?”
The clerk replied, “Of course.”
I bought a fuse and put it in place, the car started right up, and off we went. The egg wholesaler was just about to close when we pulled up. We bought our eggs and made our deliveries.
When we have challenges, we need to remember to ask our Heavenly Father for help. I know He will answer us as we move forward and show our faith in Him.

When I heard about his passing, though, I couldn’t help but be sad and frustrated that my grandfather hadn’t been baptized in this life. So when my sister suggested a year later that we go to the temple and do ordinances for my grandfather, I had mixed feelings. Why would it matter now if he hadn’t accepted it when it was right here for him?
But I prayed about doing my grandfather’s work in the temple, and my heart softened. I knew I needed to do it. When I went to the temple and was baptized for him, something happened to me in that font: I felt the Spirit come into my heart along with a sense of forgiveness and love that I didn’t know I had for my grandfather. My heart was truly turned to him. I felt the truth of the promise that “he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (Doctrine and Covenants 2:2). It was real.

I remember this was driven home to me as a young man when I heard of a visit made to the home of my grandfather, who was then bishop of a little country ward at Whitney, Idaho. In those days it was not uncommon to have stake conferences run for three days. And it was not uncommon for the visiting authority to take advantage of the opportunities to visit in the homes, not only of the stake presidency, but of some of the bishops. The story is told that Elder Joseph F. Smith—I think he was not then president (he may have been a member of the Twelve)—was visiting the old Oneida Stake of Zion, and true to custom, he had arranged to honor my grandfather and to take a meal at his home. In telling the story, Grandfather said that they were seated in the living room/dining room combination of the farm home. The table was laden with good things to eat. The family was gathered around—I don’t know how many (there were 13 children in that wonderful family and I presume some of them were away on missions as they usually were).

Just before they were ready to start the meal, President Smith stretched his long arms over the table and turned to my grandfather and said, “Brother Benson, all this and the gospel too?” What did President Smith mean? All this and the gospel too? The food represented the good things of life—food, clothing, and all the rest—the material blessings of life. This family of children—home, family, loved ones—all that the world has and the gospel too. I think that’s what the Prophet Joseph had in mind.

Work was also progressing on a model Samoan village to commemorate President McKay’s 1921 visit and his apostolic blessing on Sauniatu. A special chief’s house was built and named the McKay house. After it was built, it seemed bare, and so the young people went to the forests and cut teak logs. Getting each log was a big project. After finding a good tree in the forest, they had to cut it. Then each one had to be trimmed and winched onto a trailer and taken to a sawmill. After the log was sawn, a native craftsman began carving a Samoan folk legend on it. It took many months to get the log and make the carvings. The money to pay for the first few carvings had been donated by Sauniatu missionaries or others who were impressed with the vitality of the people at Sauniatu, but the young people earned the money to pay for most of the 20 carvings. They transplanted a special river grass to the swampy areas of land. By hand, they put starts of this pasture grass in acre after acre of the swampy land, and in return they were paid in cattle, which they sold to pay for the carvings.
When the carvings were completed, Brother Kamauoha asked the carver to do a bust of President McKay. The pictures that he gave the carver to work from were all of President McKay in his later years. When Brother Kamauoha went back to pick up the bust, the carver was frustrated and related the following story.
“Ed, I am going to tell you something. This is the first time in my life that I haven’t been able to carve what I wanted to carve. Normally, I can do anything, but somehow when I worked on this man, I couldn’t control my hands. As you can see, the carving is not like your finished pictures.”
Brother Kamauoha took the carving back to Sauniatu that evening. “The sun was just setting, and I hurried into the McKay house and put the carving on the pedestal we had prepared for it,” he said. “An old Samoan who had lived most of his life at Sauniatu was there, and I asked him how he liked the bust of President McKay. I stood back and looked at it, and this old man didn’t answer me. And so I turned around and asked him, ‘What is wrong? Don’t you like the carving?’ Then as I looked at him, I could see the tears running down his face. And he said to me, ‘You know, I was here when [President] McKay left his blessing. That is how he looked when he came here in 1921!’
“On another occasion, the carver told me, and remember he was not a Mormon, ‘Ed,’ he said, ‘with all sincerity I am telling you, this carving is not my work, it is not your work, but it is the Lord’s work’.”

We had a large LDS population in my hometown. I played in our high school band, but my band teacher did not like the Church and was always trying to discredit the Book of Mormon.
When we went on band trips, he would bring ideas from his church meetings with him and confront me. He found it entertaining to bash the Church, and I felt like I was the only one who would defend it.
At first I wanted to prove to him that he was wrong. He would tell me that every sin is equally as bad—murder and lying alike—and that there is really no repentance. Instead, we go through this life and as long as we acknowledge Christ as our Savior we will go to heaven.
I felt like the plan of salvation had suddenly been turned into a game of Monopoly. There are no free rides, I tried to explain. But he was not there to learn about my beliefs.
Since he was there in the spirit of contention (and I followed somewhat ignorantly), we just went around in circles. No matter what explanation I could offer, he would come up with something else to debate. It wasn’t until a year later that I realized what it was I was doing.
I had thought I was doing missionary work, but I was not. After studying the scriptures, talks, and lectures on the subject, I now know that if people are there with the intention to debate beliefs, they are not ready to hear the gospel. This seems so obvious to me now, but at the time I had no idea. People must open their hearts to receive the gospel message.
If we learn to share the gospel with those who truly want to learn, we can share the truth with them.
We need not contend, but instead we need to proclaim the gospel. It brings happiness to all who partake of it.

A few years ago our family moved from a fast-paced, congested metropolitan area to a small, rural property outside a quiet little village. Nearby was an abandoned blueberry farm, and through friends of the owner, we obtained permission to pick all the blueberries we wanted.
Several mornings each week that summer we piled into the car with buckets and bags and spent a delightful, delicious hour gathering blueberries. One morning our youngest son, Hyrum, seemed reluctant to accompany us. He was sure we had picked every blueberry and that it would be a waste of time to go again. How surprised he was to find as many blueberries as ever. There were clusters in places he had overlooked, and some of the juiciest berries were growing on branches he was sure he had explored earlier.