Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago, while on a family vacation, my wife, Pat, and I enjoyed a picnic lunch with our four small children in a city park somewhere in the middle of Kansas. When it was almost time to be on our way, a man approached Pat’s side of the car and asked if he might have something to eat. We nervously glanced at each other and then said no. The man thanked us and sat down at the table we had just left.
Suddenly, I felt heartless. I realized that I might have misjudged someone who may have truly been in need. Now I did want to help him.
When I expressed these feelings to Pat, she seemed relieved. “We do have plenty of food,” she replied. “I’ll prepare a plate, and you can take it to him.” She fixed a heaping portion.
The man was pleasant and friendly and seemed unconcerned when I apologized for our earlier response. He thanked me for the food and said he was returning from the wheat harvest in the Dakotas and hadn’t had anything to eat for a long while.
It was a simple thing, so simple that it makes me ashamed to think I yielded to my first impulse to say no.
From experiences such as these, each of us can begin to perceive the difference in the way we feel after we have been selfish or generous. Certainly, we all want to feel the latter more often—and we can do so as we give of ourselves to others.

Illustration by Allen Garns
One Sunday during sacrament meeting, I sensed something that disturbed me. I did not know what it was, but the feeling would not leave. I looked nervously at the clock and longed for the end of the meeting. This was unusual for me.
After the closing prayer, the feeling was still there. I glanced around the chapel and noticed a man clutching his chest. I went to him, and he asked if I would take him to the train station. I told him I should take him to the emergency room instead. He said he had medication at home that would help him. I told him I would drive him home because taking a train in his condition would be too dangerous.
I helped him into my car and asked again if I should take him to the doctor. He said that was not necessary and that I could just go to his home. I silently prayed, asking my Father in Heaven to help him be all right and to help me drive him home safely! I drove carefully, opened the car windows, and tried to calm him down. After some time, he leaned back in his seat and slowly began to relax.
When we arrived at his home, he invited me in. I was glad because I wanted to make sure he got his medication and that it worked. He took his medication and started to feel better. He said his chest still hurt a bit but that he felt safe at home.
He invited me to stay for dinner, and since that afternoon, we have become good friends. We often go on outings together and help each other. Before this experience, I had many friends who were not a good influence on me. But my friendship with this man has blessed my life.
Sometimes out of a crisis, a great friendship can arise. If I had simply put him on the train, I wonder if he would have made it home. I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened to him. I am grateful to my Father in Heaven that the Holy Spirit led me into this situation and that, in the process, I was able to gain a true and dear friend!

Atticus P., 12, Utah, USA
I love playing soccer and making stop-motion videos. Last summer, I turned 11 and was so excited that I could be ordained to the priesthood in a year.
I decided to prepare myself for these ordinances. I became more sensitive to the Spirit and repented of my sins. Soon after, President Nelson announced new changes in the Church that meant I could get ordained before I turned 12! I was grateful I had prepared to receive the priesthood so that I could be worthily ordained at the beginning of this year.

There was a time in Sasha’s life, however, when the enticements of the world almost overwhelmed her. She loves to dance and has trained from an early ageto become a professional dancer. Several months after her baptism, she became a member of a professional modern dance company in St. Petersburg. Most of the other dancers in the group were adults. None of them were members of the Church, and none lived Church standards.
When Sasha was 15, the dance company started preparing for a performance tour to Switzerland. It was a chance of a lifetime. “Every day I danced for about eight hours,” she says. “I was preparing with all my heart for the trip.” After a few months of single-minded devotion to dancing, Sasha had drifted dangerously far from her mother, her schoolwork, and the Church.
Fortunately, she still had an LDS friend—Anya. One day Anya’s mother, a member of the Church, said: “Sasha, stop! Do you think you can remain clean in that environment? Those people don’t keep the Word of Wisdom or the law of chastity. Do you think the Holy Ghost can remain with you?”
“Those words went to my heart,” she says. “I suddenly realized I was surrounded by a spiritual darkness, and I was frightened. Anya and I fell to our knees and started praying. After our prayer, there seemed to be a light around us. I knew I must leave the dance group.”
But how could she actually leave? How could she let down the other dancers? Sasha asked for a priesthood blessing. Then she took Anya with her to break the news to her dance director. “When we reached the hall, I saw my director sitting there smoking, and she told me to hurry and dress for the rehearsal,” she remembers. “I told her I would not work there any more—but she wouldn’t listen. ‘How dare you do this?’ she asked. ‘Why do you betray us?’ She caught hold of me and took me in to the rest of the group. I was trying to talk to her, but I felt I didn’t have any strength; I couldn’t say anything.”
Fortunately, Anya was still at her side—saying nothing, but silently praying for her friend. “Suddenly I felt I had the power to talk to the group,” Sasha says. She explained why she was leaving. “It was difficult because they were my friends.”
When the director realized Sasha was not going to change her mind, she called a substitute and told Sasha to teach her everything. “I started dancing,” says Sasha, “and I was crying because I knew I was doing those dances for the last time.”
When she arrived home, she was exhausted. “But I knew I had won! I prayed that night and every night since then. I understood that for God we sometimes have to sacrifice our most beloved things. My new life really began from that moment.”
Sasha was reconciled with her mother, finished high school, and found another way to share her talent for dancing. She has recently completed a degree in dance at a college of culture and arts in St. Petersburg. Most important, her heart is centered again on the Lord.

He was a very traditional Navajo, and he taught us many of the Navajo ways. I learned not to be so inquisitive, because this is considered bad form in the Navajo culture. When I stopped asking questions, and when the mood suited him, he would tell us about his life. He took us out to the river and his other favorite places. He showed us foxholes and where the coyotes had been. He taught us to herd sheep. He showed us how he built the tall, black-robed figures that had ended our first visit. They were not designed to terrify sister missionaries but to frighten away coyotes that might harm his flock.
He loved his sheep and would take them miles each day in search of the best grass. He took the lambs inside with him when the nights were cold. He was a very caring man.

He goes on to relate a story from a colleague who served as a mission president several years ago in Sao Paulo, Brazil. He tells of a young, new missionary from Northern Brazil who had recently arrived to serve in southern Sao Paulo, a huge metropolis of about 14 million people. It was the practice of this mission president to give all new missionaries a strong start by having them go out their very first day for a mission experience. This young man’s companion didn’t have any appointments scheduled so he took the new young missionary tracting and told him he would take the first door but that the second door would be for the new missionary. Some of you returned missionaries probably remember how you felt knocking on your first door! This new, young missionary was absolutely terrified but obediently knocked on the second door. To his amazement, the door was opened by his sister, who had left home several years earlier with no further contact with her family. This sister became his first baptism in the mission field. When we reflect again on the size of that huge city and the chances of him knocking on his sister’s door as the first door of his mission, we know and recognize a divine signature in the lives of this brother and sister.

This story took place in Bolivia.
Ismael smiled as he stepped outside into the sunshine. He and Papá were going to the park. As they walked, Ismael held Papá’s hand and carried his football. Ismael liked to spend time with Papá—especially when they played football!
When they got to the park, Ismael looked around. A lady was weeding near the football field. A family was walking on the sidewalk. But no one was playing on the football field. Ismael and Papá would have lots of room to practice!
“Ready to play?” Papá asked.
“Yes!” Ismael ran as fast as he could onto the field. He did zigzag drills, penalty kicks, and corner shots.
Papá kicked the ball hard. It flew right over Ismael’s head!
“I’ll get it,” Ismael said. He ran to the corner of the field and picked up the ball. He saw the lady still digging in the dirt. She looked tired.
“I’ll be goalie now,” called Papá. “See if you can score!”
Ismael ran back and kicked the ball toward the goal. Papá reached out to stop it but barely missed.
“Goaaaal!” Ismael cheered as the ball hit the net.
Soon a whole hour had passed. “Time to go home,” Papá said.
Ismael looked back at the woman weeding. Working in the sun isn’t as fun as playing football, he thought. He wanted to cheer her up. Then he had an idea.
“Papá, don’t you think that lady is doing a good job?” he asked.
“What?” Papá looked over at the woman. “Ah, yes.”
“I think we should go tell her!” said Ismael.
“Well, we need to hurry home. Mamá is waiting for us,” Papá said.
Ismael watched the woman wipe her forehead. The feeling to talk to her got stronger. “I really feel like we should,” he said. He took Papá’s hand and walked over to her.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Ismael said with a wave.
The woman didn’t look up. “What do you want?”
Ismael could tell she wasn’t very happy. But that didn’t stop him. “I wanted to tell you that you are doing a great job!”
This time the woman looked up at him.
Ismael smiled. “Thank you for taking care of the park!”
The woman smiled back. “Thank you,” she said. Then her smile got even bigger. “Thank you very much.”
Ismael felt happy as he walked home with Papá.
“I think what you said was important to her,” Papá said. “I’m glad you listened to the feeling you had.”
“Me too.” Ismael thought for a moment. Then he asked, “Do you think it was the Holy Ghost?”
Papá nodded. “Sometimes the Holy Ghost gives us a thought to help someone. And that’s exactly what you did.”
Ismael grinned. Talking to the lady was just a small thing, but he had made her day better. Listening to the Holy Ghost had made his day better too!
Illustrations by Jennifer Bricking

“Visit Sister Jones” is what was written down for 1:00 P.M. Sister Jones was a member of the ward who we had visited a few times in the California Arcadia Mission, but she had not been to church for a long while. She had a good husband and three adorable little daughters. Every time we saw her, we asked her to come to church, but she had not come yet.
I had often thought and prayed about how we could encourage her to come back to church and was beginning to doubt if we would ever succeed. I suggested to my companion that we go tracting instead. He agreed that tracting was important, but he seemed inspired in his suggestion to follow through with our plan. I swallowed my pride and said a silent prayer. The Spirit whispered to me that following our plan was what God wanted us to do.
We biked to Sister Jones’s place, and as we pulled up she was taking out the trash. When she looked at us she seemed discouraged. She did not seem particularly thrilled to see us.
“Hello, Sister Jones,” I said cheerfully. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” she responded halfheartedly. I knew something was not quite right. The last time we visited she had commented how hard it was to keep up on her housework because of an illness she had contracted. I wondered if this was the cause of her unhappy countenance. The Spirit whispered again to me. Without leaving room for argument we announced, “We’re here to do your dishes.”
She was taken aback and a little reluctant to let us help. I could see she was longing for some relief. She led us inside, and immediately I went to a sink full of almost every dish in the house. Meanwhile my companion started vacuuming. All Sister Jones could manage to do was sit down on the couch, exhausted, watching us gratefully. We finished the vacuuming, my companion dried the dishes, and soon the house was sparkling. Sister Jones expressed her appreciation with a teary smile.
“Thank you, Elders. I really needed that today.”
“No problem, Sister Jones. We’re always glad to help. You know that,” my companion said. She smiled, and we let ourselves out.
The following Sunday I was surprised to see her in the congregation at church. It warmed my heart. It was fast and testimony meeting, but what added to my surprise was Sister Jones getting up to bear her testimony.
After bearing her testimony of the truthfulness of the Church, she added, “This week I was having a really hard time. I’ve been sick and not able to do everything. One day when it was particularly difficult, I began to pray. ‘Lord help me, I don’t know if I can handle this! Please, please send an angel, or something. Please.’ And right then, two of his angels pulled up on their bicycles and asked if they could help. I was so touched. It was exactly what I needed.”
I began to cry. For one thing, I had never been called an angel before. I am just me—a simple missionary. But for one short afternoon, we were someone’s angels. Still, I cannot take credit for it. In that fast and testimony meeting, the Holy Spirit once again whispered to me with the sweet comfort that comes from following God’s will. It is not always what we want to do. It is not always what we think is best. But God’s way is always right. We may not have reached our goal for tracting hours that week, but we reached a much higher standard—the standard of doing what our all-wise Father above wanted us to do.

As a young missionary, I spent three Christmases in Tonga. Christmas there is during the hottest, most humid season of the year. But the Christmas spirit felt just the same as it did in my homeland, where Christmas is a winter holiday.
People thought more about others and less about themselves. There was lots of music and singing, and the feeling of peace and good cheer seemed to permeate everything.
There was not a lot of material gift giving, since there weren’t a lot of things to give. But people gave marvelous gifts of love, service, and kindness.
A few days before Christmas, a nine-year-old child who had come to spend the holiday with her grandparents developed a high fever. Her grandparents spent all their time caring for her, but the fever seemed to get worse. They called for the missionaries to give her a blessing. We did, and felt prompted to tell her everything would be all right. Then we went on about our other activities.
The day before Christmas, I was visiting various families with a teacher from the local Church school. As we concluded our visits, I asked him where else we should go that Christmas Eve. He said, “I’ve heard ‘Ofa’s granddaughter is still quite ill, and the grandfather is out of town. I’m sure ‘Ofa is very tired. Why don’t we volunteer to care for her granddaughter tonight and let ‘Ofa get some rest?”
I thought, What a great idea! Why don’t I think of things like that?
It was early evening when we arrived at ‘Ofa’s house. As we explained what we wanted to do, I saw gratitude in her eyes. ‘Ofa looked at us a long time and then said, “She is very ill. I have been taking care of her day and night the last three days. I’m not sure I can stay awake another night. Thank you. Thank you!”
She then explained she’d been using a cloth dipped in water and a woven fan to cool her granddaughter and give her some air. All the girl had done for the last two days was moan.
“I’m not sure if she will get well or not,” ‘Ofa said. “Maybe I should try to stay up with you and help.”
My companion said, “No, you go on and rest. We’ll fan her and cool her forehead, and she’ll be all right. You go get some sleep.” ‘Ofa finally left. I imagine she was asleep the second she got to her room.
We immediately started waving the fan and cooling the girl’s forehead. She seemed in a bad way. Her breathing was strange, her fever high, her eyes closed, and her moans pathetic.
We devised a system where one of us would hold the wet cloth and the other fan the air through it to get some moist air moving around her mouth and head. It doesn’t sound like much work, but the anxiety of the situation, the sweltering evening, and the effort to get water, rinse the cloth, and constantly wave the fan, caused us both to soon tire. I appreciated what ‘Ofa had been through the last few days.
There was an old wind-up clock where we were. Around 11:00 P.M. we realized we were going to have to do something different to make it through the night. My companion again came up with an idea.
“Why don’t we take turns?” he said. “You sleep for an hour. Then I’ll wake you, and you care for her for an hour while I sleep. Then you wake me, and so on. We’ll get through the night that way.”
“Fine,” I said. “Who should start?”
“I’ll start,” he replied. “You rest first.” At midnight he woke me, and I fanned with one hand and sponged her forehead with the other until 1:00 A.M. Then I woke him. He did likewise and woke me at 2:00 A.M. I again woke him at 3:00 A.M. I knew I would be awakened for my next turn at 4:00 A.M. I was very tired but felt we would make it through the night all right.
The next thing I remember is sunlight streaming into my eyes. I suddenly awakened, jumped up, and said, “My goodness! What time is it?”
“It’s six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock! Why didn’t you wake me at four o’clock?” I asked.
He smiled broadly, a smile that came from deep within and seemed to encompass his whole being as he said, “Oh, you looked so tired. I decided to let you sleep. That’s my present to you. Merry Christmas!”
I couldn’t say anything. Again I thought, Why don’t I think of things like that? My companion stayed up for me! I thought of the Savior coming to his sleeping disciples and asking, “Could ye not watch with me one hour?” (Matt. 26:40). The Savior stayed up nearly all night performing one of the greatest works this world will ever know, while those close to him slept.
I felt a little ashamed, yet I also felt happy, as I could see the joy in my companion’s face. He hadn’t been able to give me anything else for Christmas. There was, literally, nothing material for him to give. But what he could give he had given freely, just by letting me sleep.
I wonder how many of us, in our Christmas giving and our giving all year long, think of not just exchanging material possessions, but of giving of ourselves, fully and freely. True giving comes from the heart, not the wallet.
Sometime during those early morning hours, the girl’s semi-delirious moaning ceased, her fever broke, and we could tell the crisis was over. She stirred and opened her eyes.
We waited until midmorning and then knocked on the door to wake up ‘Ofa. She responded quickly, possibly expecting the worst. As she came out on the porch, her granddaughter was there, sitting with us. We were all smiles as we said in unison, “Merry Christmas!”

My family and I were spending a day at the Japan Alps National Park, surrounded by the mountains of the North Alps. My children were running around excitedly. I was pregnant with our fourth child and was feeling rather tired, so I lay down under the trees. Looking up at the blue, cloudless sky, I began thinking about our financial problems. My heart became overwhelmed, and I burst into tears. “Lord, we are full-tithe payers. We have sacrificed so much. When will the windows of heaven open unto us and our burdens be lightened?”
I prayed with all my heart. Then I turned to watch my husband and children playing and laughing together. The scene looked so peaceful and beautiful to me. Suddenly, the Spirit testified to me that my blessings were abundant and that my family was the greatest blessing Heavenly Father could give me.

Ty woke up late and shoved on his glasses. He knelt for a quick prayer and then ran to feed his family’s huge poodle, Fifi. But Fifi had jumped the fence. Again. It took so long to find Fifi, Ty barely had time to feed himself. He grabbed a piece of toast as he ran out the door.
“Bye, Dad,” he shouted.
“Make good choices!” Dad called back, just like every morning.
Good choices. Ty thought about the biggest choice he had to face at school: what to do about Bobby Miller. Bobby was the biggest, meanest kid in the whole third grade.
Ty zipped down the street on his green bike. He’d have to hurry to get to school before Bobby. His legs pumped, the wind rushed into his face, and finally he saw the school up ahead.
Oh no! Bobby was already at the bike rack. Don’t turn around, Bobby! Ty thought. Just keep walking right to your class. But no such luck. Bobby finished locking up his bike just as Ty skidded to a stop in front of him.
“Looks like I beat you again, Ty-Ty,” Bobby said. He kicked Ty’s bike over, just because. Ty landed on the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and bike wheels, and Bobby ran off laughing.
How can I ever stop him from doing that? Ty thought. He got up off the ground and locked up his bike.
The rest of the morning went OK. Ty was just grateful Bobby wasn’t in his class this year.
When the recess bell rang, Ty ran out to play kickball. But as he ran toward his friends in the field, he didn’t see a game going on. As he got closer, he could see why. Bobby had stolen the ball and was running around the field throwing it at people. “Strike!” he yelled as he knocked Emma over. Then he threw the ball and knocked off Bryce’s glasses. Bobby just laughed and held them high over Bryce’s head. “Try to get ’em, shortie. I dare you.”
For a second, Ty hesitated. He definitely didn’t want Bobby to notice him. But Bryce needed help. Ty took a deep breath. He marched over and grabbed the ball where it had rolled. “Give his glasses back, Bobby.” He tried to look fierce.
Bobby just laughed. “Oh, Ty-Ty! I’m so scared.”
“You’re ruining everyone’s recess. Please stop.”
“Whatever, Ty-Ty.” Bobby tossed the glasses and stomped off.
Ty let out a big breath. “OK, everyone! Let’s play some kickball.” He hoped he didn’t see Bobby again today. Fingers crossed, he thought.
But when school got out, there was Bobby at the bike rack again. He grabbed Ty’s bike handle before he could walk away. “I dare you to fight me,” he said.
Ty shook his head and pulled his bike out of Bobby’s grip. The kids around them were all turning to stare.
“You thought you were so tough at recess, but who’s a chicken now?” Bobby taunted.
Someone laughed, and Ty felt his cheeks get warm. After everything that had happened today, maybe it would be OK to take Bobby’s dare and fight him. Somebody needed to teach Bobby a lesson! Besides, what if everyone thought he was a chicken?
Then Ty had another thought. Taking Bobby’s dare wouldn’t make me tough. It would just be a really bad choice.
“Chicken!” Bobby grabbed Ty’s shoulder as he walked away. “Come on and fight me. I double-dare you!”
Go to “Family Night Fun” for an activity to go with this story and to learn what to do if you’re being bullied.
Ty had already made his choice. He turned around. “You know what, Bobby? I’d rather be a chicken than take your dare.” Bobby just stared while Ty got on his bike and rode off.
And you know what? He didn’t feel like a chicken at all.

The gospel changed everything in my life, and I felt a strong desire to share it with others—just as the missionaries had shared it with me.
I felt prompted to serve a full-time mission and discussed this with Bishop Wrotto. The decision wasn’t easy. I had doubts about leaving behind the life I knew, especially the part-time job that I struggled to get. But my bishop said two things that remained in my heart:
God knows you personally. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).
You should create time for God. God should not create time for you.
These words kept playing in my mind. I knew it was what I was supposed to do.
I began preparing for my mission, and soon I was called to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission under President and Sister Young. I left my job to fully prepare, but then the unexpected happened: COVID-19.
The pandemic spread rapidly, buildings were shut down, churches were closed, and public gatherings were prohibited. The missionary training center (MTC) was closed, and I was stuck at home—no job, no mission, just frustration.
During this period, I began questioning my decision. But my bishop encouraged me to use the time as an opportunity to study the scriptures and follow the Come, Follow Me program.
Later, we were notified that we would begin online MTC training. Finally, I was blessed to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission.
My mission took me to places where I met incredible people and worked with companions who taught me to be bold in sharing the gospel and patience in helping others find the same joy I had found.
When I returned home, I felt the desire to share the gospel with my family—especially my brother. He had been skeptical when I first joined the Church. He didn’t understand why I was so passionate about it. But instead of forcing him, I decided to live by example.
One evening, I sat down with him and shared my testimony. I told him how the gospel had changed my life. To my surprise, he listened. We discussed the Book of Mormon, the teachings of Jesus Christ, and the Restoration of the gospel. It wasn’t a quick process, but over time he started reading and praying on his own.
Months later my brother made the decision to be baptized. I couldn’t have been happier. I saw him changing, growing, and the same light I once felt began to shine in him.
Eventually, he felt inspired to serve a full-time mission as well. He is currently serving in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission.
It brings me so much joy to see how far he has come. I know he will touch lives and help others find the same peace that comes from knowing Jesus Christ.
The gospel is meant to be shared, and I will continue to share it with those around me—just as I once shared it with my brother.
As I reflect on my journey—from meeting the missionaries, becoming a missionary myself, and helping my brother find his own path—I know that the Lord’s plan is much bigger than we can understand.
I call this story “a journey of faith.”

“Do you see how they fly, Stephen?” Dad thrusts his arm upward, pointing a finger to the V shape rippling through the sky high overhead. The chill October wind whips at my face as I try to understand the excitement in his voice. It’s late afternoon. We are standing alongside our minivan. We’ve pulled off the side of the road somewhere between St. George and Cedar City, Utah, on our way to the Missionary Training Center in Provo. My call has come and I’m going to Baltimore, Maryland.
“Watch,” he says. “You’ll see it in a moment. It happens quickly. It’s a wonder.”
I resist the urge to look at him. He’s the real wonder here. His enthusiasm makes you think he’s the one leaving on a mission.
“Now!” Dad’s voice shouts above the wind. The lead goose slips out of formation and slides to the back of one leg of the V. The flock speeds on toward its destination. Shortly the geese are black specks in the sky, arrowing into the dusk.
“Did you see what they did?” he asks, as we climb back into the van. We buckle our seat belts and he continues: “They work together. Singly they would perish on the long flight, but they take turns leading the way. One leads for a while, slashing the air for the others. Then he quietly moves to the back and another takes over.” We pull out onto the road.
“How do they know what to do?” I ask.
“They’ve learned to trust the order God put in things.”
He’s trying to tell me something. This is his way. As Provo gets closer with each passing mile post, though, my thoughts fly to my mission, to my future.
“What you say is true. This will change your life forever,” I tell Brother and Sister Frost in response to her statement. And it will. I’ve been teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ as a missionary for nearly two years now. Soon I’ll be going home. I’ve learned that whenever people accept the gospel, it changes their lives. Of course there are those who, after searching a lifetime, find in the gospel nothing but great relief from life’s most difficult questions. Usually though, it’s the other way, the refiner’s fire, a test and building of faith. But always, always, the gospel brings change.
Elder Jepson and I have been teaching the Frosts for three weeks now. With their permission, we started calling them Brother and Sister. He’s an accountant, and she worked as a legal secretary before their children were born. I’m not sure where we are with them. We’ll need to move forward carefully with our teaching.
I wait for one of them to speak. It’s an important moment. I hope Elder Jepson recognizes it and doesn’t suddenly lose his shyness. The Frosts are a handsome couple, she blond and he dark. Not Hollywood-like at all, but vibrant, a handsomeness born of hope for their lives. I like them both.
Sister Frost speaks, “I think it also means leaving our family, our friends.”
“You might bring some of them with you. Lead the way,” I say. I wait again for someone to fill the silence. They have told me several times how their families feel about Mormons. “We personally have nothing against you Mormons,” they said to us the evening we first knocked on their door. It was to convince themselves of their open-mindedness, I suspect, that they invited us in. In three weeks now we have become close friends.
Sister Frost glances at her husband, but he continues to stare into the carpet. He seems to be deep in thought. She’s not saying what she wants to do. She just keeps pointing out the practical problems—the difficulties of the choice. I think she’s waiting for him to do something, but I’m not sure.
Two days ago, we asked them to be baptized. He is treating us with the distance that we felt the first visit. I recognize the signs. He is on the edge. We must wait now, no matter how loud the silence screams at us to fill it. I want to step in. I want to persuade. I’ve learned though that seconds on a clock wing their way with their own voice.
I look over at Elder Jepson. Two months in the mission field, six feet tall, two-hundred pounds. He has a lot to learn. Elder Jepson is shy, and it may be weeks before he can give the lessons. I know this family is important to him, though. It will really hurt him if they veer away from the Church.
Elder Jepson looks like he’s studying the carpet, too. His coarse red hair dangles from the top of his forehead.
Brother Frost clears his throat.
“Your church asks a great deal—too much I’m afraid. My wife and I have talked a lot. We’re impressed—truly impressed—with your church programs. But all of our friends, all of our family, they believe differently. We’d have to offend them by not drinking with them. We’d have to go to church every Sunday. We’d be … like you say, changing everything.” He talks again about the many fine programs in the Church. But in the end, using accountant’s language, he says, “The ledger page doesn’t balance.”
It’s clear he’s slipped off the edge now. It’s 8:40 P.M. and I’ve been up since 5:30 this morning. I’m tired and I want to go home. I know we’re not supposed to weary in well-doing, but I think we have done all the good we can. I can’t expect Elder Jepson to help here. I must try to hold on to everyone’s dignity. It’s up to me to exit us gracefully and hope the Spirit will work on them after we have gone.
Brother Frost thanks us and wishes us well, but thinks we should look for others who might be more willing followers.
I feel the emptiness I’ve felt a hundred times before. I feel alone. Awkward. We’ve given so much time and effort these last three weeks. I look over at Elder Jepson to see if he’s ready to go. He is staring at Sister Frost and she at him. A tear moves from Elder Jepson’s left eye, down his freckly face. This surprises me. I look at Brother Frost. He’s looking at me and doesn’t notice. I look at Sister Frost. Her eyes brim with tears.
“May I speak?” Elder Jepson’s voice, husky now, breaks the uneasiness. He brushes the tear away, then turns slowly to face Brother Frost. His large farm-toughened hands grab at his knees. He slides forward on the couch, locks his eyes onto Brother Frost’s, and begins.
“I came 2,500 miles to find you. I feel we were guided to you.” Elder Jepson looks down like he’s trying to find what to say next.
“I love your wife, Brother Frost. I love her because she sees. She has told you all of the problems; she has given you all of the pictures a man could want so he could understand and solve them, and you’re running from them. Why?”
I’m stunned. I look at Brother Frost. The room, sedate only a moment before, is intense now. Brother Frost, I think, is puzzled, trying to figure out what Elder Jepson is doing. I want to interrupt, but something says to move aside—for the moment.
Before anyone else speaks, Elder Jepson continues. “And I love you, Brother Frost. I know about your job and your accounting degree. About your dreams, your courtship and marriage, and your three children. I know about your child that died two years ago. I know about your despair. And I know that you’re all wrong about what it means to be a member of the Church.”
Brother Frost rises on his seat. I squeeze the scriptures I have in my hand. Brother Frost has let us know he believes he and his family are good. He has told us how the family goes to a church from time to time, how he is honest, how he has always read a little from the Bible and how, when he was 12, he made up his mind he would never use certain words, and he never has. I’m afraid that Elder Jepson has offended him. I better salvage what I can, quickly. I start to say something. Brother Frost raises his hand—a sign for me to be quiet—and continues staring at Elder Jepson. Then he says, “We’re not perfect, Elder Jepson, but we are decent people. I believe I know all that I need to know about your church and your God. We could easily join you, but we don’t want to.” Brother Frost speaks kindly but firmly. The discussion is over.
But Elder Jepson softly begins again: “You say that, but you never talk about the Savior. Oh, you can talk about God but you have never understood. You tell us you like the Primary because it teaches children to speak in public at an early age and sing in a group. You think sacrament meeting is good because you feel fellowship there. You think the Book of Mormon has some interesting stories in it. You think we’re introducing you to a club. You take out your accounting pads and start adding and subtracting. When you total the benefits of the club against the costs, the club comes up short.”
Elder Jepson has kept his voice even and soft. Brother Frost keeps the emotion out of his face, except for a hint of a smile. Sister Frost looks at her husband now, worried. I decide to stay on the wing of this, for a moment longer, not sure why.
Calmly, Brother Frost says, “You have a lot to learn, Elder Jepson. Life always involves totaling columns of benefits and burdens. But you’re right. Your club, if you will, doesn’t do as much for us as our present club. I’m sorry. That’s how we see it. I’m glad your church works for you. But the programs, as nice as they are, don’t offset the difficulties joining your church would bring us.”
Brother Frost is being gracious. I’ll talk to Elder Jepson later about leaving people with a positive feeling, even if they don’t join. At least some of his shyness is leaving. There’s hope.
Elder Jepson leans forward again. “Brother Frost, you’ve misunderstood. Those programs—Primary, Sunday School, youth activities—those aren’t what this church is about. And it’s not about not smoking or not drinking or paying tithing and fast offerings either. It’s not even about friendship and fellowship. Not only have you added the wrong columns, you’re in the wrong ledger.” I remember now that Elder Jepson took an accounting class the semester before he came on his mission.
Brother Frost responds, “Then why do you try to convince people that your church is so wonderful because of those things?”
“I didn’t come here to tell you you need those things. I came to invite you to know the Savior. If Elder Simpson and I leave tonight, and we leave you believing that you can put this church on a ledger sheet, then we have failed.
“Brother Frost, this is the Savior’s church. Next week the programs might change or disappear, but the Savior won’t. He’s waiting for us to ask for help in our lives. We didn’t come to change your life; we came to teach you that your life will change from the choices you make and that you can choose with heavenly guidance. We came to tell you that Heavenly Father listens to every cry for help from a sincere heart. This church is about Him and His love for you and for me. This church is where the fullness of His gospel and its saving ordinances are found. The rules we live by and the programs are only helps so we may return to Him. We didn’t come here to ask you to join us; we came to ask you to join Him.”
I am moved. I am amazed. I’m not prepared for this from my shy, red-haired companion. I didn’t dream he had that in him. I feel a burning within me. I sense a fire in the room and imagine the hint of a distant melody. Elder Jepson’s speech is eloquent, powerful. I should have been the one to do this. I am the senior companion. I have the experience. I am the leader here. I see the Frosts are touched and I want to be the one that has done it.
I hear the voice in my mind say “I” again, with pity and selfishness in its tone. This time, with effort, I stop it with a memory of a chill wind, wild geese, and my father pointing skyward at dusk.
The Frosts look at one another. Brother Frost says, “Dear, what do you think?”
Eloquently, she tells us all what she sees. She speaks about a new feeling, new courage, a desire to move forward. Brother Frost keeps nodding his head, smiling, agreeing. The music hints around us, again.
I know I will soon move beyond the feeling and the sounds of tonight, but not the memory of it. It will sustain me. I will beat against many head winds as I journey back to my Maker, but I will not fly without the music of this night playing somewhere in my heart. I understand it is time for me to move over, and I make room for Elder Jepson.

Although just as friendly as her sister, Larisa tends to be more quiet and reserved. “She’s a great student,” her mom says. Larisa has always had a special affection for Jesus Christ and knows of His great love for children. She tells her parents, “I hope He comes while I’m still little!” In fact, when she was in kindergarten, she wanted to see Him so much that she often spent her whole recess staring up at the sky, waiting for Him to appear.

When I moved to Mexico with my family, I made friends with a group of kids who played together but left some people out. One day I decided to go play with a girl named Eli, who was sitting by herself in a corner. We started sitting together at lunchtime, and we played basketball and soccer and made things together.
At first my group of friends said, “If you want to be her friend, then we can’t be your friend.” But I kept spending time with Eli. Eventually my group of friends joined us, and we all became friends.
I told Eli about the Church and what I liked about it. She decided to come to my baptism and started coming to church with us quite often. Now we live in different cities, but we still keep in touch through video chat and email. She is still in my heart.

The American Young Men and Young Women living in Bonn, Germany, hosted a night of Halloween activities for their German, Spanish, French, English, and Filipino friends.
“We gave a workshop called ‘How to Carve a Jack-o’-lantern,’” says Terri Lutz, a Laurel who helped to plan the activity.
Since carving pumpkins is an American tradition, most of the youth had never even heard of it, much less done it.
“As they plunged their hands inside the pumpkin to scoop the ‘goop’ out, you could tell that some of them were questioning this strange American tradition,” says Terri.
After the pumpkins were carved and everyone had a chance to clean up, they ate—what else?—pumpkin cookies and pumpkin bread!
The activity helped bring the youth closer together, says Terri. “We were able to overcome the language barrier and enjoy one another’s company.”

When our son Joshua was 18 months old, we noticed strange things in his behavior. Josh could recite almost every word of each song in the television shows he watched, but he was late learning to speak. One day my mother-in-law said that Josh showed signs of autism. Specialists told us the same thing.
My wife, Elizabeth, immersed herself in literature about autism. She also enrolled Josh in programs to help him. She was determined that he have the best possible start in life we could give him.
On days I stressed over the future, Elizabeth would calm me down. She told me that we needed to take things one day at a time.
“We need to appreciate every new thing Josh learns instead of focusing on all of the unknowns of the future,” she said.
As he grew, Josh became unruly at church. To keep him from disrupting Primary or harming children, I held him on my lap. He struggled, scratched, and wrestled with me for all three hours of church. I often came home bruised and exhausted.
“Why don’t we just leave him home from church and take turns staying with him?” I suggested.
“If we don’t continue taking him,” Elizabeth replied, “he will learn that if he acts out, he gets to leave church.” I knew she was right.
One day the mother of another family with an autistic child told me, “When Josh turns eight and gets the Holy Ghost, he’ll sweeten right up!”
I doubted her words, but when he turned eight, he received the Holy Ghost and did sweeten up—a little.
When Josh got older, he received the priesthood. He passed the sacrament, and he learned the importance of service. Members of his priesthood quorum learned a dance to an ’80s music video with Josh and performed it at a ward party.
Our ward was wonderful to Josh. Members smiled when he would pass the sacrament while doing a few ’80s dance moves.
Josh is 17 now. He is a talented musician who writes songs. He loves acting and appears regularly in school and community theater.
We are grateful to be Josh’s parents and share in his journey. We are not sure what the future holds, but we are committed to fully live each day with him.

I was born into a family of many children, and I remember being able to have open discussions with my mother. One day, I asked her: “Mommy, why does one of my classmates always obtain the highest grades in class?” She looked at me and kindly replied: “Indeed, you are going to the same school; but he does something differently than you do. In fact, he goes to church every week, but you only attend Church sometimes.”
Since that day, I made a personal commitment to always attend church on Sunday so that I could do better at school. My grades became better because I did go to church regularly, although I did not always fully understand the teachings.
Later, I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, where I was taught the importance of keeping the Sabbath day holy. I soon realized that going to Church was not only a matter of obtaining good grades at school but was also a matter of giving priorities to God in our own lives. It is a matter of keeping the Sabbath Day holy (see Exodus 20:8), a matter of partaking of the sacrament so that we might always remember Jesus Christ and His Atonement, and finally a matter of eternal life, which is the greatest gift of God to those that endure to the end.
Additionally, one of the greatest blessings I see in my life is to learn of Jesus Christ and His everlasting Gospel, and especially to keep His Sabbath Day holy. My understanding of the purpose of the Sabbath Day increased also.

When President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) was a young man, he and his family lived on a farm during the summer. He had this experience there:
“There was a dead tree I wished to pull. I fastened one end of a chain to the tractor and the other end to the tree. As the tractor began to move, the tree shook a little, and then the chain broke.
“I looked at that broken link and wondered how it could have given way. I went to the hardware store and bought a repair link. I put it together again, but it was an awkward and ugly connection. The chain was never, never the same.”1
Think of yourself as part of a chain—a family chain. President Hinckley said we should never let ourselves be a weak link in our family chain.

I don’t remember the exact words I used when I told my bishop that I had decided not to serve a mission. But I remember well his disappointment and the next question he asked me: “Do your parents know what you’ve decided?”
Of course they didn’t know; I hadn’t discussed my decision with anyone. As I left the bishop’s office that day, I thought, “Whew, I’m glad that’s over.”
It wasn’t that I hadn’t been taught the gospel. Our family was very active, I attended all my meetings, and I had graduated from seminary. I’m sure everyone assumed that I would go on a mission.
I was living at home, attending a nearby junior college, and trying to find a job. My hair was long, in the “hippie” fashion of the day, so it was difficult for me to find work. As my hair grew longer, tension grew between my father and me. When he told me to get a haircut, I left the house and spent three days with a friend. My return home without a haircut was my way of showing him that I was going to do as I pleased.
Several ward members mentioned to me that my decision not to go on a mission had broken my parents’ hearts. My church attendance slipped as I began to feel that the adults in our ward disapproved of my attitude and my hair length. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned that they had prayed numerous times for something to happen in my life that would help me find myself.)
When I did attend church, I attended elders quorum meetings, though I had not been ordained an elder. One Sunday morning the elders quorum president said, “We would like to call you to be a home teacher. Will you accept the call?”
Shocked, I said yes.
“Your companion will be Bill Brothers,” he continued.
As soon as I left the building, I began to plan how I could get out of this commitment. Just then Bill Brothers walked over to me. We were about the same age, and I had known him since our days together in Primary.
“Guess we’re going to be home-teaching companions, aren’t we?” Bill asked.
“I guess so,” I acknowledge glumly.
“Why don’t we show the guys in our ward how home teaching should really be done?” he said.
That thought struck me like a thunderbolt. Yes! We would show the men in our ward how home teaching should be done! We would do it better than any of them, and maybe that would silence the criticism about my attitude and my hair. Bill and I decided that the first thing to do was to ask the fathers in the two families assigned to us what they would like us to teach to their families.
Bill made the appointments. I assumed that each father would ask us to teach his children about getting along with each other or some other basic topic—but I was wrong.
“Well, boys,” said Brother Smith, “our family has been trying to read the Book of Mormon. Since our children are fairly young, it is sometimes hard for them to understand what we read. I think it would be great if you could tell us the basic stories from the Book of Mormon in chronological order.”
When we left the Smith home, Bill suggested that we visit the Smiths more than once a month. Bill was leaving on a mission in about three months and wanted to tell all the Book of Mormon stories before he left.
Bill also suggested that we start with the book of Ether, since it was first chronologically. He would give the story of the first half of Ether, and I would do the second half. I had thought this assignment was going to be easy, but now I knew I would have to spend some time preparing. I unenthusiastically agreed to do it.
Just before our first visit, I quickly read over the last part of Ether and hoped I would remember enough to get by. However, as we met with the Smiths, a sweet spirit of gentle anticipation filled the room. I felt embarrassed that I was not as well prepared as Bill, and I left determined to be prepared on our next visit.
Over the next two months, I read the entire Book of Mormon. At first, I read it just so I could tell the story to the Smith family. Soon, however, I began to ask myself, “What if this is really true?”
My view of the world began to change as I learned eternal principles from Nephi, Lehi, and Jacob. When I read of Alma’s prayers concerning his wayward son, Alma the Younger, I understood my parents’ anguish over me. I felt the spirit of Helaman as he wrote of his faithful stripling soldiers, and I wondered if I would have been as courageous as they had been. I read of the Savior’s visit and his teachings. I learned that the Nephites had been destroyed because of their wickedness. Finally, I read in Moroni that we would meet at the Judgment Day and that the Lord would hold us responsible for the words contained in the Book of Mormon. I felt as if Moroni had written that message specifically for me.
Suddenly, I knew the Book of Mormon was true! The seed of faith had been planted within me, and now it had grown until I could scarcely contain it. I wanted to tell everyone I met of the joy I felt in finding out that the Book of Mormon was true, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God, and that the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints were true. I wept in gratitude for having received this witness.
I drove over to Bishop Toolson’s house and knocked on the door. He invited me in and asked what he could do for me. Outwardly I didn’t look any different—my hair was longer than ever; yet inwardly, I had experienced a mighty change of heart. The words burst from me: “I want to go on a mission.”
Bishop Toolson smiled and invited me into his living room. He opened his briefcase and pulled out my missionary recommendation form. He had already filled it out completely, except for one box—and that was the first question that he asked me now: “When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible,” I answered. I could hardly wait to go! Bishop Toolson instructed me that I would need to submit a picture of myself—with a proper missionary haircut. I assured him that I would take care of that immediately.
I received my mission call on 4 August 1972. During my mission, I often bore my solemn witness that I knew from my own experience that the Book of Mormon was true. I learned that if we would encourage others to study the Book of Mormon, pray about it, and try to live by its teachings, they, too, would discover the truth of the Book of Mormon.