Gospel Story Finder

A striking feature of the effect of a deepened understanding of Christ’s love is how such comprehension dignifies and lifts the individual to action. Julia Mavimbela, a Church member in Soweto, South Africa, tells how her conversion brought her from bitterness at her life’s circumstances to faith and strength to help those around her and beyond her. She taught gardening to relieve hunger, and she organized women for peace to calm their strife-torn country.

Darrell graduated in 1997 and attended Brigham Young University in Utah, USA to complete his master’s degree. From there, he moved to New York City to study at the Manhattan School of Music, for his third degree in the subject he had once failed while still a struggling schoolboy.

Whilst in New York he met and married Jennifer Welch, a renowned opera singer in her own right. In 2005 Darrell, Jenny and their two little sons moved back to Utah where they were both asked to teach at BYU. Darrell was eventually offered a full-time position, and Jenny decided to be a full-time mother.

As a professor of music for 14 years, Darrell was hugely successful, with his students winning major international opera competitions. One of his students, Rachel Willis-Sørensen, was invited to sing at Prince Charles’ 70th birthday party at Buckingham Palace, who has since gone on to be a highly successful recording artist.

In 2019, Darrell was approached by the world-renowned Juilliard School and offered a full-time faculty position. Darrell, Jenny and now five children moved back to New York.

In 2021 it was announced that Darrell would be chair of the music faculty at the Juilliard School. It can be no surprise to learn that his students have also won many competitions and have appeared on The Voice and America’s Got Talent. One student has also been nominated for a Grammy award.

One day on the way home from school, “T” took exception to the way his cousin George was treating Joe, “T’s” younger brother.
“I finally said, ‘If you do that once more, I’ll hit you one that you’ll remember.’ He went ahead and as a result we had a real fist fight. During the encounter, I brought blood from George’s nose, and we had quite a struggle in the dirt.
“It finally ended, and George went home as we did. When I arrived home Mother noticed the blood on my hands and on my shirt and asked what had happened. Of course, I explained. She didn’t chastise me for defending my younger and smaller brother, but she did say, ‘T,’ I’m right out of yeast. I want you to go over to Aunt Lulu’s (George’s mother) and get a start of yeast.’ I said, ‘Mother, don’t ask me to do that after I’ve had this encounter with George.’ She said, ‘That makes no difference. I need the yeast and I want you to go through the field and get the start.’”
Needless to say, “T” learned more about settling disputes than a lecture could have taught him.

But they would tell more than this story when they talked of Catherine. Born 7 January 1855, sixteen months after her parents, who were pioneers, arrived in Salt Lake, Catherine was seven years old when her family was called to help settle Saint George in southern Utah. Catherine remembers that first Christmas in southern Utah. In her stocking, she found a few pieces of molasses candy, some raisins, and a slice from an apple that her mother had brought all the way from Salt Lake City. Her father carved thirteen dolls, and an artistic neighbor painted hair and faces on them. That Christmas, Catherine and twelve other little girls had dolls.

Five-year-old Cammie liked to color. When her brother Ryan was sick in the hospital, she drew a picture of a smiling nurse for him. The doctor hung it next to Ryan’s crib. “Ryan will feel better knowing you are thinking about him,” Mommy said.
Sometimes Cammie’s friends asked her to draw pictures for them. “Please draw a princess that looks like me,” Rachel said. So Cammie did.
Cammie even liked to color rocks. Grandma often came to see rows of Cammie’s colorful pebbles laid neatly on the porch. “Can I buy a few?” Grandma asked. She handed Cammie two coins, then picked up a big striped rock and a pebble with blue polka dots.
Cammie was glad that her artwork made others happy, but she wanted to make Heavenly Father happy too. One Sunday after church, she decided to draw a picture just for Him. First she drew her family. She colored green grass and flowers below their feet. Then she drew clouds and a big shining sun. Above the clouds, she drew smiling angels looking down on earth. She knew Heavenly Father was in heaven watching her too. Sighing happily, she put away the crayons.
Now what? Whenever she drew a picture for Mommy and Daddy, they hung it on the fridge or put it in a scrapbook. Cammie wondered how she could give her special picture to Heavenly Father.
That night before bed, she placed the drawing on the middle of her tidy bedroom floor. Then she said a prayer. “Heavenly Father, I made this picture just for you.”
The next morning, Cammie hopped out of bed, hoping the drawing would be gone. But there it lay, right where she had left it. She frowned, tears tickling the corners of her eyes. “Maybe Heavenly Father doesn’t like my picture,” she worried.
All day Cammie wondered. If Heavenly Father didn’t want a picture, how could she show Him that she was thinking about Him? Cammie thought and thought.
That night, she said her prayers again. She thanked Heavenly Father for a beautiful day and for her family and the fun things she did. She asked Him to watch over her as she slept, and she told Him she loved Him. Then she crawled into bed.
As she lay there, her blankets seemed to grow warmer. They grew warmer and heavier until Cammie realized the feeling wasn’t from her blankets at all—it was inside her heart.
“I can pray to show Heavenly Father I’m thinking of Him!” she realized.
And this warm feeling from the Holy Ghost was her answer—Heavenly Father was thinking of her too.

After the martyrdom of the prophet, the Lord took the Church to a new frontier almost as immediately as he had introduced the Restoration itself. A new prophet was called, with a new voice and different gifts. And just like in Kirtland, the Saints were again asked to leave behind what had only just become familiar and comfortable. Newly constructed homes, meetinghouses and businesses would soon be left abandoned. I marvel at the words of pioneer sister Bathsheba Smith who described what she left behind in Nauvoo: My last act in that precious spot was to tidy the rooms, sweep up the floor, set the broom in its accustomed place behind the door. And then with the emotions in my heart . . . I gently closed the door and faced the unknown future.

You know, talking about roommates and things like that, we so often pass through life without having the least inkling of how our actions may be negatively affecting others. Sometimes we need to think about how something will make people feel before we act. This reminds me of an event that happened in my life years ago. In my ward, back when I was a teenager and a relatively new convert, they had what was called a missionary board. This missionary board had a map of the world in the middle and photos of the missionaries from the ward on the sides. There were strings of yarn going from the photos of the missionaries to the places where they were serving. At the very bottom of the missionary board there was a space entitled Future Missionaries. My picture was there along with all the other members of the Priests Quorum. There was one problem however. The girls in the ward used to steal the Priests' pictures. Well, let me clarify that; almost all the Priests' pictures. I and this other guy, we never got our pictures stolen. Every Sunday, the first thing I and my friend did was go immediately to the missionary board, hoping and praying our pictures would be no longer there, but alas, everyday, our smiling faces were still there, smiling back at us under the title of Future Missionaries.

What were those girls thinking? What were they thinking? The least they could have done is stolen my picture too. I don't care what they would have done with it after they stole it. They could have drawn a big moustache on me and given me long sideburns, they could have thrown darts at it, I really don't care, but they should have at least stolen my picture. You know, this makes me think about life. Life affords us many opportunities to symbolically steal people's pictures. Most go unused. There are many of your brothers and sisters out there awaiting your attention.

Those who have been bullied throughout their lives, by loving and respecting them, you can steal their picture. Those who may be unintentionally irritating, by being patient with them, you can steal their picture. Those who have never been popular and have no confidence in themselves, by just saying hi to them, and including them in your conversations with others, you can steal their picture.

I walked briskly to the campus library, a number of thoughts racing through my mind. The sun was bright, turning the snow to glitter. The mountains stood majestic against the blue sky, begging me to stop and gaze for a while. But there was no time. Despite the beauty of the day, I had to study. Other students passed me, anxious as I was to prepare for midterms. I felt, however, that they would not have the same difficulty studying that would inevitably confront me. I tried to squelch these negative thoughts, telling myself that this time it would be different. I pushed the library door open and was hit by a warm blast of air, a welcome contrast to the chilling temperatures of February. As I hurried down the stairs to the second floor, I mentally reviewed the composers I needed to know for my humanities test.
Music had always been a part of my life. My grandfather was a percussionist for the Cleveland Orchestra, and both my parents sang and played instruments. We children inherited our parents’ love for music and were all involved in both playing instruments and singing. The holidays were wonderful as we vocalized our way to our grandparents’ house. And at home, singing always accompanied vacuuming, dishwashing, or any other task that didn’t require mental concentration. Not only did I love music, but I loved to write words to simple melodies. Sometimes the words would be serious, expressing my innermost sentiments; other times they would be nonsensical, usually written to entertain the children I baby-sat. Now here I was at Brigham Young University studying the humanities and having a difficult time. Try as I might, for several weeks I had not been able to retain the information needed to do well in my schoolwork. Maybe I would do better today.
I quickly situated my coat on an adjacent chair and opened my humanities book. Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, born 1756 in Austria and died 1791. Composer of …
It started. “Not today!” I silently prayed. “Oh please, not today!” A confusion and blackness interfered with my train of thought. For two weeks now I had battled this. Every time I tried to concentrate on an important matter it happened. A stream of black, evil thoughts from an outside force would fill my mind. As a recent convert to the Church I was just learning ways to overcome the adversary. I had tried prayer, petitioning the Lord for help. But still this black cloud entered my thought process making it impossible to study or read.
“Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born 17 … 16. … I couldn’t remember. I felt my mind being pulled in different directions. As I tried to memorize, a hazy blackness distorted my thinking. Wolfgang … Mozart, what was his middle name? Words bounced around in my head having nothing to do with the subject at hand. Try again. Ignore the confusion in your mind. Who was I studying? I glanced back at the page telling of Mozart’s life. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born 1756 … a deluge of vulgar words made their entrance.
Frustration mounted within me as the intensity of this blackness grew stronger. I felt my head would burst. My eyes filled with tears. “Please, Father,” I pleaded silently, “Please help me. I can’t go through this much longer.”
No sooner had I offered up this prayer than the heavens responded. Cutting through the confusion, a beautiful poem was spoken to my mind—not only spoken, but imprinted so that after hearing it only once I knew it by memory. Each word was clear and full of meaning. The mental anguish I had experienced moments before gave way to a beautiful message of hope:
Fear not, I am with thee;
Oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee,
And cause thee to stand,
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.
For the next few minutes I sat awestruck, marveling over what had happened. It was hard for me to grasp the idea that God not only answered my prayer but answered it in an artistic way. Not that I thought him incapable, but I found it hard to comprehend that God would take time to relate to my specific personality in such a personal way. I repeated each word to myself, thinking about God’s message to me. He really loved and cared about me. He knew all the frustrations I had experienced, and before they became too much to handle, came to my aid. I believed what he said to me; he would never forsake me. I let the wonder of this experience sink into my soul as I studied for my test.

I was down in California some time ago and found a missionary there preaching some false doctrine. I heard him say to a contact, “Missionaries don’t get paid; we work for nothing.”

When the contact had gone I said to the missionary, “Now, that’s the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard anybody make in my life. How did you ever figure out that missionaries didn’t get paid? I thought the Lord said that if you labor all your days and bring just one soul unto him your reward is going to be very great.”

I asked him if he remembered what the Lord has said about the worth of the soul being greater than the wealth of all of the earth, and he did. I asked him if he knew what the earth was worth, and he did not. I had a newspaper clipping that said the assessed valuation of just one little section of the United States alone—California, Arizona, and Nevada—was over a trillion dollars. I got this elder a piece of paper and a pencil and had him write a trillion dollars down on the paper—it has twelve zeros, in case you have never seen it written. He had brought in a convert each month for the past twelve months, which was all the time he had been out; so I had him figure out that if he worked thirty days a month and ten hours a day, that would be three hundred hours’ work to save a trillion-dollar soul. Then I had him divide a trillion by three hundred and he figured he was getting three billion three hundred thirty-three million dollars per hour.

I asked him, “What is the most that anybody ever paid you when you were at home?”

He said, “Seventy-five cents.”

I said, “All right, now what were you trying to get those poor people to believe when you said that a missionary doesn’t get paid?”

As my research on Hyrum continued, my friend suggested I compile the work into a book. I had never anticipated writing a book. Had he not asked me to do so, I would never have done it. But, in March 2001, I began.

Within a few weeks, knowledgeable people told me that there was a potential conflict between what I was doing and what some professionals in the field were working on. They told me to wait until these problems could be resolved. I had no experience with which to counter their cautions, but I had a strong feeling in my heart. In fact, it was more than a feeling.

President Marion G. Romney once said, "I know what Enos meant when he said, the voice of the Lord came into my mind ...' (Enos 10.) By this means," President Romney continued, "I have received in sentences answers to my prayers."

That is often the case for me. I get feelings and impression, but sometimes I get sentences. Amid those mortal voices telling me to wait, an immutable voice spoke to my heart and said, "Go forward."

That was all it said. No fanfare. No details. No explanation. None was needed. The direction was simple. Just go forward.

Like the message I had received a year earlier about willingness, this one proclaimed a theme in Hyrum's life. Hyrum was always going forward and he was always on the right course.

In the weeks that followed my personal "go forward" experience, I wrote the entire first draft of Hyrum Smith's biography. Reading through my journal, I am amazed at the experiences I had during that time. I felt that the Lord was helping me”and, perhaps, Hyrum too. As it turned out, the conflict either evaporated or it was resolved by means never explained to me. No one ever contacted me to tell me it was alright to proceed. Had I waited, I might still be waiting, and I would have only wasted time. Instead, I just followed the impression I had received and went forward.

A couple of years ago, my grandson Christian was turning eight and planning his baptismal service with great anticipation. He asked his mother if I could be one of the speakers and share my conversion story. When I asked him why he wanted me to do that, he replied, “Grandma, that is so important. Do you realize that if you hadn’t accepted the gospel, I wouldn’t be getting baptized? I wouldn’t even be who I am.”

I don’t know if missionaries realize the far-reaching impact of their work. In my own family, the blessings of the gospel have now touched four generations. Didn’t President Gordon B. Hinckley say that “when we save a girl, we save generations”? I got married in the temple and have eight children. They are all faithful members of the Church, endowed in the temple. Six of them are now married and have their own children. At present there are 34 of us. And that is not all. Both my husband and I served missions, and our two sons and three of our six daughters have also served missions. Collectively we have helped hundreds embrace the gospel in many countries. Some of those converts and their children have also served missions.

Missionary work is the lifeblood of the Church. There is no greater work, no more important work. It blesses the lives of all those who participate in it. It will continue blessing future generations.

Liriel was baptized at age 14 after being introduced to the Church by her older sister, Patricia, who lived in another part of the country.
“She invited us to church while visiting home one time,” Liriel says. “The people were spiritual and neatly dressed. They all had standards that I liked. I was very happy. I felt the power of the Holy Ghost working in my heart. I was hungry for the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Not long after their introduction to the Church, Liriel and her younger sister Priscila were baptized. Their mother later followed. Liriel and Priscila jumped wholeheartedly into the Young Women program.
“Lots of times we were in the same class, and we were very united,” Liriel says. “We’d reach one Personal Progress goal and then talk about working toward our next goal.”
Before long, Liriel had earned the Young Womanhood Recognition—the medallion she would wear in front of millions. To her, the medallion represented her desire to follow the Savior.
“Earning my Young Women medallion was an accomplishment,” she says. “To me it means that I am spiritually prepared for temple marriage and a family.”
She wishes all young women would earn a medallion. “It doesn’t matter what age you are, as you look at your medallion you will always remember the goals you reached, what it represents to you, and the preparation it gave you for life,” she says.

But Rei was no nature-loving recluse. He loved his fellowmen as well. Shortly after his marriage a close relative died. Rei and his new bride accepted the responsibility of becoming the parents of the orphans. Some years later his wife caught typhoid while nursing a sick child after a disastrous flood and died.
Eventually Rei remarried; his new wife was a shy, beautiful young Maori widow. She became a warm and loving mother to her instant family of ten children. Together, she and Rei had four more children, in addition to foster children. To date, the Hamons have been parents to thirty-one children, many of them orphans.

Let me share with you the experience of Barry Bonnell and Dale Murphy, well-known professional baseball players formerly with the Atlanta Braves baseball club. Each is a convert to the Church. …
“An experience occurred during the 1978 season that Barry described as ‘life changing.’ He was struggling terribly, batting about .200. Because of his poor performance, he was down on himself and felt miserable. He really didn’t want to go when Dale Murphy asked him to come along to the hospital, but he went anyway. There he met Ricky Little, a stalwart Braves’ supporter, but a youngster afflicted with leukemia. It was readily apparent that Ricky was near death. Barry felt a deep desire to think of something comforting to say but nothing seemed adequate. Finally, he asked if there was anything they could do. The youngster hesitated, and then asked if they would each hit a home run for him during the next game. Barry said [later], “That request wasn’t such a hard thing for Dale, who in fact hit two homers that night, but I was struggling at the plate and hadn’t hit a homer all year. Then I felt a warm feeling come over me and I told Ricky to count on it.” That night, Barry hit his only home run of the season. A child’s prayer had been answered, a child’s wish had been fulfilled. … May our Heavenly Father ever bless these sweet souls, these special friends of the Master.

In the Mormon Message “Become,” Clark Manmureen tells his story of finding success after his father passed away when he was 11, and he lost his mother three years later. To achieve most success, Clark had to take initiative. To earn money for college, Clark started a landscaping company. In a few years, he was able to pay for all of his undergraduate degree with the money he earned.
After two years working as a general contractor, Clark decided to start his own company. During this time, he was faced with many challenges that required him to learn something new or difficult. He relied heavily on Heavenly Father to help him learn the skills he needed in his fledgling business. Today he thanks the Lord for the success of his business. “The Spirit is not only there to teach you spiritual things,” Clark says. “It’s there to help you learn skills.”
Offer frequent and sincere prayers. While building the ship, Nephi “[prayed] oft unto the Lord” (1 Nephi 18:3) in order to be shown each step and receive revelation. Clark likewise utilized prayer as he started his business. “There were moments on one of the jobs that I just had to say a prayer,” Clark recalls. “I said, ‘Help me figure this out. I don’t know what to do.’ And sure enough, within the next couple of hours, I was able to solve the problem, and it was fixed.” As we pray to the Lord for help in developing a specific practical skill, He will give us the direction we need.
Show humility. The Lord’s way of constructing a ship was different from the way that most boats were constructed in Nephi’s time. Nephi writes, “I … did not work the timbers after the manner which was learned by man, neither did I build the ship after the manner of men; but I did build it after the manner which the Lord had shown unto me” (1 Nephi 18:2). In this, Nephi’s lack of formal training in boat construction actually benefitted him. It forced him to approach the Lord in humility instead of leaning “unto [his] own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). Of his own experiences, Clark says, “Relying on Heavenly Father to help you through [challenges]—it’s humbling. It’s hard knowing that you’re not always in control. But He has better plans.”
Be patient. Skills do not come immediately, even with the Lord’s help. Nephi likely confronted many trials as he built the ship, because he had to “go into the mount oft” (1 Nephi 18:3) to commune with the Lord. When starting his company, Clark likewise faced many challenges. “You make mistakes,” Clark says. “Through trial and error, you figure out what works best, what you need to change.” When you’re patient through times of trial and continue to return to the Lord for assistance, it allows Him to teach you the necessary skills in His time and His way.
Be willing to work. The Lord can’t help us develop skills if we aren’t willing to help ourselves. Both Clark and Nephi worked hard to achieve their goals. Nephi had to build much of the ship on his own and Clark put long hours of work into his job to reach his goals. “Being self-reliant spiritually is relying on Heavenly Father. You’re doing your best and then allowing him to do the rest.”

My mind tuned in and out as the teacher explained the finer points of perspective drawing. I tried to concentrate, but to no avail. My mind kept wandering.
My thoughts were interrupted by the girl sitting next to me. She was tapping my shoulder, wanting to borrow an eraser. I complied and watched my eraser terminate an entire line of notes from her drawing pad.
As she handed it back, I noticed the eraser. It was gray, made of kneaded rubber, malleable and stretchy. These erasers seem to be a bit of magic. They never wear out; they just keep cleaning up your mistakes, no matter how dark. They’re better than any kind of eraser I’ve ever used.
Then a forceful thought came to me: how this small, gray eraser paralleled repentance. I recalled the words to a scripture in Isaiah: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isa. 1:18). Perhaps Isaiah’s plea for repentance would have been more easily understood if it went, “Though your sins be as graphite …”
Suddenly I heard people moving around me. I came out of my meditation. Class was finally over. As I gathered my materials, I heard the teacher say: “The best artist is the one who can see his mistakes and correct them.”
The day’s lesson was well learned.

In the summer of 1975 I was 25, and my father had just died. He had been involved in the Canadian oil and gas industry with business interests in other parts of the world. I traveled to Europe and spent a considerable amount of time settling his business dealings there for my mother.

After hours of business meetings each day, my colleagues would take me downtown to relax at a famous shopping and promenade area on one of the busiest streets in the city.

With one of the hottest summers on record, it seemed that all the tourists in Europe were on that street. You could see people of various nationalities strolling by, sometimes in native costume or scantily dressed because of the heat.

The street was lined with exclusive stores selling expensive products, but some of the sordid side of life was obvious there as well—pornographic theaters, so-called adult bookstores, and taverns. And, in direct contrast to everything around them, four Latter-day Saint missionaries with a missionary street display.

Their presence seemed amazing, even to a nonmember like me. On this street, where much of what is bad in society was represented, the missionaries were an island of spirituality.

Because I was still discussing business, I was unable to go talk with the missionaries, but I watched them. I noticed that none of the young men looked at the young ladies walking down the street no matter how scantily dressed the girls were. I was quite impressed with that. I decided that I would go back and meet them in the evening when I was free of work, but every time I went to find them, they were gone. I could never seem to find them.

I had to leave the city for a few days, but shortly after my return, I saw two missionaries walking down that same street. I later discovered it would have been their preparation day.

As they walked, they would look in the shop windows. I decided to follow and look in the windows that they looked into to see what interested them. I discovered that they were looking at shoes or coats, and when they did look into a bookstore, it was one that sold only text books. They did not stare into the wine shops or other shops that offered immoral literature or art.

I planned to meet the missionaries at their street display within the next day or two, but suddenly the business deal was completed, and I was on my way back to Canada.

When I got home, I forgot some of the feelings I had experienced watching the missionaries. However, through a friend’s referral, some missionaries made an appointment with me.

As I let the two young men into my apartment, I had the same feelings I felt on the street in Europe when I saw the missionaries there. I sat down and listened to the first discussion. I looked into the eyes of the elders, conscious of the sincerity of their testimonies, and felt that I had known them all my life. After several weeks of missionary discussions, I joined the Church.

I have often thought about the missionaries I saw in Europe. If the two missionaries I followed had stopped in front of a tavern and had been laughing and joking about beer, or if they had gone into some of the stores that you might expect young people to be curious about, the impact of their example on me would have been lost.

The world walked by those missionaries that summer. They never knew I was watching and that their presence bore testimony to me. They never knew that their example was what affected me and made me receptive to the gospel message. Although they never spoke to many of the people on that street, I wonder how many others were influenced as I was just by their example.

I ended up in the Orient, flying the same kind of bombers that my brother flew in England. My mission, as it turned out, was in teaching the gospel in Japan as a serviceman.
Perhaps the hardest challenge of war is living with uncertainties, not knowing how it will end or if we can go ahead with our lives.
I was issued a small serviceman’s Book of Mormon that would fit into my pocket. I carried it everywhere; I read it; and it became part of me. Things that had been a question became certain to me.
The certainties of the gospel, the truth, once you understand it, will see you through these difficult times.
It was four years before we could return to our lives. But I had learned and had a sure testimony that God is our Father, that we are His children, and that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is true.

Lest anyone believe I am announcing or planning dramatic changes in the university, let me promise you that I am not doing so. But let me also assure you that as our circumstances change and the needs of our students and community differentiate, so must the way in which the university conducts its teaching, learning, and other businesses be responsive to our current environment. As I make this observation, I am reminded of an experience President Henry B. Eyring shared with some of us a few years ago.

President Henry B. Eyring in his early years in Church Educational System leadership was asked by President Spencer W. Kimball to chair a committee of educators to think about and report on the distant future of education in the Church. As he visited with the prophet, President Eyring opined that universities would likely not exist in the Millennium as we know them today. He was stopped by President Kimball, who disagreed and made the case to Brother Eyring that universities had developed in ways that had resulted in great good over many years and likely would be found in recognizable ways for a very long time. I believe President Kimball convinced young Brother Eyring of this likelihood, and I know he and the other presiding Brethren feel the same today.

One day I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “Yes, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said.
He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?”
And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Jesus Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth several times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, and a military general in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you’re a Christian?”
“Yes, I’m a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”