Gospel Story Finder

When it comes to community service projects, the young men and women from the Reno Nevada North Stake are always willing to pitch in. They recently helped on two separate projects and are making quite a name for LDS youth among local community leaders.
One project involved participation in Reno’s annual “Adopt a Park Day.” The LDS youth selected Idlewild Park, the city’s largest, and spent the day painting picnic tables, varnishing bleachers, weeding, picking up trash, sweeping parking lots, and spreading sand on the playground.
The other project involved the stake Young Women. They spent a day helping the Committee to Aid Abused Women, and the children of those women. They made toys for the children and provided a party for them. They also collected items needed by the mothers, such as blankets, dishes, and clothing.

“ZOOM! ZOOM!” Bobby flew into the room with his arms outstretched, almost knocking the lamp over.
“Please be careful, Bobby,” his mother reminded him.
“I’m not Bobby, I’m a jet plane flying around the world.”
“Well then, Jet Plane, please fly carefully so you don’t crash,” Mother suggested.
Bobby flew out of the back door, zooming loudly.
A few minutes later, Mother was putting a casserole into the oven when she almost tripped over Bobby. He was crawling on the floor, growling and snapping his teeth.
“My goodness, Jet Plane, you startled me. What’s the matter, did you crash?” Mother asked.
“I’m not a jet plane, anymore. I’m an alligator and I’m looking for people to eat. CRUNCH! CRUNCH! You might taste good.”
“Oh, no, Alligator,” Mother said, picking up her broom and sweeping the “alligator” into the living room. “I’m too tough and mean to eat.” She heard the make-believe alligator crunch and grrrr his way across the room.
“Sue, please come and set the table,” Mother called.
Bobby, dwarfed by Daddy’s hat and shirt and stumbling in Daddy’s enormous shoes, came into the kitchen with Sue.
“Where’s the paper?” he asked in a deep voice.
“Alligators don’t read papers, do they?” Mother asked.
“I’m not an alligator. I’m Daddy.” Bobby said, sitting back in Daddy’s chair, with the newspaper completely covering him.
“Daddy, would you ask everyone to come and eat,” Mother said a few minutes later. When Bobby didn’t answer, she looked behind the newspaper. There was Daddy’s hat, shirt, and shoes on the chair but no Bobby.
As Father came in from the backyard Mother went looking for Bobby. She found him out on the sidewalk on his hands and knees, barking at the cars.
“Please come in and eat, Bobby,” Mother said.
“I’m not Bobby. Can’t you see I’m a mean dog scaring the robbers away?”
“Well, Doggie, come on in and eat,” Mother said.
Bobby barked and romped to the table. Sitting on his “hind legs” and panting, he started lapping up his soup.
“Now, just a minute. We don’t allow dogs at the table, Mother,” Father said. “Please take the dog out back and give him some dog food to eat.”
“But I’m not a dog anymore,” Bobby wailed.
“Well, I’m afraid we don’t allow alligators and jet planes at the table, either,” said Mother.
“I’m not a jet plane or an alligator now.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m Bobby.”
“Oh, Bobby,” Mother said, giving him a big hug, “We’re so glad to see you! There have been too many strange things and people around here today. And I’ve missed my Bobby.”
Bobby began to laugh. “It’s fun to be a jet plane and a dog and an alligator,” he said. “But I like best being just your Bobby.”

Remembering some of her experiences in Primary and Sunday School, Sister Smith said, “One time after I had given a two-and-a-half minute talk, I thought I had done quite well. But a certain brother said, ‘I was really disappointed in you.’ I felt crushed and asked, “What didn’t I do?’

“He said, ‘You didn’t smile.’

“I think that made me realize that you need to smile often if you want people to feel comfortable with you. Now that I’ve learned how to genuinely smile at people, it has made a big difference in my life. Smiling is a signal of friendship. Heavenly Father has told us that one of our purposes here is to experience joy. I think that smiling is one way to reach that goal.”

By age nineteen, she had saved enough money to go to Chicago, Illinois, where she studied at the Chicago Art Institute under the great John Vanderpoel. Several times during her three-year course she had to go home to earn more money by working in the fields or in the classroom. But Minerva always returned to her studies. With characteristic confidence, Minerva once confronted Mr. Vanderpoel, asking why he criticized her work so harshly when so many classmates were doing much poorer work. She later recalled, “I shall never forget the disappointment on the man’s face when he answered in a choked voice, ‘Can it be possible you do not understand; those other students are not worth it, they will eventually leave school, but you—ah, there is no end’” (“Miss Kohlhepp’s Own Story,” Pocatello, Idaho, 1917).

It is frustrating when you are living as you know you should, and you are being ridiculed for it. It’s uncomfortable to be made fun of for any reason, but it is especially hurtful when someone makes your good choices seem like bad ones.
You may have noticed that instead of talking about how they are trying hard to do what’s right, teens sometimes get into conversations where they compare how bad they have been. Sometimes it seems cool to brag about getting drunk instead of mentioning that you don’t drink and never have. Instead of admiration, you may feel like your friends think you are a goody-goody, unadventurous, and maybe a little naive.
The answer to this dilemma may sound like a cliche, but it just happens to be true. You need to be true to yourself, true to the standards of the gospel of Jesus Christ. If your friends only want you around when you’ll go along with the bad choices they are making, then they really aren’t friends. You must stand up for yourself. You can be friendly and fun and loyal without letting down your standards. Keep doing what you know is right, and your friends will separate into two groups—those who like you for what you really are, and those who really don’t care if they hurt you or not. The second group isn’t worth having for friends.
Another problem may come up when your friends tease you for the righteous standards you keep. Instead of admiring you, they may give you a hard time. But whose admiration do you really want? Your own? Your parents’? The Lord’s?
Elder Bryant Bush, serving in the Florida Tallahassee Mission, wrote and said, “Many times people have rationalized so many broken rules in their own lives that they think it’s silly when others try to obey them. Examine yourself. Are you trying to be obedient to impress others or to get nearer to God? It is important to keep examining yourself and not others.” In other words, you can enjoy being around many different kinds of people as long as your own hand is firmly grasping the iron rod.
We know it’s hard to have your friends leave you out of their activities even when it’s probably for the best. Just feeling left out is hard. But this time of your life will not go on forever. After a while your friends will become accustomed to the fact that you are not going to give in. And in the future, here on earth and throughout eternity, you will be very glad you stood up for what you believe. If you still feel bad about your situation, talk to your parents or Church leaders. They really will remember what it’s like and may be able to say something that will help.
Readers
Along with keeping Church standards, spread some sunshine. Be genuinely friendly, smile, and have a positive attitude. Show your friends that you truly love and care about them and their feelings, but that you’re also going to stick to what you know is right. Jesus taught by his good example, and so can you.
Becky Lawson, 18LaVerkin, Utah
Many of my high school friends were respected for living Christ’s standards. They were an example to me. Without giving in on any standard, you can be an example to your friends by losing yourself in service.
Elder Todd B. Drennan, 21Mississippi Jackson Mission
I made the mistake of trying to keep the standards but not explaining to my friends the reason why. When I took the time to, they listened and began to understand me more, which changed their view that I was “stuck up.”
Secondly, make sure that you keep what I call the quieter standards, things like being a trustworthy and loyal friend, not getting angry in situations, not gossiping, and so on. I certainly have found that it’s keeping these types of principles that has earned me the most respect from my friends.
Rachel Kent, 18Plymouth, Devon, England
I have the same problem with my nonmember friends. They are really nice inside, but sometimes just act bad. I try to think of that. I try to be nice to them and show a good example. If they are true friends, they will try to respect our standards.
Kathleen Parker, 13Anchorage, Alaska
My friends respect me a lot for standing up against peer pressure. One time I was at a party and my friend said she just had to have a beer. She turned to me and asked, “How do you do it?” Instead of making me feel bad, it made me feel good about myself.
Kelly Raddon, 17Northbrook, Illinois
Since I’ve moved here from Utah, I’ve been labeled as “different” by my peers. They thought it was odd that I had never had a drink or smoke in my life and that I went to church every single Sunday. But they respect me, and I believe them because they are careful not to offend me, and they watch their language around me too.
My point is that if your “friends” don’t respect you, never forget who you are and what you stand for. Maybe find a new group of friends.
Karl Harwood, 18Chagrin Falls, Ohio
When my friends do things or even talk about doing things that go against my standards, I explain to them that I don’t believe in that, so they’ll stop talking about it.
Staci Fredrickson, 16Portland, Oregon

One of my haunting childhood memories begins with the howl of distant air-raid sirens that awaken me from sleep. Before long, another sound, the rattle and hum of propellers, gradually increases until it shakes the very air. Trained well by our mother, we children each grab our bag and run up the hill to a bomb shelter. As we hurry through the pitch-dark night, green and white flares drop from the sky to mark the targets for the bombers. Strangely enough, everyone calls these flares Christmas trees.
I am four years old, and I am a witness to a world at war.
Not far from where my family lived was the city of Dresden. Those who lived there witnessed perhaps a thousand times what I had seen. Massive firestorms, caused by thousands of tons of explosives, swept through Dresden, destroying more than 90 percent of the city and leaving little but rubble and ash in their wake.
In a very short time, the city once nicknamed the “Jewel Box” was no more. Erich Kästner, a German author, wrote of the destruction, “In a thousand years was her beauty built, in one night was it utterly destroyed.” During my childhood I could not imagine how the destruction of a war our own people had started could ever be overcome. The world around us appeared totally hopeless and without any future.
Last year I had the opportunity to return to Dresden. Seventy years after the war, it is, once again, a “Jewel Box” of a city. The ruins have been cleared, and the city is restored and even improved.
During my visit I saw the beautiful Lutheran church Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady. Originally built in the 1700s, it had been one of Dresden’s shining jewels, but the war reduced it to a pile of rubble. For many years it remained that way, until finally it was determined that the Frauenkirche would be rebuilt.
Stones from the destroyed church had been stored and cataloged and, when possible, were used in the reconstruction. Today you can see these fire-blackened stones pockmarking the outer walls. These “scars” are not only a reminder of the war history of this building but also a monument to hope—a magnificent symbol of man’s ability to create new life from ashes.
As I pondered the history of Dresden and marveled at the ingenuity and resolve of those who restored what had been so completely destroyed, I felt the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit. Surely, I thought, if man can take the ruins, rubble, and remains of a broken city and rebuild an awe-inspiring structure that rises toward the heavens, how much more capable is our Almighty Father to restore His children who have fallen, struggled, or become lost?

Sister Jodi King wrote of her own experience of past years:
“I never felt like I didn’t belong at church until my husband, Cameron, and I began struggling with infertility. The children and families who had typically brought me joy to see at church now started causing me grief and pain.
“I felt barren without a child in my arms or a diaper bag in hand. …
“The hardest Sunday was our first one in a new ward. Because we didn’t have kids, we were asked if we were newlyweds and when we planned on starting a family. I had gotten pretty good at answering these questions without letting them affect me—I knew they weren’t meant to be hurtful.
“However, on this particular Sunday, answering those questions was especially hard. We had just found out, after being hopeful, that we were—yet again—not pregnant.
“I walked into sacrament meeting feeling downtrodden, and answering those typical ‘get to know you’ questions was hard for me. …
“But it was Sunday School that truly broke my heart. The lesson—intended to be about the divine role of mothers—quickly shifted gears and became a vent[ing] session. My heart sank and tears silently flowed down my cheeks as I heard women complain about a blessing I would give anything for.
“I bolted out of church. At first, I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to experience that feeling of isolation again. But that night, after talking with my husband, we knew we would keep attending church not only because the Lord has asked us to but also because we both knew that the joy that comes from renewing covenants and feeling the Spirit at church surpasses the sadness I felt that day. …
“In the Church, there are widowed, divorced, and single members; those with family members who have fallen away from the gospel; people with chronic illnesses or financial struggles; members who experience same-sex attraction; members working to overcome addictions or doubts; recent converts; new move-ins; empty-nesters; and the list goes on and on. …
“The Savior invites us to come unto Him—no matter our circumstances. We come to church to renew our covenants, to increase our faith, to find peace, and to do as He did perfectly in His life—minister to others who feel like they don’t belong.”

Luke’s senior year was anything but normal.
After starting his senior year at the same Mississippi high school he’d been attending since he was a freshman, and with the same friends he’d known since age nine, Luke’s family moved to Alabama.
“I wasn’t too excited about the move,” Luke N., 18, admits. But he still tried to make the most of it. For one thing, he joined the tennis team at his new school.
And then he got to play all of one match before his whole world turned upside down.
Tennis? Canceled. Prom? Double canceled. Attending church? Attending school? Attending seminary?
You guessed it. All canceled.
Like the rest of the globe, Luke’s daily routine shifted gears in a massive way once the COVID-19 pandemic interfered with just about every area of his life.
“It’s definitely been disappointing,” he says. For Luke, the biggest heartache of all was not knowing for sure what’s going to happen with his mission call.
It’d be understandable for anybody in Luke’s situation to feel discouraged, but he says he finds heavenly help every day. “I see a lot of blessings in disguise.”

In 1975 Janelle Griffin was in the tenth grade. An assignment to write a paper about population explosion started a series of events that eventually led to a tape and filmstrip called, “Very Much Alive.”
Janelle and her father, Dr. Glen Griffin, now members of the Bountiful, Utah Val Verda Stake, went through the family photos and selected some good slides. These were matched with an anti-abortion story-script that Janelle and her father wrote. The resulting slide presentation, emphasizing the sanctity of human life was enthusiastically applauded by students and teachers. Refinements and revisions followed. A sound track was recorded on cassette tape. Some who saw the presentation suggested that every LDS youth should see “Very Much Alive.”
Many revisions and refinements followed, and then followed distribution in 17 languages to all the Church (VVOF1420.).

I didn’t want to go on a mission. Down deep, I knew that I ought to go. I also knew that I ought to want to go. But I didn’t. Although I felt a little guilty, I also felt like it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t want to go. I mean, the Church believes in free agency, right? Just because my dad and brothers and cousins had done the “mission thing” didn’t mean I had to.
To tell the truth, a mission didn’t sound like much fun. I was afraid they might send me someplace where they didn’t have pizza, or where hot dogs were made out of real dogs.
Besides, I was basically happy with my life the way it was. I had a cute girlfriend and a nice car. I was doing okay in college and played for the baseball team. The coach said I would be a starter the next season. Plus we lived only two blocks from the beach and I could go surfing whenever I wanted. Why would I want to leave all that?
No one ever said I had to go on a mission, of course. It was just that everyone simply assumed I would. It was kind of like a tradition in our family. After high school, you went to college for a year, then you went on a mission for two years, then back to school. Also, my dad was kind of a missionary freak. In addition to serving a full-time mission and a couple of stake missions, he had been the ward mission leader three or four times. I think he holds the stake record for attendance and participation at convert baptisms.
As the school year drew to a close, several of my LDS friends were making mission plans and a few had already received their calls. I had a job lined up with a construction company for the summer, and I tried to put missionary work out of my mind. In our house, that wasn’t easy to do. Even Karen, my nine-year-old sister, had a “mission fund.”
Karen kept herself busy with a map of the world, trying to decide the best place for me to go. She started with scenic areas like Switzerland and Hawaii; then she moved to more remote regions of the globe like Madagascar and Sri Lanka. One day, Karen discovered Mongolia in an old copy of National Geographic.
“Do they have missionaries in Mongolia?” Karen asked.
“I certainly hope not.”
“That would be a great place for you to go, Scott!” my sister chirped.
“It’s way up in the mountains between Russia and China. Part of it is a big desert, the Gobi Desert. People there ride camels and live in tents because they move a lot. But up in the mountains they ride little long-haired horses. And in the winter it gets so cold that you have to wear a lot of fur, or you freeze to death.”
“Sounds like my kind of place,” I said.
“Would you have to wear a white shirt and tie under the fur?” she wondered aloud.
I shook my head and left the room.
As the summer progressed, it seemed my family talked about missionary work more and more, and I talked about it less and less. Soon, my silence on the subject was deafening.
One night while I was reading, my dad came in the room and shut the door behind him. “We need to talk, Scott,” he said, shutting off the CD player and sitting on the edge of my bed.
It was showdown time, and I knew it. I had to tell Dad that I wasn’t going on a mission. Turning in my chair to face him, I mentally ran through the little speech I had prepared. My heart was pounding and I was just about to speak when my dad interrupted my thoughts.
“Son, I don’t think you should plan on leaving for your mission this summer.”
“Huh?”
“Morally, you’re worthy, and I’m grateful for that.” He took a deep breath and continued, “But spiritually and emotionally, I just don’t think you’re ready.”
“Well, I don’t think …”
“It’s hard work to be a missionary. It takes long hours of study and prayer, planning and diligence. You need a lot of self-discipline.”
Now I was speechless.
“A mission is a privilege, Scott. It wouldn’t be fair to send you out with the attitude you have right now.”
“Not fair?”
“That’s right. Not fair to you, or your mission president, or your companions, or the Lord. It would be a wasted two years.”
“Oh,” was the only response I could muster.
Dad stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, son,” he said. Then he left the room. Somehow, it wasn’t the way I’d planned for the meeting to go.
That was the beginning of a difficult summer.
First of all, my girlfriend decided to spend ten weeks touring Europe with her cousin. Then Arnold, my best friend, broke his ankle in a motorcycle accident. Finally, my friend Luz—my number one surfing buddy—got a job working nights in a factory.
At least I still had my car.
I often wonder if my life would have been different if I hadn’t come home early that night and turned on the news. With cookies in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other, I watched the usual evening newscast.
Things started out pretty much the same that night as they usually do: people starving in countries I’d never heard of, riots against oppressive governments, AIDS, drugs, political corruption. My mind was wandering when suddenly my attention was jerked back to the television by a familiar name. The latest gang violence in south Los Angeles was being reported, and I heard the name Alfred Jefferson. Alfred Jefferson! I knew an Al Jefferson. As the report droned on, I came to the stunned realization that it was the same person. Al was a teammate of mine at college. He had just graduated and was going on to graduate school in Colorado.
He was dead. Victim of a senseless act of violence. There was an interview with his grieving grandmother and then one with my badly shaken baseball coach talking about Al as a person and a player.
I turned off the television and stared at the blank screen. It isn’t possible, I thought. Al hadn’t really been a close friend. He was a senior and our best player. I was just a freshman trying to make the team. But the fact that I knew him made the tragedy very personal.
What kind of a person would do such a thing? Al had just been standing on the porch talking to his grandmother. He didn’t do anything to anyone. I began thinking about all the horrible things in the world and wondering how people could be so evil. Don’t these people realize that we’re all brothers and sisters? We’re all children of God. Someone really ought to tell people …
My thoughts were leading to a dangerous place, so I got up and wandered around the house. The walls were covered with paintings and photos, needlepoint and school awards. There was the wagon wheel lamp I had made in wood shop, sitting on the end table Douglas made. The cutting board that Steve made when he had shop was hanging in the kitchen near the sink. On the side of the refrigerator was a family “portrait” that Karen had painted during a recent creative burst. Among the decorations on the kitchen wall was a crudely made wooden heart with “Happy Mother’s Day! Love, Scott,” printed in pencil and shellacked over. As I wandered from room to room, I began to realize how much I loved the people that lived here, how lucky I was to have a family that loved me, and how selfish I was for not sharing my happiness with others.
I walked out to the front porch and sat on the swing, surveying the neighborhood. I looked out to the driveway and noticed my car. It was a ’68 Mustang. I loved that car. It wasn’t much to look at when Dad brought it home, but we restored it from the tires up until it was better than new.
If you sold the car, you could help pay for your mission.
Selling the car I had spent two summers working to restore? Selling my car so I could go to a faraway place and teach the gospel? I think my friend Arnold liked the car even more than I did. He was always trying to buy it.
I walked in the house and picked up the phone.
“Hi, Arn. This is Scott.”
Suddenly, I forgot what I was going to say.
“Uh, well,” I stammered.
“You okay, Scott?”
I knew what I had to do. I gulped and took a deep breath.
“Hey, Arn, you interested in buying a car?”

Brother Bingham soon sent the missionaries to visit me. At first their prayers and testimonies seemed strange to me, and my interest in them was simply motherly concern. I thought of their mothers—what they must be experiencing having sent their sons and daughters to our cold Russia, so far from home. I wanted to feed and warm them.

As it turned out, the missionaries were not the ones who needed help—I was. I had lived my entire life without a real knowledge of God and his Son, and I was afraid to open my heart. But gradually, over the period of a year as the missionaries continued to teach me and as I began to attend church weekly, I turned more and more to God. The burden of my loss was eased.

Finally, on 10 December 1995, Brother Bingham baptized me. Now I know that although we may experience heartache and difficulties, such as the death of a loved one, the Lord gives us the strength to endure such difficulties. That strength, for me, is the faith that comes through finally having the Lord in my life—and the knowledge that through temple ordinances I can be with my husband again.

A few years ago, my wife and I were struggling with one of our young single adult children. A long series of events had left us emotionally drained. I regrettably remember saying, “I’m over it. I’m turning off the ‘I care’ switch.” For a few days, I felt better, detached, less stressed, and I thought I had found peace.

But then came Sunday.

I had recently read Elder Peter F. Meurs’s 2016 general conference talk, “The Sacrament Can Help Us Become Holy.” He offered five ways to deepen our worship:
Prepare in advance
Arrive early
Sing and learn from the sacrament hymn
Participate in the prayers
Remember Jesus as the emblems are passed
I tried to apply those teachings, but my heart was still heavy. Then came the opportunity to learn from the sacrament hymn. Verse 2 pierced my heart:

As now our minds review the past,
We know we must repent;
The way to thee is righteousness—
The way thy life was spent.
Forgiveness is a gift from thee
We seek with pure intent.

Immediately my heart turned not just to the Saviour but to my child. The Spirit whispered to me, “Call him and tell him you are sorry. Let him know you love him.”

After the meeting, I messaged: “I’m going to call you this afternoon, I need to talk. Please answer. I promise I won’t hassle you.”

I called and said, “I love you, Son. Please forgive me.” There was a period of silence, then his voice: “Aw, is that it? All good, I love you too. I’m sorry. How was your day?”

That moment was sacred. It was healing. It was the Saviour’s balm, and it came because I tried, however imperfectly, to build on the rock.

Let me share with you for a few moments the positive, progressive attitude of a friend of mine formerly confined in the Utah State Prison. “I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I was involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the people [parents] who had been assigned to me through this program, many times I would have given up. These people loved me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now with their help and the help of others I believe I can make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of having been in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us this fine young man would be justified in knocking his parents, knocking society, and knocking our systems, but he didn’t. Instead, he is thanking those who have helped him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
Church attenders in prisons are, unfortunately, in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified as a member of “God’s Squad.”

In our family we have identical twin sons. In some circumstances they are practically impossible to tell apart.
A few years ago, when the twins were about ten years old, we moved and found ourselves in new surroundings. Several days after the move I was talking to Aaron, one of the twins, and inquired about the big bump he had on his forehead.
“Well, Dad,” he said, “Lincoln [who is his older brother] was chasing me down the hall, I ran around the corner, and I saw my twin brother, Adam. Now, I knew I could outrun Adam, so I just kept running.” It turns out he ran into a full-length mirror!

Dad said no sacrifice by the family would be too great for the privilege of supporting me in the mission field, and he meant it. He knew what that kind of sacrifice was. I remember how the family had spread margarine on the bread and then scraped most of it off again while my older brother Ron was in the mission field. I also sensed Dad’s special gratitude when occasionally I was able to spare a few dollars of the earnings from my part-time job to add to what was sent to Ron.

Yes, I knew it would mean sacrifice, gladly offered. I also knew I had to do all I could.

I took a firmer grasp on the handle, holding it a little lower this time to get a better weight advantage from the heavy steel head. Several more strokes, and now I could feel myself becoming angry. How could I strike any harder? Why didn’t the cement break?
“I hope he doesn’t get back before I’ve shown some kind of progress,” I said to myself, glancing toward the tool shop.
When I had told the boss on Monday morning that I had quit school to work for a few months so I could go on a mission, I had hoped he would be kind of proud of me. Instead he had said, “Why do you want to waste your time like that?” Ever since then he had seemed bent on going out of his way to make snide comments about the Church and other crude remarks that, I suspected, were designed to shock me. But he was the boss and the one who would let me stay or let me go.
I had been much more comfortable last week when I first got this job and was helping Bert Godfrey lay a brick wall to replace an old wooden one that had burned down. How could I help but like that leather-faced but kind-hearted man who had served three missions, two of them building missions.
The company had hired me for ten days, mostly to help build that wall. But Bert and I had worked so well together that we had finished it in a week. He didn’t seem to mind that I was a bit clumsy and lacked experience. He knew I was trying and he knew why. He just kept talking to me about serving the Lord.
Bert hadn’t told me that the real boss was on vacation, and it had come as a surprise when I showed up for work the next Monday morning. So far, though, my strategy seemed to be working. Although I was earning more than I had ever earned before, I figured that if I worked so hard that I was worth still more than they were paying me, maybe the boss would feel he just couldn’t afford to let me go.
I looked again at the long I-beam rail with 13 steel legs extending from it like a giant comb with most of its teeth missing. It had long ago served as a bumper guard, preventing cars in the parking lot from hitting the adjacent building. It had been installed by digging 13 large holes in the ground in a straight line, spaced at eight-foot intervals. A steel post was cemented into each hole, and the connecting bumper rail welded to each post. Recently the entire rail had been removed by having two large “hysters” extract the whole thing in one piece, and it was lying in the driveway with each post encased in a barrel-sized cement block.
As I heard boots scuff the loose gravel on the asphalt pavement leading from the tool shop, I let loose a wild flurry of blows. I was glad that a few beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. “Here, try this,” the boss said as he handed me a heavier sledgehammer. That wasn’t quite the kind of help I had in mind.
I smiled as I traded him the smaller hammer, but I could tell that he sensed it wasn’t a completely honest smile. He watched me for a few minutes more, and then without further comment, turned away to supervise the crew working on the remodeling project in the steel fabrication plant.
“The only difference between the hammers is that this one is heavier and harder to lift,” I grumbled silently as the steel head collided with the stone-hard cement. Finally one small chunk broke off. After several more strokes my arms started to ache, but the cement still remained intact.
At this rate I knew it would take me three days to complete the job. I also knew that if I didn’t show substantial progress by noon, I’d be out of a job and back standing in the labor lines at the Employment Security Office taking any kind of work available. Three days of that had made me especially anxious to keep this job.
Besides, it was 1954, and thousands of striking workers with families to feed were looking for short-term, full-time employment. How was a 20-year-old youth going to compete with them for the few jobs available?
It took only a few more hard but unsuccessful strokes to persuade me that I had reached my limit and that it was time for me to treat the problem as one needing more strength and wisdom than I possessed.
Resting the heavy hammer on the ground and trying to compose my anger and frustration, I felt the need and desire to discuss the problem with the Lord. Without either kneeling or closing my eyes, I started praying aloud to the Lord and explaining the task I faced. In a conversational but sincere way I reminded him that I wasn’t asking for the money so I could buy a yellow convertible. He had called me on a mission, and I knew he wanted me to go. This job had already been an answer to my prayers, but I needed to keep it. I didn’t expect him to send a host of angels from heaven with sledgehammers, but I knew he could help me.
Never in my life has a prayer been answered more immediately or clearly. Suddenly my mind was filled with a thought so lucid and strong that my heart started pounding. It was a simple solution, as I later considered it. To brighter or more experienced minds it might have occurred earlier, but to me it came as a direct answer to my prayer.
The compelling instruction said to me, “Instead of striking the cement, strike the steel.”
Still not fathoming exactly why, I raised the hammer and brought it crashing down five or six times on the steel post right next to the cement. As a large section of the cement cracked into big chunks and fell off, I realized that the blows to the steel had started a series of strong vibrations that were transmitted all along the steel shaft.
I quickly forgot the weight of the hammer. With new energy I struck the steel again and again, then moved on to the next post, amazed at the magnification of my efforts as the steel vibrated and the cement cracked.
Less than two hours later I had removed the cement from all 13 posts and stacked the large chunks in a pile. With the sledgehammer on my shoulder and a prayer of gratitude in my heart, I went to find the boss.
“I’ll need some help moving the railing out of the driveway,” I said, trying to conceal the excitement I felt inside. Thinking I was giving up on the project, he motioned me to follow him to the parking lot.
As we rounded the corner of the building and he saw the railing and the pile of cement, he stopped quite suddenly. His eyes blinked and opened wide. His chin started to drop a bit. For a full minute he stood silently, looking first at the railing, then at the cement. After a moment more he turned, motioned me to follow him again, and said, “Come on, I’ll give you another job.”
Nothing more was said about the incident, but the following morning when I arrived for work, he simply said, “Lloyd, you’re welcome to stay on as long as you like.”
I worked there for nearly three months before entering the mission home. He then let me come back to work again for another ten days until I departed with my group for the mission field. Never after that memorable morning did he, in my presence, make a disparaging remark about the Church or my plans to serve a mission.
Many times since that day the Lord has helped me strike the steel instead of the cement in solving other problems. But as I departed for the mission field in late November 1954, I knew that I was called of the Lord. I knew that he was listening to my prayers. And I knew for myself that he would give no commandment save he would prepare a way for it to be accomplished.

I was blessed with wonderful parents. My mother was a member of the Church, and although my father wasn’t, he still supported us in our Church activities. Growing up, I prayed daily that my father would join the Church.
When I received my patriarchal blessing at age 16, I was promised that I would be an influence in helping my father join the Church. I talked with him about the things I learned in seminary. I told him about the scriptures that state that it is necessary to be baptized and confirmed to enter the kingdom of God (see John 3:5). Tearfully, I told him about the blessings of the temple that would make it possible for us to be together forever.
I attended a small school in Arizona, USA. I had wonderful friends during high school even though I was the only Church member in my class. At the time, President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was the prophet. We often heard his counsel for “every member [to be] a missionary” (see Teachings of Presidents of the Church: David O. McKay [2011], chapter 6). One summer my sister Marilyn and I invited some friends to take the missionary lessons. They took two lessons and were no longer interested. We were disappointed, but it didn’t end our friendships.
I went to college at the end of that summer. During spring semester, I received a letter from my dad. He wrote: “It is my greatest privilege to be the head of a household of wonderful girls. Because of all of your strong testimonies of the gospel and the meetings and interest in other young people last summer, I really started getting interested in the Church. While I was outside the house painting and you and the kids were inside holding those meetings, I was convinced I had been on the outside looking in long enough. I have thanked Heavenly Father many times for your mother and the fact that she was brought up in the Church and for the way she has brought up you girls.”
My father was soon baptized, and a year later our family was sealed for time and eternity in the Mesa Arizona Temple.
Even though none of our friends joined the Church, the most important person in our lives did. We never know how we will be blessed when we follow the counsel of the prophet.

When I was in high school, I almost always felt far away from God and Jesus Christ. Everyone around me appeared to be so much more spiritual and had all these neat spiritual experiences.
I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. I attended church, read the scriptures, prayed, and went to the temple when my ward planned temple trips. But I still felt like I was missing something.
It wasn’t until my mission that I realized what that missing puzzle piece was: Jesus Christ.
I had been focusing on doing things rather than focusing on the Savior and becoming a devoted follower of Him.
To be clear, righteous habits are good. Living the commandments helps bring us to Jesus Christ. But sometimes we get so caught up in “church tasks” that we take the Savior out of the very activities that are meant to bring us to Him. This can leave us feeling spiritually empty.
Recently some friends of mine who left the Church told me they’ve never felt happier and more at peace. It was so confusing to me! If this is Christ’s Church, how could that be?
As I listened to my friends’ experiences and concerns, I realized that it wasn’t leaving the Church that brought them peace; it was leaving behind the to-do lists they felt they had to keep up on. Once they left the Church, they also left their spiritual to-do lists behind.
But that is not what the Savior had in mind when He established His Church and gave His commandments.
Elder Donald L. Hallstrom of the Seventy once taught: “Some have come to think of activity in the Church as the ultimate goal. Therein lies a danger. It is possible to be active in the Church and less active in the gospel. Let me stress: activity in the Church is a highly desirable goal; however, it is insufficient.”1
It is possible to be doing the right things but completely miss the why behind them.
It is possible to be doing the right things but completely miss the why behind them.
Sister Tracy Y. Browning, Second Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, had a significant insight about the Israelites in the New Testament: “Just as we are today, God’s ancient people were invited to see their lives through Him in order to see more of Him in their lives. But by the time of the Savior’s ministry, the Israelites had lost sight of Christ in their observances. …
“… The children of Israel, in this state, believed that the practices and rituals of the law were the path to personal salvation and in part reduced the law of Moses to a set of protocols administered to rule civilian life. This required the Savior to restore focus and clarity to His gospel.”2
Sometimes Satan doesn’t distract members of Christ’s restored Church so they’ll commit serious sins. Instead he takes the very things we think are good and convinces us to see them incorrectly.
As President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, taught: “Sometimes faithful Latter-day Saints … begin to focus on the ‘appendages’ instead of on the fundamental principles. That is, Satan tempts us to become distracted from the simple and clear message of the restored gospel.”3
Rather than bringing us peace, our efforts to live the gospel can sometimes result in some stress and frustration. This is exactly how Satan wants us to feel about the gospel. If he can’t get us to sin, he will convince us that living the gospel is too hard, too exhausting, and more than we can successfully achieve.
Back in high school, I thought I wasn’t doing enough. That fear of inadequacy was why I didn’t feel as spiritual as those around me.
Although our actions can be signs of our conversion, we can’t allow our outward activities to define our spirituality entirely. If we do, we may begin placing the weight of our salvation on our own shoulders rather than relying on Jesus Christ.
We can’t allow our outward activities to define our spirituality entirely.
President Nelson has urged us to have our focus “riveted on the Savior and His gospel.” 4 This will take us from spiritual checklists to peaceful and joyful conversion in His Church. “Nothing invites the Spirit more than fixing your focus on Jesus Christ.” 5

Shortly before leaving on his mission, Zainu Deen was volunteering at the emergency resource center in Freetown, Sierra Leone when he saw Salamatu for the first time. He knew he wanted to get to know her but was hesitant to speak with her. Although a mutual friend tried to convince Salamatu to talk with Zainu, she refused. Instead, Zainu made efforts to get to know her brother and her mother, seeking excuses to pass by her home nearly daily. However, their first conversation consisted of Zainu telling Salamatu he was leaving to serve a mission and asking her to please remember him.
Zainu’s decision to serve was highly encouraged by his auntie, but, like many young adults, it was a decision made amidst opposition. Friends were questioning him about his future and said that by serving two years, Zainu would be left behind. Although he was already preparing for his mission, doubts began to enter his mind. Zainu prayed, “I don’t know much. I want You to tell me what am I going to do? Am I going to be left behind?”
Zainu’s answer came. “My ‘Yes’ was proud. My ‘Yes’ was strong because I believed in what I was going to do.”
While Zainu was serving in Nigeria and writing letters to Salamatu, she completed her education and passed her test. She began looking for a job, searching for a year with no success.
When Zainu returned from his mission, he talked to Salamatu about serving a mission herself. It was not an easy choice. She said, “One heart was telling me, ‘Oh, find a job,’ and the other heart was telling me, ‘Go on a mission.’”
When pressed by Zainu, Salamatu explained, “I will just find a job because if I leave here then, I go on a mission, maybe there will be an opportunity, especially where I was doing my voluntary job. Like they will just need workers there, and they would take me directly because I used to work with them.”
Zainu was insistent that he wanted Salamatu to serve a mission, so insistent that when she asked, “How will I serve a mission?” Zainu told her, “I will help you get your passport.” Not only did he help Salamatu get her passport, but he also helped her fill in her forms, buy some of the necessary clothing and, working with her family, helped pay her commitment fee.
The day Salamatu received her mission call, she was also offered a job. “I think God wants me to serve Him with all my heart. Now this is the time He wanted to try me that I can choose between Him and the job. I decided to drop the job.”
Besides incredible spiritual experiences and lessons learned on their missions, both Salamatu and Zainu learned lessons that would continue to help them in life. Salamatu overcame shyness and was much more able to speak in public, was more open to others, and was much more friendly and inviting. Zainu learned missionary budgeting, the importance of planning, how to be polite in his home and resolve problems quickly, and the importance of working side-by-side on all jobs with his spouse. Both Zainu and Salamatu said these are lessons they would not have learned except on their missions and they are lessons they continue to use every day.
Having overcome her shyness, upon returning from her mission, Salamatu decided to give Zainu a chance and agreed to date him. It did not take her long to realize that Zainu “really wants me in his life. He wants us to make a family. He wants us to be together forever, not only here but in the life to come. He is the man for me!”
When Zainu told Salamatu he wanted to get married, she said, “If you really mean it, you need to go to my people.”
Like many young people, the Deens faced some big obstacles when thinking about marriage. Zainu explained, “One thing that makes us in Africa find it difficult to get married is that young people think about the cost of living. No job, nothing that can bring in income. Some of us, some of the young people in the church, have the mentality, ‘How can I get married? How can I feed my family? Where can I get money? Where can I start?’”
Zainu said, “In Africa setting of marriage, people think that before getting married you have to acquire everything. That is the mentality. I must get money first. I must get a house. I must get a car. So those are some of the . . . [barriers] to getting married.”
By the time Salamatu returned from her mission, neither one of them had a job even though Zainu had been looking and volunteering the entire time she was on her mission. They both had taught the principles of marriage and family on their missions. They knew what was right. The obstacles seemed very large.
That is when Zainu took the action he knew from two years of practice on his mission. He told Salamatu, “I want us to pray that I can have a job, any kind of job. Then I think we can proceed.”
He said, “All of a sudden, God heard our cry, and I got a job, a security job!”
The way to marriage seemed to open, but there was still a lot of preparation. As soon as Zainu got a job, Salamatu said, “When they pay you, we must take a small amount of the money, $300,000 Sierra Leones, and we will save it. In fact, you will not save it in your own account. You will open a small account for me so that you won’t have access to take from that money.”
Zainu thought, “$300,000? What can $300,000 Sierra Leones do for marriage? It’s too small.” He continued, “Well, as time goes on, $300,000; $600,000; $900,000; $1,200,000. It is true! It is working! Now we can get married.”
Zainu said that Salamatu was his motivation. When he felt, “We don’t have much,” she told me again, “We do it little by little.”
When Zainu was paid, they worked their plan. They took out a set amount to put into Salamatu’s account. Then they would buy one thing necessary for their future or for their wedding. “We go buy material,” Zainu said. “We buy two yards. We do not have money to buy six yards at once. We go buy two, and we keep it. This is how we do it. Little. Little. Little. Little.”
Just as they both encountered opposition when deciding to serve their missions, so too, the Deens had people questioning their decision to marry, suggesting they should spend their money on things, or they should wait until they had a better job. But Zainu said, “I am obeying commandments. ‘If you love me, keep my commandments’ (John 14:15), and marriage is a commandment. Marriage is ordained of God.”
Salamatu quickly added, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
She tells her young women that she wants them to go and serve the Lord and then get married. “The gospel blesses families so when you go out there and serve the Lord, the Lord will not only bless you, but even the families you leave behind, they will also receive the blessings.
“I also want to tell those who are struggling to marry that they should not struggle. They should not think about the worldly things that say ‘I have to do this; I have to get everything before I get married. Like me and my husband, we do not have plenty, but we have enough because the Lord is for us. The Lord always provides for us. The Lord always loves us. That is why we are so happy. We are so blessed. We have a handsome son. That is one of the blessings we have.”
Zainu added, “If we serve Him wholeheartedly, then there are blessings, which me and my wife, as a family are experiencing. People are coming now to us, wanting to know our way of living. These are the blessings. The Lord knows our hearts.”
“I want to testify that serving a mission is a good opportunity to serve the Lord with all our heart, might, mind and strength. Even when we return home, the things that we learn on a mission, we should not let them go away. If we apply them in our lives, we will receive a blessing, especially in our marriage. I always know that the Lord loves us. That is why He wants us to have a partner, not only here but even when we return to Him that we will always be happy. We should not be afraid of being married because the Lord, He stands for us wherever we are. If we are having any constraints, He will stand for us,” said Salamatu.
“I testify that marriage is ordained of God. As me and my wife have endeavored to follow the principles and the commandments of the Church, we are receiving the blessings,” finished Zainu.

Image from Getty Images
I joined the Church when I was 14 years old. My parents granted me permission to be baptized, but neither of them were interested in joining or even learning about the Church.
For more than 10 years, I yearned for my family to know the happiness I felt in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I invited the missionaries and members to come over for dinner. My family was taught the missionary lessons multiple times, but nothing changed. During that decade, I attended church, received my endowment, and served a full-time mission without any family support.
When I returned home to Mexico following my mission at Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, I lived with my mother. (My parents had divorced while I was in high school.) I started working at the Mexico Missionary Training Center, so I cleverly invited her to come meet the elders and sisters I was teaching. I subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) invited the missionaries serving in my ward to join my mother and me for dinner. I did everything I could to get her around missionaries, hoping that she might ask more about the gospel, but my efforts all seemed in vain.
I think she met every single set of missionaries I associated with during that three-year period, and still nothing happened.
In 2008, I moved to the United States to pursue a degree in nursing. Toward the end of the year, following extensive renovation, the Mexico City Mexico Temple held an open house. I urged my mother to go see what the temple was all about while she had this opportunity. After much prodding on my part, she agreed to make the 70-mile (113 km) drive to attend the open house.
When I spoke to her next, she gushed about what an amazing experience she had had. She talked about how, in the celestial room, she felt something beautiful but indescribable. She told me that she had plans to return again. In fact, she was able to go many more times during the remaining weeks of the open house. She even attended the cultural celebration prior to the temple’s rededication.*
The next time we talked on the phone, Mom told me she was going to invite the missionaries to teach her. Seemingly out of nowhere, she was asking questions and paying attention in ways that I had so long been hoping for. When I went home at Christmastime during my school break, I noticed that she was different. While she had always been kind and compassionate, there was a deep change in her—a conversion.
I returned to school amazed at what was taking place. A week later, Mom called and said, “Sonia, I just wanted to know when you’re coming back to Mexico, because I’m getting baptized.”
I was so excited, so happy! I flew home in February for her baptism. It was amazing to me to watch her attend church, to see her accept and serve in a calling, and to grow in the gospel. I knew that she knew it was true.
It was also powerful to hear her pray. I was especially touched to hear her pray for me and my safety just before I returned to the United States. There is nothing like a parent’s prayer for a child.
Why didn’t things happen sooner? I don’t know. Maybe my mother needed to have seeds planted in her life before she could accept the gospel. Maybe the temple touched her in a way and at a time that my earlier efforts couldn’t have. Seeing the Lord work in my mother’s life reminds me of times I have seen His hand in my own life, and it gives me great hope for what He can unfold in the lives of my other family members.
My mother is now endowed, and every time we go to the temple together, I can tell she feels inspired in the temple, just as she did when she attended the open house. I know that the Lord is aware of us and that He guides our lives. When I let Him lead my life, I end up in the right places. When I follow my own will, it takes longer and is generally harder. I prefer to let the Lord surprise me and show me what great things He has in store.

Nellie Middleton, a fifty-five-year-old Latter-day Saint, lived in Cheltenham with her six-year-old daughter, Jennifer. To prepare her home against air strikes, she had used her modest wage as a dressmaker to furnish an area in her basement as a shelter, complete with food, water, oil lamps, and a small iron bed for Jennifer. Following instructions from the government, Nellie had also covered her windows with netting to catch flying shards of glass in the event of an attack.1

Now, all over Cheltenham, bombs were whistling through the air and crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar. The terrifying noise grew ever closer to Nellie’s home until a tremendous explosion on a nearby street rattled her walls, shattering the windows and filling the netting with razor-sharp glass.

In the morning, the city streets were filled with rubble. The bombs had killed twenty-three people and left more than six hundred homeless.2

Nellie and other Cheltenham Saints did their best to endure after the attack. When British Mission president Hugh B. Brown and other North American missionaries left the country nearly a year earlier, the small branch and others like it struggled to fill callings and run Church programs. Then the local men went away to war, leaving no priesthood holders to bless the sacrament or formally administer branch business. Before long, the branch was forced to disband.

An older man named Arthur Fletcher, who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, lived about twenty miles away, and he rode his rusty bicycle to visit the Cheltenham Saints whenever he could. But most of the time it was Nellie, the former Relief Society president in the Cheltenham Branch, who took responsibility for the spiritual and temporal welfare of the Saints in her area. With the branch closed, the Church members could no longer meet in the rented hall they used on Sundays, so Nellie’s living room became the place where the Relief Society prayed, sang, and studied.3

On a quiet November night in 1943, Nellie Middleton heard her doorbell ring. It was dark outside, but she knew enough not to have the lights on when she opened the door. Nearly three years had passed since German bombs had first fallen near her home, and Nellie continued to darken her windows at night to keep herself and her daughter safe from air raids.

With her lights out, Nellie opened the door. A young man was standing on her front step, his face in shadow. He extended his hand and quietly introduced himself as Brother Ray Hermansen. His accent was undeniably American.4

A lump came to Nellie’s throat. After their branch disbanded, she and other women in Cheltenham had longed to take the sacrament more regularly. The United States had recently sent troops to England to prepare for an Allied offensive against Nazi Germany. Once it had occurred to Nellie that some of the American soldiers stationed in her town might be Latter-day Saints who could bless the sacrament, she had asked her stepsister, Margaret, to paint a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and place it in town. Below the picture was a message: “If any soldier is interested in the above, he will find a warm welcome at 13 Saint Paul’s Road.”5

Had this American seen her poster? Did he have authority to bless the sacrament? Nellie shook his hand and welcomed him inside.

Ray was a twenty-year-old Latter-day Saint soldier from Utah and a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. Although he was stationed ten miles away, he had heard about the Salt Lake Temple painting from another Church member and obtained leave to visit the address. He had walked to Nellie’s home on foot, which was why he had arrived after dark. When Nellie told him about her desire to take the sacrament, he asked her when he could come to administer the ordinance to her.

On November 21, Nellie, her daughter, and three other women welcomed Ray to their Sunday meeting. Nellie opened the meeting with prayer before the group sang “How Great the Wisdom and the Love.” Ray then blessed and passed the sacrament, and all four women bore testimony of the gospel.

Soon other Latter-day Saint soldiers heard about the meetings at Saint Paul’s Road. Some Sundays, Nellie’s living room was so full that people had to sit on the staircase.6