Gospel Story Finder

As a bishop or branch president, through motivating interviews you can bless the life of every young man in your ward as well as appropriate couples by encouraging them to prepare for full-time missions. Not only will you bless those potential missionaries but you may answer the prayers of parents who have a maturing son not yet committed to a mission despite their efforts to encourage that desire. For example, from childhood through maturing years, our daughter Mary Lee heard her parents speak of our treasured missionary experiences. We had explained how challenging missionary opportunities had enriched our lives and laid the foundation for all that we treasure in life. Yet we taught that it was her decision whether she would serve or not. Through her growing years, it was clear that she intended to be a missionary. However, as missionary age approached, her exciting experiences in the university began to present attractive alternatives. Once when she mentioned wrestling with that uncertainty, she was counseled to talk to her bishop. An appointment was arranged. As she sat down before a choice bishop, she asked, “What do you think of my serving a full-time mission?” The bishop jumped from his chair, clapped his hands on the desk, and said, “That is the greatest thing I could imagine for you.” That comment tipped the scales.

Mary Lee served a most effective mission in Spain that unveiled hidden capacities, matured her spiritual development, and caused to flower capabilities that have blessed her as a wife and mother. The bishop that had such a profound influence in my daughter’s life is J. Willard Marriott Jr., currently an Area Seventy. But we remember him most for what he did for our daughter Mary Lee. Now in her own family, with the strong examples of a returned missionary father and mother, a son and a daughter have fulfilled exemplary missions. The remaining son will clearly be a missionary, and the last daughter will in time make the proper choice. Another grandchild, following in the footsteps of his father, was recently called to serve in the Mexico Cuernavaca Mission.

After I was baptized, I had a lot of hard times with my family. Sometimes they wanted me to stay home on Sunday, but I would choose to go to church instead. Most of the time it was hard trying to keep on the covenant path.
Some of my family members have been against the Church and have told me that I made the wrong choice to join. When they tell me this, these words come to my mind: “I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live. I know that the Church is true.” These thoughts have helped me hold on to the truth.

“Look! There’s a honeybird. If we follow, it will lead us to honey,” exclaimed Kirmani to his younger brother, Suku.
The two African boys, dressed in khaki shorts, were playing lion hunting on the edge of their village.
“Tye (Hurry)! Tye!” urged Suku. Dropping their assegais (spears) they ran to their mother for gourds to gather the honey in. Then one of the boys lighted a torch from the cooking fire to smoke out the bees.
“Be sure to leave some honey for the bird,” called their mother as they ran to follow the honeybird.
“Nidyo (Yes),” Suku answered while Kirmani laughed.
“Don’t tell me you really believe the old tale that you must leave a share of honey for the bird, or it will lead you into danger” replied Kirmani scornfully.
“But what of Abu’s father who took all the honey from a hive. He was led on by the bird, so they say, and ended up in a leopard’s belly,” persisted Suku.
Kirmani didn’t argue. He picked up the assegais (spears).
Suku carried the gourds and Kirmani the smoldering torch of grease-soaked moss tied to a long stick.
As they trotted across the veldt (grazing area) dotted with thornbush, a little gray bird flew back and forth just as though it were making sure they would follow. After the bird led them into the forest, it disappeared into the dense foliage. Kirmani ran ahead, but Suku was thinking. Should I leave honey for the bird even though Kirmani won’t.
“Look! There’s the bird. It’s following the old animal trail,” Kirmani called excitedly.
When Suku reached Kirmani, the bird had settled on a branch of a moss-covered tree. Bees were streaming in and out through a small hole in the trunk. “The bird has guided us to honey,” cried Suku, clapping his hands.
Kirmani poked at the hole with his assegai (spear). Rotting wood fell away, leaving a big opening. He thrust the torch inside and smoked out the angry bees.
Suku stood on Kirmani’s shoulders to reach a branch near the hole. He pulled himself up onto the branch and then peered inside. “There is much honey,” he called happily.
Kirmani climbed up the tree and with sticks the boys scraped honey into their gourds. The bird hovered above them, crying plaintively.
When Suku had all the honey he could reach, he slid down the tree. Kirmani scraped out the last bit, licked his stick, then dropped to the ground.
“Nothing for the silly bird,” he said boldly.
The bird lit on the tree but soon flew off, calling.
“It’s coaxing us on,” said Kirmani. “It may guide us to another hive. Suku, you’re not afraid the bird will lead us into danger are you?” He ran ahead. “I dare you to follow it.”
Suku hesitated. We’re getting deeper into the jungle, he thought uneasily. We should have left the bird a share of honey. But he couldn’t ignore a dare. Reluctantly he started to follow.
Suddenly Suku heard a crack, a swoosh, and a frightened cry from Kirmani. He raced ahead and found his brother with his legs pinned beneath a heavy branch from a tree. He tried to lever the branch off Kirmani’s legs with his assegai (spear), but the spear shaft broke.
“Ayah! Ayah! I am going to die,” moaned Kirmani. “The old tale is true. The bird is having its revenge.”
“I will go and tell father,” said Suku and thrusting an assegai (spear) into Kirmani’s hand, he ran for help.
Kirmani groaned with pain. He could hardly move, and he was alone in the jungle with danger all around him. Maybe the honey bird will bring a leopard to kill me, he thought despairingly. Nervously, he peered around. To his astonishment, the bird was perched on a branch overhead.
“It has not flown away to find a leopard,” he murmured half aloud. “It’s only looking at my honey gourd.” Some of his fear left him.
Kirmani’s gourd was sitting on the ground nearby. With his assegai (spear) he nudged it and spilled some honey. He kept still. Presently the bird flew down and began eating the amber honey.
As Kirmani watched, he remembered what Brother Andrew, his teacher, had said about the honey bird not wanting to seek revenge. The thought made him feel better.
Soon Suku returned with their father and a rescue party. They lifted the heavy branch off Kirmani’s leg, made a vine litter, and carried him home.
While Brother Andrew dressed his wounds, Kirmani told his story. “You must know now that the bird was guiding you to another bee tree because it was hungry,” Brother Andrew explained. “It cannot get the honey for itself and you left it nothing. Don’t you think the honey guide deserved a share?”
Kirmani felt ashamed. “Suku wanted to leave some for the honey bird, but I didn’t understand. From now on when the little bird guides me to honey, I won’t be greedy. I will always leave it a share.”

I was with my family at a friend’s home eating dinner on Christmas Eve when I received a call from the mother of one of my patients. Her 19-year-old son had suffered a long, arduous journey with leukemia that involved multiple complications from the disease and its treatment.
Finally, after another unsuccessful round of intensive chemotherapy, he had decided against further care and returned home. He was at peace knowing that he would soon die.
That evening, when his breathing changed and he developed a high fever, his mother called for an ambulance. After they arrived at the hospital emergency room, she called me.
“I don’t know what to do!” she cried.
Doctors did not expect her son to survive the next few hours. We talked about ways to keep him comfortable, and I told her I was there for the family.
I finished my dinner, and the children started their enactment of the Nativity. As our family friend began reading from Luke chapter 2, my phone rang again and I stepped outside.
My patient was gone. Through tears, I told the family how much their son had meant to me. I expressed my hatred of childhood cancer and that I wished I could have done more for him.
After wiping away my tears, I reentered our friend’s home. My oldest son was portraying Joseph, standing next to the manger, and my youngest son, a shepherd, listened earnestly to the angel declare:
“Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy. …
“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:10–11).
In that moment, I silently cried out, “Are You really there? Did You really come to this earth over 2,000 years ago as a helpless infant? Did You truly bear our pains and afflictions of every kind?”
As I watched the children humbly and reverently honor our Savior, I heard the answer: “Yes, I am here. I came and overcame. ‘I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands’” (see Isaiah 49:16).
None of us are immune from pain, sorrow, and heartache. But in those moments, we can be lifted by the angel’s words: “Fear not” (Luke 2:10). And we can be strengthened by the Lord’s words: “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).
Since then, Christmas Eve has had new meaning for me. I am reminded of my patient, his family, and the comfort of knowing that through the Savior’s sacrifice, we too will overcome the world.

As the patriarch lifted his hands from my head, neither he nor I guessed that a major part of my patriarchal blessing would be fulfilled so soon and in such a surprising manner. The very doctrine that had thrilled me at my conversion two years before—the responsibility of seeking after my kindred dead—had been specifically mentioned three times in my blessing. But when I had joined the Church as the only member in my family, the task of compiling my genealogy had seemed overwhelming.
A few years after I received my patriarchal blessing, I left for my mission in France and Belgium. I hoped to do some genealogy there as well. My father had mistakenly told me that Jaccard was an English spelling of Jacquard, a familiar French name, and I hoped to be able to find some information about my ancestors while I was in France.
Near the end of my mission, my mission president assigned me to help the members in Brussels, Belgium with their genealogical research and temple work. Another missionary gave me a small book titled “What Do I Know about Genealogy?”
As I read through the book for the first time, I came to a list of contributing authors. Standing out among the other names was that of Dr. Joseph T. Jacquart. Here was yet a third spelling of a name that could be pronounced the same as mine! Dr. Jacquart’s address was listed as the Belgian Center of Genealogical and Demographical Studies in Brussels.
I immediately called the center and made an appointment to meet with Dr. Jacquart. When we arrived at the center on the day of the appointment, we were informed that Dr. Jacquart was ill. The president of the center graciously gave us a tour of the building. We asked him what he knew about the Church and if he would like to know more.
His answer surprised me. “Yes!” he said. “Would you come to the next monthly meeting of our society and give a lecture on Mormon genealogy? In the meantime, I will contact Dr. Jacquart and give him your pedigree information.”
My companion and I arrived on the appointed day to find the lecture hall filled with people. As we set up our equipment and visual aids, a white-haired gentleman who turned out to be Dr. Jacquart greeted us. He gave me a genealogical map of France, Belgium, and Switzerland, and explained that Jacquard was French, Jacquart was Belgian, and Jaccard was Swiss. He added that he had written an article on the Swiss Jaccards and had the addresses of several people in that country who were probably my relatives.
A few weeks later I was released from my mission. With addresses in hand, I called at the home of Dr. Robert Jaccard in Bern, Switzerland. He quickly established my connection to him and noted down the pedigree information I had. He recommended that I search the archives in Besancon, France—just across the border from the Swiss village of Sainte-Croix, where the Jaccard name had originated.
In Besancon, I found the link between America and Switzerland in my genealogy. About a month after I informed Dr. Robert Jaccard of my findings, he sent a letter containing all of the names of fathers and mothers in the Jaccard line back to A.D. 1350—all from Sainte-Croix. Since then, I have researched the complete family groups for these ancestors, and have had temple work performed for many of them.
Looking back on this experience, I think that many of my ancestors beyond the veil must have taken an active interest not only in my missionary work, but also in my other mission—to find my genealogy. That “family mission” has covered a length of time far greater than the two and one-half years I served in Europe.

When we stopped at the O’Briens’, there was only a small pile of newspapers, hardly enough for the stop, but before we left, Mrs. O’Brien came out and asked, “Is there a little girl in this family?”
“Trina’s four,” Jason replied.
“I have a doll—one I bought years ago, thinking I’d have a girl. I had five boys instead.” She smiled shyly. “Boys don’t take to dolls. I’ve been meaning to do something with it.” She left and came back with the biggest, prettiest doll I’d ever seen in my life. “It’s never been used,” she explained.
“Gee!” we gasped. “Are you sure you want to just give it away?”
She looked at the doll for a moment and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I would have just given it to one of my girls had I had one.” She sighed. “If Trina will like it, I want her to have it. I would like to see her face Christmas morning when she sees it.” She took a deep breath and flashed a weak smile. “Oh, well. I guess Christmas morning I’ll have to imagine what Trina is doing.”
By the end of the day the old truck had made six trips and was about to die a second time after our rigorous demands, but we had collected just under 150 dollars worth of newspapers, not to mention the donated gifts we had received. We bought shoes and coats for the kids; a gift certificate for Sister Bradley; and two boxes of groceries, candies, and nuts for the stockings and Christmas dinner.
Christmas Eve everything was ready. Dad helped us fire up the old truck one more time. Jason and I filled it to overflowing and sputtered down the street to the Bradleys’, coasting the last block so as not to announce our arrival.
It was starting to snow as we climbed out of the truck and sneaked to the Bradleys’ front steps with our arms bulging with gifts. We could hear Sister Bradley and her three kids singing Christmas carols, and we paused for a moment in the shadows to listen before returning to the truck for the trike, the rocker, and the table and chairs.
When we had placed the last box of groceries on the step, we rapped loudly on the door and then sprinted to a clump of bushes where we could observe unseen. Sister Bradley opened the door and peered into the darkness. She was beginning to close the door when she spotted our Christmas project all over her front steps. She gasped and looked up and down the street, then back at the pile of presents. Slowly she dropped to her knees and began to cry.
My vision blurred with tears, and something swelled up inside of me until I could hardly breathe. Starting from deep in my chest and finally reaching to the tips of my fingers and toes, a gratifying warmth overwhelmed me. Never in my life had I felt such an all-consuming fulfillment. I was sure I would burst, and I wondered why I had waited so long to discover this side of Christmas.
When we returned home, all the lights were off except those on the tree, and everyone but Dad was in bed. He was there waiting for us in the dim light next to an enormous package—addressed to Jason and me!
“Where’d that come from?” I asked as soon as I saw it.
Dad smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Someone left it on the doorstep while you were over at the Bradleys’.”
“Left it for us?” I groaned. He nodded. “You mean a Christmas package for us?” He shrugged again, obviously amused. “Well, we don’t want it!” I flared. “That’s exactly what we didn’t want.”
“They can just keep it,” Jason rebelled. “I’m not opening it.”
“It’s an insult,” I added. “I’m not taking anybody’s care package.”
Dad held up a restraining hand. “Talking isn’t going to change a thing,” I insisted, anticipating his argument. Dad motioned for us to sit down. We did, grumbling irritably. He waited for our protests to subside, and then he asked quietly, “Has this been a good Christmas?”
I looked over at Jason and he at me. “Yeah,” I muttered, staring at the floor but avoiding the package.
“Why? What’s so special about this Christmas?”
“Because … because we were giving something. We were making somebody happy.”
“Does taking this package change that?”
“It’s charity,” I flared. “We don’t want charity.”
Dad nodded. “Do you know what charity is? Real charity? Love, pure love. This package is a token of someone’s love, not of their ridicule or pity. It is the offspring of charity, of love, just as your gifts to the Bradleys sprang from love.”
“But Dad,” I protested.
Dad shook his head. “How would it have been had the Bradleys reacted to your gifts like you’re reacting to this one?” He looked at Jason and me and waited for an answer, but all we could do was shrug our shoulders and stare at the anonymous package. “You know, sons, there can never be a giver without a receiver. Both are necessary and good.”
He paused a moment. “When Luke went on his mission, I wanted to support him all by myself. I thought it only right that a father support his own son. My pride had a lot to do with it. I was being a little selfish. I didn’t realize until I started getting secret contributions that there were those who wanted to give also. I came to understand that I didn’t have the right to deny them the opportunity.”
He looked at our package. “I don’t know who left this for you. I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew. But whoever it was has as much right to the joy of giving as you two. Unless you accept the gift, they can’t enjoy the full satisfaction of giving.” He placed his hands on our knees and concluded, “At Christmas time we give generously and receive graciously. That’s the spirit of Christmas. When you can do those two things, equally well, you will have taken a giant step toward manhood.”
Long after Dad went to bed, Jason and I stayed by the tree contemplating our unexpected gift. It was the hardest gift for us to accept, but we knew Dad was right.
“I wonder what’s in it?” Jason finally mused.
We glanced at each other. A spark of curiosity glowed in our eyes. I looked around to determine whether we were alone. “We could always peek,” I suggested furtively.
Jason nodded. “I never could wait till Christmas morning.”
We both grinned, nodded our agreement, and then eagerly pulled the package toward us and began peeling off the wrapping.

My mom’s joyous sobs soaked into my shirt as she embraced me. I held her head, the feeling of her hair in my hands waking me to reality: She was really there at the airport to pick me up. And so was Dad. My once young and goofy sister was now a beautiful young woman. My younger brother hugged me, and I had the distinct realization that he was now taller than me. I tried to take everything in. But once the tearful hugs and reunions were over, awkward silence set in. I took a deep breath and asked my family, “So now what?”
Most returned missionaries probably experienced something similar when returning home. Nothing can describe the sweet joy of reuniting with loved ones. But after my initial excitement wore off—when I realized I was home and wasn’t going back to my mission, and when everyone returned to their daily lives—the shock set in. The hard realization that I had to be “normal” again crept in. Yet there was a question in my mind that I think arises in some shape or form for any returned missionary:
How do I be “normal”? And what does “normal” even look like?
I’ve been home from my mission for several years now, and looking back, it was a struggle for a good year. My family moved out of state, my long-term relationship ended, and all my friends seemed to be married and starting their eternal families—all of which contributed to a difficult time of transition for me. When I expressed that I wanted to make chicken and waffles (a Southern classic where I served), that I still wanted to study my scriptures early in the morning, that I wanted to share a pass-along card with the gas station employee, people told me I was awkward. “All returned missionaries are awkward at first,” they’d say. “But don’t worry. In a few months, you’ll be normal again.”
This was when I realized the great divide of normalcy between missionary life and regular life. For me, it was hard to hear that my life, my desires—the way I’d been changed by Jesus Christ and His Atonement and dedicated my heart to God over the last 18 months of my life—were considered awkward, that they weren’t “normal.”
I’ve witnessed this dangerous mindset in many returned missionaries. In a desperate effort to feel accepted upon returning home, missionaries might quickly abandon the very habits that would’ve helped their transition. Thankfully, several wonderful, wise people gave me the one piece of advice that helped me during this time of transition more than anything else: with the help of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, you have to find your new normal.
Returned missionaries from all around the world experience a wide range of challenges after a mission. Their previous life plan might have changed. They might have returned home early for whatever reason and feel judged for it. They might even feel a little weird not having a companion with them 24/7.
Every missionary returns home to a unique set of experiences. Each one will see some blessings and some challenges. For many, plans change, people change, and most of all, they themselves have changed. The plan that guided their life pre-mission may not be sufficient after spending years in the Lord’s service.
Working, doing homework, spending time with friends and family, and constantly getting set up on dates can seem to lack the eternal significance of missionary work. Though different, all these things are part of post-mission life back home. However, weaving things of eternal worth—such as prayer, scriptures, and service—into your new daily life is the best thing you can do to assure your transition keeps you close to Heavenly Father.
Another common struggle is the fear of returning to old bad habits, and let me tell you, it’s a slippery slope with entrances on all sides.
My first Sunday home, I was lying on my bed and realized I hadn’t looked at Facebook since coming home. I opened it and was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of pictures and videos from before my mission. I love to dance and had started watching some dance videos when I heard my mom call up to my room, “Breanne! What are you listening to?”
I listened more closely and realized how inappropriate the background music was. I was pretty embarrassed that here I was—a freshly returned missionary—listening to music that wasn’t inviting the Spirit.
That experience helped me realize how easy it is to become more relaxed in how much we maintain our gospel standards when we aren’t full-time missionaries. I wanted to stay changed. I wanted to remain the person God had helped me become. Luckily, I recognized that, for me, what I was listening to wasn’t bringing the Spirit and was able to adjust.
Over time, with all the busyness that is life, some returned missionaries can also experience guilt as mission habits begin to dwindle. The hour of personal study might slowly shrink to 10 minutes or less, or the goal of keeping in contact with those you were teaching on your mission might be forgotten.
Although you adapt your habits as your life changes, that doesn’t mean that you’re disobedient. The Lord doesn’t give a quota for how long to read the scriptures or how many copies of the Book of Mormon to share. All He asks us to do is to believe in Him and be “an example of the believers” (1 Timothy 4:12). As you seek and listen to the guidance of the Spirit, you’ll know what the Lord expects of you now.
There are many more struggles I’m sure other returned missionaries experience, but the lesson I learned in all of this was to find ways to deepen my conversion as I took on new roles—and found my new normal.
Our purpose as missionaries was to “invite others to come unto Christ.”1 What is our purpose after our missions? Alma taught that “this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors” (Alma 34:32). What labors are we to perform? Well, the Lord has taught that we are to live His gospel—to have faith, repent, live worthy of our covenants and the Holy Ghost, and endure to the end. We are to love and serve those around us. We are to continue to invite others to come unto Christ. And we will be continuously blessed and supported in every step of our journey as we do so.
It took me some time before I found my new normal. But as I stayed busy doing good things and waited patiently on the Lord to help me feel more settled and confident, I grew in remarkable ways. I learned patience and trust. My faith was tried and strengthened. But I got there. I never lost my purpose. I found my new normal. And I still love chicken and waffles.

The afternoon wind rolled like a wave up the little hillock above the sea, tugging at Joby Kelsey’s huck shirt as he tromped up the crooked dirt road toward home. He was trying to keep pace with Lucius Potter, an aging fisherman with a mass of wild white hair that looked like the breaking surf. Lucius’s long beard jerking in the wind resembled a great tuft of dry seaweed.
The tall, craggy seaman paused at the crest of the hill and looked back longingly at the restless, swelling sea. “Hear that song, lad?” he asked. “Hear that mighty chorus swell?”
Joby stared at the pounding surf, feeling its power as it lashed the rocks below them. Then he turned to look at Lucius, whose face mirrored the excitement of the churning sea.
This wasn’t the first walk the boy had taken with Lucius Potter, nor was it the first time he had listened to the seaman’s tales expressing his love for a fisherman’s way of life. The pair had become quite close after Joby moved with his parents to the small fishing village along the rugged northern California coast two months before. Joby’s father had taken over the job of the retiring proprietor at The Tradewinds, a mercantile store at the edge of town.
It was summer, 1910, and there were few fences to restrict a young boy’s desire for barefoot wanderings across the grassy, flower-blanketed seaside slopes. Nothing to restrict him except, perhaps, the old man’s stories of the sea. Lucius told them with such passion and mystery and wave-slamming excitement that Joby regularly sought out the old fisherman. “Can you tell me another story?” Joby would ask eagerly. Lucius’s smile would deepen the lines of his weathered face, and another adventure would unfold as they tramped the beachline. Sometimes they would stop to watch seals slip in and out of the churning tidewaters or rest atop a great barnacle-laden rock in the dampness.
Lucius never tired of reliving his yesteryears when he’d hauled his nets down to the sea with his crew and set sail upon the capricious water. Fishing was his life.
What puzzled Joby and his parents were the tattered clothes Lucius wore and the small shack in which he lived—a crude little dwelling made of tin scraps and driftwood. And the old seaman was so thin! Why such an experienced fisherman with a sturdy, seaworthy skiff and ample nets didn’t fare better was a mystery. Someone told Joby’s father it was because the old man refused to hire a crew. Why, no one knew. It seemed obvious that he desperately needed help. But Lucius sailed alone, never allowing anyone to accompany him, even when seamen out of work volunteered their services.
“There was a time when he was a rather prosperous man,” someone had said. “He wasn’t rich enough to live in a big house, but he didn’t live in a shack, either. He always had more than enough to eat, and he wore the nicest clothes in the village.”
Joby looked earnestly and curiously at Lucius as his friend gazed seaward with a kind of disturbed, unbroken stare. Finally the boy’s curiosity got the best of him, and he asked Lucius once again why he didn’t take on a crew. As always, the old fisherman quickly avoided the subject, pointing out the hump of a great whale on the horizon. Then he got up abruptly and said, “The day will turn into night before we reach your place if we don’t get a move on.”
Lucius had been invited by Joby’s parents to an evening meal, and along with his desire to keep ahead of any more of the lad’s uncomfortable inquiries, the thought of good food quickened the old man’s step.
Lucius was halfway through dinner when the soft glow of candlelight on Joby’s hair caught his eye. He gazed fixedly at the lad across the table, then noticed Joby’s parents staring curiously at him. Lucius spoke softly. “It’s the lad’s hair. It has a gold-dust shine just like lamplight reflecting on miller moths. Or like the gold on the waves at the last light of day.”
The Kelseys were often touched by Lucius’s poetic way of saying things, and the old fisherman always spoke with such deep reverence that it was hard to doubt what he said. That’s why the trio waited anxiously for Lucius to put the last forkful of potatoes into his mouth and wipe the leavings from his beard. They knew a colorful tale would follow—it always did.
“It’s the least I can do,” Lucius would say, “after a meal like that.”
Joby’s mother always glowed with appreciation. “Tonight,” she announced, “there’s blackberry pie—after your story.”
Lucius’s eyes grew as large as plump berries. “It’s liable to be the shortest story I ever told,” he replied, and everyone laughed.
The three Kelseys sat spellbound. Ocean waves seemed to roll and fall off Lucius’s tongue. Masts split, and men were hurled into the sea!
Suddenly Lucius stopped. Joby and his parents traded puzzled glances. The boy saw the same troubled look on the fisherman’s face that he had observed before as Lucius gazed out through the window at the heaving sea.
“Were you washed overboard, too, Mr. Potter?” Joby asked, caught up in the man’s story.
Then, as though the boy’s question had released a floodgate, Lucius’s painful secret tumbled out. He seemed almost relieved now in the telling of it … “Me and two others,” he sighed. “We were securing the rigging when the wave hit. I … I tried to save the men,” he said with anguish, “but I was the only survivor.”
“Is that why you never take anyone with you on your skiff, Mr. Potter?” Joby’s father asked gently.
Lucius nodded. “I never want anything like that to happen on a boat of mine again.” He rose from the table. “It’s late. I’d better go.”
“It wasn’t your fault in happened,” Joby’s mother consoled him.
“Mom’s right,” Joby chimed in. “You were in a storm.”
“It could’ve happened to anyone,” Mr. Kelsey added. “You have no reason to punish yourself, Mr. Potter.”
“Perhaps,” muttered Lucius as he turned toward the door and opened it. “But it’s a shameful thing when a man loses faith in himself.” He stepped out into the raven-black chill and was swallowed by the darkness.
“There must be something we can do to help him,” Joby said.
“I wish there were,” Joby’s father replied, “but I’m afraid the only person who can restore Mr. Potter’s faith in himself is Mr. Potter.”
Saturday morning the sea was furious as Joby climbed the brow of the great surf-battered rock where he had often sat with Lucius and listened to the old man’s tales. In two days the lad would be returning to school, and the times would be fewer when Lucius could tell him stories.
Lucius emerged from the dense fog on a small hillock above the churning water just in time to see a huge wave spill over Joby and dash him into the sea.
“JOBY!”
Lucius leaped across the narrow cleft that divided the steep hillock from the big rock, and gazed agonizingly into the seething water below. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Then, shouting louder than the thundering waves, Lucius doubled his fists and leaped into the sea.
The old fisherman carried the boy in his arms along the little path toward home. Tears streamed down his face—tears not of sadness but of indescribable joy. Joby was alive! Lucius had saved him.
One morning a few days later, Joby bounded out of the house with his schoolbooks slung over his shoulder. Multicolored autumn leaves fluttered about his feet. He paused to join his mother and father, who stood just outside the gate, staring toward the sea. A fishing boat bobbed in the sun-glazed water, and a crew could be seen pulling in a line of nets—Lucius’s crew! An old fisherman with a long, seaweedlike beard and a new pair of boots paused to wave at the trio on the hill.

I started playing the clarinet in sixth grade, and it came fairly easy to me. In junior high and high school, I always joined the school band. One year, I missed school on the day of the band tryouts. We weren’t trying out for acceptance into the band, but rather for what “seats” we would have and in what sections. I was horrified to learn that because I’d missed the tryouts I would be placed in the very last seat in the last clarinet section. I’d always been a first section player and often first chair. Sitting in the last chair embarrassed me and made me a little angry. My band teacher understood this and reminded me that I didn’t have to stay there—I could work my way back up throughout the year. I worked hard and eventually reached first chair again.

This morning, Brian gets out of bed and runs downstairs to look at the calendar. “Hurray—it’s June 10!” he shouts. “Today is my one-on-one day with Daddy.”

Brian likes being with his dad. He likes the way he feels when Dad takes his hand or hugs him or tells him that he loves him. Most of all, he likes it when Dad tells him what an important part of their family he is.

When it’s time for his one-on-one with Dad to begin, Brian kisses Mom and says good-bye to his brothers and sister. Then Dad takes his hand and they are off.

Today they go to a museum that has big dinosaurs and dinosaur bones. They share with each other all they know about dinosaurs. It’s funny, Brian thinks, how even Daddy looks very small standing next to those dinosaur bones.

Afterward, they have an ice-cream cone and talk about their day. Daddy tells Brian about the haircut he had that morning. “And when the barber was finished, he brushed the hair off my shirt with a soft brush.”

“I fell down and skinned my knee this morning,” Brian says as he points to his sore knee. I asked David to take the training wheels off my bike. Now it’s too hard to ride.”

“I’ll help you learn to ride your bike after dinner tonight,” Daddy says.

“That’s super, Dad!”

After Dad parks the car in the garage, he gives Brian a ride on his shoulders into the house. Then Brian hurries to the kitchen to look on the wall, next to the fridge, above the toaster, and under the clock. He flips the calendar up one page to make sure that his name is written on one of the days in July. “There it is—July 14!” he declares joyfully.

Several years ago I heard Elder Gerald N. Lund of the Seventy describe a magazine article about rock climbing. The article discussed belaying—the fail-safe system that protects climbers. One climber gets into a safe position, fastens the rope in a fixed position, then calls to his or her companion, “You’re on belay”—meaning “I’ve got you.” The director of a climbing school, Alan Czenkusch, described his experience with belaying to the author of the article:
“Belaying has brought Czenkusch his best and worst moments in climbing. Czenkusch once fell from a high precipice, yanking out three mechanical supports and pulling his belayer off a ledge. He was stopped, upside down, 10 feet [3 m] from the ground when his spread-eagled belayer arrested the fall with the strength of his outstretched arms.
“‘Don saved my life,’ says Czenkusch. ‘How do you respond to a guy like that? Give him a used climbing rope for a Christmas present? No, you remember him. You always remember him.’”

Shortly after returning from the Mexico City Mission, I received an invitation to accompany Elder Boyd K. Packer to Mexico to make a survey of the Church Educational System there. We arrived on Thursday and were involved in almost continuous meetings through Friday and Saturday; then Elder Packer presided over a stake conference. By Sunday evening, we were all very tired. Elder Packer returned home, and I remained to conduct a meeting on Monday with the supervisors of the Seminaries and Institutes of Religion.

Monday morning I checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to the mission office. I was in the back seat going through some papers when I happened to look at the taxi driver. My first thought was, “I’m busy. I’m tired. And besides, he probably is not interested in the gospel anyway.” But my rationalizing did not satisfy me, especially when I thought of my previous experience with President Kimball and remembered the lady on the bus between Mexico City and Cuernavaca. Finally, I leaned forward and asked him, “Señor, siempre ha vivido aqui en Mexico?” (“Sir, have you always lived here in Mexico City?”) “No,” he replied, “I am from Oaxaca.”

“Do you like living here in Mexico City better than in Oaxaca?”

“No, I liked living in Oaxaca better than here, but you see I’m the father of eight children. My oldest son is studying here at the Polytechnical Institute to become an engineer. He will graduate this year. My second son is also studying to become an engineer, and he will graduate next year. Our oldest daughter is studying to become a profesionista” (accountant).

I could see that he was very proud of his children. Then he turned to me and asked, “What are you doing here in Mexico City?”

“I’m here on a special assignment from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Have you ever heard of that church?”

He wrinkled his forehead and said, “Is that some kind of Catholic Church?”

“No,” I replied, “it is really quite different. In our faith we believe that when Jesus was on earth he organized his church just as he wanted it to be, but over the years a falling away, or apostasy, occurred. Then the time came in our era when the Lord decided it was right to reveal himself to living prophets again, and to restore his church to the earth.”

That simple explanation took only about forty seconds. I leaned back in the seat, feeling content that at least I had “opened my mouth.”

The next thing I knew he slowed down, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Would you be willing to come to my home and teach my family more about that?”

“I would be delighted,” I replied, “but my plane leaves at 2:00 P.M. this afternoon. If you have three minutes when we get where we are going, I will introduce you to a friend, and I am sure that we can make arrangements for someone to come to your home and tell you and your family more about this.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m buying my taxi; I can do with my time what I want to, so I’ll come with you.”

By the time we arrived at the mission office I had had an opportunity to tell him about our missionary program and how it operates. We parked the car and went into the mission office, and I introduced Herman Velasquez to President Eran Call, who graciously received him.

Just as they were making the arrangements, President Call looked out the office window and said with surprise, “Well, those two elders coming up the sidewalk right now are the two that work in your part of the city!” I had the privilege of seeing Mr. Herman Velasquez meet the elders who would be coming to his home the following Sunday to teach his family more about the gospel.

Some weeks later I received a letter from President Call, who wrote: “I thought you would be interested in knowing what has happened to that taxi driver you brought to the mission home the other day. The missionaries are meeting with him and his family, with his brother and his family, and his brother-in-law and his family, and last Sunday eleven people attended church services from among those families. The exciting thing is that the two most interested are those sons that are studying to be engineers.”

Six months later, I returned to Mexico City to attend a Young Adult conference. I heard that even though the taxi driver had not yet joined the Church, the oldest son who was studying engineering had been baptized and ordained a priest; his brother, the younger son who was studying engineering, had been baptized and ordained a teacher. Someday I would like to know what has happened since; surely much more has occurred.

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Youth Dance
Come have some fun at the dance this Saturday! Remember, no saying no—always say yes when someone asks you to dance!
I’m excited for the dance, but For the Strength of Youth says that agency is the ability to choose and act for yourself. What if I just don’t feel like dancing with someone? Don’t I get to choose whether to say yes or no?
You should always be kind, but I think it’s your right to choose. Let’s talk to the leaders about this rule.
Thanks for letting us know how you feel. You’re right. It’s your choice. We understand not everyone will always feel comfortable dancing, but they still want to come.
Hey, will you dance with me?
Thanks, but I just don’t feel like dancing right now.
Oh, OK.
I’m not trying that again!
What about her?
Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask!
“Heavenly Father has given you agency, the ability to … act for yourself.”
For the Strength of Youth (2011), 2.

Nicole loves Suriname. So when she heard about a national contest to write an essay about her country, it seemed like a good thing to do. The contest rules said to describe what she would do if she were the Minister of Tourism. In her essay she suggested that historical buildings in Suriname should be cleaned up and beautified and that citizens of Suriname should be friendlier to visitors.

Nicole won the contest for her age group and traveled to Puerto Rico to compete with winners from other countries. Nicole really enjoyed her trip to Puerto Rico. “It is a beautiful country,” she says. “The people there are very kind, and I made lots of friends. But after all, home is home.” She was eager to be with her parents and her four older sisters again. And she was anxious to see her pet cat, Rosy!

At night Nicole likes to listen to the chirping crickets and the croaking frogs and the sounds of life in the woods around her house. She also likes to think of the city, with its government buildings and street signs, flower stalls and food markets. She is happy to be where she is. And she is grateful that, by writing down her thoughts, she was able to share her love for her country with people throughout the world.

My senior year in high school came, and my life and the lives of my friends and family were again changing. I had less than a year left in our blue house. Chuck talked about joining the military after graduation, while Ricky hoped to play professional baseball.
Paula had married the year before, to a guy who reminded me of the tall missionary from Massachusetts a decade earlier. In November, she and her husband came from school to our home for Thanksgiving. Paula handed my mother a jar of peanut butter with pink and blue ribbons tied around it. Mother looked sharply at her, and Paula nodded. Then Mom burst into tears. It seemed that my mother had craved peanut butter when she was expecting me. Paula’s present was her way of announcing that a new arrival would be born to the family in the spring.

After years of inactivity, my father abruptly announced one day that we were going back to church. This met with some protest from me. Throughout my childhood I knew only vaguely of the Mormon Church. Basically I knew that there were rules against everything I was currently doing. I viewed the religion as a fanatical organization that demanded self-denial, something that my friends and I didn’t understand and wholly condemned. Besides, what would my friends say if they found out?
Finally my father and I agreed that I would just try going to church for a while and then if I decided against going any more he wouldn’t force me. Sunday came. I sat through sacrament meeting and Sunday School as if I were deaf. Then came Young Women. I sat in the corner of the classroom, arms folded, eyes glaring. (Later I found out that I had actually scared my adviser as much as I had hoped I would.) With that Sunday over I declared I would never go again! In order to avoid going the following Sundays, I claimed I had all kinds of illnesses, from a cold to tonsillitis.
Although I would have denied it at the time, I felt something that first Sunday we went back to church. I felt something from the adviser who really seemed to care about this strange new girl in her class. I felt something, too, from a Latter-day Saint schoolmate who took an interest in my spiritual well-being. From then on, every time I did anything wrong she would remind me that some obscure God was watching my every move. Somehow she convinced me to keep going to church.
Then I met our bishop, a large rancher who seemed too gentle for his intimidating stature. In my first interview with him he asked me to pray. I refused. I knew how to pray, but I couldn’t because I believed God wouldn’t listen to a sinner. The bishop seemed to understand, although I didn’t see how he could because I was sure he had never sinned in his life. But he didn’t condemn me. He seemed to consider me of equal value to all the “saints” in our ward. Feeling so accepted, I continued to attend.
The next couple of months were filled with something I had never felt before. I came to realize that it was the Spirit of the Lord trying to tell me that everything I was hearing and feeling was true. I don’t think I had a testimony at that time. I only knew that I loved my schoolmate and her funny ideas. I loved my Young Women adviser because she loved me. I loved my bishop because he didn’t condemn me. I loved the feeling I had when I was with these people, and I wanted to have that feeling always in my life.

On the way home from submitting my bus pass application, I thought to myself: “I should stop and say hello to Jan and Steve.” I hadn’t seen these friends for about two years because they had moved to a new house. Once I found the house, I knocked on the door and Jan opened it. She was in the middle of vacuuming and cleaning when I arrived unannounced and she was standing beside an ottoman in the kitchen. As we talked she said, “We have been in a big mess for a year, but we are finally getting things the way we want them now. I’m getting rid of this ottoman, would you like it?”
"Yes please," I replied.
What Jan didn’t know, was that I had been looking for an ottoman like this for about six months. I had even gone into three charity shops that day, looking for such an item, but I couldn’t find one. But the Holy Ghost knew exactly where a used ottoman was, and he prompted me to go to Jan’s new house, because that was the day that she was throwing one away.
Isn’t Heavenly Father kind to us? On the day that I wrote out a cheque for extra tithing, I found money and was given furniture equal to the exact amount that I had written out my tithing cheque for. I had read about these types of stories in the Ensign before, but it had never happened to me, until that day.

Some of the older boys were asked to help with the flood watch. Jeff Larsen spent several shifts from midnight to three in the morning patrolling the stream banks and cleaning drains to keep the water moving in its channel. “It was a strange feeling being out that late in the dark trying to see if something was going wrong. At first I felt nervous, but there was a good feeling of doing something that really needed to be done.” Jeff had to come home after each watch and try to get enough sleep before reporting to his job.

About one and a half years ago I moved to Bermuda. Along with the normal hardships and adjustment of moving to a new country, I also left a ward where I had many good LDS friends to come to a tiny branch where I am the only active teenager. I love the New Era. The things I read from it have comforted and strengthened me many times. The New Era also makes me smile a lot. Thank you so much. Things here are going well, the branch is growing slowly but surely, and I am learning a lot and having many wonderful and interesting experiences.
Tori SealockWarwick, Bermuda

Dear Journal,
Today I watched general conference at the church. Sometimes I get bored because conference seems too long for my ten-year-old body. But today I decided to follow the advice of my Primary teacher. She told me that I’d get more out of the talks if I listened carefully and figured out how I could use what was said in my life. I tried very hard to do that, and I think I did pretty well.
When President Hunter gave the last talk, I listened especially hard. I can’t remember everything he said, but I know that he asked us to be more like Jesus Christ. I’m going to try.