Gospel Story Finder

I was the age of most of you when this scriptural episode came to have special meaning for me. I was in graduate school here at BYU, and I began asking out a particular girl. And, as things progressed, I became scared. Like Oliver Cowdery, fear caused me to “not continue as [I had] commenced.” I was afraid of making the wrong decision—one that I knew was important and, ideally, eternal. My poorly thought-out solution to this fear was to stop asking the girl out. As weeks turned into months, I buried myself in other things, all the while praying if I should pursue a relationship that I clearly wasn’t doing anything to nurture.

Finally, one Sunday I was at church here on campus when I made up my mind: I would ­pursue the relationship. What would be the worst that could happen? “Maybe I would get married,” I thought.

I called her apartment, only to learn that she had gone home that weekend. I left a message for her to call me when she returned, which, incidentally, is ideal for someone gripped by dating paralysis. The last thing a young man really wants to do is talk.

That afternoon my dad called. “Have you heard the news?” he asked. The girl was engaged.

She returned my call later that night. “Scott, I heard you called,” she said.

“Yes, I was just calling to congratulate you on your engagement,” was my response. Fear of the future had kept me from continuing what I had commenced, and the time had passed. During the next six years of my single life I thought often about that experience and the Lord’s instruction to Oliver Cowdery ­concerning fear.

What helped you decide to pursue art in school? I realized that God gave me a gift, and in praying and asking Him, I realized that art was what He wanted me to pursue. I started drawing more and doing more pieces, and when I auditioned for my school, they accepted me. I saw how direct the hand of the Lord is in people’s lives when you are trying your best to follow the commandments and read your scriptures and pray every day.

I suffered a tremendous collapse in my own life. Before my eyes, my beautiful, funny, full-of-life eight-year-old son was killed in an automobile-pedestrian accident. I held his body as his blood spilled out on the roadway and his spirit slipped away and returned to his heavenly home. I pleaded with my Heavenly Father to let him stay, but that wasn’t in my son’s life plan.
I was lost in the dark, overwhelmed with the burden of my grief. I was weary, unable to rest, as the problem of mortality clouded my eyes. I came to know that a broken heart is a true physical feeling. Where once I had a heart, there was now only a dark hole that was raw and painful.
I believed that I should just be strong enough to get over it. Many people had suffered more. But like the miners, trapped by the unmovable rock that held them captive, I could not lift the burden of my grief.
My rescue came when I was on my knees in the depths of grief over my son’s death. Like the miners as they entered the capsule, I was at a pivotal point: should I try to overcome my challenges with my own strength and knowledge, or should I reach out to my Heavenly Father and ask for help?
Oppressed by the weight of my grief, I decided to turn to God. As I appealed to my Father in Heaven, I told Him how weary I was and asked Him to please lift the burden of my grief. Before I stood again, the weight of my sorrows was lifted from my shoulders. I still had to work through the pain and loss, but the unbearable load was gone.
It was there that I came to know that the Savior stands by our side, waiting to lift us, waiting only for us to ask Him, waiting for us to lay our burdens upon His shoulders, waiting for us to put our hand in His so that He can rescue us.

Sister Chieko N. Okazaki of the Relief Society general presidency recalls, “When my husband passed away, I was in the depths of sorrow and pain and was grasping for comfort. I turned to the scriptures and began to evaluate my life. When I went to church that Sunday after we buried him, I listened closely to the sacrament prayer and felt very surely that I could have the Savior’s Spirit with me—and that I could do this by renewing my covenants with him. It was as simple as that. I am grateful that I can partake of this priesthood ordinance and receive this comfort every Sunday.”

When they made me their quorum project again, I figured it wouldn’t do any good. It hadn’t worked before, and I could see no reason why it would work this time either. Of course, that was before I knew J. J.
At first they tried an old trick, but I saw them coming. I was no ordinary inactive member; I hadn’t been to church since I was baptized, and I’d seen all the activation tricks in the book. All of them.
See, I figured that sports and religion didn’t mix. How can you bang heads with animals on the football field and hang out with religious wimps at church? Besides, my coach said I had a shot at big-time football if I stayed focused. And focused I was—sharper than an electron microscope. You don’t bench press 325 pounds without focusing.
That Sunday was kind of comical, really. Eight or nine guys my age, priests, I think they call them, came up to the front door. It was the old “If he won’t come to priesthood class, we’ll take the class to him” trick. They figured they just had to show up and I’d swing open the door and say, “Gee whiz, guys, thanks for coming over. Is it too late for me to go to church with you?”
No way. With Mom at work, I cranked up the baseball game on TV and ignored the doorbell. The ringing soon stopped, and I heard a couple of taps on the door. Then it stopped. I waited a second and opened the front door a crack to watch them head back to church when I saw this skinny bald-headed kid.
“Hey, Wayne,” he grinned. “Guess you didn’t hear us knocking, huh?”
I had to say something, but this guy just freaked me out. I mean, the guy had no hair. Finally, I said, “Uh, guess not. I’m just looking for the, um, to see if the newspaper is out here.”
He smiled. “Didn’t see it. By the way, I’m Jonathan Johnson, but you can call me J. J.” He stuck out his hand.
I couldn’t slam the door, so I shook his hand and said, “I’m Wayne Salow.” He stood there waiting for me to say something more, so I said, “Uh, you want to come in or something?”
He followed me into the living room. After a moment of awkward silence, J. J. explained he was new in our ward and the bishop had just called him to be the priests quorum first assistant. I wondered how somebody so scrawny could assist anybody. That bishop must be desperate, I decided.
J. J. looked like grade-school bully bait. His body was pathetic. I mean, he made Ghandi look like a sumo wrestler. His round wire-rim glasses perched low on his nose like oversize goggles. But the head, man, that was the weirdest. J. J. didn’t have any hair. Zilch, zippo, nada. Not even eyebrows.
“Some of the guys in the quorum and I came over to say hello.” He looked me in the eye when he talked, and you know what? He had laser eyes. A trash body and a gaze that could slice granite.
“Well,” he said, “we just wanted to let you know we care about you, and we’d like you to come out to Mutual some night, you know, if you feel like it. We have some pretty exciting activities.”
I saw the Scouting tactic coming, so I cut it off quick. “Sorry, man, but I’m not into Scouting and hiking and that kind of junk.”
“No sweat. We do all kinds of things. Want me to come by Wednesday and pick you up?”
Slick, I thought. J. J., you ought to sell used cars. “Sorry, man, but I’ll be busy Wednesday night.” I looked at the TV to let him know our conversation was finished.
He shook my hand again. “Okay, I’ll let you get back to your game. But really, Wayne, if you ever feel like coming you let me know. Anytime.”
What a piece of work, I thought, as I closed the front door behind him.
I was in the garage Wednesday night working on my biceps when J. J. showed up. I had a pretty good pump on my arms as the veins were bulging something fierce and the sweat was glistening in the glare of the garage light. It made them look polished. I pulled a few extra repetitions when I saw him. My chest was bulging out of my black tank top as I dropped the weights at my feet.
J. J. jumped a little at the sound, smiled, and toed the barbell carefully with his foot. “You lift weights, huh?”
“I bench press 325. Squat 400.”
“Really?” He glanced around at my weight-lifting equipment. “I guess that’s pretty good. What’s a bench press?”
I pointed to the bench, and the next thing I knew he’s lying flat on it and I’m helping him do a few shaky repetitions with just the bar—no weights. He managed to lower the bar to his chest and push it back up five times before he racked it and sat up, sweat glistening on his bald scalp.
“Bench press,” he said a little breathlessly. “Interesting. And how much did you say you can do?”
“Three-twenty-five.”
“Pounds?”
I nodded and he whistled softly.
“And how much did I just do?”
“Forty-five.”
He whistled again. “I guess I’m out of shape.” He walked over to a barbell and tried to pick it up. It didn’t move.
“You know, Wayne, I could probably benefit from a little weight training—not for football or anything like that, but just for physical fitness. How would you feel if I worked out with you for a while?”
I didn’t think he was serious, so I agreed. But first I spelled out my basic training rule. “No pain, no gain.”
“Huh?” he asked.
“In weight lifting, if you don’t push yourself, especially when you’re tired and feel like quitting, you’ll never gain strength. So the rule is no pain, no gain. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I didn’t think he’d do it, but for two months, J. J. showed up every Tuesday and Thursday night to work out. The little dude was intense. He wasn’t pushing any serious weight, but he was making gains. When he lay on the bench with the bar in his hands, his eyes lit up. He never gave up, and he always strained for that extra rep, the one to grow on.
“No pain, no gain,” I yelled one night when he struggled for an extra repetition.
His arms quivered, the veins in his skull bulged, but he got that look and the bar went up.
“No pain,” he panted, “no gain.”
“You got it, my man,” I said, squeezing his upper arm. You’re definitely putting on some meat here.”
“You know,” said J. J., “I wonder if Lehi was talking about weight lifting when he said, ‘It must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.’”
“Who’s Lehi?”
“A prophet in the Book of Mormon. You know, Nephi’s father.”
“He was into weights?”
“Probably not. He was talking more about life, you know, about how stuff that’s hard for us makes us stronger.”
“Sounds like he knew what he was talking about.”
“Yeah,” J. J. nodded seriously. “Yeah, kinda like no pain, no gain.”
I didn’t want him to ruin our workout by discussing the Book of Mormon, so I steered the conversation to something else. “You know, J. J., weight lifting will make a man of you, but I’m afraid it’s not going to do anything to sprout hair on your bald head.”
J. J. straightened up and patted his scalp. “Too bad. I’ve got plenty of room for growth up here. But it’ll grow back someday.”
“You mean it’s not a permanent, genetic thing?”
“Well, I was born bald,” he laughed, “but I had a pretty normal childhood—hair and everything. When I was nine I got really sick and the medicine they gave me made my hair fall out.”
“Bad stuff, huh?
He nodded slowly as his smile faded.
“Real bad.”
“Do me a favor, and keep your medicine away from me. I don’t want to turn out like that Samson dude.”
J. J. grinned and lay back on the bench for his final set.
J. J. showed up every Tuesday and Thursday for another month, but instead of gaining, he started losing strength. His arms shook more than ever, and his energy faded almost with the first repetition.
“No pain, no gain,” I shouted to help him finish a repetition. He strained for a moment, but gravity dragged the bar back down. I helped him rack the bar.
He sat at the end of the bench completely wiped out.
“Man, I’ve got plenty of pain, but it’s sure not helping me make any gains, at least not in weights.”
We ended our workout early that night, and I gave J. J. a ride home. I didn’t see J. J. for two weeks, so I called his house to see what was going on. His mom told me he had leukemia. It had been in remission for a couple of years, but recently it came back with a vengeance. He was at the local hospital getting chemotherapy, and he was pretty sick.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I asked, “Can I see him?”
Lying in the hospital bed, J. J. looked skinnier and more pale than I had remembered. A couple of bottles hung next to his bed with plastic tubes running down into his arms. I rubbed my own arms and shivered.
“Hey, J. J. Hey, how you doing?”
He didn’t move right away, but then he saw me and smiled.
“Wayne. Hey, thanks for coming.” His voice sounded hoarse and papery.
“You’ve been missing workouts, my man.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“I got 330 on the bench last week. Too bad you missed it.”
J. J. closed his eyes and his body flinched in pain. For a moment his breath stopped as his whole body tensed. I just about called a nurse, but he gradually relaxed and breathed again. When he opened his eyes, tears rimmed the bottom of his eyelids.
“You okay? Can I get something? Call a nurse?”
He shook his head. “No pain,” he whispered, “no gain. I’m kind of used to this. I guess chemotherapy is better than the alternative.”
I started visiting J. J. pretty regularly after that. He still looked like a wimp, but that laser gleam was back in his eyes. He’d tease the nurses, arm wrestle me, and talk nonstop. “Just wait until I get out of here, Wayne Muscle Brain. I’m gonna hit your weights like a maniac, and in a couple months …” He paused when he saw my doubtful grin. “Okay, in six months, maybe seven, I’ll be stronger pound for pound than you.”
One Saturday, it was J. J. and me quietly watching a baseball game on TV. It had been his roughest week yet. I’d say something once in a while, and he’d nod or blink to let me know he heard. Talking made him tired.
Then he spoke. “Wayne?”
“Yeah?”
He took a shaky and shallow breath. “I want you to come to church.”
“Me? Yeah, sure. The roof will collapse if I walk in there.”
“Please. My parents are taking me tomorrow. Please come.”
I started to tell him no, but his look. Those eyes. He was so determined. I reached over and patted his shoulder. “Okay, man. Okay.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.
I met J. J. and his parents in front of their church the next day and helped load J. J. into a wheelchair. His whole body shook when I lifted him out of the car. “Hey, man, you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “No pain, no gain.”
We sat in the back of the chapel. After the sacrament had been passed, people started standing up and talking. When someone stood, a boy walked over and handed them a microphone. They talked about their lives and their families, and about the church. Some of them cried. I noticed J. J. crying too.
Near the end of the meeting, J. J. leaned onto my arm and tried to stand. He struggled a moment but couldn’t make it and fell back into his chair with a crash and a sob. The kid with the microphone noticed and walked over, handing it to J. J.
For a few seconds he just sat there with the mike in his lap. His mouth was moving, but only whispers were coming out. So I picked up the mike and held it close to his lips.
Everybody had turned to watch J. J. as the chapel became silent. Finally his voice came over the speaker. “I’m thankful to … to be alive.” He tried to say more, but nothing came. He just sat there with tears running down his face. Everybody, including me, was crying. Something got into me then; it was J. J., I guess. With the microphone still in my hand, I stood up and started talking.
“Uh, I’m Wayne Salow, a friend of J. J.’s. You know, before I met him, I had no interest in church. Football was everything. Then J. J. started coming over, not to preach or act like a missionary, but to work out, to be my friend. And we started talking, started being friends. And I got to where I really liked him.
“When I first met J. J., I figured I had it made because I was big and strong and he was so skinny and weak. But as I got to know him, I started to see that he had lots more than I did: a strong family, a strong will, and more courage than I’ll ever know.”
My voice started to shake, so I hurried to finish. “Anyway, I love him for being my friend, and I love what makes him the kind of person he is, and whatever it is, I want it. I want to be like him. Uh, that’s it … Amen, I guess.”
Not exactly a typical testimony, but for a guy who hadn’t been to church forever, it was okay.
J. J. didn’t live much longer. As he got sicker, I could only see him on his rare good days. The last time I saw Jonathan Johnson was four days before he died. By then, his body had had about all it could take. We didn’t even talk; I’m not even sure if he was awake all the time I was there. I just stood at his side and held his hand. I told him I thought that with all the pain he’d been through, he’d gained an awful lot. More than most people gain in a lifetime.
“And, J. J.,” I said, “I wanna gain it too. I’m working on it—going to church and everything. The bishop said that if I keep it up, he can’t see any reason why I can’t go on a mission the year after I graduate. A mission. Man, can you believe it?”
I think I felt him squeeze my hand right then. Or maybe I imagined it. But I like to think that he heard and understood. And that he was glad.

Several days ago, we were discussing talks during a family meal. Clarissa, our 13-year-old daughter, was preparing a sacrament meeting talk for our branch in Moscow and felt some anxiety. I reassured her that all would be well and released a little anxiety of my own by saying that at least she didn’t have to speak in front of thousands of people in general conference. Clarissa gave me some advice of her own: “It will be OK, Dad. Just pretend it’s a big branch.” Brothers and sisters, you are indeed a very large branch.

Let’s all learn from my friend Mick. One day he was swimming at a party given by the company for which he was working that summer in Nebraska. He dove into the water and hit a shallow spot very hard. A broken neck was his diagnosis, and his whole body was immediately paralyzed. He even lost the capacity to breathe. The doctor said, “He may not make it through the night.”
He had earned a B.A. degree in political science after serving a mission in Japan. At the time of this tragic accident he had just one year left in law school at BYU. He was married and had two children. This tragic accident changed his whole life, as if from day to night. He wasn’t sure whether he would make it until the next day. It was inconceivable, the emotional and physical pain that he must go through as a quadriplegic.
Even though he was in this condition in the University of Utah Medical Center, he was determined to graduate from law school. It was an almost impossible task, but good friends, true Samaritans, brought him notes and taped lectures from Provo. Oh, God bless these true Christians. He turned pages by a mouthstick, and if his book flipped shut, he waited for a long time until someone came to help him.
Finally, he graduated from law school, passed the Utah bar exam, and became a licensed attorney. While he was studying, exercising, and maintaining doctor’s contact to gain strength, his wife took his two sons and divorced him. This was the most “sorrowful and very heavy” period of his life. (Matt. 26:37.) But he never complained and even blessed the leaving loved ones. In his heart he prayed, “Thy will be done, O Lord!” (Matt. 26:42.) It was his own Garden of Gethsemane, and he took his own cup and drank it as his blessing.
My friend Mick met a most beautiful lady, Cheryl. They married and now the greatest joy has come to their lives. His wife is expecting a baby. It is a miracle. The Lord said, “I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless.” Last Friday, they were sealed in the temple for time and for all eternity. It was my privilege to perform the ceremony for this beautiful couple.
His stake president, President Banks, described him as “a most humble person with strong faith,” and his secretary said of him, “Time has always been important to him. A span of a few brief seconds means the difference. He has no wasted time. He has accomplished more than ever.”

That October conference, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared some of his experiences related to moving his young family to Connecticut for graduate school. We had also moved to Connecticut for graduate school. Then he described how he and his family had fit all of their possessions into their little car—we had done the same. He explained that when the trip began, his car had overheated and broken down not once but twice! Our vehicle also broke down twice.
Finally, he described a more recent experience of driving a reliable car by the spot where his car had broken down 30 years earlier. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as a young father and said these words: “Don’t give up, boy. Don’t you quit. … There is help and happiness ahead—a lot of it. … You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.”1Elder Holland’s experience helped me feel understood and loved. His example gave me the courage to seek the spiritual witness that more education for my husband was the will of the Lord for our family.

When Elder Jeremy R. Jaggi was a teenager, his seven-year-old sister, Kristen, contracted a bacteria that attacked her brain. Doctors said she wouldn’t survive.
Young Jeremy knelt beside his bed in the family’s home in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, and pleaded with the Lord to know why she had to die so young. His sister, however, received a priesthood blessing and lived.
This was a catalyst for 17-year-old Jeremy to “get himself right with God,” leading him to seriously read the Book of Mormon for the first time. Later he served as a full-time missionary in the Ohio Cleveland Mission.

Growing up on a ranch in southern Utah taught me a lot about working with animals and how dangerous they can be. We ran a herd of Hereford cows, including several bulls. I truly enjoyed working the cattle from the back of a horse and generally living a ranch life.
My family was active in the Church, and when we were living on the ranch, we always made the 30-mile trip on a gravel road to town for Sunday meetings. My parents taught me to pray, and throughout my life prayer has helped me through some difficult circumstances.
One day I learned to respond to the promptings of the Spirit quickly, and I believe it saved my life. At least it kept me from serious injury.
I was 14, and I was working not far away from the ranch house one summer day. I finished my work and was headed back through the corral that was enclosed by a very solid pole fence made of juniper posts and poles. Inside the corral was a herd of about 30 range cows, including our prime Hereford bull, Charlie, who weighed 2,000 pounds or more. My dad liked to have what he called “ton bulls,” and that certainly described Charlie.
I was walking along the pole fence, and Charlie was in my way, so I smacked him on his hip with my hand, and he scampered out of the way. I continued on past Charlie a few feet, with my back to him, when I heard what sounded like cows scuffling. I had heard that scuffling sound often and would have thought nothing of it, but something else went through my mind.
Quicker than I could even think about it, I knew I had to leap for my life. I lunged for the top pole of the fence, grabbed it, and yanked myself headfirst over onto the rocks and weeds on the other side. As I was about halfway across I had time to wonder if I had overreacted. I briefly even felt a bit embarrassed. Upon landing, I immediately looked back through the bottom poles to see what had happened, and there was Charlie’s massive head and horns, his nose about six inches from mine, staring at me through the fence with those empty, black eyes. It came to me forcefully that if I had questioned that instantaneous prompting for even the briefest moment, Charlie would have crushed me against the fence.
I learned two things from that experience. First was to never be on foot around a range herd. They don’t know you’re the boss unless you’re on a horse. Second, listen to the promptings of the Spirit without question—without hesitation. Satan is the one who tells you that you are overreacting. Living worthily (keeping the commandments, saying daily prayers, attending church, studying the scriptures) helped qualify me for spiritual gifts, especially a lightning-fast prompting to leap for my life.
I have not yet finished thanking my Heavenly Father for that blessing even though it’s been more than 50 years.

A few months ago I was in a distant area of the Church. A fine-looking young man came up to me and said somewhat impatiently, “Bishop Brown, how long does it take, anyway, to process a mission call?” I said that I was not sure but I did not think it would be too long. We had a short, very pleasant visit. Afterward I asked the stake president about him. He seemed so desirous of serving a mission, and yet he appeared to be older than most prospective missionaries; he appeared to be in his mid- or late twenties.
The stake president informed me that at one time this young man had been acknowledged as one of the top three drummers in the leading rock bands of the United States. He had previously recorded with Columbia Records and had made a lot of money. He had been totally involved in that scene. One day, he put a gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger. It went off but, miraculously, did not kill him. During his convalescence, he learned of the gospel. He was converted and baptized and now was preparing himself to go on a mission.
He now had an understanding of eternal life. The contrast between his earlier life and now caused many things of the world to seem hollow and meaningless. With this new light and knowledge the things of God were rich and rewarding, and now his whole desire was to achieve eternal life and influence the lives of others so that they would have the same desire.

In January 2009, my husband and I flew to Germany. He had accepted a job there, and we spent a week in Berlin to prepare to move our family.
Instantly, I felt overwhelmed by the differences between Germany and the United States. That night, I didn’t dare leave our hotel.
But the next morning, Sunday, I gathered my courage to attend sacrament meeting. When we entered the chapel, a kind man recognized us as Americans and gave us an English hymnbook. As I sat on the back row and sang different words from everyone else, I felt like an outsider.
The ward offered English translation and gave us headphones. Halfway through the meeting, I wanted to tear mine off and return to my American ward. But when I sang the second verse of “How Firm a Foundation,” the Holy Ghost took hold of my heart.
At home or abroad, on the land or the sea—
As thy days may demand, … so thy succor shall be.1
The hymn felt like a message from the Lord. Tears poured down my cheeks as I hurried to the foyer, where a soft-eyed man gave me his trusty pocket packet of tissue. (Nobody in the ward was ever without one.)
Fast forward three and a half years. In the same chapel on a Sunday morning in June, the organist began playing a hymn. I opened my German hymnbook and started to sing.
That’s when the Holy Ghost enveloped me again. I was again singing “How Firm a Foundation,” but everything was different.
I looked around. Instead of seeing strangers, I saw friends. Behind me sat our former stake president, who had quickly learned our names. On the front row my deacon son rubbed shoulders with the young men who had visited him in the hospital when he was diagnosed with diabetes. Near them sat the ward Young Women leader, who had taught my daughter to make delicious potato pancakes.
Throughout the chapel sat young people I had taught and loved in an English-speaking institute class, my faithful visiting teachers, and others who cheerfully joined the ward ballroom dance classes the bishop had asked me to teach.
Tears blurred my vision, but this time I didn’t run from the chapel. Instead, I dug into my purse for my own trusty pocket packet of tissue.
Nobody in the ward was ever without one.

It was a beautiful morning in April 2012 when John Ekow-Mensah entered the Accra Ghana Temple. The elderly brother, now in his 80s, had made the trip with a group of Saints from Nkawkaw, where he lived alone. The group planned to stay the night in nearby rooms for temple patrons and spend two days serving in the temple.
Seated inside the temple, Brother Ekow-Mensah was waiting to participate in initiatory ordinances when a younger man sat down beside him. The younger man, age 54, had planned to go through an endowment session that morning with his wife but, arriving too late for that session, he decided to do initiatory ordinances.
“Where are you from?” Brother Ekow-Mensah asked.
“Sekondi,” the man replied.
“What part of Sekondi?” Brother Ekow-Mensah asked.
“Ketan,” the younger one answered, “in the area where the schools are located.” As the conversation continued, the men both sensed where these questions might be leading.
Moved by a growing sense of recognition, the younger man looked at Brother Ekow-Mensah. “You are my father,” he announced. “What is your name?”
“John Ekow-Mensah.”
“That is my name too,” the son replied.
Illustration by Brian Call
After serving in the temple, the two men sat for a long time in the celestial room, reconnecting their lives and rekindling their love. Though everything Brother Ekow-Mensah Jr. said and did was respectful and proper, he seemed not quite ready to embrace his father wholeheartedly—until he learned why his father had to leave and why he could not contact his family.
Nearly 50 years ago Brother Ekow-Mensah Sr. had married a woman whose grandmother—the oldest matriarch at that time—held sovereign power in their tribe. Sadly, the matriarch had been opposed to John’s marriage to her granddaughter. At her insistence the couple ultimately separated when their oldest son, John Jr., was just four or five years old. John Jr. had known his great-grandmother as a strong, hard-working woman, not as the power that had deprived him of all association with his natural father for nearly 50 years.
Expulsion from the family essentially severed all ties. Because of the lack of telephones or mail service, John Sr. had no way to keep contact with his family. His search for work took him many hours away. He lived in Mankessim from about 1963 to 1989, where he operated a small paint shop. From there he moved to Ada, where a woman whose building he was painting introduced him to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Brother Ekow-Mensah Sr. joined the Church in 1991.
Because Brother Ekow-Mensah Jr. was so young when his parents’ marriage dissolved, he didn’t know much about his heritage. Occasionally his mother remarked that he was a “carbon copy” of his father, but that was the extent of his knowledge.
After he grew up and married, John and his wife, Deborah, decided to find a church they could join. John was at the University of Ghana in Accra when he saw a Liahona magazine on a shelf. He picked it up and found himself interested in what it had to say. John noted the publisher: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
When John returned from school to his home in Sekondi, his wife was anxious to tell him of a church she had learned about from a friend. She told him the name was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. John told her this was the church he had read about in a magazine at the university.
John and Deborah were taught the gospel and baptized in 1999. A decade later they were sealed in the Accra Ghana Temple, and the three youngest of their five children were sealed to them.
Then in the temple in April 2012, tears came as the father and son recognized each other. Their joy was compounded by their understanding that they had separately joined the Church and found their way into the temple that beautiful morning.

About this time, a seminary teacher in our branch challenged me to write in my journal every day for 20 days. She said if I did, it would become a habit. I decided to try it.

Writing was hard at first, but it got easier. I found that by writing down my feelings and thoughts, I naturally included feelings and thoughts of a spiritual nature. I made my record fun by trying to include information I thought my children might be interested in someday—for example, how much things cost. I figured it would be interesting for them to see what daily life was like when I was young.

I received my 20-day challenge five years ago. I’m still writing in my journal every night. I get it out before I go to bed. I read my scriptures; then I write in my journal. Now it’s automatic, and I plan to keep writing in it throughout my life.

I’ll always remember the dinner at my 40th high school reunion. I was anxious to see old friends I hadn’t seen in years and find out what had happened in their lives since high school.
While we were chatting at a table with 8 or 10 other classmates during dinner, one of my old friends, Greg Link, mentioned that he had been baptized into the Church when he was in his 20s.
Then he asked a piercing question: “Why was it that none of you offered me a Book of Mormon in high school? Didn’t you think I was Church material?”
Another old friend—who wasn’t a member of the Church—said, “You could have had one of mine; I was given about 50 of them!”
I was stunned. Back in high school, if you had told me that Greg would be baptized and become a successful motivational speaker, I wouldn’t have believed it. I really liked Greg. He was the kind of loyal friend you could count on when you needed him. But I knew he liked to party, and he had a knack for getting into trouble. It just didn’t ever occur to me that he would have any interest in hearing about the Church. The funny thing was, I had believed that the other friend, with whom I had shared the gospel and given a copy of the Book of Mormon, would one day join. The fact of the matter is, you just never know who is ready to accept the gospel and who is not.
I felt a little sheepish after that conversation with Greg because I, like so many others, hadn’t shared the gospel with him. I asked him how he finally became interested in the Church. Here is his story:
My family moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, when I was about 11, but I didn’t join the Church until I was 24. Looking back, I can see why no one shared the gospel with me. I was not a golden contact on the surface. Actually, I was a bit of a rowdy kid. I got into fights and got into trouble at school regularly.
I had a number of LDS friends, but only one ever talked about the Church. And that was because I teased him about reading the Book of Mormon when he babysat.
I was curious about things, though. My mom took me to a local Christian church. I once asked them why Jesus hadn’t come to the Americas. They kind of laughed at me for asking such a question, so I didn’t ask anything else about it.
Years later I decided to visit the visitors’ center on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. There was a diorama on Christ in America. Suddenly I remembered my questions about that topic from my younger years. That’s when the Spirit hit me, and I knew I was ready to listen.
The example of my friends from high school stayed with me. In fact, the people I respected most were LDS. Randy Ridd and his wife both went to my school. They were always great examples, very good people. That made a big impact on me later. I thought, “If Randy believed this was real, it must be important.”
I don’t know what might have happened if they had shared more about the gospel at the time. I might not have been ready. But looking back, I wish they had. I know it would have had an impact on me.
I feel so grateful that my example had a positive impact on Greg. I would feel even better, though, if I had done something about it at the time. If I had shared the gospel or the Book of Mormon or even just invited Greg to an activity, it could have changed his life. He may have joined the Church sooner. Maybe he would have even served a mission.
I’ve learned that being a good example is truly important, but so is the responsibility to share the gospel. The Lord has commanded us to do so: “Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature” (Mark 16:15).
So don’t be afraid to share. What’s more, don’t be too quick to judge who is ready and who is not. You might just be surprised whose heart has been softened, even if that interest is hidden deep down where you can’t see it.

The John Johnson farm was the location of one of the more dramatic stories in Church history. It was here that a mob dragged the Prophet from his room, tarred and feathered him, and returned him to his terrified wife, Emma, who mistakenly thought he was covered in blood. They both spent the rest of the night trying to remove the tar. The next morning, sore and in pain, he stood on the front porch and preached to a crowd.

Standing on the front steps of the Johnson home, in the very spot where the Prophet Joseph stood before the gathered crowd the morning after the mob attack, Paul says, “After all he went through, the Prophet Joseph was provided the strength from the Lord to get up and preach.”

“And,” adds Jessica Seipert, also from the Hiram Ward, “Joseph and Emma also had to deal with one of their twins dying after being exposed to the cold that night.” Joseph, an adopted son of Joseph and Emma, died from exposure in March 1832.

Jessica walks inside the home to stand in the room that Joseph and Emma used as their bedroom. The furniture is arranged as it might have been that night. She tries to imagine the chaos and fear that would have been in that room that night.

I never used to find time to read the scriptures daily, especially with waking up early to go to school and long hours of homework. The only times I read were at Sunday School, in Young Women class, and a couple of times a week for family scripture study. Despite all the promised blessings of daily scripture reading, I always put off my personal study. That is, until my cousin came to visit.
My cousin, a student at Brigham Young University–Idaho, was my roommate at our home while she worked at a Church ranch in Florida. Every night she would pray and read her scriptures and, since the light was on anyway, I would join her. Gradually, I developed the habit also, and when she went back to Idaho, I continued personal scripture study on my own.
I know there is a lot more I need to read and understand, but daily reading has truly blessed me. The scriptures have come to life for me, especially in Nephi, Mosiah, and Alma. Whenever I begin to murmur and complain, I can look back to what I have learned in the scriptures and make changes in my life.
It is fun to find the stories I learned when I was in Primary and read the complete versions from the sacred records of God’s prophets. I am so thankful for the example my cousin set by studying the scriptures daily. I know scripture study has helped and will continue to help me throughout my life.

After a short time at home, my father and I (mostly my father) decided that it was time for me to pursue another chapter in my search for happiness. So I left home for the happy hunting grounds of BYU in pursuit of an education . . . okay, an eternal companion. I must mention here that at that time there was somewhere around 28,000 students in attendance there. Even with that many people around, I never felt so alone in all my life. Was this joy? I knew that the Gospel was true and I continued to follow the spirit the best I could. And I found joy in serving in serving in church.

I found a good paying job that helped me buy a brand new car! This was joy!!! So I thought! I continued to be happy, even though I had not yet found “the one”! I was so happy, in fact, that I bought a license plate holder for my new car that expressed my joy. It read “Happiness is being Single”.

The path I was traveling soon took me back home again. It was there that my license plate holder had been seen by a member of my Stake Presidency. He extended a thorough interview and after signing my temple recommend said there could only be one other piece of paper that would be more valuable and bring more joy than the one he had just signed . . . that would be the one for the living ordinance . . . meaning getting sealed in the temple. And to help me with this search for “joy”, he would set up a series of interviews over the next six months. In the first two months, I was to report to him with a list of ten young women and their finest attributes. The following two months I would narrow that list down to three, and then the last two months I would narrow the list to one . . . and he said, “You can tell her before you tell me!”

Unbeknownst to him, I had started dating a young lady that was soon to be my bride! After six weeks of intensive dating and car repairs . . . a whole other story . . . we were engaged to be married, and I had to call that counselor in the stake presidency and cancel my interviews with him. I now knew what joy was! I had fasted and prayed many days, even been to the temple, and it had been confirmed to me that she was the one I was to marry!!! I only hoped that she had experienced the same feelings!! You see, she was waiting for a missionary . . . had been for nearly 18 months . . . just the wrong missionary!!! I convinced her that she deserved the best!!! So after another long six weeks of waiting and preparation, we were sealed in the Los Angeles Temple. Truly, this was joy!!! What could possibly bring more joy than this?

The current racial tension in America has brought me a lot of heartache and anxiety. My emotions have been all over the place as I’ve gone through some recent painful experiences of my own.
I’ve overheard colleagues and other people around me describing Black people in a negative way; making harsh, generalized judgments; and expressing preconceived notions about Black people more than I ever have before. Whenever I overheard conversations like these, I was usually the only Black person around. It can be scary to speak up in such situations.
One day, two young men yelled a racial slur at me as they drove past me in a car—an experience that left me shocked and hurt.
Talking about it has been difficult because so many people around me don’t understand how big of a problem and how common racism really is, and how hurtful it is to those who experience it. And as the only Black person in my ward and neighborhood, I started feeling isolated and misunderstood.
I started avoiding people out of fear.
I started wondering if I really belonged anywhere.
These painful feelings settled in my heart for a while, but everything changed when I heard a recent Brigham Young University devotional by President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency. I felt his sincere love and concern for me as he said: “My brothers and sisters of the rising generation of the restored Church of Jesus Christ, I love you. I want to help you. … I must try to help you through teaching correct principles and trying to help you follow them.”1
I did not realize just how much I needed to hear President Oaks’s address, “Racism and Other Challenges,” until I did.
“Of course Black lives matter!” he said. “That is an eternal truth all reasonable people should support.”2
Those words meant everything to me. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders when I felt the Spirit confirm the eternal truth that God loves me regardless of my skin.
I’m an immigrant from the beautiful African country of Zambia. I’ve lived in America for 14 years. I married my white husband, and we have three beautiful half-Black, half-white children. Being a mother to them and being a Black woman myself, I found so much peace, comfort, and reassurance in President Oaks’s message that I am in the right place and that I truly do belong, especially in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I forwarded the devotional to several of my Black friends who were also struggling like I was. They too loved this message because each of us has experienced racism in one form or another, ranging from hurtful name-calling to physical danger.
We all felt an enormous amount of joy, because the Lord’s prophets were speaking out against racism and reminding us of Heavenly Father’s love for each of us.

Now, in closing, I want to share with you a personal experience I had with my grandfather, Harold B. Lee, an Idaho boy like some of you and a past president of the Church, wherein he taught me about developing and giving our gifts. When I was a senior in college, I took my patriarchal blessing to Grandfather. My request to him was that he read my blessing with me, and counsel me as to how I might recognize, develop, and give my gifts, using the patriarch's inspiration as context. Grandfather read my blessing and then said: "Well, Alan, that's a fine blessing." He paused, and continued: "My impression is that you worry too much about the future, Alan." This was not what I had come to hear. Though I would not have admitted it at the time, in my heart of hearts I hoped he would look into the crystal ball and tell me about a career. In fact, I would have been even more delighted if he had told me my future wife's name, and how to find her.

Grandfather went on to recount briefly, his own personal history. He said, "You know as a boy growing up in Clifton, Idaho, we prayed for the 'pillars of the Church.' We meant the Brethren, the General Authorities. I could no more have thought of becoming one of them than fly to the moon, which in those days also seemed an impossibility." He came home from a mission and thought he would be a farmer, but things weren't going well there so he decided to attend a university. At the University of Utah he met a young woman who was willing to walk home with him the five miles after a date, because he didn't have the five cents to pay the trolley. Friendship ripened into love, and they were married. Upon graduation, Grandfather found a job as a high school principal. After a few years, his wife suggested maybe he could be doing something else and he got into distributing books throughout the Western United States. Then, one of the city commissioners died in the middle of his term, and Grandfather, because of contacts he had made as a book distributor, was asked to fill the rest of that man's term. He was then elected to a term of his own.

During this same time, Grandfather had been called as a Stake President. Then the 1930 depression hit. He and other leaders in his stake dusted off the revelations, and tried to find a way to help the almost 70% of their stake members who were out of work. They established a Bishop's Storehouse and found ways to have those who were out of work harvest wheat that was going unharvested because the price for wheat was so low it didn't pay to harvest it. Then the Brethren called him to set up a welfare program for the entire church. Several years later he was called as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, and at the time we were talking he was in the First Presidency. His question to me was: "Alan, do you think I could have taken thought, and prepared myself to be where I am now? The only counsel that I have ever felt comfortable giving to young people is that they get up each day and regain their testimony. And then in the light of the inspiration of the Lord, 'in the moment thereof,' that they do what the Lord asks of them. Don't live too far into the future," was his counsel. "Live for today. You don't have tomorrow; all you have is today. You don't have yesterday. All you can do is repent or feel good, depending on your yesterdays. So make your yesterdays days to feel good about by living fully for today."