Gospel Story Finder

I recall clearly my first profound experience of personal revelation. I was 17 years old. It happened in my parents’ home in Suva, Fiji. I was in my bedroom alone, reading from the Book of Mormon with a determined desire to know for myself if the book was true. This was the challenge that full-time missionaries Elder Rian Nelson and Elder Randy Price had given me after their lesson on the Prophet Joseph Smith and how he had received gold plates from an angel, and then translated the text into English.
Those missionaries read passages from the Book of Mormon during our discussion and they shared strong and enlightening testimonies. I was touched deeply, and I wanted to know for myself if what they had shared was truly of God . . . and I wanted to say what they said with the same conviction and confidence.
I read 3 Nephi chapter 11. Almost immediately I began to understand and become enlightened. I visualized the Savior, Jesus Christ, descending out of heaven and standing amidst the multitude with outstretched hands, inviting them to come unto Him, to feel the prints of the nails in His hands and in His feet. This they did one by one, and afterwards, they fell to the earth and worshipped Him as the promised Messiah2.
Feelings of warmth, comfort and peace overcame my whole person and I cried tears of love, gratitude, and appreciation for the Lord and for His mission of love and mercy. Instantly I recognized this was a spiritual witness from heaven . . . that what I was reading and feeling was true and of God.
The wonderful feelings I had experienced with the missionaries the day before returned, but this time I was alone. The influence of the Holy Ghost was personal and powerful. I did not want this precious moment to end. I knew then what personal revelation was. Whenever I have shared that experience over the past 40 years, that sweet reassuring witness of the Holy Ghost fills my heart.

When he entered the hospital emergency room he was just another vagrant. His thin, hunched, and sore-ridden body slowly limped forward. His blind eyes stared blankly into a private world of darkness. The offensive smell from his poorly-clothed body was enough to discourage anyone from getting close to him. But, as a doctor, it was my job; so I invited him to come with me.
As I examined him he told me over and over that he was sick and needed help. After describing all of his symptoms he mumbled in rejection, “I don’t have a family or a home where I can sleep or eat.” I felt compassion for him—there were so many just like him. But what could I do?
As I treated him we talked about God. He understood the importance of the teachings of Jesus Christ and the need for them in our lives. However, he expressed difficulty understanding people who say they believe in God but neglect to show concern and compassion for their neighbor. He had acquaintances who claimed belief in God, but when he asked for food they wouldn’t give him any.
The one person who actually offered help was a woman almost as poor as he. She worked hard to help support her family by collecting and selling old clothing and rags. She had invited him to stay with them in her small tin-walled house. It was tiny, there were flies and rodents—but he would be welcome there.
We walked and talked together for three hours. Though his eyes were blinded his heart was not. Most of our conversation was about God. He asked, “Doctor, do you believe in God?” Quickly, I replied, “Yes I do, and you are my brother.” My reply came without thinking. But, as I said it, the words swelled in my heart and I realized that it was true!
As we talked, my love for him grew. I was in awe as I began to understand what it meant to be a brother. I experienced gratitude for the lesson I was learning from one whom, I thought, had nothing to give. I gave him of my time, and a little food, but he gave me understanding.

When I received the news that my brother, Sergio, had died, I was in my room studying and Mom was reading emails he had written us just the day before. He told us that he was happy to be serving a mission in Chiclayo, Peru, and to be a representative of Jesus Christ. He told us of his love with so much enthusiasm that our smiles were inevitable.
Moments before receiving the call from his mission president who gave us the devastating news, my mother and I listened to a song my brother loved. Suddenly a strong feeling of peace flooded the whole room. The Spirit was so intense. We even shed tears because the warmth and the feeling that overcame us were so real that no words can describe it. And just 10 minutes later, the phone rang.
Mother and I listened to my father respond to all the questions that he was asked. We knew if the mission president was calling, something serious was happening. Then we heard Father respond, “There must be some mistake. This cannot be happening.”
I asked what was happening. That was when Dad answered us, his eyes full of tears, his voice hoarse: “Little Sergio has died.”
I cried bitterly, asking myself again and again, “Why, Heavenly Father? Why do we have to go through this? Isn’t a mission supposed to be the safest place in the world?!”
In spite of having the gospel in our life and knowing the plan of happiness, there seemed to be no consolation for our anguish. I knew that only our Heavenly Father could help us in our circumstances.
That night, in a moment of clarity, I ran to find my scriptures because a passage from the book of Alma came to mind that my brother had shared with us several weeks before he passed away. It says, “O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak. … I would declare unto every soul, as with the voice of thunder, repentance and the plan of redemption. … But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; … I ought not to harrow up in my desires the firm decree of a just God, for I know that he granteth unto men according to their desire, whether it be unto death or unto life” (Alma 29:1–4).
I understood then that my brother wanted us to know that he was alive and was with us in spirit, but that he had left this life because he had been called to preach in the spirit world. He wanted us to know that his absence would be like an extension of his mission calling—just another transfer, because he loved being a missionary, and the most profound desires of his heart had been fulfilled: to be “an angel” of the Lord. He could dedicate himself completely to the work of the Lord, to declare unto every soul “repentance and the plan of redemption,” the plan of happiness.
Although he is not physically with me, I still feel my brother’s presence. I no longer ask, “Why, Heavenly Father?” because the answer is clear and profound: “the Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?” (Doctrine and Covenants 122:8).
As a family, we have poured out our hearts to God, and we have found consolation thanks to the gospel. We know that this is a life of probation and that our spirits are eternal.
Through the hope of the infinite love of our Savior Jesus Christ and our Heavenly Father, we know that all things are possible. Thus, even though our understanding is still incomplete and in this life we cannot yet see all those whom we profoundly love, thanks to His life, we know that this is but a momentary, temporal circumstance.
It’s been just over four years since Sergio passed away. I admit that even now the sad days and the tears continue to appear from time to time, because I miss the presence of my beloved brother. But my heart overflows with gratitude when I remember that this is but a temporary situation. My hope is that finally, one day, we will meet again and reunite with our eternally happy family, forever and ever. This is greater than any pain I have to bear now.

When Liisa, 20, first heard about the job at the Delfinaario (dolphin aquarium), she was excited. She had good qualifications. In the Finnish equivalent of high school, she had studied biology, but also mathematics, science, physics, and chemistry.
“All those things are part of the job,” she explains. “And I’ve always been interested in animals.” And the job would help her earn money to pay for college in Sweden. Her enthusiasm and background paid off. She was hired.

The last time I came to the BYU-Idaho campus on a priesthood assignment was clear back in the 20th century, nearly pioneer times. I was almost 19 years old when a letter was dropped in our family mailbox up on the highway where the dirt road we lived on intersected with the world. It was a paper letter, now almost as much of another era as when Brother Brigham used to extend mission calls from the tabernacle pulpit or send letters with a Box “B” return address. Getting an actual letter in one’s mailbox is rare today, but for an obscure priest living on a dirt road outside of town in the Santa Rosa, California, Third Ward, it was rare even then.

My letter was from Harold B. Lee, the President of the Church, calling me to the greatest adventure I could have imagined: as a missionary in the Netherlands Amsterdam Mission. I’m a little ashamed that 18-year-old me had to find a map to find the Netherlands. As I read more of the letter, it got better as I learned that I would be stopping off in Rexburg, Idaho, to study Dutch at the Language Training Mission.

My start date was January 6, which was pretty much the dead of the vaunted Idaho winter, with its astonishingly beautiful sun rises, experienced each morning anew as our little band of brothers walked to campus through the blowing, frozen, snow-drifting, feet-numbing cold of Idaho. While we were there, the college held an ice sculpture contest, and students built a massive, true-to-scale viking ship in the courtyard behind the Manwaring Center out of home-grown snow. For the months that we were there, the ship remained, and I think not a single snowflake melted from its frozen mast.

Over the eight weeks, our cohort of missionaries was on campus living up on the hill and hunkered down in small classrooms. We learned a lot more than Dutch. As happens when one commits to Heavenly Father’s service, we felt His Spirit often. Our morning devotionals, sometimes featuring President Eyring’s father who was then the college president, were powerful as we spoke of the gospel with an urgency we had not known in our earlier lives. Learning Dutch was pretty humbling. Most of us were constantly aware of our mortal limitations as we struggled to absorb the impossible multisyllabic Dutch sounds that had descended unvarnished from the Tower of Babel where they had been particularly designed to confound the nations as well as future missionaries. We became increasingly fervent in our desire that when we arrived in our mission field, even we, the weakest and simplest of things, would be worthy and prepared to extend the powers of Heaven into that distant land—or at least not embarrass ourselves or the Church. But truth of the gospel did distil upon our souls—including mine—as we did our best to focus our hearts, might, minds, and strength on serving God with an immediacy of purpose. There was an airplane waiting. The truth of the gospel became increasingly tangible. Your frozen campus became to me holy ground as the miracles of the gospel became indelibly etched into my soul. I am confident that this place can become that for you as well.

Four years ago, during my preparation to serve a full-time mission, I went to Asi Ukpo hospital located in the city of Calabar, Nigeria for my medicals. After paying for my medical test, it was time for my X-ray. I was directed to the laboratory and there I met with the doctor. He looked at me and asked the following questions:
“Your name?”
I replied “Bassey Thomas, sir”.
He asked, “Are you a Latter-day Saint?”
I said “Yes, I am.”
He smiled and asked, “Have you been to the temple before?”
I said “Yes, I have”.
He then asked, “Have you been baptized for the dead before?”
I again replied, “Yes, I have”.
Next, he asked, “Are you going on a mission?”
I said “yes, that’s why I am here, for my medicals.”
He smiled again and asked me to wait. He then invited his colleague to join, and they began trying to prove my faith wrong and my decision as well. I was quiet while they spoke. They opened scriptures and started teaching me. They challenged me to go look for a Bible-believing church and join. They also promised to cancel my medical test and refund my payment so that I can go and look for something meaningful to do.
After their challenge I began testifying to them:
That God and His Son, Jesus Christ live.
That The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true.
That the temple and temple ordinances such as baptism for the dead are ordained of Him.
My decision to serve as a full-time missionary is to help others to know this truth.
They told me that they didn’t have any option other than to obey my choice. He then proceeded to carry out the test.
After some months, I was called to serve and labor in the Ghana Cape Coast Mission. There I was able to learn, teach, grow and develop a strong testimony of my Heavenly Father, my Saviour and His restored gospel. The experience I had in that hospital has strengthened my testimony, whenever I think back on it. Indeed God “will not suffer [us] to be tempted above that [we] are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that [we] may be able to bear it” (1 Corinthians 10:13).

Each Saturday morning as my brothers and sisters and I were growing up, our mother gave us housecleaning chores to do. Her instructions to us had been learned from her mother: “Be certain you clean thoroughly in the corners and along the mopboards. If you are going to miss anything, let it be in the center of the room.”
She knew very well if we cleaned the corners, she would never have a problem with what was left in the center of the room. What could be seen would never be left unclean.

Sometimes you wonder, “Do I really have much power to encourage others to serve?” You have more power than you think. Let me give you an example. Several years ago I had a stake conference assignment in a small mining town.

As I visited with the stake president prior to leaving, he said, “Do you have time to visit with a young man? This young man is a good young man. He always planned on going on a mission. But just recently he said he isn’t going. We’ve talked to him, and we can’t seem to make any difference. Would you talk to him?” I said I’d be happy to.

The young man had grown up active in the Church, but he had seen his father in and out of work in the mines. Just before this young man turned 19, he had a job in a store. The manager was so impressed with him that he said, “If you’ll take this job right now, I’ll make you the assistant manager, and in a couple of years you’ll be the manager.”

“I was planning on going on a mission,” he said.

The manager said, “Well, you can do whatever you want, but you’ll lose this job. I need you right now.”

Well, he thought about it. He had a girlfriend named Jill. And he thought, “I really love Jill. If I get this job, I won’t have to work at the mine. We can get a house. We can get married and have a family.” So he made up his mind that he wasn’t going on a mission because he had this tremendous opportunity.

He talked to his father, and his father did everything he could to persuade him to go on a mission. He couldn’t persuade him. The father asked his son to talk to the bishop. The bishop couldn’t persuade him. The stake president couldn’t persuade him. I talked to him, and I couldn’t persuade him. He was determined to work at this store.

Finally, when it became evident that he wasn’t going to go, his father said, “Well, what are your plans?”

“I’m going to marry Jill.”

“What does Jill have to say about it?”

“Well, I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“How do you know she’ll even marry you?”

He had just assumed that she would.

His dad told him, “You’d better talk to Jill.”

So he explained to Jill about this great job and how he would make good money. Finally, he said, “You know, with this job we can buy a house. We can start a family.”

Jill asked, “Are you proposing to me?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so.”

“What about your mission?”

“I’ve already told you that if I go on a mission, I’ll lose this job. If I lose the job, we won’t have the income. We won’t be able to get married. We won’t be able to have a home.”

Now, remember, four priesthood brethren—father, bishop, stake president, and General Authority—couldn’t sway him.

Jill looked at him and said, “No mission, no Jill.”

He was in the bishop’s office the next day filling out his papers to go on his mission.

He served a mission, and while he was serving, Jill married someone else. But he had been out on his mission long enough that he had gained a solid testimony.

When this elder came home after serving a wonderful mission, he went to his folks and said, “I’ve decided I’m going to go on to college.”

They almost fainted and said, “No one in our family has gone to college. How can you do that?”

“I don’t know, but I talked to my mission president, and he said he thought it was a good idea and, if it was right, the Lord would prepare the way.” And the Lord did prepare a way. He was a smart young man. He eventually became a dentist, married a wonderful woman, and they raised a great family.

Now the sequel to this story is that not very many years after he had started his dental practice in a different area—guess what happened? They closed the mine, in effect, closing the town. And the store that was such a big thing to him years earlier closed. It couldn’t stay in business.

What if he had followed the dictates of man or just his own feelings? He might have married Jill, and they would have had a mortgage they couldn’t have paid and a house they couldn’t have sold.

As a Montana rancher for most of my 70 years, I treasure the parable of the good shepherd, found in John 10:1–18, for I have lived it. The following experiences were particularly powerful in bringing this parable to life.
In biblical times each shepherd vocally summoned his personal flock from the many herds pooled together into a nighttime sheepfold (see vv. 3–4). Likewise, whenever I move my sheep, I simply call, and they follow.
Years ago my spry 96-year-old neighbor, Alice, who also raised sheep, became ill during lambing season, so I offered to do her night lambing. When I entered her lambing shed my first night “on duty,” Alice’s nearly 100 ewes were peacefully bedded down for the night. Yet when I appeared, they immediately sensed a stranger in their midst. Terrified, they instantly sought safety by huddling together in a far corner (see v. 5).
This continued for several nights. No matter how quietly I entered, the sheep panicked and fled. I spoke soothingly to the newborn lambs and ewes as I tended them. By the fifth night they no longer stirred as I worked among them. They had come to recognize my voice and trust me.
Sometime later I told Alice I would feed her dozen or so bum lambs their bottles. (A bum lamb is one whose mother has died or cannot produce enough milk.) Imitating Alice, I called to her lambs, “Come, BaBa! Come, BaBa!” I expected the lambs to hungrily stampede me as they did her. But not a single lamb even glanced up. Alice then stepped out her kitchen door and called. Hearing her voice, they eagerly rushed toward her, clamoring for their milk.
Intrigued, Alice and I conducted an experiment. Standing in my corral, Alice mimicked my call: “Here, lamby, lamby! Here, lamby, lamby!” and received no response whatsoever. But when I called with the exact same words, my sheep quickly surrounded me. Even though the words we used to summon the sheep were identical, our unfamiliar voices went unheeded. The sheep loyally heard only their true shepherd (see v. 4).

My family has a big raspberry bush in our backyard that always produces more berries than we can eat, so every year my dad and I would take a bowl of raspberries to a widow in our ward, Sister Hair.
I would always complain when my dad made me go with him because I was afraid Sister Hair would kiss me on the cheek, as she usually did. In fact, one time I took my nephew along so she would kiss him instead.
This went on every year until Sister Hair went to live in a rest home. Some time later, the young women in my ward went to visit her for an activity. We introduced ourselves when we walked in, but she didn’t remember any of the young women except me. She repeated my last name and said, “That’s right, she used to bring me raspberries every year.” She told us how much she had enjoyed the company and the raspberries.
As part of our visit, we sang some hymns for her. One hymn struck me in particular. As we sang, “Because I have been given much, I too must give,” (Hymns, no. 219), I felt ashamed that I hadn’t been more willing to share my friendship along with the raspberries. Sister Hair passed away shortly after our visit, but I will never forget the lesson I learned from her: that we should show gratitude for what we have by sharing it with others.

“Who’s out there, Pieter?” Charity asked.
Her younger brother shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he replied. “It looks like somebody trying to see into our shop, but the snow is too thick on the windows.”
“Why don’t they come in?” Charity hurried to the door and opened it. A gust of cold wind blew a cloud of snowflakes into the shop. Standing on the doorstep was an old man breathing deeply of the delicious fragrance of baking that drifted to him from the shop.
“Come in,” Charity said softly. “Please come in. It is warm by the fireplace.” She reached out and touched his bony elbow. Caked snow fell from his head and shoulders as he followed the girl into the shop. He was wearing a bearskin robe and deerskin moccasins.
“He’s a Canarsee Indian,” Pieter whispered to Charity.
“Please be quiet, Pieter,” Charity replied, “and get him something warm to drink while I get some apple tarts.”
The old Indian sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the huge fireplace in the back of the shop and closed his eyes. When the food was brought to him, he ate it quickly. Then he closed his eyes again and seemed to be napping.
Charity had never seen such an old Indian. While it was not unusual for Canarsee Indians to be roaming the streets of New Amsterdam during the seventeenth century, there was a law that prevented Dutch bakers from selling goods to them. But to twelve-year-old Charity, anyone who was hungry was entitled to sample her mama’s delicious Dutch apple tarts.
“What will Mama say when she comes back?” Pieter asked.
Charity replied, “I’ll explain to her that he is just a homeless and hungry old man.”
The little bell over the door of the shop tinkled, and in strode a burly Dutchman. “Well!” he exclaimed, puffing out his red cheeks. “Where is the Widow Van Elf?”
“Mama is not here now, Master Donk,” Charity told him politely. “We are waiting for her to come home. She has gone to the miller’s for more flour.”
The Dutchman looked around the shop. “Business must be good if she needs to buy more flour. Does your mama have money for the rent as well?”
Charity shook her head sadly. “No, Master Donk, business is not good. Mama has gone to ask the miller for some flour on credit. The dampness ruined our barrel of flour.”
“The rent is long overdue, Charity,” he said more kindly. “Tell her I hope that things will go better soon.”
“Yes, Master Donk, I will tell Mama what you said,” Charity replied.
When Mama returned, she was cold and discouraged. The miller had refused to lend her any more flour until she had made a payment on the flour he had loaned her last month. After Charity gave her Master Donk’s message, Mama sighed deeply. “It’s no use,” she said wearily. “We’ll just have to close our shop and move in with Aunt Jenny.”
“But we love the shop!” Charity cried. “I don’t want to leave it.”
“It isn’t what we want to do, but what we must do,” Mama responded sadly as she walked to the back of the shop. When she saw the old man, she let out a little cry in surprise. He opened his eyes, and Mama and the Indian stared at each other.
“Mama, he was hungry and out in the storm,” Charity explained. “Oh, Mama, he’s so old, and he was very hungry.”
“And so you gave him our food.”
“Just two apple tarts and something to drink.”
“Without flour I can’t make more apple tarts,” Mama replied softly. “But you did the right thing.”
“What can we do with him when we close the shop?” Pieter asked.
“We’ll worry about that later,” Mama said. “Get down the trunks and boxes so that we can start packing, Pieter.”
Later Mama cooked a simple meal of cabbage soup. While she was dishing it up, she filled an extra bowl for the old man and gave it to Charity to take to him.
The snow fell quietly all evening, drifting against the doors and windows. At bedtime Mama said, “The Indian can sleep by the fire for the night and leave tomorrow when we do.”
“I’ll give him my extra blanket,” Charity said.
“And I’ll put more wood on the fire,” said Pieter.
In the morning, the sky was still full of whirling white snowflakes. Mama and the children found the Indian sitting in front of the fireplace, just where they had left him. Charity’s extra blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and the shop was still cozy and warm.
“We have to try to make him understand that he must leave now,” Mama said. “We can’t close the shop and leave him in it.”
“The snow is still coming down hard,” Pieter replied. “If we let him sit here a little longer, maybe it will stop.”
Mama sighed deeply. “I was hoping he would leave when he saw us packing everything,” she said. “But I suppose he has nowhere else to go.”
The Indian looked from one face to the other, not understanding what they said. And after eating the warm food Charity brought to him, he closed his eyes again.
Soon a distant sound startled him awake. Mama and the children looked at each other, wondering what the noises could be. It sounded like people chanting or yelling.
The old Indian listened for a moment, then, with difficulty, rose to his feet and limped slowly to the door. As he opened the shop door, the sounds became very loud. A large group of Canarsee Indians were coursing through the narrow streets, shouting and calling. The old man gave a surprisingly lusty cry, and the entire group came running to the door of the shop.
Mama put her arms protectively around the children as the tiny shop filled with fur-clad Indians.
The old Indian stood among them, talking excitedly in his own language. From time to time he pointed to Mama and the children. When he finished talking, several of the younger men picked him up in their arms and carried him away.
A tall young Indian walked toward Mama and the children. “I speak your language,” he said. “My brothers and I want to thank you for caring for our chief, White Eagle. He said that you took him in out of the storm and gave him food, even though you didn’t have much for yourselves. We are grateful to you, for we love and respect our chief.
“We have come,” he continued, “to find our chief and to trade with the Dutch. We wish to give you some of our pelts. Please take them with our gratitude.”
One by one each Indian came forward and dropped some of his fur pelts on the floor in front of Mama and the children. Soon there was a large pile of valuable furs. Then the men left as quickly as they had come. The shop was empty. Mama and the children were alone.
No one spoke for a long time. Finally Mama said, “I never dreamed that he was the Canarsee chief!”
“Chief White Eagle,” Pieter murmured in a hushed voice.
“Oh, Mama!” Charity cried. “I thought he was just a poor, homeless, old man.”
Mama gave Charity a warm smile. “Your father certainly knew what he was doing when he named you Charity,” she said. She turned to Pieter. “We have work to do,” she told him. “While you and I carry some of these pelts to trade for flour, sugar, and other supplies, Charity can start unpacking. When we get back, we’ll all start baking cakes and pies again.”

More than 30 years ago my medical school classmates and I learned that lesson in an unforgettable way. We will never forget it. Our experience took place in the little town of Manzanillo on Mexico’s western coast. The year was 1978. We were attending a meeting with our medical school graduating class and their wives.

One evening after the scientific sessions had been completed, one of the doctors suddenly became seriously ill. Without warning, he began to lose massive amounts of blood from his stomach. Totally stunned, we surrounded him, watching life’s precious blood flow out from him. There we were, medical specialists skilled in various disciplines—including surgeons, anesthesiologists, and internists—with wisdom gained through more than 30 years of experience. What could we do? The nearest hospital was in Guadalajara, more than 100 mountainous miles away. It was night. No planes could fly. Blood transfusions were out of the question because of lack of equipment. All of our combined knowledge could not be mobilized to stop his hemorrhage. We were totally without the facilities or equipment needed to save the life of our beloved friend.

Our stricken colleague, a faithful Latter-day Saint, was well aware of his plight. Ashen and pale, he whispered a request for the administration of a priesthood blessing. Several of us held the Melchizedek Priesthood. We responded to his request immediately. I was asked to seal the anointing. The Spirit dictated that he be blessed to the end that the bleeding would stop and that he would continue to live and return to his home. That blessing was administered in the name of the Lord.

The next morning, his condition had improved. Miraculously, the bleeding had stopped. His blood pressure had returned to normal. In a couple of days he was able to return to his home. Unitedly, we thanked the Lord for this most remarkable blessing.

The lesson we learned was simple: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”7 We experienced this firsthand. This doctrine, taught repeatedly in the scriptures,8 had now become our sure and certain knowledge.

A favorite scripture that keeps David strong in the face of adversity is Doctrine and Covenants 82:10 [D&C 82:10]: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.” David says, “I know that when I apply this in my life, everything else will fall into place.”

An area in which he has put the Lord first is in Sunday matches. Though football tournaments are often scheduled on Sundays, David decided at the age of 11 that he wouldn’t play on the Sabbath. His coach and manager respected him for this decision and worked around it with him. David relates how the Lord blessed him for his obedience. “In England, matches are often postponed because of bad weather. At the end of one season, all the Sunday matches that had been deferred were played midweek instead. I was able to play in all six games—and scored thirty-two goals.” This earned him the title of top scorer for the season and a reputation as “the boy who never plays on a Sunday.”

2. If I had to choose one principle that is most basic and vitally essential to effective communication, it would have to be sincerity. Do you really mean what you are saying? Are you really convinced of that particular principle? Audiences are highly perceptive to speakers, and if you are trying to convince them of a subject that you have not personally had a positive experience with, chances are you’ll not succeed.
I remember two examples of this. Shortly after joining the Church in New Jersey, my family and I moved to Vermont. Some of the members there were not highly educated as far as schooling was concerned, nor did they pretend to be anything but simple, strong, faithful workers in the kingdom. I remember one such individual who was called upon to speak at district conference. A native of Vermont, he was in his early sixties and obviously not skilled in the art of public speaking—but I’ll never forget his words.
He began by saying he had been having difficulty living an important commandment of the Lord, (Matt. 5:43) Evidently, his boss had been treating him quite harshly and seemed to delight in giving him all the undesirable work in the factory and refusing to consider him for a promotion.
In desperation he went to the Lord in prayer and sought his help in this unbearable situation. He related that as he continued in prayer his bitterness toward his boss began to subside and he actually began to like him!
Finally, after several weeks of continued prayer, this brother, standing erect and firmly grasping the pulpit, said through tear-laden eyes, “You know, brothers and sisters, I really began to love that man.” And from that time on their relationship improved and his life in and out of the factory changed for the better. A powerful message, simple, sincere, and straight from the heart.

Not long after I was ordained a deacon, my bishop, Leon Walker, asked me into his office to give me an assignment. He handed me a bright key, the key to the chapel, and charged me with responsibility to help look after the building. I considered myself one of the most fortunate boys in the world to have an assignment from my priesthood president. I thought this would not be a difficult task. My home was just a one-minute bicycle ride away from the building. But I soon learned what I suppose all bishops know, and that is that everybody in the ward seems to have a key to the building. As soon as I had the building locked up on an evening, someone came along behind me and opened a door. As soon as I had opened a Primary classroom, some diligent soul was there behind me to lock it up again. I could hardly stay on top of that job.
But I began to learn then, as I have come to understand since, that any call, any service in our Lord’s cause sanctifies us. Whether it is performed in the glare of the public eye or in a quiet corner known only to God is of no consequence. What matters is that we do serve, for by serving we keep our covenants with Deity, and in those covenants is the promise of salvation.

The rest of Dad’s family had been converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints after Dad was grown and had left home. Uncle Bob was the youngest member of Dad’s family, and he had a special testimony of the Church.

One day Uncle Bob stacked an armload of wood and turned to my mother. The spirit was strong in his heart as he began to explain the things he had been learning in church and through study of the scriptures and personal prayer. He told her many things about the gospel of Jesus Christ and about Joseph Smith praying to know which church was true and discovering that not one of the churches in his day had the fullness of the gospel. Uncle Bob told her how Joseph Smith had been privileged to see God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, and to know for himself that They had bodies of flesh and bone, just as he had. Uncle Bob’s eyes never wavered from my mother’s face as he bore his strong testimony.

Mother didn’t believe a boy so young as Uncle Bob could know these things. She became angry at the words she was hearing and told Uncle Bob, “You may come back to my house anytime, but never mention these things here again.”

Uncle Bob loved my parents and wanted to come as often as he could. He agreed. “Aunt Ruth, I will never mention these things again in your home, I promise. I also promise you that someday you will ask me to baptize you.”

Now, this was many years ago, when young people did not speak their minds. They were expected to show respect to those who were older than they. It took a lot of courage for Uncle Bob to speak to my mother this way.

We spent many happy times with Uncle Bob. He stayed with us occasionally while our parents went to Wyoming to visit my mother’s family. He never broke his promise to my mother by again speaking of the great truths of the gospel or bearing his testimony, not even when both of our parents were away.

One year Dad was farming the Phillipi place in Mackay, Idaho. Uncle Bob came to stay for two weeks. My other sister, Jeannie, made spice cake every day. We whipped a half-gallon canful of pure cream for the topping. The smells seemed to curl around the corners of the room and out to the fields where Jack and Uncle Bob worked. It made your mouth water, it was such a tangy odor. But not even then, with a stove full of wood and a stomach full of sweet spice cake did Uncle Bob break his vow to my mother.

The years kept going by, one by one. Uncle Bob grew up, married, and had six sons and one daughter. He always stayed close to the Church. He knew that it was true. He held many callings over the years. Wherever he was needed, he served, becoming in later years a stake patriarch and a temple worker in the Portland Temple.

In 1971 Uncle Bob was fifty years old. My mother was sixty-four that year, and she was living in Powell, Wyoming. She telephoned Uncle Bob.

It’s curious—after all those years, she still remembered! Mother said, “Will you come, Bob. Will you come and baptize me?” On April 15, 1971, forty years after my uncle had made his promise to her, he baptized my mother a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

“How are you doing, Matte?” Grandmother asked.
“I’m about finished, Mormor (Grandmother). It will be ready on time.” She held up the sweater she was knitting for her grandmother’s inspection.
“You’ve done a fine job,” Grandmother said. “I’m sure that Jenny will love it.”
Matte’s American cousin was coming to Norge (Norway) for a visit. She was going to stay for the whole month of August, and Matte had many things she wanted to share with her. This sweater was one of them.
In Norge everyone wore a svetter (sweater) knitted with wool in pretty patterns. Jenny’s sweater was navy blue with white diamonds and polar bears. Polar bears were very popular, and Jenny would look stylish in it.
Matte had many plans for her cousin. Ålesund, her town, was right between two of Matte’s favorite places. On one side were forested mountains; on the other was the fjord. She would take Jenny up on the ski lift so she could look down on the countryside. After a trip to the heights, they would swim in the crystal-clear water of the fjord.
Matte had been baptized in the fjord just two months before. She planned to share that day’s special memories with her cousin while they were swimming there. She wanted to introduce Jenny to this most important part of her life—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Matte and Mormor had started talking to the missionaries after Christmas. The missionaries had taught them about Jesus Christ and the Prophet Joseph Smith. They learned that Joseph Smith was a prophet to people all over the world and that he’d translated a very important book, the Book of Mormon.
The book fascinated Matte. In school they sometimes studied about the American Indians, and she loved learning about these people who were so proud of their race and heritage. So when she’d heard that the Book of Mormon was about them, she was eager to read it.
She and Mormor had read it aloud to each other during the long winter evenings. When they finished the last sweet words of Moroni, they prayed about what they read. A calm assurance that it was true helped them decide to be baptized.
That had started a new life for Matte Pedersen. The very first Sunday after her baptism, Soster (Sister) Hansen introduced herself as the Lykkefroken (Merrie Miss) teacher. Matte was to be in her class. Although there was just one other girl, Solveig, they had a lot of fun. On Sundays, Soster Hansen taught them many important things from the scriptures.
On their activity days, they learned different kinds of things. Soster Hansen helped them make their own bunad (national costume). When May 17, Constitution Day, came around, the girls proudly wore the beautiful dresses and aprons that they had made.
The Lykkefroken class was going to Bror (Brother) Olsen’s farm next week. Matte, Jenny, and Solveig would cut the sweet-scented hay with scythes and hang it to dry on racks. They’d gather speckled eggs and help milk the cow. Oh, how delicious that warm milk would be! Then they’d help Soster Olsen churn the cream into butter. It would be so much fun. Jenny was sure to like it!
Matte finished the last stitch on the svetter and cut the yarn. Carefully she worked the end into the pattern so that it wouldn’t unravel. “There,” she said happily. “It’s finished. I hope she likes it.”
The next morning she and Mormor were up early. They wanted to have the house sparkling clean, with supper waiting, when Jenny and Aunt Louise arrived.
At the sound of a car horn, Matte ran to the window. They were here! Rushing to the door, she was swept into Aunt Louise’s arms for a big hug. Then she faced Jenny. It was like looking in a mirror! She had blond hair streaked by the sun, and apple-red cheeks. Blue eyes like her own looked shyly back at her.
“Welcome to Norge,” Matte said, hugging her cousin.
“Thank you, Matte.”
“Come to my room,” Matte said. “I have something for you.” In the bedroom, she handed the tissue-wrapped present to her cousin. “I made it myself!”
“It’s beautiful!” Jenny exclaimed as she unwrapped the sweater and admired the intricate pattern. “I can’t believe you knitted this yourself! Now I don’t know if I should give you the present I made. It’s not anything like this!”
“I’d love to have it. Please?”
Jenny ran into the other room and dragged a suitcase back with her. Opening the case, she pulled out a present. Matte admired the beautiful wrapping, then carefully opened it. Inside was a wooden embroidery hoop with a message cross-stitched on cloth: I can follow God’s plan for me.
Matte felt excitement build inside her. She understood English very well but wasn’t quite sure she interpreted the motto right. Finally she grinned at her cousin and gave her a hug. “You’re a Lykkefroken like me!” Seeing Jenny’s puzzled look, she added, “A Merrie Miss. You’re a Latter-day Saint too!”
Laughing and hugging, the girls eagerly told each other of their baptism days, one in Norway and one in America. It was a wonderful surprise to learn that they were both members of the Church.
“Since we can’t introduce the gospel to each other,” Matte said with a twinkle in her eye, “maybe we’ll find someone else to teach it to this summer!”

Photo illustration by David Stoker
When I was 12, the girls I thought were my four best friends decided they didn’t want to be friends with me. They began to say horrible and hateful things about me. I felt unloved, unwanted, unneeded, and worthless. I thought I would never feel happy again.
I tried and tried, but the happiness just never came. I didn’t want to do anything, and I stopped participating in school activities. After a few months of feeling like everything was falling apart, I started to hide my feelings and pretend to be happy.
I stopped praying, and I complained anytime I had to go to church or midweek activities. My former friends had constantly teased me about being a member of the Church. I told myself that if I stopped going to church and living the standards, I could get my friends back.
I tried and tried, but the happiness just never came.
But after a few months, I realized that I needed to rely more on the Savior when I was feeling hurt and lonely. Jesus Christ felt all of my pain. He died on the cross for me, and I was setting aside His sacrifice and His gospel. I started complaining less and less until, finally, Sunday was my favorite day of the week.
Even after going to church, something still didn’t feel right. I decided I needed to pray. I couldn’t remember the last time I had prayed. Before I could think twice about it, I knelt down and started to pray. I cried to Heavenly Father about everything that had happened. I apologized for forgetting Him when He was what I needed most.
After I finished my prayer, I had a very strong impression to go look at my scriptures. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just opened up to a random page and started reading. I came across Mosiah 26:31: “Ye shall also forgive one another your trespasses; … he that forgiveth not his neighbor’s trespasses when he says that he repents, the same hath brought himself under condemnation.”
After I finished my prayer, I had a very strong impression to go look at my scriptures.
I realized that my pain and unhappiness weren’t simply caused by what those girls had said or done to me. I was unhappy because I was holding a grudge against my former best friends, and I blamed myself for letting them hurt me. By not forgiving them or myself, I became my biggest bully.
I prayed that I would be able to forgive the girls who had hurt me and that I could forgive myself. Forgiving them was so hard for me, and it took a while. Forgiving them was like letting a piece of myself fall away. But after fully forgiving them, I felt that I could move on and learn from what happened to me by helping the people around me who might be struggling.
I don’t know why I let myself be sad for over a year, and I honestly have no idea why I thought being away from the Church would make me happier. Clearly, I was wrong. Even though it was still hard to feel happy and to forgive after that time, keeping an eternal perspective and focusing on Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation really helped me. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were there for me the whole time I was struggling; I had just been too stubborn to turn to Them. I’m glad I eventually did.
I am grateful for what I learned from my experience. I am a stronger, more compassionate, all-around better person because of it. I have been able to help so many people through their hard times because of my own. I have a strong belief that trials really can lead to blessings when we turn to God.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

These profiles can have a profound influence for good. Two months ago a young man named Zac—a freshman in college—saw an ad for mormon.org on television in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He connected with the website and was intrigued by the profiles of Church members. At our website he found the link that informed him where he could attend church. The next Sunday, dressed in a white shirt and tie, he attended church, was introduced to members of the ward, and enjoyed all three hours of meetings. He was invited to a member’s home for dinner, followed by his first missionary lesson. In less than two weeks, he was baptized and confirmed as a member of the Church. Welcome, Zac! (He is listening.)

In 1973, my husband and I sat calmly listening to a Church speaker describe how disfellowshipments and excommunications had increased in recent years within the Church. As I shook my head sadly, feeling secure in my temple marriage, testimony, and Church activity, I hadn’t the least notion at that time of how my future would be devastatingly affected by this process.
My life was drastically altered some seven years later when my husband, an active Melchizedek Priesthood holder, returned missionary, former bishopric member, and father to our six children, was called before a Church court and disfellowshipped.
I felt rejected, betrayed, and frightened that this could happen to me. As I poured out my soul to the Lord, searching for answers, I learned eternal truths that helped me through this heartrending experience. In a way only he could do, the Lord has mercifully stood me back on my feet, both emotionally and spiritually.
I’m convinced my anguish couldn’t have been more intense had I been the one disciplined in court. I had tried long and hard to do all the Lord asked of me. I’d married a wonderful young man who glowed with a testimony of the gospel, and I now felt betrayed. He had changed, and I had no control over the situation. I wept for our young son approaching Aaronic Priesthood age and wondered how we could explain that his father could not confer this precious priesthood on him. Another son would be baptized in a short time. Again we would have to search for an explanation. I was afraid to face family, friends, and ward members. Although I’d done my best to assure myself and my children of happiness, it seemed as though I were living in a nightmare.
Finding a way to deal with grief and disappointment developed into a full-time job. Needing someone to talk to, I turned to the Lord for help and comfort. He became my loving counselor.
Several years earlier, at the death of our infant son, I had blamed myself for the loss. An understanding doctor wisely counseled that this was common, but nonetheless wrong. A grieving person naturally searches for something he might have done to prevent tragedy. “Don’t give in to the temptation to blame yourself,” he advised.
Following the Church court, I found myself falling into this trap again. Gradually I realized I could neither control nor take responsibility for my husband’s actions. I began to concentrate on the things I could control and change in myself.
At the same time I tried to accept not only my situation, but my husband as well. I learned that comparing our spiritual progress to that of other couples was useless. When I read about exemplary fathers and husbands, I still struggled with discouragement. Yet I was able to tell myself, “Their situations are different. The Lord will help me with mine.” As I expressed gratitude for blessings I did have, a loving acceptance grew within me. Along with it, the attitude in our entire family improved. To my amazement, I discovered times when I was happier and more at peace than I’d been in years.
Sometimes I hesitated asking for certain blessings, fearing that my husband’s situation might prevent our receiving them. The Lord quickly dismissed my apprehension, however, and over the years presented us with material and spiritual blessings.
My self-esteem had been shattered by our experience with the disfellowshipment. I was busy many hours each week, serving as president of one of the ward auxiliaries. How could the Lord, or for that matter, the bishop, possibly expect me to continue in this calling? Emotionally and physically, I was drained. But nothing was mentioned concerning my release, and I stayed in that position. I later understood this to be the Lord’s way of demonstrating a need for my abilities. At the same time, our children continued to do well in and out of school. Here the Lord was assuring me that we weren’t failing as parents. These experiences lifted me and convinced me of my worth.
As the weeks, months, and years went by, the pain sometimes grew less and sometimes grew stronger. I got used to most people avoiding the issue in conversation. Few got past the fear of not knowing what to say, and so said nothing. I’ll always appreciate the friend who sincerely asked, “How are things going?” and listened patiently as I told her.
The Lord continued to comfort and teach me. Often I complained about my husband’s unwillingness to change. Without exception, Heavenly Father refused to accept my criticism. Through inspiration he referred me, in a loving way, to scriptures on tolerance. He also reminded me of my special role as a wife. I was convinced that parts of Doctrine and Covenants 25, where the Lord calls Emma Smith to aid and comfort her husband, applied as much to me as to Emma. Over and over I read this section, each time believing more in my husband’s worth.
I prayed regularly for an increase in love toward my husband. The Lord answered in unusual, but practical ways. I sought opportunities to give of myself, knowing those we serve become those we love. I didn’t have to look far, as my husband was hurt in three minor accidents within a year. During his short convalescent periods at home I provided emotional care and concern. I was rewarded many times over with greater love and appreciation for him.
I realized, too, that my service didn’t need to be a huge undertaking. Since my husband was away from home much of the time, I tried to make him the center of my attention when he was at home. Saying something positive or complimentary to him each day grew from a challenge into a habit. I also refrained from criticizing my husband, either to him or anyone else. These small efforts worked wonders. Like a dying plant rediscovering light and nourishment, our love regained vitality.
I drew great comfort and hope from the twenty-seventh chapter of Mosiah. Here an angel appears to Alma the Younger because of the faith and prayers of his father. (See Mosiah 27:8–17.) Through this scripture the Lord assured me that he answers prayers said in behalf of others. I have made it a point to never cease praying for my husband. More difficult, but just as important, is maintaining faith that one day his heart will change.
Charity, I’ve also discovered, is a gift from God. Shortly after the Church court, I was suddenly consumed with a deep affection and acceptance for my husband. I longed to help and support him in every possible way. This sweet sensation stayed long enough for me to realize that I wanted it always. I pray regularly, as Moroni suggested, “with all the energy of heart [to] be filled with this love.” (Moro. 7:48.)
My husband has now been reinstated into the Church. Though many changes for good have come, his gospel commitment and spiritual desire for activity have yet to return. I’ve accepted the fact, however, that only he can control those things. Instead of focusing on our failures, I can now express gratitude for the things we’re doing right. I’ve discovered, to my surprise, that it’s possible to be happy in any situation. I’ve also learned that through the most painful experience of my life has come my greatest growth.
Editor’s note: At the author’s request, her name has been withheld.