Gospel Story Finder

I began college at age 18. After a short time, however, I transferred to another university and changed my major. My new university was only a couple of hours from my home, but I found myself terribly homesick and discouraged, wanting to give up and return to my family. Yet I knew if I did, I would be abandoning my chance to earn a degree.
One weekend not long after the school year began, all of my roommates went home for a visit. I knew that if I went home too, I would not return. I couldn’t even call and speak to my family for fear I would break down and not be able to focus on my studies. I had been praying for the strength to overcome my homesickness, but now I was praying to know whether I should even remain at school and complete a degree.
Early that Sunday morning as I walked slowly across the quiet campus on my way to church, I wondered how I could stay at school when I missed my home and family so deeply and couldn’t overcome my loneliness. But what would I do if I left school?
When I arrived at church, the previous ward had just left the chapel. I entered, hoping for a moment to pray for direction. As I found a place to sit and slowly moved onto the wooden pew, I noticed a printed program from the previous sacrament meeting. There on the front of the folded paper were the following words: “Perhaps the most valuable result of all education is the ability to make yourself do the thing you have to do, when it ought to be done, whether you like it or not.”1
At that moment I knew what I needed to do. The Lord had answered my prayers in such a simple way, but I could not deny that it was an answer just the same.
It wasn’t long after that Sunday that my loneliness and discouragement left. As a result, I enjoyed my remaining years in school. I gained a degree, lifelong friends, and a stronger testimony by following the promptings of the Spirit.
Now, more than 25 years later, I still recall that answer to my prayer, and I use those same words from that sacrament meeting program to commit myself to difficult tasks. I have shared my experience with close friends and family in hopes that they too might gain strength in difficult times.
I know the Lord cares about our feelings and everyday choices, and I know He answers our sincere prayers.

The first vignette is Brigham Young’s arrival in the Salt Lake Valley in 1847, as described by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008): “No plow had even broken its soil. [Brigham Young] knew nothing of its fertility, nothing of the seasons, the weather, the frost, the severity of the winters, the possibility of insect plagues. [Early explorers] Jim Bridger and Miles Goodyear had nothing good to say concerning this place. Sam Brannan pleaded with him to go on to California. He listened to none of them. He led his people to this hot and what must have appeared as a very forlorn place. When he arrived, he looked across this broad expanse to the salt lake in the west and said, ‘This is the right place.’”8

One day when Sasha was 14, she saw a handbill from a Protestant church inviting people who wanted to know about God to attend a meeting. Sasha thought, “Oh, they wanted to know about God!” Figuring this would be a perfect opportunity to share the gospel with earnest seekers of the truth, she went to the meeting—all alone. During the service, she courageously stood before the room full of people and bore her testimony of the Savior and the Restoration. “I told them that I know with all my heart it is true,” she says, “and I invited them all to church.” Since that day in 1992, Sasha has helped bring several friends into the Church.

The midnight sun ruled the June evening in Sweden, where its fiery red and yellow spears still pierced the solemn blue sky. Children played, tumbling and jumping as though they had not walked three miles to the Lutheran seminary that day and had not spent two hours that evening raking in the hayfields. Suddenly their laughter was interrupted by the shouting of an older boy running toward them down the soggy road.
The small blond ones stood alert, staring at the intruder, who shouted again, “The Mormons are coming!” Expressions on young faces hardened, and little mouths lost their smiles and became straight lines. Bright blue eyes clouded.
The children ran up the nearby hill, picking up stones and sticks along the way. At the top of the hill they gathered in a group and looked out over the rolling meadowland. No one was in sight except the boy who had sounded the warning. They waited for him on the hill.
When the older boy reached the other children, he shouted commands: “Girls, stop crying. Go to your homes and take the little ones with you. Ask your fathers to come help us. Ja (yes)! The Mormons are coming!”
The boys began stacking stones in the furrows near the road. Girls and younger children ran across the fields toward their small wooden houses.
Hulda and Anna, the twins, and their younger brother, Gustav, had the farthest to go. Their house and land, located at the far north corner of the farmland near Hogbrun, West Vinåker, were rented from a wealthy landowner. Gustav fell down, but the girls pulled him up, paying no attention to his ripped trousers. As they neared the house, they could see their mother, Ingrid, a younger sister, Carolina, and baby sister, Maria, picking bouquets of tiny white-belled lilies of the valley.
“Mor (Mother)! Mor! The Mormons are coming! Shall we go to Farfar (Grandfather) Lars’s? They’ll eat us up and burn our house!”
The young woman frowned at Gustav’s skinned knees and tried to comfort him. She looked at her five children, whose father had died a year before from pneumonia. “If your far (father) were here, he would not be afraid of the Mormons. I do not fear them either. Those Mormons may be from the devil, but if they come here, I’ll use this devil’s pitchfork on them! Go into the house and say your prayers and go to bed.”
The children crawled into their beds, but they could not sleep. Their mother stood outdoors in the changing light of the midnight sun, resting her body against the house. She sighed and closed her eyes and thought of the approaching Mormons.
Farfar Lars hated the Mormons. He had warned, “Don’t ever shake hands with Mormon missionaries or they’ll get you.” But Ingrid had to admit that those Mormon hymns Britta Larsson had sung, while they were spinning during her last visit, were comforting.
Ingrid’s thoughts were interrupted by the bellowing of the family bull. She looked up and saw him tossing his head and pawing the ground in the middle of the road. Picking up a rope from the front yard, Ingrid hurried toward the road. She voiced her irritation under her breath and snatched up a dead limb lying close by. Holding the limb in front of her and moving slowly, step by step, she approached the bull. The bull, with lowered head, took a step toward her. Ingrid trembled for a moment then retreated a step, caught her foot in a hole, and fell to the ground.
Suddenly the bull charged, and the young woman rolled into the ditch for what little protection it provided. Miraculously, the snorting bull missed her and charged down the road, tossing clods of mud with his horns as he went.
The shaking woman lifted her head and watched the bull grow smaller in the distance. Then she stood up and dropped a rock she noticed was still clenched in her fist.
The sound of shouting was heard from down the road. That bull has met someone else, Ingrid decided. The shouts increased, and the frightened woman picked up her twill skirts with trembling hands, swallowed hard, and forced her feet to run along the rutted road. Just over a rise she saw two men chasing the bull. The big animal stopped suddenly and again began pawing the dirt. The woman’s lips formed some word, but the cry caught and could not escape. Her eyes widened in fear, and again Ingrid swallowed. Her chest heaved rapidly, begging for more air before she started to run again.
One man threw his coat over the bull’s head and tried holding him by the horns while the other young man, who had found an old rope, secured it around the bull’s neck. Leading him toward the woman, the man asked, “Is this your bull?” His hair was dark, and he walked lightly and talked with a strange accent.
“Yes,” she answered in airy gasps. “He broke … out … of the field … and … and … nearly gored me when I fell.”
“Let us help you take him back and mend your fence,” offered the other young man.
The bull kicked and began pulling his captor down the road, and the young man shouted and made play by mocking the bull. Terror again crept into the woman’s eyes, but when the young men began to laugh, she laughed with them.
After the bull was penned and the fence mended, Ingrid said, “May I make something for you to eat?”
The men’s eyes lighted up, but then one of them answered, “We have an appointment in the village and we’re already late.”
“At least let me give you some knäckebröd (hardtack) and smör (butter),” insisted the woman.
“Thank you,” came the warm reply.
Ingrid went into the small frame house and reached up to the rafters, where several months’ supply of knäckebröd hung, dry and crisp. She slipped two of the large, thin disks of rye bread from the pole and carefully buttered each one. Adjusting the braids in her hair, she returned to the waiting men.
“Here,” she said, smiling shyly. “May this satisfy your hunger. And if you come this way again, please stop by to say hello.”
“Thank you, we hope to return soon.”
Ingrid watched the men leave. As soon as they were a few feet from the cottage, they broke off large chunks of knäckebröd and ate hungrily.
Just then the woman thought to warn them. “Watch out for the Mormons! They’re coming this way, you know.”
The men stopped their eating and walked back quietly, “We are the Mormons,” one of them said gently.
“And I hope you still mean your invitation to stop on our way back,” added the other.
Ingrid looked into their kind eyes for a moment. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I would like my children to meet you.”

In the days that followed, I thought constantly about the proclamation. When the conference magazine finally came, I read the proclamation over and over again. I pondered and prayed. I wanted to so thoroughly digest its words that they would become an indelible part of my being. That’s when I felt impressed to memorize the proclamation. It would not be easy. I was in my mid-40s, and memorizing was not nearly as easy as it once had been. But again and again I felt the prompting: “Memorize the proclamation. Memorize the proclamation! MEMORIZE THE PROCLAMATION!”
I took a copy of the proclamation with me wherever I went. I memorized while shaving. I memorized while walking to the university. I memorized while exercising. The last words on my mind before retiring and the first words in my mind upon arising were the words of the proclamation. No miracle aided my memorizing, and my progress was painstakingly slow. But after about a month I could repeat the whole proclamation.
Now that I had it, I wanted to keep it. So I would recite the proclamation several times each day during morning exercise and stretching. As I did, it seemed as if the Spirit highlighted certain words or sentences. I would linger on these passages, and they, in turn, would prompt impressions that would bless my family and me.
For example, the next summer I was concerned about the friends my teenage daughter was spending so much time with. But when I tried to talk to her about the situation, she discounted what I said and became more distant. While I was jogging and thinking about the proclamation one morning, the Spirit highlighted in my thoughts the last sentence in paragraph seven: “Extended families should lend support when needed.” I slowed the pace of my jog, and an image of my younger sister came into my mind. This sister had experienced many trials in her life and was now nearly full term with her seventh pregnancy. The impression I had was that we, as extended family, should lend her support right now. So I bought a plane ticket for my daughter and asked her to spend a week serving in my sister’s home.
In this distant place an interesting thing happened. During the day my daughter found joy serving my sister’s family. And after the children were asleep, she and my sister had many long talks. My sister was able to talk to my daughter in a way that I had been unable to. She told her how decisions she had made as a teenager had produced a lifetime of challenges. When my daughter returned home, something had changed in her. She began making choices that blessed her life. My sister, her family, my daughter, and I were all blessed by this trip, which was prompted by the words of the proclamation.
Another time the words “Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs” weighed heavily on my mind. Our family members loved and had a good time with each other, but I felt that we were far from our spiritual potential. The words of the proclamation inspired my wife, Juanita, and me to begin having a family testimony meeting on fast Sunday after church. Unfortunately, our first attempt did little to provide for our children’s spiritual needs. None of them really wanted to be there. Several children complained about how hungry they were, and our youngest asked several times, “When is this going to be over?” Still, we persevered, and after a few months the complaining stopped and we started feeling the Spirit more. This family testimony meeting became a precious time to share sacred truths and to help us “rear [our] children in love and righteousness.”
A pattern was emerging. As I frequently reviewed the words of the proclamation, they formed a conduit through which the Spirit could give my wife and me inspiration to move our family forward. True, most of the inspiration was not as grand as these examples. Most of it came as ideas like “Take Hannah on a daddy-daughter date,” or “Fix dinner for Juanita tonight,” or “Listen more to Emily,” or “Put Seth to bed more often.” But the hundreds of little bits of direction added up to a much better family life.
In 2001 Juanita was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer and was given a 50 percent chance for five-year survival. Our best option was to pursue an aggressive but very taxing course of chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. We were discouraged when after eight weeks of nauseating chemo the large tumor had not shrunk at all. During this trial I went jogging and recited the proclamation as loud as I could to relieve the stress I was feeling. It comforted me.
On one jog when I got to “Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer,” I stopped. I felt a sense of peace as an impression formed in my mind. It was the Saturday morning before fast Sunday, and I felt inspired to send an e-mail to everyone I knew, inviting them to fast and pray and exercise their faith for Juanita so that the chemotherapy would be effective. We received a great outpouring of support. Even friends of other faiths described powerful experiences with fasting and prayer. Without our asking them to do so, friends in Australia, Japan, Hawaii, Salt Lake, Boston, Belgium, and South Africa put Juanita’s name on the prayer roll in their temples. The results were miraculous. Immediately our mood and our faith improved. And during the next four weeks of treatments, the tumor almost totally disappeared. Juanita finished the treatment, and no measurable cancer remained. We were so grateful! But this wasn’t the end of our trials or of the continued comfort the proclamation brought us.
In early 2004 we were devastated to learn that Juanita’s cancer had returned, this time in her lungs. In somber tones our doctor told us he would try to keep the cancer under control as long as possible, but there was now no possible cure. At first I felt betrayed and hopeless. Juanita and I had righteous desires and plans. What about the missions we were going to serve together? What about the grandchildren we were going to strengthen spiritually? How could this happen to us?
As I went through the proclamation again, this time it was as if someone turned a flashlight on to highlight the words “Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother.” I recognized my children were entitled to be raised by a father and a mother. This statement filled me with hope that in the face of very large medical odds Juanita would be blessed with a miracle and be healed.
We lived a fairly normal and hopeful life for about six months, but then the cancer began to take its unmistakable toll. Juanita lost weight rapidly and acquired a nearly constant and uncomfortable cough. Even the smallest exertion left her struggling for breath. Things seemed always to get worse and never better. Soon it became apparent that it was not God’s will for Juanita to live very much longer. I was at a complete loss to explain why God had not stepped forward with the miracle we so badly needed and so sincerely hoped for. But then again the words of the proclamation provided inspiration and comfort: “Sacred ordinances and covenants available in holy temples make it possible for individuals to return to the presence of God and for families to be united eternally.” Through many tears my understanding was enlarged to see that Juanita would indeed receive a miraculous healing. Because of the plan of salvation, Juanita would pass from this life into a beautiful place to be greeted by her father, our daughter who had passed away, and the Savior. Because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, Juanita would be healed and at the Resurrection receive a perfect body, free from cancer and any other illness. I could also see that through all eternity our children would have access to her influence as their mother—another miracle.
I also felt impressed that there was much we could yet do in this life to give the children continued access to her wisdom. I received a clear impression that it was time for us to stop focusing our faith on a physical miracle that was not in keeping with God’s will and focus instead on learning as much as we could from Juanita in the short time we had left. We needed to be better prepared “to return to the presence of God and for [our family] to be united eternally.” In our family testimony meeting we expressed these feelings poignantly, and their truth washed over us all. Then we went to work.
Juanita wrote her testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and I wrote mine as well. We printed and laminated them along with our pictures in a size that would fit in the children’s scriptures. Juanita then wrote long letters in her own hand to each of the children, expressing appreciation and offering words of encouragement and advice. We recorded Juanita’s sweet voice singing hymns, Primary songs, and childhood lullabies and made CDs for each of the children and for future grandchildren. We also recorded messages to be listened to on special occasions such as going to the temple, leaving on a mission, getting married, giving birth to a child. Juanita crocheted baby blankets and bibs for future grandchildren. Our lives now became focused, full of activity, and we received great comfort from the Spirit. All this came as a result of inspiration from the proclamation.
All of our children were at Juanita’s side when she died, and each had the opportunity to share tender communication with her. She was alert and talked to us until about 10 minutes before she passed away. That’s when I told her, “I love you,” and she responded in Spanish, “Lo mismo,” which means “Same to you.” Those were her last words. Her passing was sweet.
I have marveled at the numerous specific and personal ways the proclamation has blessed me and my family since that Saturday night more than a decade ago when I first heard it. It has changed our lives forever. It is the word of God, and it can be the basis for great joy and happiness in family life, even in the midst of unfathomable trials. I know by the Spirit that “The Family: A Proclamation to the World” is an inspired document for families today, and if seriously studied, it will open the windows of divine assistance for our families.

Colt Mattice of the Pinetop-Lakeside Fourth Ward, Pinetop-Lakeside Arizona Stake, was thrilled to turn 12 for two reasons—he received the Aaronic Priesthood and became a Boy Scout. Although he has Down’s syndrome, Colt is very aware of the responsibilities he now has.
Shortly after Colt’s 12th birthday, a boy at Colt’s school fell and badly cut his head. At the accident scene, Colt told a teacher, “I need to help the boy. I am a Boy Scout and a priesthood holder.” The teacher convinced Colt that the boy was being well cared for. As she began walking with Colt back to class, she was surprised to see him stop and, with tears running down his face, kneel down and utter a prayer for the hurt boy. The teacher later told a Church leader that she appreciated Colt’s example and could feel God’s presence all around her as she listened to Colt pray.

When I was in first grade, I got bumps on my arm and leg. The bumps were itchy and lasted for months and months. My mom took me to the doctor, and he put medicine on them to heal. The medicine created huge blisters—bigger than quarters! They hurt and burned. I couldn’t move my arm or leg. I cried a lot. I spent days on the couch, scared to get up. My mom had to carry me to the bathroom. I had to miss two weeks of swimming lessons and other activities with my friends. It was hard not to go swimming.
One day, my mom needed to take me to urgent care because the blisters had an infection. I was so scared. I didn’t want to get in the car. My mom knew I was scared. She told me about when Joseph Smith was my age. When Joseph Smith was seven years old, he had an illness that required the doctor to do surgery on his leg. He was scared too, but he knew that Heavenly Father was with him and would help him. The doctor took nine pieces of bone out of his leg! I was so surprised. He was brave. If he could do that, I knew that I could get in the car and go to the doctor. I would be brave, and Heavenly Father would help me with the pain I was feeling.
Little by little, the blisters went away. I was finally healed completely. I learned that whenever I’m scared, Jesus will always be with me. I can be brave with hard things.

Sister Hinckley’s roots sink deeply into rich pioneer soil, leaving an indelible imprint on her life and character. She wrote this about her great-grandfather:
“On a beautiful Sunday morning in the fall of 1841, my great-grandfather, William Minshall Evans, then sixteen years of age, was walking down the streets of Liverpool, England, on his way to church. Suddenly he heard singing that thrilled him beyond anything he had ever heard before. He followed the sound down an alley and up some rickety stairs into a room where a few people were holding a meeting. John Taylor, who later became president of the Church and who had a beautiful tenor voice, was the singer. The song he sang was so beautiful that William remained to hear the sermon.
“Upon returning home, William was reprimanded by his elder brother, David, for being absent from his accustomed place in the choir. Asked to give an account of himself, William replied, ‘I have been where you should have been, and I shall not be satisfied until you all hear the wonderful truth I have heard this morning.’
“… William and David were converted to the gospel, and then helped convert other members of their family” (Marjorie P. Hinckley, “Music Was the Missionary,” Ensign, July 1981, p. 48).
Sister Hinckley commented, “I never sing the hymns of the Church without remembering that it was the singing of a hymn that opened the door to the gospel for my family and made it possible for me to enjoy all the blessings that have followed” (p. 48).

During that week the missionaries’ preaching brought success. On Wednesday they interviewed a Mr. Wilkeson, who was a leader in the Mount Pleasant Methodist group. “He could not stand our words,” the diary reads. “Whether he will receive the truth the Lord only knows. He seemed honest.” Thursday, a wet day, their preaching at Weathersford drew only a small congregation. But at Mount Pleasant that evening a fine meeting developed: “One man, [Eleazer] Nickerson declared his full belief in the truth of the work. Is with his wife who is also convinced to be baptized on Sunday. Great excitement prevails in every place where we have been. The result we leave in the hand of God.”

After church Tara puts away her shiny shoes.
She looks at her Book of Mormon picture book.
She draws a picture to send to her auntie.
While Dad and Mom make dinner, Tara plays with her baby brother.
Then she sets the table.
“Tara, thank you for helping our family have a happy Sabbath day!” says Dad.
Trace your finger along the line to help Tara move through her Sabbath day. Can you tell what she does to make Sunday a happy day?

One of the guidelines in For the Strength of Youth states: “Through your dress and appearance, you can show the Lord that you know how precious your body is. You can show that you are a disciple of Jesus Christ.” After studying these words, one young woman realized that perhaps some of her clothes were not completely modest. Through prayer and study of the scriptures, she was reminded that she was a disciple of Jesus Christ and that, as His representative, she needed to make some changes. She didn’t want to have anything in her wardrobe that was a temptation, so she went through her closet and drawers and got rid of anything that wasn’t modest. She said, “I would be smart if I didn’t even try on anything in stores that I knew I shouldn’t wear. Why be tempted?” That firm resolve showed the Lord that she respected her body, and she drove down a deep stake for modesty.

Here I am, the Freckled Wonder, starting another year at Madsen High. I say “another year” to distinguish myself from the younger set, who look incredibly lost and frightened. Was I that bad last year? As usual, anyone new who met me today said, “Hey, I’ll bet everybody calls you Freckles!” If anyone ever says, “Hey, I’ll bet everyone calls you Gorgeous,” I’ll be his slave forever.
The particular anyone I referred to earlier—the one who made the strikingly original remark about the freckles—is Dave Johnson, class president. If he hadn’t made that remark about the freckles, I think I would be interested in him. He’s handsome even with glasses, which he wears part-time. Reminds me of Richard O’Neal, my childhood (last year’s) hero.
Ever hear of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment, guaranteed to “lighten or totally remove unsightly freckles and facial blemishes forever”? Neither had I, until this afternoon in the library. Shelly handed me a moldy-looking book from a top shelf somewhere—Miss Gordon’s Modern Book of Beauty, Charm, and Etiquette. Needless to say, the book was actually written shortly after the Stone Age. I browsed through it awhile, not really studying anything in great detail, when suddenly, surrounded by recipes for homemade cold cream (where on earth would a person buy rose water?) and hand lotion (worse yet, wool fat?), there was the recipe for Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment.
“What a riot!” Shelly said to me as she wrinkled her smooth, unfreckled nose. “A girl would really have to be desperate to try a weird concoction like that!”
“How would Shelly know?” I thought as I carefully memorized the ingredients and amounts, trying meanwhile to look mildly amused. Shelly would laugh for a week if she knew that I went straight home and mixed one tablespoon of lemon juice, two tablespoons of vinegar, and one-half cup of flour “or enough to make a smooth, moist paste.”
Well, I was just stirring up my smooth, moist paste—and incidentally, the kitchen was beginning to smell like a pickle factory—when I heard voices and realized it was too late to hide. Voice Number One, of course, was Kevin, winner of the year’s Most-Obnoxious-Big-Brother Award.
“Gee,” he said, sniffing the aroma, “I’m glad you fixed me something good to snack on, Keri. I’m just dying (here he rolled his eyes desperately) of hunger.”
Voice Number Two then made his appearance in the kitchen. If I could have died on the spot, I would have.
“Oh, hi Dave,” I croaked feebly.
He grinned his handsome Richard O’Neal grin and asked, “Been taking cooking lessons? Smells like a real treat.”
What could I say? Why on earth did dear old Kevin pick this day, of all days of the year, to suddenly become great friends with Dave Johnson? They don’t have a thing in common other than their student government positions, debate team, and, of course, basketball. Dave is the school’s star center and Kevin is the star benchwarmer. I now noticed a basketball under Dave’s right arm. So that was what brought them together.
“Planning to really knock the team over dead this year, Kevin?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Kevin blushed slightly and couldn’t think of a good comeback.
“I hate to ask, but what is it?” said Dave, pointing to my dish of smooth, moist paste.
“I have a rare disease and it calls for a special diet.” I was trying to be funny.
Kevin’s next act deserves the award for Putdown of the Year.
“Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment,” he read solemnly and eloquently from the notebook on the counter. I had completely forgotten about that notebook. I wanted to sink into nonexistence. He went on to read the ingredients with great flourish, adding a few choice remarks like, “A touch of bat liver improves the quality of the ointment considerably!” and “Incidentally, if this doesn’t land the man of your dreams, Madame Butterball’s Diet Salve certainly will!”
I probably would have laughed if I hadn’t been so close to crying. I’ll bet Dave thinks I’m really out to lunch. What could I do? I whisked my smooth, moist paste to the opposite end of the kitchen, returned with the cookie jar, and disappeared to my room. It wasn’t too long before they were totally engrossed in devouring Mom’s home-baked chocolate chip cookies. From my room I could hear them chuckling. See if I loyally cheer for good old Kevin when he makes his one basket for the year.
I am not only desperate about those freckles, I’m determined. I have launched forth on Miss Frodjam’s program for freckle removal. I think it may work better than my past attempts with cover cosmetics, sun lamps, and zinc oxide.
Last night, in spite of the extreme humiliation of being discovered, I stubbornly smeared the paste all over my freckled face and then held very still while it dried to a stiff crust. The book said to leave it on four to six hours, so I went to bed looking and feeling like an Egyptian mummy. All night I had awful dreams about being encased in cement from head to toe.
But this morning when I woke up and rushed right in to wash the stuff off, my freckles—believe it or not—actually did look one-tenth of a shade lighter. I think.
I saw Dave Johnson in the hall today, but he didn’t say anything. Well, he said hi or something. But then what could he say after being a participant in the most embarrassing moment of my life? I suppose it is beneath his dignity anyway to speak to the star benchwarmer’s freckle-faced kid sister. I don’t care.
I guess tonight I’ll try Miss Frodjam’s miracle wonder paste again. It’s not that much fun, but if the treatment works, it will be worth it.
One solid week and seven applications of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. The results are far from striking, to say the least. I am about ready to give up. People are beginning to sniff and look baffled when I walk by. However, my freckles are now two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think.
But the crowning blow to my ego came tonight. I was in the kitchen mixing up my smooth, moist paste when Kevin and Dave strolled in, complete with Dave’s basketball again. They were grinning I might add. This week Dave has hardly noticed me, although I’ve seen him at least a hundred times at school. This fact made the moment of our meeting especially poignant.
“Here she is—Miss Freckles,” announced Kevin. “Having great success, I suppose, with your bat liver ointment?”
I ignored him—or rather glared at him—and turned to Dave to offer him the cookie jar.
“Hi, Keri.” That was all Dave said. That was it. His entire speech—two words. He could have at least laughed, or made some remark. But he just popped a cookie into his mouth, turned to Kevin, and started talking about basketball.
I feel like a real failure. Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment is not even good for a laugh.
That Dave Johnson. After school I saw him in the hall. He was going one way and I was going the other. I didn’t know whether to speak or not, so I didn’t. I kind of smiled feebly.
“Hi, Keri.” Dave Johnson, winner of the Warmest-Greeting-of-the-Year Award.
“Hi.” I thought that was a safe reply, in keeping with his warmth and enthusiasm. I was about to walk on, but he asked the weirdest question.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”
“I hate to ask, but what for?”
“Last night. I could have given you a bad time, but I didn’t.”
That was a new way of looking at it. “Uh, thanks!” I answered. “Chivalry is not dead.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I have some insight into the problems of being a kid sister.”
“Is that right? How did you come by this marvelous insight?” I asked.
“I’m a kid brother.”
“Which isn’t quite the same thing, you know.”
“I see your point. Which brings me to another subject,” he said, putting on his glasses. After clearing his throat very solemnly and intellectually, he proceeded. “Miss Carter, I am doing a detailed study on a little-known topic—freckles. The thesis of my study is that sunlight, far from fading freckles, actually brings out their color even more brilliantly. Now—would you be willing to be guinea pig in an experiment with direct sunlight at the football game Saturday afternoon?”
“Wait a minute!” I was really riled. “I thought you had marvelous insight?” What does he think I am, the Freckled Wonder of the World? I thought furiously. I was about to come out with a real putdown when I looked up at his face.
He didn’t look sarcastic or even funny. He looked a little awkward.
“Well, I was kidding about the insight. I was kidding about the freckle study, too. But the football game—I was serious about that. Would you like to come with me?”
Well, dear diary, I won’t go on to describe how I suddenly rose about six inches off the floor. I won’t mention what a fool I must have sounded like, trying to stammer out some sort of proper acceptance speech. I will mention that he smiled and looked almost relieved, and I just couldn’t believe that the great Dave Johnson might actually have moments of self-doubt too.
I definitely plan to discontinue use of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. It may have worked on Miss Frodjam. And my freckles are two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think. But after all, if I am going to be part of a detailed study on a little-known topic, far be it from me to try to influence the findings of the direct sunlight thesis.

I’ve always made an impressive grilled cheese sandwich. Between that delectable dish and a handful of other recipes, I kept myself alive and functioning throughout my mission and well into adulthood. But then I got married and had kids, all of whom have different tastes. I needed to expand my menu!

However, on nights when it was my turn to cook, attempting new meals proved to be a challenge. For starters, my evening time was usually limited. Even though I wanted to cook a variety of meals, I kept hitting snags. I couldn’t find ingredients fast enough, or we’d be missing some. More often than not, I’d scrap my planned dinner and instead go for quick and easy.

And yet I kept wanting to improve in this area. So I decided to do something I had never done. I prayed for a spiritual gift by name.

Specifically, I prayed for the gift of organization. Yes, organization! We already had a spice cupboard. We also had cooking utensils drawers. Yet even with those in place, I seemed to spend more time looking for supplies than cooking.

As I consistently prayed for this gift, I began receiving specific ideas. A wall-mounted spice rack would organize spices and keep them handy. A magnetic kitchen bar (also wall-mounted) could store knives and other metal cooking utensils. These and other ideas, once put in motion, made a big difference in my cooking efforts. Need some thyme? Garlic salt? Garlic powder? I’m your guy!

But then a funny thing happened. Little ideas continued popping into my mind for small ways to better organize other areas of my life. For example, my three-level homemade laundry tower won’t carry my family to the promised land, but even Nephi would’ve appreciated the way in which I built it—by following promptings that came to me one piece at a time.

The spiritual gift of organization has improved my life and the lives of my family more than I would’ve ever guessed.

And it all came because I asked for it.

Harold Connolly had broken his left arm several times. It was only two-thirds the size of his right. To exercise and build up the smaller arm, he began throwing the hammer back to Boston College’s regular throwers. Soon he was tossing it back farther than they were throwing it, so he entered the event. He later broke the world record and won a gold medal. He made himself strongest where he was weakest.

As the only young woman in her branch, miles and miles from the nearest group of LDS youth, Justine Goodson of Maryborough, Queensland, Australia, could get pretty lonely sometimes. Although finding non-LDS people who respect LDS standards sometimes proved to be a difficult task, Justine knew she could always turn to one friend—her Father in Heaven.
Justine wasn’t sure what she should do. She wanted to have friends, but she didn’t want to compromise her standards.
“People started to influence my friends to do wrong things. As hard as it was for me to accept it and move on and find new friends, I knew that I had to do it,” says Justine.
Justine prayed to Heavenly Father for help. The answer to her prayer for friends came in a rather surprising way.
In an effort to fill her time and keep her mind off her loneliness, Justine threw herself wholeheartedly into her studies.
“I started to get really academic,” she says. “I would just go to the library and study.” Not only did Justine’s grades improve, but she started to meet other people who were interested in learning—and in making friends.
“We all got along really well,” says Justine of her newfound friends. “So we decided to enter an academic competition.”
After much hard work and many long study sessions, Justine and classmates Janelle Gordon, Ian Neilsen, and Michael Weekes sent off their project in the mail and forgot about it until their English teacher called them out of class a couple of months later to tell them they had won.
Not only did Justine get the satisfaction of doing well in her studies, she knows her prayer for friends who respected her standards was heard and answered.
Justine gives all the credit for her good fortune to her Father in Heaven. Although being the only LDS student in her school is a challenge, Justine knows that with a little help, she can do anything.
“I can just see my Heavenly Father’s hand in so many events. He’s always looking over us and guiding us toward what would be best for us.”

As Fia returned once again to England, she was befriended by a group of missionaries on their way to Europe. The missionaries took Fia to the mission home with them in Liverpool, England, where Elder Heber J. Grant of the Council of the Twelve presided with his wife and young daughters. Sister Grant found Fia sobbing in the hall as she waited with the elders, who were to be interviewed by their mission president. Through an interpreter, Sister Grant learned of Fia’s unsuccessful attempts to go to Zion. Also discovering that the young girl had no place to go and no money, Sister Grant felt compassion for Fia and asked if she would like to remain at the mission home to work as a maid. Fia gratefully accepted, though she had never had any experience as a domestic servant.
As they became better acquainted, Sister Grant realized that Fia had received a good education and possessed impressive musical talents. In spite of the fact that she had never done housework before, Fia knew how things should be done. She took pride in her work. Her disposition was so delightful that the whole family soon grew to love her. They marveled at her abilities, her patience, and her sweet spirit. They said she never spoke a cross word but always sang and gave praise to her Heavenly Father for the blessings she had received. Along with housekeeping duties, her first responsibility was the care of the two youngest Grant girls, Emily and Frances. Elder and Sister Grant traveled frequently on the continent, supervising the many areas of the European Mission, and they felt fortunate to know their daughters were under Fia’s care.
Fia believed in cold-water “Swedish” baths. Without a water heater in the bathroom, those who wanted a warm bath had to heat the water downstairs and carry it upstairs to the bathtub a bucket at a time, so Swedish baths were much more convenient. Each morning Fia filled the tub with cold water, tying a bag of rock salt to the faucet and letting the water run over it to simulate sea water. The squirming, protesting little girls were then given their morning “dip in the ocean.” After a quick bath, Fia rubbed them vigorously with a large fluffy towel. They said later that they hated their baths, but they loved Fia so dearly they were willing to endure them to please her.

When the phone rang, Michael had no idea that the call would turn a good deed into a bad one.
Dad got up from the dinner table and answered the phone. He returned a few minutes later, hands held up as if he’d just scored a touchdown. “Great news!” he shouted. “The company has called me back to work. I start next month.”
It was great news. Dad had been laid off from the steel mill nearly two years ago. They had lost their house and now lived in a small apartment. It had been a difficult adjustment.
“Congratulations, Dad,” Michael said.
Crystal jumped up from the table, threw her arms around Dad’s neck, and squealed, “Oh, Daddy!”
Michael hadn’t seen her do that for a long time.
Mom sat quietly, smiling.
“Donna,” Dad told her, “this spring we hunt for a new house.”
A tear slid down over Mom’s smile. She got up from the table and gave Dad a long, tender hug. “Sit down and finish your supper, Fred.” She put on a coat and took the storage shed key from the key rack. “Wait here,” she said, heading for the door. “I have a surprise for you.”
That’s when Michael realized that he might have a problem. He knew that Mom had gone after Dad’s company coat. Dad had been proud of the coat, an award for ten years’ service at the steel mill. But he had refused to wear it after the layoff. Mom had stored it for safe keeping, though—just in case.
Several weeks before that, while Michael and Crystal were doing the dishes, he had overheard his mom and dad talking. She had suggested that Dad wear his company coat since the weather was getting cold.
“No,” Dad had said sternly. “I’ll freeze before I give the mill free advertising. Just get rid of it.”
The next day Michael had gone to the park as usual. He enjoyed seeing the pigeons and squirrels there on his way to school. He had paid little attention to the old man collecting empty bottles and cans from the garbage cans. But that particular morning he noticed the old man sniffing and sampling food scraps, stuffing what he liked into his pockets.
From then on, whenever he could, Michael smuggled biscuits or waffles or jam-covered toast from his own breakfast plate and left it in a neatly wrapped package for the man. Normally the man smiled gratefully when he found the food. It made Michael feel good inside.
But one morning the man reacted differently. He searched about the park with stark, jerky glances. When he saw Michael, he marched over, shook the wrapped breakfast in Michael’s face, and rasped, “What is this! I don’t need charity from any young wet-eared whippersnapper like you.”
Mortified, Michael had run.
He hadn’t left anything for the man again until yesterday. The weather had turned extremely cold, and when he saw that the man was wearing a thin, ripped jacket and was huddling under the viaduct near the park. Michael ran home, scavenged two leftover chicken legs from the refrigerator, wrapped them in a napkin, then stuffed them into a pocket of Dad’s coat and hurried back to the park. He jammed the coat into the garbage can, trying to make it look discarded, then fled—it was almost time for the man to get there on his daily round.
Michael’s recollections were interrupted when his mother came back. “Fred, your company coat is gone! Did you throw it away?”
“No,” Dad said. “Didn’t you get rid of it long ago?”
“No,” Mom said. “Just last week I had it out, thinking that maybe I could talk you into wearing it while it’s so very cold. But it had a big grease stain on it, so I put it back until I had a chance to take it to the cleaners.”
Michael looked worriedly at Crystal. She had seen him with the coat. But she just looked at the ceiling and didn’t say anything. He knew that he should tell what happened, but he was afraid to. I’ll wait to tell them tomorrow and not spoil Dad’s good news today, he rationalized.
The next day, when the family was returning home from church, Mom gasped and said, “Fred, that man is wearing your coat!”
Michael spun around to look.
Dad stared at the old man. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Mom said. “See that grease stain?”
Michael blurted, “I think I’d better ex—”
“No need to concern yourself with this, son,” Dad interrupted. “Donna, go ahead with the kids up to the apartment. I’ll take care of this.”
“But, Dad, I want to—”
“It’s all right, Michael,” Dad cut him off again. “Go upstairs now.”
While Michael paced the floor, Mom sat watching out the window. Crystal’s gaze went back and forth from Michael to Mom as if she were watching a tennis match.
When Dad came in, he stared at Michael for a long moment. He didn’t hear Mom’s questions till she tugged at his sleeve and asked again, “Where’s your coat? Wouldn’t he give it back to you?”
“We were mistaken,” Dad said. “It’s not my coat.”
“Fred, I’d know that coat anywhere,” Mom said, astonished. “It’s your coat.”
“It’s his coat, Donna,” Dad said. “He said that his boy gave it to him.”
“Highly unlikely,” Mom said indignantly. “If he had a son, he wouldn’t let his father live on the streets and eat out of garbage cans.”
“It’s not really his son,” Dad replied. “The old man said that ‘his boy’ is like an angel, showing up just when he is most in need. When he’s starving, this boy shows up with food. When he was freezing, the boy brought the coat. Who could ask for more than that?” Dad said, gazing intently at Michael. “In my book, he’s a wonderful son.”
The next morning after breakfast, while Michael got ready for school, Mom said, “Michael, while you’re going by the park, would you care to dump those scraps for me? I’ve cleaned out the refrigerator, and the garbage man won’t come until Thursday.”
“OK, Mom,” Michael said. On the counter he found a neatly wrapped paper plate, piled with leftover food, sitting on Dad’s old work boots. “The boots too?”
“The boots, too,” Mom said. “Your dad is getting a new pair.”
Now both Dad and Mom knew! And better still, they cared too. Michael smiled to himself as he picked up the plate full of “scraps.” Who had ever heard of warm scraps from the refrigerator?

Johanan carried his goatskin down to the well. After waiting for his turn, he very carefully filled the skin. Every drop was important in their dry country, especially now that the Roman soldiers blocked the gates of the city. He carried the heavy skin back to his home. As he passed the big olive tree that fed them, he poured a little of the water on the young seedling that was sheltered in its shade. Then he filled a small jug with water and walked to the city wall where his father was standing guard. He was proud that his father was chosen to be one of the watchmen. Johanan climbed the ladder and handed his father the jug.
It was hot on the wall, and Father smiled at him, then drank deeply. “Thank you. I was very thirsty.”
Johanan smiled back. He turned to look out over the wall. Before him camped the mighty armies of the Romans. He gazed with a horrible fascination at the men milling below. They were like ants swarming around the bottom of a gigantic anthill. And Jerusalem was the anthill! “Father,” he whispered, “what is going to happen to us?”
His father put his arm around him and pulled him away from the wall. “We will be fine. We have the Lord’s promise that if we watch and follow His warning, we will be saved.”
“But look, Father,” the boy argued, pointing to the men, “there are thousands of them. They have chariots and battering rams. What can we do?”
“Be prepared,” Father answered. “That’s what the Savior told us to do—be prepared.”
Johanan walked slowly back home. He always felt afraid after looking over the wall. It took all his faith to stop that fear. He stopped at the olive tree and sat beneath its shade. He looked at the seedling and wondered if he would see it bear fruit.
Sounds of shouting reached his ears. He saw a group of boys playing in the street. He longed to join them, but he knew that they didn’t want to play with him. He was a Christian, and they were not. Whenever he came close to where they played, they threw stones at him and taunted, “Where’s your Jesus now? Why doesn’t He save you from the Romans?”
Getting up, Johanan wandered into the house and looked for Grandmother. Her presence always soothed him. He sat beside her and watched her skillful fingers weave goat-hair yarn into cloth.
“Hello, Johanan.” She glanced down at his troubled face. “Did you take water to your father?”
He nodded.
“I see. What is it like to see all of Cestius Gallus’s men?”
“Terrible. Many soldiers are out there.”
“It will be all right,” she soothed. She continued her rhythmic weaving for a few moments, then stopped. “How long has it been since I told you about the time I saw the Savior?”
“Many months.”
“Then listen again.” After a pause, she quietly began her story. “When I was a small child, word reached us that a great man was coming to preach in our city. Soon a crowd of people gathered right below the temple.
“My parents thought that I was too young to be in such crowds, so they left me home with my brother, Jesse.”
Johanan nodded in understanding. His parents left him home with his little sisters on market day.
“Jesse wanted to go,” Grandmother continued, “so he swore me to secrecy and we walked toward the crowds. We wriggled our way through the people until we could see Him. We stood still, just staring at Him.”
“What was He like?” Johanan asked earnestly.
“He was like other men—He had two eyes and one nose—yet He was very different. I knew when I saw Him that He loved me and everyone there. I felt something special, a kind of reverence.”
Johanan sighed, “I wish I could have seen Him.”
Grandmother nodded. “One by one He took the children from the multitude and blessed them. Jesse and I walked forward. Soon His arms were around me, and He talked to me. I don’t remember what He said. I remember that I knew that He was the Savior.”
They sat quietly thinking for several minutes before Grandmother looked down at her weaving and picked up the shuttle again. “Don’t worry, my son. He told us what to do.”
Johanan, too, knew the prophecies. When the signs were right, they would leave their home and flee Jerusalem. He looked at the bags and goatskins stacked in the corner. His family was ready to leave whenever the time came.
That afternoon he was herding the goats into the corral when his father walked swiftly up the path, calling to him. “Come, Johanan! Hurry!”
Johanan ran toward his father.
Father gathered the family together. “It is time. I don’t understand why, but Gallus has removed his men from the walls. If we go quietly, I think that he will let us leave. You all know what to do,” Father said. “Now hurry.”
Johanan ran to all their Christian neighbors to make sure that they knew that it was time to leave.
People laden with bags and baskets began streaming out of their houses.
“Where are you going?” one man called out. “You’re not leaving? You cannot. The soldiers will kill you. It’s safer to stay here behind the walls.”
His father stopped and called to him, “Come with us. It’s the only safe thing to do!”
The neighbor waved his hand in disgust. “You Christians—you’re all crazy!”
“Please come!” Father pleaded again, but the man just turned his back.
Johanan remembered how hard his father had worked the past few months to warn everyone that the time to flee was close at hand. Few had listened to him.
“We can do no more,” Father now said sadly. He gathered the family together and joined the rest of the Saints as they poured out through the gates of the city.
They walked as rapidly as they could. Grandmother was having trouble keeping up, so they slowed their pace. It was growing dark by the time they climbed a small rise above Jerusalem. Stopping to rest, they turned to look at their city one last time. Johanan had thought he’d feel sadness to leave his home. Instead, he felt a great joy because his family was safe and all together.
As they watched, the armies of Gallus closed ranks and Jerusalem was encircled once again.
Silently the family turned and began to walk. Johanan stayed close to his grandmother in case she needed him. His heart felt very full. He felt his testimony of Jesus Christ growing. His family had been saved because they had listened to and believed His message.
Grandmother had seen and touched Him. Johanan knew, without seeing, that Jesus was the Christ. He knew because the Holy Ghost whispered it to him.

In October 1981, Sister Renlund was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She underwent two surgeries and nine months of chemotherapy. Struggling to take care of Ruth and their daughter, Elder Renlund recalls, “I was hurting, and it seemed as if my prayers wouldn’t go heavenward.”
When he brought Ruth home from the hospital, she was weak, but they wanted to pray together. He asked Sister Renlund if she would pray. “Her first words were, ‘Our Father in Heaven, we thank Thee for priesthood power that makes it so that no matter what happens, we can be together forever.’”
In that moment, he felt a special closeness to his wife and to God. “What I’d previously understood about eternal families in my mind, I now understood in my heart,” Elder Renlund says. “Ruth’s illness changed the course of our lives.”
To take her mind off the illness, Sister Renlund decided to attend law school. “I just thought, ‘This will only be a bad experience unless we make something good of it,’” Sister Renlund says. “It wasn’t in our plan for me to have cancer as a young woman and have only one child. And my survival was in doubt. But we felt like law school was the right thing.”
She pursued her studies even as she continued treatment for her illness and her husband continued his residency.
As Elder Renlund was transitioning from three years on the medical house staff to a cardiology fellowship, he was interviewed to be the bishop of the Baltimore Ward. Brent Petty, who was the first counselor in the Baltimore Maryland Stake at the time, remembers that interview. Both he and the stake president, Stephen P. Shipley, felt “the strong influence of the Holy Spirit” as they interviewed him.
Brother Petty recalls that “he distinguished himself as a superb bishop,” even with the professional and family challenges he was experiencing. When Elder Renlund received his call to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles last year, Brother Petty notes that members of the Baltimore Ward as well as Elder Renlund’s medical colleagues, most of whom are not Latter-day Saints, were pleased. They expressed their love for him and their admiration for his service and exceptional moral character.
In 1986, after Sister Renlund graduated from the University of Maryland School of Law and Elder Renlund completed his three-year internal medicine residency program and three-year cardiology fellowship, they returned to Utah. Sister Renlund began practicing law at the Utah attorney general’s office, and Elder Renlund became a professor of medicine at the University of Utah. For 18 years he was the medical director of the Utah Transplantation Affiliated Hospitals Cardiac Transplant Program.
In 2000 he also became the director of the Heart Failure Prevention and Treatment Program at Intermountain Health Center in Salt Lake City. The program included implantable cardiac pumps and the total artificial heart. Donald B. Doty, M.D., an internationally recognized heart surgeon, was a colleague and friend of Dr. Renlund at LDS Hospital. Dr. Doty says, “His remarkable training, in-depth focus, capable administration, and compassion were exceptional.”
Dr. A. G. Kfoury, a devout Catholic who worked closely with Dr. Renlund for many years, states that Dr. Renlund was the lead transplant cardiologist in the region, “unmatched in his character, integrity, humility, and compassion.” He says Dr. Renlund “brought out the best in people. He did it quietly. He listened well and cared, and he was immensely interested in the success of those who worked with him.” Dr. Renlund led quietly by example and was always concerned about the families of his co-workers.
Dr. Kfoury particularly noted Dr. Renlund’s compassion for patients. For example, if a patient didn’t have means of transportation, Dr. Renlund would drive significant distances to the patient’s home, lift him or her into his car, and then drive the patient back to the hospital. Dr. Kfoury said this was extraordinary.
After serving as stake president for five years in the Salt Lake University First Stake, Elder Renlund was called in 2000 to serve as an Area Seventy in the Utah Area. Then in April 2009 he was called to be a General Authority Seventy. His first assignment was to serve in the Africa Southeast Area Presidency, an area that has Church units in 25 different countries.
Sister Renlund shares their response to the calling: “It was a surprise, of course. And people have said, ‘You’re leaving your careers at their peaks.’ And that’s probably true. But if the Lord needs the peak of our careers and this is when we can be of service, then that’s the time to go.”
Speaking of his wife as his hero, Elder Renlund says, “She made the greater sacrifice.” Sister Renlund left her job as the president of her law firm and left positions on several prominent boards to serve with him. “We were sent to Africa and tutored by the Saints about what really matters,” says Elder Renlund.
One Sunday in central Congo he asked the members what challenges they were facing, but they couldn’t think of any challenges. He asked again. Finally, an old gentleman in the back of the room stood and said, “Elder Renlund, how can we have any challenges? We have the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Reflecting on that experience, Elder Renlund explains: “I want to be like these Congolese Saints, who pray for food every day, are grateful every day for food, are grateful for their families. They have nothing, but they have everything.”
Serving in the Area Presidency for five years, Elder Renlund traveled thousands of miles through the vast Africa Southeast Area, visiting members and missionaries. He studied French because it is spoken in several of those countries.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, who was the member of the Twelve assigned to work with the Africa Southeast Area Presidency at the time, says of Elder Renlund: “No one could have invested himself in the area and its people and their needs more than Elder Renlund did. He labored unceasingly to know the people, to love their cultures, and to help move the Saints toward a place of redeeming light.”
On September 29, 2015, he received an unexpected call from the Office of the First Presidency. At the Church Administration Building, “I was welcomed warmly by President Thomas S. Monson and his two counselors. After we were seated, President Monson looked at me, and he said, ‘Brother Renlund, we extend to you the call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.’”
Elder Renlund was stunned. He humbly accepted the calling and recalls, “I think President Monson sensed that my bones had dissolved, and so he looked at me, and he said, ‘God called you; the Lord made it known to me.’”
Elder Renlund returned to his office, closed the door, and fell to his knees in prayer. After collecting himself, he called his wife. “Her reaction was one of astonishment,” he says, “but of absolute commitment to the Lord, His Church, and to me.”
Their daughter, Ashley, acknowledges, “My dad has excelled because of the blessing of heaven and has been prepared by a lifetime of service for this call. He has a big heart; it is full of love.”
Similarly, Elder Renlund’s brother, Gary, says Elder Renlund “was prepared from a long time ago, both by challenges and by service for the call that has come to him. This is part of the larger plan that is in place, and it is easy for me to sustain him.”
Reflecting on the magnitude of the calling, Elder Renlund says, “I don’t feel qualified, with the exception that I do know that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world. I can witness of His living reality, that He is my Savior and your Savior. I know that that’s true.”

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.
My young friends, I hope you’ll be wiser in talking to your guides than I was on that occasion. That smart-aleck idea that I knew everything really wasn’t worthy of me, nor is it worthy of you. I’m not very proud of it, and I think I’d be ashamed to tell you about it except that telling you may help you.
Those ahead of you in life have probed about the water holes a bit and raise a voice of warning about crocodiles. Not just the big, gray lizards that can bite you to pieces, but spiritual crocodiles, infinitely more dangerous, and more deceptive and less visible, even, than those well-camouflaged reptiles of Africa.
These spiritual crocodiles can kill or mutilate your souls. They can destroy your peace of mind and the peace of mind of those who love you. Those are the ones to be warned against, and there is hardly a watering place in all of mortality now that is not infested with them.
On another trip to Africa I discussed this experience with a game ranger in another park. He assured me that you can indeed hide a crocodile in an elephant track—one big enough to bite a man in two.
He then showed me a place where a tragedy had occurred. A young man from England was working in the hotel for the season. In spite of constant and repeated warnings, he went through the compound fence to check something across a shallow splash of water that didn’t cover his tennis shoes.
“He wasn’t two steps in,” the ranger said, “before a crocodile had him, and we could do nothing to save him.”
It seems almost to be against our natures, particularly when we are young, to accept much guidance from others. But, young people, there are times when, regardless of how much we think we know or how much we think we want to do something, that our very existence depends on paying attention to the guides.
Now, it is a gruesome thing to think about that young man who was eaten by the crocodile. But that is not, by any means, the worst thing that could happen. There are moral and spiritual things far worse even than the thought of being chewed to pieces by a monstrous lizard.
Fortunately there are guides enough in life to prevent these things from happening if we are willing to take counsel now and again.
Some of us are appointed now, as you will be soon, to be guides and rangers. Now, we don’t use those titles very much. We go under the titles of parents—father and mother—bishop, leader, adviser. Our assignment is to see that you get through mortality without being injured by these spiritual crocodiles.
All of the training and activity in the Church has as its central purpose a desire to see you, our young people, free and independent and secure, both spiritually and temporally.
If you will listen to the counsel of your parents and your teachers and your leaders when you are young, you can learn how to follow the best guide of all—the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. That is individual revelation. There is a process through which we can be alerted to spiritual dangers. Just as surely as that guide warned me, you can receive signals alerting you to the spiritual crocodiles that lurk ahead.
If we can train you to listen to these spiritual communications, you will be protected from these crocodiles of life. You can learn what it feels like to be guided from on high. This inspiration can come to you now, in all of your activities, in school, and dating—not just in your Church assignments.
Learn how to pray and how to receive answers to your prayers. When you pray over some things, you must patiently wait a long, long time before you will receive an answer. Some prayers, for your own safety, must be answered immediately, and some promptings will even come when you haven’t prayed at all.
Once you really determine to follow that guide, your testimony will grow and you will find provisions set out along the way in unexpected places, as evidence that someone knew that you would be traveling that way.
The basic exercise for you to perform in your youth to become spiritually strong and to become independent lies in obedience to your guides. If you will follow them and do it willingly, you can learn to trust those delicate, sensitive, spiritual promptings. You will learn that they always, invariably, lead you to do that which is righteous.
Now, my young friends, I would like to make reference to another experience, one I think of often but one I seldom talk about. I shall not mention it in detail; I only want to refer to it. It happened many years ago when I was perhaps not quite as young as you are now, and it had to do with my decision to follow that guide.
I knew what agency was and knew how important it was to be individual and to be independent, to be free. I somehow knew there was one thing the Lord would never take from me, and that was my free agency. I would not surrender my agency to any being but to Him! I determined that I would give Him the one thing that He would never take—my agency. I decided, by myself, that from that time on I would do things His way.
That was a great trial for me, for I thought I was giving away the most precious thing I possessed. I was not wise enough in my youth to know that because I exercised my agency and decided myself, I was not losing it. It was strengthened!
I learned from that experience the meaning of the scripture: “If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed;
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:31–32.)
I have not been quite as frightened of spiritual crocodiles since then, because I have been alerted on many occasions as to where they were lurking.
I have been nipped a time or two and on occasion have needed some spiritual first aid, but have been otherwise saved because I have been warned.
Fortunately, there is spiritual first aid for those who have been bitten. The bishop of the ward is the guide in charge of this first aid. He can also treat those who have been badly, morally mauled by these spiritual crocodiles—and see them completely healed.
That experience in Africa was another reminder for me to follow the Guide. I follow Him because I want to. Through the other experience I came to know the Guide. I bear witness that He lives, that Jesus is the Christ. I know that He has a body of flesh and bones, that He directs this Church, and His purpose is to see all of us guided safely back into His presence.