Gospel Story Finder

Years ago when I first received an appointment that resulted in my picture being in the newspapers, one of my high school teachers, evidently quite astonished, was heard to say, “That just proves that you can’t tell by looking at a frog how high he is going to jump!”
The image of that frog, sitting in the mud instead of jumping, illustrates how inadequate I have felt when facing the responsibilities that have come to me.
These feelings fix it so that thereafter one can never feel superior to anyone, not anyone.
For a long time, something else puzzled me. Forty-six years ago I was a 37-year-old seminary supervisor. My Church calling was as an assistant teacher in a class in the Lindon Ward.
To my great surprise, I was called to meet with President David O. McKay. He took both of my hands in his and called me to be one of the General Authorities, an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
A few days later, I came to Salt Lake City to meet with the First Presidency to be set apart as one of the General Authorities of the Church. This was the first time I had met with the First Presidency—President David O. McKay and his counselors, President Hugh B. Brown and President Henry D. Moyle.
President McKay explained that one of the responsibilities of an Assistant to the Twelve was to stand with the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as a special witness and to bear testimony that Jesus is the Christ. What he said next overwhelmed me: “Before we proceed to set you apart, I ask you to bear your testimony to us. We want to know if you have that witness.”
I did the best I could. I bore my testimony the same as I might have in a fast and testimony meeting in my ward. To my surprise, the Brethren of the Presidency seemed pleased and proceeded to confer the office upon me.
That puzzled me greatly, for I had supposed that someone called to such an office would have an unusual, different, and greatly enlarged testimony and spiritual power.
It puzzled me for a long time until finally I could see that I already had what was required: an abiding testimony in my heart of the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, that we have a Heavenly Father, and that Jesus Christ is our Redeemer. I may not have known all about it, but I did have a testimony, and I was willing to learn.
I was perhaps no different from those spoken of in the Book of Mormon: “And whoso cometh unto me with a broken heart and a contrite spirit, him will I baptize with fire and with the Holy Ghost, even as the Lamanites, because of their faith in me at the time of their conversion, were baptized with fire and with the Holy Ghost, and they knew it not” (3 Nephi 9:20; emphasis added).
Over the years, I have come to see how powerfully important that simple testimony is. I have come to understand that our Heavenly Father is the Father of our spirits (see Numbers 16:22; Hebrews 12:9; D&C 93:29). He is a father with all the tender love of a father. Jesus said, “For the Father himself loveth you, because ye have loved me, and have believed that I came out from God” (John 16:27).
Some years ago, I was with President Marion G. Romney, meeting with mission presidents and their wives in Geneva, Switzerland. He told them that 50 years before, as a missionary boy in Australia, late one afternoon he had gone to a library to study. When he walked out, it was night. He looked up into the starry sky, and it happened. The Spirit touched him, and a certain witness was born in his soul.
He told those mission presidents that he did not know any more surely then as a member of the First Presidency that God the Father lives; that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father; and that the fulness of the gospel had been restored than he did as a missionary boy 50 years before in Australia. He said that his testimony had changed in that it was much easier to get an answer from the Lord. The Lord’s presence was nearer, and he knew the Lord much better than he had 50 years before.
There is the natural tendency to look at those who are sustained to presiding positions, to consider them to be higher and of more value in the Church or to their families than an ordinary member. Somehow we feel they are worth more to the Lord than are we. It just does not work that way!
It would be very disappointing to my wife and to me if we supposed any one of our children would think that we think we are of more worth to the family or to the Church than they are, or to think that one calling in the Church was esteemed over another or that any calling would be thought to be less important.
Recently, one of our sons was sustained as ward mission leader. His wife told us how thrilled he was with the call. It fits the very heavy demands of his work. He has the missionary spirit and will find good use for his Spanish, which he has kept polished from his missionary days. We also were very, very pleased at his call.
What my son and his wife are doing with their little children transcends anything they could do in the Church or out. No service could be more important to the Lord than the devotion they give to one another and to their little children. And so it is with all our other children. The ultimate end of all activity in the Church centers in the home and the family.
As General Authorities of the Church, we are just the same as you are, and you are just the same as we are. You have the same access to the powers of revelation for your families and for your work and for your callings as we do.
It is also true that there is an order to things in the Church. When you are called to an office, you then receive revelation that belongs to that office that would not be given to others.
No member of the Church is esteemed by the Lord as more or less than any other. It just does not work that way! Remember, He is a father—our Father. The Lord is “no respecter of persons.”
We are not worth more to the onrolling of the Lord’s work than were Brother and Sister Toutai Paletu‘a in Nuku‘alofa, Tonga; or Brother and Sister Carlos Cifuentes in Santiago, Chile; or Brother and Sister Peter Dalebout in the Netherlands; or Brother and Sister Tatsui Sato of Japan; or hundreds of others I have met while traveling about the world. It just does not work that way.
And so the Church moves on. It is carried upon the shoulders of worthy members living ordinary lives among ordinary families, guided by the Holy Ghost and the Light of Christ, which is in them.
I bear witness that the gospel is true and that the worth of souls is great in the sight of God—every soul—and that we are blessed to be members of the Church. I have the witness that would qualify me for the calling I have. I’ve had it since I met the First Presidency those many years ago. I bear it to you in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

On my mission in Taiwan, my companion and I spent a little time during one preparation day at the National Palace Museum in Taipei. The main attraction is a piece of art called the Jadeite Cabbage. So many people were admiring it, but all I saw was a cabbage carved out of jade. It was pretty, no doubt, but there must have been something I was missing.
When we finished at the museum, I asked my companion, “What did you think of the Jadeite Cabbage?”
“I love that piece of art!”
“Why?” I asked. “It’s just a cabbage.”
“Are you kidding? The Jadeite Cabbage is a metaphor for my life!” she exclaimed.
“The cabbage?”
“Yes! Don’t you know the story?”
“Apparently not.”
She told me the story. And she was right. It became the metaphor for my mission and my life.
For a jade carving to have great value, the jade has to be one solid color. Carvings made out of perfect jade sell for high prices because it is nearly impossible to find perfect jade. The Jadeite Cabbage is green on one end and white on the other, and it has cracks and ripples. No skilled carver would waste time on such a piece of jade, until someone came along whom the Chinese call a master carver.
If this jade could talk, I can imagine the conversation it would have with this new carver. I imagine the carver picking up this piece of jade.
“What do you want?” the jade would ask.
“I am looking for jade to carve,” the carver would say.
“Then find another piece. I am of no worth. I have two different colors so intertwined that you’ll never separate them. I have cracks and ripples in me. I will never be of any worth. Don’t waste your time.”
“Oh, you silly little jade. Trust me. I am a master carver. I will make a masterpiece of you.”
What makes the Jadeite Cabbage so amazing is that this anonymous master carver used the weaknesses of the jade—the two colors, the cracks, and the ripples—to make the cabbage all the more lifelike. The opaque white part became the stem of the cabbage, and the cracks and ripples make the leaves come to life. If it weren’t for the “weaknesses” of this jade, it could not have looked so real.
Because of the beauty of this piece of art, it became a gift for one of the royalties in China and adorned the halls of beautiful Asian palaces until it ended up at the museum in Taiwan.
It reminds me of Ether 12:27: “If men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. … My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”
After I saw the Jadeite Cabbage, this scripture began to take on new light. We are all like this piece of jade, except that we are still in the process of being carved. We must trust the master carver, Jesus Christ, who will take our weaknesses and make them strengths. We, in our imperfect view, sometimes focus on our imperfections and then despair because we think we’ll never measure up. But our Savior, Jesus Christ, sees us as we can become. As we allow His Atonement to work in our lives, He will shape us into masterpieces who will one day live with the King of kings.

After doing what he could for his family and friends, Daniel’s first words to me were, “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a lot to do if we are going to report back to Salt Lake by tonight.”
Somewhat shocked by his remark, I explained to him that we could get to the remainder of the cities by ourselves and that he was needed at home.
“My father can take over now,” he said. “My calling is to help the Saints and elders elsewhere. Can I please go?” After such a plea, we consented.
The day was going by quickly and we still had three cities to get to, two of them inaccessible by road because of quake damage. So we decided to split up. Elder Choc and I drew the assignment of going to Comalapa. He was so anxious to reach the city that he suggested we run all the way—17.7 kilometers!
I was sure he was joking. After all, we had to go through a deep canyon that was sure to be dangerously steep because of quake-caused landslides. I was willing to walk around the canyon, but Daniel, already familiar with the terrain, insisted that we would never make it unless we ran through it. He reminded me that with the Lord’s help, we could do it. He asked me if I would pray for physical strength and endurance, and plead with the Lord for a special blessing on the canyon because there were many in Comalapa who needed help but were trapped there because of the dangerous condition of the canyon. Humbled, I did so.
And we ran every step of those 17.7 kilometers! As we did so, he rehearsed with me the words of the Savior to the people of ancient America. Daniel said he had pondered them deeply in his heart and was anxious to know more.
When we got to the canyon, we found it calm and quiet, and it stayed that way the rest of the day. After helping and securing the information we needed in Comalapa, we made our way back to Patzicia, and I left Elder Choc there with his father and surviving family.

When I started college, I was prompted to join the cross-country team. The team watched everything I said and did, not only because I was the captain, but because I was a member of the “Mormon” Church.
I was asked questions about the Church constantly. They were amazed that I wouldn’t drink coffee or party on weekends. Before every race we huddled and I would offer a prayer to help us do well. It was great to share my testimony and beliefs with the team.
Our season was ending, and we had one more race in Spartanburg, South Carolina. We stayed at a Marriott hotel, which had a Book of Mormon in every room. I found a teammate reading a copy. When I asked her why she was reading it, she replied that she was interested in what it was about. Excited, I bore my testimony to her of its truthfulness. Many of the other girls on the team had joined us in the room, and they asked me questions about the Book of Mormon.
When we got home I invited my best friend on the team, Rosa, to go to church with me. She enjoyed the meetings and felt peaceful there. After that, Rosa came to church almost every week. It was so wonderful to see the gospel touch her life.
About a month later I received an unexpected phone call from a young man on the men’s cross-country team, Brendan. He told me that he had taken the missionary lessons and was getting baptized in a week! I was so happy and thrilled for him. Both Rosa and I attended Brendan’s baptism. Rosa also took the missionary lessons and later chose to be baptized.
Looking back on these wonderful experiences, I am amazed that so many blessings resulted from joining my college cross-country team. I learned you don’t have to be set apart or wear a badge to be an instrument for Heavenly Father. Through my actions and living the gospel, my teammates wanted to know more about the gospel, which led them to baptism. I found that truly “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

For one Latter-day Saint family, “wholesome recreational activities”… mean parents bonding with their children by finding out what they love.
In the Proclamation on the Family, latter-day prophets have taught that “successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities.”
For one Latter-day Saint family, “wholesome recreational activities” can be more than just going out together, having a special meal, or playing games. It can also mean parents bonding with their children by finding out what they love—with a whole lot of singing, swaying, and even TikToking!
On a particular night at the home of the Escritor family of Kapitolyo Ward, Pasig Stake, you’ll hear some lively strumming and drumming. First, Darwin, the family head, croons a hit from the 70s rock band America. Then, the beat changes and this time 15-year-old Cyrus leads with a song from Pinoy pop sensation Callalily. Then everybody, including younger sister Arianne, 13, and mother Anna all sing a familiar 90s chartbuster. It’s jammin’ time again!
“Even if we didn’t have gadgets before or instruments, we trained our children to sing together as a family,” Darwin says. “Before we would pray with them and go to sleep,” he adds, “we would sing Primary songs to them.” Darwin and Anna also strove to be close with each child, by trying to like what they liked. “We really wanted to be real friends with them,” Anna shares.
The Escritors actively share their jamming sessions on Facebook, with family members adjusting to each one’s likes and preferences. Now that many pandemic-related restrictions are being lifted and face-to-face meetings are gradually resuming, Simon and Cyrus look forward to actively associating with their age groups as they follow the Children and Youth Program, which focuses on gospel learning, service and activities, and personal development.
Just recently, younger son Simon needed to do a Tiktok video as a school project. “I was too shy to dance alone, so I was really very happy when Daddy helped by dancing along with me,” he reveals. In the video, viewers can see both father and son grooving, doing some hilarious but delightful moves.
“We want our children to be strong socially, physically, emotionally, and spiritually,” Anna sums up. “Heavenly Father entrusted them to us, so we do everything to raise them up in a way that the Lord wants them to, and then have fun doing it!”

As I wrote of my intense involvement in Church while I was in high school, I recalled that many of my friends had wanted to know what made my life different from theirs. Why did I spend so much time at church? Why did the Mormon kids have such close relationships? What was our 6:30 A.M. religion class about? I had told some friends about the gospel. One girl friend and her family were baptized a few weeks after I had timidly asked them, “What do you know about the Mormon church?” one night as we sat around their kitchen table after a trip with the school orchestra. Another friend gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon but did not have the faith at age 15 to be baptized. Other friends went to Young Women meetings and to Church dances with me. A young man I met at a high school journalism conference joined the Church after we corresponded philosophically for three years. I had not converted him, but I had introduced him to the truth, and he had recognized it.

A story is told of the son of King Louis XVI of France. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men when they dethroned the king. For six months he was exposed to every filthy and vile thing that life had to offer, yet he never buckled under the pressure. This puzzled his captors, and they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple: “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king” (see Vaughn J. Featherstone, “The King’s Son,” New Era, Nov. 1975, 35). You were born to be daughters of a King. By being baptized, you have been promised the blessings of royalty as you sanctify yourselves and become holy.

I close with a tender yet simple experience. Each time I would visit Mattie, a dear friend and an older widow whom I had known for many years and whose bishop I had been, my heart grieved at her utter loneliness. One of her sons lived many miles away, halfway across the country, but he rarely visited her. He would come to Salt Lake, take care of business matters, see his brothers and sisters, and leave for his own home without visiting his mother. When I would call to see this mother, she would make an excuse for her boy and tell me just how busy he was. Her words did not carry power or conviction. They simply masked her disappointment and grief.

The years passed. The loneliness deepened. Then one afternoon I received a telephone call. That special son was in Salt Lake City. A change had occurred in his life. He had become imbued with a desire to help others, to adhere more faithfully to God’s commandments. He was proud of his newfound ability to cast off the old man and become new and useful. He wanted to come immediately to my office that he might share with me the joy in service that he now felt. With all my heart I wanted to welcome him and to extend my personal congratulations. Then I thought of his grieving mother, that lonely widow, and suggested, “Dick, I can see you at four o’clock this afternoon, provided you visit your dear mother before coming here.” He agreed.

Just before our appointment, a call came to me. It was that same mother. There was an excitement in her voice that words cannot adequately describe. She exuded enthusiasm even over the phone and declared proudly, “Bishop, you’ll never guess who has just visited me.” Before I could answer, she exclaimed, “Dick was here! My son Dick has spent the past hour with me. He is a new man. He has found himself. I’m the happiest mother in the world!” Then she paused and quietly spoke: “I just knew he would not really forget me.”

Years later, at Mattie’s funeral, Dick and I spoke tenderly of that experience. We had witnessed a glimpse of God’s healing power through the window of a mother’s faith in her son.

Some years ago we took a family trip to Aotearoa New Zealand the place of my birth so that our children would have an opportunity to visit family, learn more about part of their cultural background and heritage, and enjoy what that beautiful country has to offer. Our plans were to drive down one side of the North Island, take a ferry, which transports both passengers and vehicles, across to the south island and then return northward driving up the opposite coast. We anticipated driving over a thousand miles to visit family and various historical and tourist sites.
A family member suggested we rent a van from an acquaintance who owned a local car rental company rather than using a national company so we could save money. We took that suggestion. The journey started off well but after our first rest stop we noticed the ignition was a bit sluggish but we didn't think too much of it and carried on our way. The next morning however, we went to start the van but all it did was produce unusual loud noises. My husband Chris tried the ignition several times, and after cleaning the spark plugs, the van started. We were about eight hours away from our starting point. I thought to myself, "How could someone rent a vehicle without checking to make sure it was in top condition?" I proposed to my husband that we leave the van where it was, inform the owner that it had problems and promptly make arrangements to use a national rental company for the rest of our journey. My husband had concerns about leaving the vehicle. From his perspective, this small business owner would incur a great deal of expense retrieving his vehicle, which was located hundreds of miles away from Hamilton, our point of departure. In my mind I was thinking, "How is that my problem?" I concocted several rationalizations that easily justified my perspective, but my husband was persuasive and had our family commit to get the vehicle back to its owner. I wish I could tell you that the vehicle worked wonderfully after that, but it didn't. One morning we went to use the van and discovered that it had a hole in the tire. To make matters worse, there wasn't a jack in the trunk that would allow us to raise the van off the ground so we could change the tire. Then a little later into the journey, we were pulled over by a highway patrol officer. Apparently, the van did not have a required sticker on the windshield, which would indicate the vehicle's use of diesel gas. According to the officer, these vehicles needed to pay a special road toll and we were to obtain the sticker immediately. I'm sure I rolled my eyes at this news, as this new setback would require that we detour to the nearest town, find the appropriate office, and pay over a hundred dollars for the sticker. And we were still on the front end of our journey! I felt like we were on a reality television show, in which nothing would go our way.

An interesting thing happened when we decided to heed Chris' earlier counsel; we were going to make the best of our situation and help the owner get his van back. By changing our attitude we became open to unintended experiences that were interesting and fun because we chose to see them as such. When we looked for ways to enjoy ourselves we started to see our situation for the pluses rather than the minuses, which led us to acknowledge our gratitude for the small things like being together, enjoying each other's company, seeing our youngest son's wonderment while standing on a glacier in the middle of summer, the fact that it didn't rain while we changed the tire, the hilarious road-trip games, and the little promptings from the Lord. We met interesting people who were kind and helpful to us we ate delicious food at quaint out-of-the way cafe, and saw some sights we wouldn't have seen if we didn't have van troubles. Our family adventure brought us closer to the Lord because at times, He was the only one we could turn to. In one instance, we were at the front of the line of one hundred vehicles ready to drive off the inter-island ferry but we couldn't get the van started. Chris tried turning the ignition over and over (we counted exactly twenty-six times). All the while our family both individually and collectively pled with the Lord to help the vehicle work so we wouldn't hold up hundreds of fellow travelers who were anxious to disembark.

Throughout the entire vacation nothing changed about the vehicle, however, what did change was our family's attitude about our situation. We became reliant on the Lord every single time we got into the van. We prayed over it like it was an ill family member. My husband is a person with a great attitude who looks for the good in others and reaches out to help them. He knew that taking the responsibility for returning the van wouldn't be easy, but he was willing to put forth effort to do it because he felt it was right. His attitude was infectious and it opened us up for a different journey, which resulted in many unintended blessings and great memories.

Brothers and sisters a good attitude makes a difference in our lives and has the power to influence and uplift others. Winston Churchill said, "Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference." The Late Elder Marvin J. Aston of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said back in 1974, ("Who's Losing?." Ensign, Nov 1974, 41) "The attitude with which we approach each day controls the outcome... Positive personal attitude will insist that we deliver our best, even though less might seem adequate for the moment. Proper attitude demands we be realistic: even tough with ourselves and self-disciplining." This was my experience with what I thought was the worst rental van on the face of the Earth. Instead of this trip being known as "the worst family vacation ever," we fondly refer to it as "our praying vacation."

A true story from New Zealand.
On the day before Easter, Freddy woke up early. He looked beside his pillow, excited. He always got a marshmallow egg for Easter. But his smile drooped into a frown. There was no egg for him!
Freddy looked over the side of the bunk bed. “Matilda!” he yelled at his sister. “Did you steal my Easter egg?”
“No,” she said. “My egg isn’t here either!” Matilda pointed to her pillow.
The noise woke up Freddy’s other siblings. All seven of their Easter eggs were missing!
“What’s all this shouting?” Mum asked.
“Someone stole our eggs!” Freddy said.
“No one stole them,” Mum said. “We didn’t buy any this year.”
“No Easter eggs?” Freddy cried. “But we always get one!”
“Easter is about more than just eating treats,” Mum said. “It’s a special time to think about Jesus Christ.”
Freddy frowned. Ever since Dad changed jobs, Mum and Dad said no a lot more. No daytrips. No takeaway food. And now even Easter was ruined!
“I know you’re upset,” Mum said. “But we can still enjoy special Easter eggs today. Come on!”
In the kitchen, Dad had a basket of eggs. Freddy groaned. “Those are just the chickens’ eggs.”
“Are we going to dye them?” asked his older sister Celeste.
Mum nodded. “But first we have to boil them.”
Freddy didn’t like waiting. He was glad when Mum said the eggs had boiled enough. “Finally!” he said.
“Hang on,” Mum said. “They still need to cool.”
Freddy groaned louder. Not more waiting!
Next, Mum helped them make the dye. They mixed vinegar with hot water and put in drops of food coloring. Freddy liked watching the drops swirl through the water.
“What color will you choose?” Celeste asked.
“Blue!” Freddy said.
The eggs soaked in the dye for a long time. But Freddy didn’t mind waiting. Not this time. It was fun being with his family. He thought about what Mum said—how Easter was about more than eating treats.
“Mum,” Freddy said, “I think I get how Easter eggs help us remember Jesus Christ’s Resurrection.”
She smiled. “And how is that?”
“I really like my dyed egg,” he said. “But it took lots of time. All that waiting was hard. Then I thought of how the disciples had to wait even longer for Jesus Christ’s Resurrection after He died on the cross.”
“You’re right,” Mum said. “It wasn’t easy for them to wait either. But the Savior did rise again. And now your ordinary chicken eggs are beautiful dyed ones.”
Freddy smiled at the brightly colored eggs. They weren’t yummy like marshmallow ones, but they were special. Freddy hoped they would get to dye eggs again next year.

A few years back I had a very bright former student who was struggling with her testimony. She somehow felt that she had never received an overwhelming answer to her prayers about the Church. As I talked with her, trying to help her, she said something that has struck me over and over since then with its simplicity and truth. She said something like, “Yes, there are many logical reasons to think that the Church is good, but eventually everyone who believes it is true does it on faith; he or she has to choose to believe.”

What she said is true; sooner or later everyone has to choose to believe or not. We have to choose to recognize the sweetness of the Spirit that comes when we think about the Church being true. We have to acknowledge, when we pray and ask the Lord if the Church and the Book of Mormon are true, that the thought that we already know that they are comes from the Being who knows our thoughts. We have to admit that, indeed, we do know they are true.

But the decision to believe does not have to be done without plenty of evidence either. After my former student said what she did, I examined my life to see why I believed. I found numberless occasions of real joy and happiness associated with following the teachings of the Church. I realized that, even if I had not had a great confirmation of peace from the Spirit about the truthfulness of the Church, I would still choose to believe and follow simply because it makes me happy. I also recognized that I had never met anyone who had derived real happiness and peace out of wrong choices. I had known several who had tried, many of whom had claimed to be happy. Several of them had later confessed in tears—as they dealt with the consequences of their choices—that they had lied in their claims, that they had been fooled by the father of lies himself. I know that the decision to believe in the Church and the gospel is a small thing out of which great things proceed and that the choice or choices not to believe bring sorrow.

Two experiences illustrate the importance of caution in judging. A Relief Society worker visiting a sister in her ward asked whether the woman’s married children ever visited her. Because of a short-term memory loss, this elderly sister innocently answered no. So informed, her visitor and others spoke criticisms of her children for neglecting their mother. In fact, one of her children visited her at least daily, and all of them helped her in many ways. They were innocent of neglect and should not have been judged on the basis of an inadequate knowledge of the facts.

Will the Guiness Book of World Records ever believe that a 230-page novel was authored in just 30 hours? If they don’t, they can ask Dale Van Atta, from Rochester, New York, managing editor of the Brigham Young University Daily Universe. Dale spent a grueling weekend in a downtown Provo store window producing the literary wonder to help raise money for an addition to the student library.
The ordeal began at 4:00 P.M. Friday, February 16, as Dale drew from a hat three story ideas submitted by the public. From these he chose to write on the trials of a POW during captivity and his reunion with his family and friends.
With the release of American prisoners making national headlines, Dale surprised everyone by approaching the story from a different angle. As completed pages were hung in the window by assistants, it became clear that the hero was no ordinary POW, but a mercenary captured during a domestic dispute in Argentina.
“I didn’t know enough about Vietnam and POWs so I chose Argentina,” Dale explained between pages. “I don’t know much about Argentina either, but then neither does anyone else.” He grinned.
Early Saturday morning Dale’s nimble fingers gave out on him, and a staff of typists were called in to record his dictation.
Ten o’clock Saturday night arrived and the world’s fastest novel was complete. As a result of his 30-hour stunt, Dale garnered over $1,200 for the student library fund.

A few days later, I opened the door to see two fine-looking young men. They introduced themselves as missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the conversation that followed, they asked, “Do you believe that the church of Jesus Christ is on the earth today?” My wife and I had already considered this question while studying the Bible. We concluded that if there were a true church, it would have to have all the doctrines Jesus taught. The churches we knew, including our own, were not complete. “If it exists,” I said, “it must have all the things Jesus taught. But it does not exist.”
The missionaries said that the church they represented was organized in the same way as the church at Christ’s time. They added that this church had continuing revelation from Jesus Christ.
I felt sorry for them; they had been so misled. I told them, “I’m sure that just as our church has errors in its doctrine, so does yours. Someone has added, changed, or taken something away.” Again they testified that their church was Christ’s own church, organized with his authority and directed by him.
Soon after, I told my mother about the missionaries. She smiled and went into her bedroom, then returned with a copy of the Book of Mormon. She told me I could have it.
I began reading the Book of Mormon with a curious, but negative attitude. As I read the first page, I thought angrily, this was written by a man with a vivid imagination who knew the Bible well. I read two more pages, slammed the book shut, threw it on the table, and exclaimed, “What a fake!” During the missionaries’ next visit, I told them that I thought the Book of Mormon was a hoax. It was like the Bible, I said, except it referred to the American continent. But, undeterred, the missionaries easily handled the questions my wife and I had then, and in subsequent visits. I could find nothing wrong with what they taught us, but I could not accept the Book of Mormon.
However, the missionaries testified that I could know that the Book of Mormon was true if I followed the admonition of Moroni and sincerely sought for divine guidance. (See Moro. 10:4.) Having prayed, and while reading the words of Moroni, I received a spiritual witness that I have never been able to describe. A realization that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true penetrated every fiber of my being. Happily I exclaimed to my wife, “Margrit, Margrit, I know that it is true!”
Margrit continued to seek her own witness, and within a few weeks she also knew the truth. We set our baptismal date.

On a spring morning some years ago, my wife and I planted a little cherry tree on a sunny corner of our lot. We looked forward to a bountiful harvest eventually. The next morning, however, my wife stepped outside for a few moments and came back with a look of astonishment: "Someone took our tree!" Sure enough, a thief had dug it up, leaving us with an empty hole.
While we did not lose much in terms of money, we lost all the time involved in preparing the spot, buying the tree, and planting it. Still, we were fortunate compared to others whose losses have been much more damaging. I have wondered if the person who took that tree gave any thought to the spiritual price he or she might have to pay for it.

Cesar began looking for the gospel without realizing it. Although he was already active in a church, Cesar became interested in other religions and started taking his first steps toward the restored gospel.
“I would read literature from other churches, and then I would pray to Father in Heaven, saying, ‘If this is the true church, send your servants to me and have them teach me.’”
Cesar started his search, he says, without thinking about the changes it would cause in his life. But not long after Cesar started praying for an answer, one came.
Cesar’s last name is Gaspar. Fortunate for him, his name followed Betty Garcia’s on the alphabetical seating charts for most of his junior high school classes. Since they sat next to each other most of the school day, they became friends, sometimes studying together after school.
“One day she mentioned that she was a member of the Church,” says Cesar. “I got very interested and started asking her what her beliefs were, what her principles were.”
Soon Cesar needed to know more. He followed Betty’s brother home from school one day. After building the courage to knock on the door, Cesar was invited into the house, and Betty and her family talked with him about what it means to be a Latter-day Saint.
But it was another name that gave him the desire to find the Garcia family’s house in the first place.
“When I was first learning about the Church, the thing that impressed me the most was its name. There was something very special to me about the fact that the Church had Jesus Christ in its name. That name has a very spiritual and good feeling.”
Soon Cesar had a copy of the Book of Mormon—compliments of the Garcia family—and lots of questions.
Attending sacrament meeting for the first time was strange for Cesar. It wasn’t anything like the meetings he was accustomed to.
“There was a man carrying the sacrament trays. He was very busy fixing the microphone and saying hello to everyone. There were so many people there that I wondered if they would all fit in the church! It seemed funny that the man fixing the microphone was the bishop.
“It was also a change to be in church for three hours; that seemed like a long time. I still remember that first Sunday School class. We talked about the birth of Jesus Christ, and I asked a lot of questions. After class, Betty’s brother, Isaac, helped me find the missionaries. I didn’t go to priesthood meeting that day; instead, I had my first discussion with the missionaries.”
That discussion led to more discussions during the week. By Thursday, the bishop had interviewed Cesar, and the following Sunday—exactly one week after his first attendance at Sunday meetings—Cesar was baptized.
“It was pretty fast,” Cesar admits, “but by that time I had already read the Book of Mormon. Before meeting the missionaries, I had also read Doctrines of Salvation, Truth Restored, and The Miracle of Forgiveness, and I had started Jesus the Christ. I felt ready.”
That was two years ago. Cesar is the only Church member in his family. It would be easy for him to miss church once in a while or to decide against attending seminary—especially since he almost always has to walk to get there! But he doesn’t even think about that. Instead, he thinks about the people who see what he does.
“I have to be an example to my family,” he says. “I try to be as perfect as I can because I know they’re watching me.”
As Cesar and any other convert knows, joining the Church can be a big change. “The Church is more than principles. It’s a way of life,” Cesar says. “Keeping the Word of Wisdom, blessing the food at every meal, praying morning and night, attending early-morning seminary—that was a big change! And there are other things, like studying the scriptures on my own and getting up early on Sundays for church.”
But after two years, Cesar seems comfortable with all those changes, so comfortable that he shares the gospel message with anyone who will listen.
“I try to be very careful about comments I make to my friends so that I can teach them about the Church without offending them,” he says.
Although he’s still relatively new in the gospel, you’d never know that Cesar hasn’t been a member all his life. He learns quickly and has a great desire to know the truth. But Cesar says that there’s another, more important reason he’s learned so much so fast.
“When I was reading the Book of Mormon before I joined the Church, I came to the part about Jesus Christ in America, and I knew it was true,” says Cesar. “At the time, I didn’t recognize the Holy Ghost, but I felt very peaceful. That moment was a new beginning in my life. I felt I could start over and do things in a different and better way.”
That strong prompting has translated into bold action. It’s the secret to Cesar’s great energy in living and sharing the gospel, despite obstacles and weaknesses that he, like all people, has to overcome. Cesar keeps a journal to remind himself of, and to eventually share with others, the reasons he lives the gospel. It helps him keep his spirits up when life is hard.
“Being an example and writing in my journal will help me leave a legacy. When my children and grandchildren read what I have written, they will know that being the only member of the Church in my family isn’t easy at all, and I have had to work very hard.”
They’ll know a lot of other things about him, too—that he loves his calling as a stake missionary; that he loves to be around other Church members, especially the young men and women in his ward and stake; and, most important, that he has a testimony.
“I’ve noticed that many people think I’m not old enough to know or to receive an answer about something important, like religion. But I have a testimony that no matter your age, if you have a sincere heart and if you ask, you will receive an answer for sure,” says Cesar.
Cesar hasn’t ever sung the lyrics “Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked” (“Pioneer Children Sang As They Walked,” Children’s Songbook, 214), but when he hears those words, he says with a smile, “That’s my song! I walk a lot.”
There are differences, of course, between Cesar and the pioneer children of old. Cesar walks through the busy streets of Guadalajara, not the open plains. And Cesar doesn’t gather fuel for the evening’s fire or feed livestock at the end of the day. But he, too, is a pioneer.
One day his children and grandchildren will talk about their ancestor, Cesar Gaspar, and how he loved to gather friends together and give them the wonderful gospel message. And they’ll talk about the fact that, even though he had to walk most of the places he wanted to go, he was always singing a song—even if you couldn’t hear it. It was a song not about walking but about how happy the gospel made him and how strong his testimony was. He may or may not have been a good singer, but it was a tune he loved to carry—and to share.

They finally asked Andy to be in the Third Street Tigers. His best friend, Michael, was already in the club. If only he wasn’t afraid to climb up to the tree house where they had the meetings! Wooden planks were nailed up the trunk like a ladder, but whenever Andy tried to climb anything, he got a funny feeling in his stomach.
One day he decided to try climbing while no one was looking. On the fourth step, his stomach did a double flip, and he dropped to the grass. Turning to go home, Andy found Montgomery blocking his way.
“You’re afraid! You’re afraid!” teased Montgomery.
“What do you mean?” Andy gulped.
“You chickened out. I saw you! You’ll never be a Tiger.”
“Leave me alone!”
Laughing, Montgomery pushed Andy. “Maybe you should join the preschoolers. They meet in the sandbox.”
In the morning, Andy told Michael what had happened. “It’s no use,” Andy sighed. “I’ll never get all the way up. Montgomery was right.”
“But you have to be a Tiger,” Michael said. “Best friends are always in the same club.”
“Yeah, but Montgomery …”
“Forget Montgomery. I know something that might help you build up your courage. Meet me at the gym after school,” Michael said as he headed back to class.
All day long, Andy wondered what Michael’s plan was and if it would work. He wanted to be in the Tigers more than anything.
The gym was crowded when Andy found Michael in a corner, watching a girl do a somersault on the balance beam.
“What’s the plan?” Andy asked.
“The balance beam.”
“You’re not getting me up there. I saw what that girl was doing.”
“Not the high beam,” said Michael. “There’s a lower beam over there.” As he talked, Michael pulled Andy across the room.
Andy put one foot on the beam, then jerked it down again. He hoped the Tigers were worth all this trouble. With Michael guiding him, Andy finally walked to the other end. Then he saw Montgomery watching him.
Andy stepped down to the floor. “What do you want?”
“I came to see if you’re still afraid.”
“Let’s go,” Michael said to Andy. “We’re done here, anyway.”
As they left, Montgomery shouted, “Hey, Andy, maybe you can join the Tigers when you grow up.”
On Friday, Michael talked Andy into trying to climb the tree again. As he got close to it, Andy felt a familiar flutter in his stomach. Hitching up his pants and crossing his fingers once for luck, he started up the tree.
First step, no problem. Second step, fine. By the third step, Andy felt as if he could make it. Then the plank pulled away from the trunk, and Andy tumbled to the ground.
Andy and Michael were both thinking the same thing: Montgomery must have loosened the step. “I’m going to find him,” Andy raged. He headed for Montgomery’s favorite hangout, the city park. By the time he got there, he’d cooled off. What’s the use? he thought. No matter what I say, Montgomery will never leave me alone.
He turned to go back to Michael, when he heard yelling and a dog barking. Andy ran toward the sound and found Montgomery backed up against a fence, his arms covering his face. In front of him stood a large, barking dog.
Wow! Tough Montgomery is afraid of dogs! Andy wanted to run and tell Michael, but then he remembered how he had felt halfway up the tree. I guess everybody’s afraid of something.
Andy grabbed the dog’s collar. “Calm down, Montgomery! Don’t you recognize Mr. Henry’s dog, Skipper? He only wants you to play with him.”
“Keep him away from me!” cried Montgomery.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Andy told him. “Let him smell your hand.”
“No way! I’m getting out of here.”
“Watch me.” Andy bent down and held out his hand. The dog sniffed, then licked it. “Now you try,” Andy said.
Cautiously Montgomery put out his hand while Andy held the dog. When Skipper licked it, too, both boys began to laugh.
“It tickles,” said Montgomery.
The boys heard someone calling Skipper, and the dog ran off.
Montgomery jammed his hands into his pockets and played in the dirt with his shoe. “Thanks for saving me. Are you going to tell?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know,” Andy said. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m sorry for picking on you,” Montgomery apologized. “If you want, I’ll help you climb the tree tomorrow—no tricks, I promise.”
“How come?”
“Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”
In the morning, Andy and Montgomery went to the giant tree early. Andy took a deep breath, then looked up. The Third Street Tigers clubhouse was up high!
“You can do it,” Montgomery said. “I’ll be right behind you. If you get scared, stop and rest.”
Andy swallowed hard. With shaky hands he grabbed the bottom plank. Nervously he pulled himself up. Counting to three, he moved on to the second step, then the third, which had been nailed on tight again. He bit his bottom lip and stopped to gather his courage.
Andy forced himself to continue from each step to the next. When he saw the opening of the tree house, he heard Montgomery say, “I knew you’d make it!”
They pulled themselves inside to wait for the rest of their friends. Andy could hardly believe that he’d done it. When Michael arrived, he asked, “What happened? How’d you do it?”
Andy and Montgomery just looked at each other and grinned.

The worst part of it was the look on Ben’s face as soon as he saw me. No one had ever been afraid of me before, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t blame Ben, though. The kids had been really mean to him yesterday. He had a bandage on his chin, and I wondered if he had cut it on the fence, trying to get away from them. No, not “them”—“us”! I had been there too. I didn’t push him or call him any of the ugly names that had rung in my ears all night. But I hadn’t tried to stop them. I’d even laughed when Ron had tried to trip him.
That’s why I had to talk to Ben in the coatroom. “Don’t be scared,” I started. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m not going to tease you anymore. I’ll try to not let the others do it, either.”
“I’m not scared,” Ben lied. I didn’t blame him for that, either. I guessed that he was trying to be brave—he was even trying to smile. “Does this mean that you’ll be my friend?”
“No.” It sounded ruder than I meant it to. He quit smiling and looked confused. I tried to explain. “It was really wrong for everyone to gang up on you. But even though we do some wrong things, these guys are my friends—we’ve known each other since kindergarten. I don’t even know you. But I’m not going to let everyone pick on you again.”
Ben still looked confused, but we had been in the coatroom way too long. …
At recess, I took my football out, and most of the other boys went with me. We fifth-grade boys play the sixth-grade boys after school on Fridays. They always win, but we try, and we practice every recess.
I saw Ben sitting by the classroom door. He was alone, but no one was bothering him. He laughed out loud when he saw Ron throw the ball. Ron never threw a football straight. His throws were long but wobbly, and no one could catch them. Ben was lucky that Ron didn’t see or hear him laughing. Ron couldn’t take a joke, and he fought a lot better than he threw a football.
After lunch, Ron started shoving Ben away from the drinking fountain, and he called him a few names. But everyone followed me when I yelled, “Last one to the fence is a wet dishrag!” Even Ron followed—he hates to be last. So Ben got his drink, and no one bothered him for the rest of the day.
I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I told Mom about it after school. She shook her head. “That’s a good start, but what he really needs is a friend. Maybe if no one is teasing him, someone will find out what kind of friend he can be.”
The rest of the week most of my friends just ignored him, and after a try or two, even Ron began to let him be. By the end of the week, though, I was wishing that someone would be his friend soon, because it really bothered me to see him alone all the time.
We lost the Friday-afternoon game, and I couldn’t wait to get home. Dad had asked me to help him paint our fence on Saturday. I was the only boy my age in our ward who went to West Elementary, so I wasn’t going to have to worry about Ben or school or even football for two days!
While we painted the fence, I told Dad about how I had been keeping the kids, especially Ron, from teasing Ben all week. I told him what Mom had said about someone becoming his friend.
“Who do you think will be that friend?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know. Not me. He wears corduroy pants and green sweaters.” I thought Dad would understand, but he didn’t.
“Can’t someone in corduroy pants throw a football far enough?” he asked with a funny smile on his face.
“How would I know? I’ve never seen him throw a football. He just sits by himself.”
“So how are you going to find out what kind of friend he is under that green sweater?”
“Why do I have to find out? Someone else can! I stopped the teasing!”
“Oh, someone will, eventually,” Dad said. “I just figured that since you stopped the teasing, you’d have a head start on being friendly. The others don’t seem to have that kind of gumption.”
I wasn’t sure that I wanted to. I knew that Ben’s clothes weren’t the important thing, but if he didn’t know what to wear, how could he be one of us? If I tried to include him, what would the other guys think? What if he laughed at Ron again? Would I get beat up too?
Saturday night, Dad went with the elders quorum presidency to welcome a new family into the ward. He didn’t get home until after I’d gone to bed, so I didn’t know that Ben would be in my Valiant class the next day at Primary. But there he was. I could tell that he was uncomfortable. So was I. But he smiled nervously at me, so I smiled back.
He knew all the Primary songs, and he sang “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission” as loudly as I did. Sister Alvarez reminded us to sing, because we were trying to out-sing each other and we were practically yelling. She asked us if we were really planning to go on missions. Ben said that his brother was on a mission in Texas now.
In class, he showed me a wallet that his brother had sent him. It was real leather, with leaves and acorns tooled into it. It had his name carved on the inside—and a picture of his brother. He looked just like Ben, only much older. Ben said that his brother was going to play football for Brigham Young University after his mission. Then Ben said that he wished he could keep in practice, because he’d always played with him when his brother was home from school.
“We play all the time at school—you should play with us.” I’d said the words before I’d thought about them, but they seemed the right thing to say, so I didn’t try to take them back.
After the lesson, one of the guys asked Brother Clark why he was Brother Clark in church, but Mr. Clark at school. Brother Clark told us that it was because of something King Benjamin had said in the Book of Mormon. He read to us where the king called his people together to tell them about serving Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. He said that when they were baptized, they became the “children of Christ.”* That made us all “brothers” and “sisters.” Then Brother Clark read a scripture in the New Testament that said the members of the Church were “no more strangers” but were now “of the household of God.”**
Well, that explained why Ben didn’t seem so strange anymore—and why it wasn’t hard to be friends with him, after all. He was “no more a stranger”—he was my brother! So of course I’d asked him to play football with us! I just hoped the other guys would understand. That night I prayed that I would have the kind of gumption that Dad thought I had.
At recess on Monday, Ben almost did blend in. He must’ve practiced a lot with his brother, because he—Ben, I mean—could throw farther and straighter than any of the rest of us. It was beautiful to watch the football leave his hand and fly wherever he wanted it to go. And he could catch almost as well as he could throw—he just seemed to appear wherever the ball was about to land. He could even catch Ron’s wobbly passes!
The only time all day that I worried about Ben was when he tried to help Ron throw the ball straight. Ben was clear across the field when he yelled to Ron, “Grip the strings,” so I knew that Ron couldn’t get him. But I did think that he’d blown his chance to fit in at school.
I was wrong, though. Ron didn’t say anything! And he must’ve gripped the strings, because he threw the ball straight, and clear back over to Ben!
Ron and Ben were always together after that, except when Ron went home for lunch. Then Ben and I ate together in the cafeteria. One day I told Ben how surprised I was that he and Ron were such good friends.
“I knew that Ron would be my friend if I could get him to stop teasing me.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Because my mom said that at every school there’s someone who needs a friend to help them with something and that I’d find one here. When I saw Ron throw a football, I knew he was the friend who really needed me! And after we beat the sixth-grade team on Friday, I’m going to ask him to come to church with us on Sunday.”
I must’ve looked surprised, because Ben laughed again and added, “Maybe Brother Clark and Sister Alvarez can get him to quit trying to beat everyone up.”
When we really did beat the sixth-grade team—for the first time in history—Ben did as he’d promised. I was surprised again when Ron said, “Sure.”
Now there are three of us from West Elementary at Primary every Sunday. Since snow has covered the football field, we’re working hard at something else—memorizing Articles of Faith. In two more weeks Ron, Ben, and I are going to say them together in sacrament meeting when Ben’s brother reports on his mission.
We have something exciting to report, too: Ben and his parents and me and my parents all meet every Tuesday night at Ron’s house with the local missionaries. His dad said that anything that can keep Ron out of trouble the way going to Primary with Ben and me has is worth investigating. Ron’s mom said that if we do a good job on the Articles of Faith for Ben’s brother, we can say them again at Ron’s baptism!

On numerous occasions as ambassador I was even asked by Cook Islanders from various other religious denominations to give sermons in their church. I could have elected not to be involved, but I recognized the missionary opportunity that I could be engaged in, without compromising my role as the ambassador of the country.

I recall one incident where I was asked to give a religious sermon. I informed him that I could only give a Mormon discourse. He replied, and I quote, "Well we've never had one of those, so let's give it a try." After completing my sermon, he gave me a thick envelope which was obviously the collection of money from the congregation during the service. After several minutes trying to refuse the offering, I finally heard and listened to the guidance of the Spirit and accepted the gift. But without letting go of his handshake, I returned him the unopened envelope as a donation for the maintenance of their building grounds. He was obviously touched, expressing great interest in more LDS teachings.

Many years ago I was challenged to set a timer for 15 minutes and instead of rehearsing all of my problems and requests to Heavenly Father, I was to only express gratitude for specific personal blessings in my life. I was not to ask for anything, but rather to concentrate on thanking Heavenly Father. From my own experience, I can witness to you that such prayers helped me feel closer to my Heavenly Father and gave me a greater assurance of His love for me.