Gospel Story Finder

I had been serving with the U.S. Army in Vietnam for two years. Vietnam has two seasons, hot and dry and hot and wet. This morning was hot and wet, just as each previous day had been for the past several weeks. I was sitting in a shallow ditch, too tired to care about the mud oozing into my army boots or the stench of the blood stained water around my feet. Sweat was pouring down my brow, soaking my shirt. The oppressive heat made breathing laborious.
I had spent the past three weeks on patrol operations. Now, with those of my colleagues still alive, I was waiting by a loading zone for helicopters to take us back to base camp.
I thought of the past few days—of my friends who had died, of the pain of those who hadn’t, and of how tired I was of everything. We had had weeks of constant patrol, chasing enemy troops by day and praying at night that they wouldn’t come looking for us. But they always did.
I instinctively crouched deeper into the ditch as a bullet whined overhead. An enemy sniper had started shooting, so this was no time to be careless. Our guards were scanning the jungle, but they had not yet spotted the source of the rifle fire.
The roar of helicopters filled the air and three of them landed some ten meters behind me. Their machine guns opened up to keep the enemy occupied. Fresh troops, our replacements, scrambled off the helicopters and into the ditch as our wounded were loaded aboard. The entire exchange lasted only seconds, and then the helicopters were gone. The next flight would be for us. “Just a little longer,” I thought to myself as I tried to control the urge to stand up and stretch my cramped legs.
In the silence broken only by muffled conversation and occasional gunfire, I became aware of someone whistling a familiar tune. What was that song? It seemed to calm my fears and shut out the war. I listened intently and looked around to see a soldier sitting about a meter away. I couldn’t make out his name tag; he was another private from the company that had just arrived. He continued to whistle—and then I recognized the tune, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.”
I quickly crawled over to him and asked if he was a Latter-day Saint and if he held the priesthood. He said yes, and my heart skipped a beat; I had not been in touch with another Church member since I had attended the Saigon Branch several months before. I asked if he was worthy to bless the sacrament, and he told me that he was.
It was the Sabbath; I knew that only because of the day and date feature on my watch. I had an army ration biscuit and a canteen of water, so I asked if he would help me with the sacrament. He nodded and we crawled out of the ditch—out of sight of the other soldiers—into the tall grass and bamboo.
I pulled from my pocket my serviceman’s copy of Principles of the Gospel that my bishop had given me when I had received my draft notice. I offered my helmet, upturned, for our table, and the soldier produced a clean white handkerchief for the sacrament cloth. Kneeling with my new companion in the mud, I unwrapped the biscuit and broke and blessed it. While I prayed, he watched the jungle with his rifle ready. We served each other. Then he laid down his weapon, took the canteen cup of water, and blessed it while I guarded him.
Never in my life has the bread of the sacrament tasted so sweet and the water so pure as it did that day, nor has my soul been so strengthened by the ordinance. We clasped hands, then quickly crawled back to the protection of the ditch. Immediately, the noise of the helicopters again filled the air, and I was up and running for the loading zone with my colleagues. I turned and looked back, my fear had left me. My brother-in-the-gospel smiled and waved. I climbed aboard the helicopter, and we were gone.
I never asked that soldier’s name, nor he mine, but in those brief moments we forged a bond to last throughout eternity. Another member of the Church had rescued my soul from the horror and despair of war. Partaking of the sacrament in the jungle had brought me closer to the Lord than I had ever been before.
Through a gospel ordinance, we had found peace.

The incident at the pond was just one of many times that Elder Wirthlin and his father learned from each other. He related the following incident too.
“Once, when I was about seven, Father gave me five dollars to buy some items at the hardware store about a mile away. When I came back, we accounted for the money and found that they had given me a dollar too much in change. Father said, ‘Whenever you purchase anything, make sure that you get the correct change back, and be especially careful that they do not give you too much change.’ He insisted that I immediately walk back and return the dollar, which I did. This was a great lesson in honesty and in promptness in correcting an error.

Though it happened more than four decades ago, my wife and I have never forgotten an occasion when we were blessed by an anonymous donor. It was Christmas of 1953, and I was a graduate student at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. In many ways it was the best of times. We had two small and much adored children and were deeply in love with each other, as we are to this day. Furthermore, I loved my studies and research at a world-renowned university. But we were very poor, with not a penny of financial reserves, and barely able to scrape by on my graduate stipend of two hundred dollars per month. Somehow my dear wife had managed to find a few dollars for modest Christmas presents for our two children, but that was as far as the money went. We weren’t particularly troubled by the lack of funds, but, like the couple in O. Henry’s classic tale “The Gift of the Magi,” each of us had hoped to give the other some expression of our mutual affection.

On Christmas Eve our doorbell rang. When I answered it, I found on the front porch a package in Christmas wrappings. It was addressed to us but had no indication of who had sent it. When we opened the package on Christmas morning, we found a shirt for me and a blouse for my wife. Never were gifts more appreciated, not just for themselves, but most of all because someone cared about us. We still don’t know the identity of the giver but bless his or her name to this day.

Thousands of Mormon men, women, and children camped homeless in Indian country, refugees from Nauvoo. Poverty and hunger were permanent guests at their tents, wagons, and crude cabins. Back east, the plight of these sufferers touched the hearts of society people. When the Irish potato famine caused mass starvation, wealthy socialites quickly raised funds and food to provide relief. So when Mormon elders, sent east to seek aid from Gentiles, explained the Mormons’ troubles, wealthy hearts softened again.
“Shall it be said,” asked the Daily Union, a Washington, D.C., newspaper, “that the same people [who aided the Irish] have driven from their peaceful homes fifteen hundred [thousand] of our own people to perish of hunger and cold in the wilderness? We trust not.” Then followed advertisements for “The Ladies Tea Party for the Benefit of the Mormons.” On October 28, 1846, according to one newspaper report, the special tea-party opened very successfully in Washington, with many prominent people present:
“Suffice it for the present, that the ladies of all denominations, all over the city, headed by the mayor and the clergy, went heart and hand into the work. The venerable Mrs. ex-President Madison, Mrs. [President James K.] Polk, Mrs. General Macomb, and many others of the most influential and highly respected and most beautiful of the metropolis were united in the benevolent enterprise.”
Guests paid 50¢ per ticket, which enabled them to hear the Marine Band and a popular vocal group, both of which volunteered their services. Several persons in the city opened their homes as collecting points for clothing and moneys donated to help the Mormon refugees.4

Others John has taught have also found ways to personalize their instruments. Freida Maize from Shiprock, New Mexico, carved an “S” on her flute to stand for her home town. Ray Delgarito of Crown Point, New Mexico, fashioned part of his in the shape of a quail. And Jackie Smith of Dustin, Oklahoma, carved a thunderbird and other tribal symbols of the Creeks and Seminoles on her flute.
“The thunderbird symbolizes power, and to me music is a powerful way to influence people. In my tribe and every tribe it plays a vital part because it is involved in everything—religion, everyday singing, powwows, war dances. Everything is tied in with some form of music or other.”
She explained that her mother, who is not a member of the Church, heard her playing the LDS hymn “I Need Thee Every Hour” on the flute and asked her about its meaning. “I was able to show her that she can kneel before God and meet him any time, every hour.”

Oertli turned and looked back at the rapids. Another raft, the last of seven, was moving toward the head of the rapids. Oertli rowed to the slow water on the inside of a bend. He waved his arms at the other raft.
“Left, left,” he shouted.
His arms were wet, shining in the bright sunlight.
“He’s rowed here before a couple of times, but that’s a tricky spot. I told him about the two rocks. I hope he remembers.”
He wiped his hands on his legs.
“We’ll watch in case they run into trouble,” he said.
The other raft rose and dropped suddenly, vanishing below waves and then rising up again.
“He’s missed the first rock.”
Oertli stood on the supply box in the middle of the raft waving.
“Right, right,” he shouted. He stopped and stood silent. “He can’t hear me. He’s not rowing.”
A wave suddenly sprayed up in front of the other raft. Jerking back, it stopped, pinned against the rock. Water foamed around it in a wild swirl, tipping it forward. The current caught it, turned it, and pulled It from the rock and down the river, safe.
“Someone’s in the water,” Oertli yelled.
A small orange figure bobbed in front of the raft in white water.
“Row toward her,” Oertli yelled.
Small forms on the raft moved frantically. Out of control in the turbulence, the raft came sideways down the rapids, and the distance between it and the girl in the water grew as the river swept her downstream.
Oertli grabbed the oars again and rowed toward the shore.
“We’ll stop and pick her up when she comes by. If we pick her up now, she’ll be fine. She has her life jacket on, but the water’s cold.”
The shore came up fast.
“Doug, jump out and brake the raft with the rope when we get to the shore. The current’s strong here.”
Doug jumped into the water next to the shore, holding the rope, and fell. He braced himself. The rope grew taut and jerked him down into the water. He stood, getting his footing on slick rocks, then fell again.
The raft slowed and swung in against the shore. Doug stood and brought the raft to a stop.
“Get ready to push off when I say,” Oertli said. “This is why I make sure right at the first that everyone has a life jacket on and buckled. This is a good river. It’s safe, but you can never be too careful.”
He looked up the river. The girl was coming down fast.
“Get ready,” Oertli shouted.
The girl drifted closer.
“Now!” he yelled, grabbing the oars.
Doug pushed the raft into the current and jumped in. Pumping the oars in a rhythmic motion, Oertli brought the raft to the middle of the river. The girl drifted even with the raft about ten feet away. Someone threw her a rope. Oertli hit the water hard with the oars. The raft moved next to the girl and several hands pulled her from the water.
“Are you all right?” Oertli asked.
The girl nodded.
She was clenching her fists tight to her body, shivering. Water dripped from her hair down her face.
“Cold?” Oertli asked.
She nodded again.
“We’ll fix that,” he said.
“Doug, we’re going to pull in and stop.”
He pulled out a pile of waterproof bags and undid the straps on one. He unpacked a heavy wool sweater, a pair of pants, and a thick, down jacket.
“When we get to the shore, go back in the trees and put these on,” he said.
A few minutes later the girl returned.
“Are you okay now?”
She nodded.
“Warm enough?” Oertli asked smiling.
She managed a smile and nodded.
“I keep several sets of warm clothes just for this.”
He rowed to the fast current and leaned back, tipping his head up toward the sun. It was bright and hung low in the sky.
“We’ll be in camp in about an hour,” he said.

Last December, I had an accident. I fell on the street and broke my hip on both sides and my right arm. This has been one of my greatest trials because it kept me in bed, and I couldn’t walk for more than seven months. They put a hip prosthetic on one side, and the doctor decided to wait until I could walk before they put the other one in. I am still struggling with this challenge today, but I’m not facing it alone. I know my Savior has been by my side every day and always will be. This time, I prayed to help me regain my health so I could continue to enjoy the blessings of going to the temple and serving others. Many people have come to support and assist me. I’ve learned to be humble, recognize my weaknesses, and accept the service they have given me.

Brigham Young, who went without bread and much else in order to hear the Prophet speak on any subject at any time, even if he was only expressing opinions—that same Brigham Young who would die with the name of Joseph on his lips—once said, in a family reunion in Nauvoo, that what Joseph had in mind in saying, “You do not know me” was essentially a matter of heritage and blood.62 The Lord God had made covenant with Joseph who was sold into Egypt that in the last days that branch of Israel would indeed run over the wall, and God by appropriate unions of ancestors had watched over that blood until it came pure and unsullied into Joseph.63

Brigham Young suggested Joseph was conscious of this preordained role and how the Lord had brought it about. As to the latter, an interesting letter was written from Orson Pratt to his brother Parley P. Pratt in the 1850s that says in effect: “You will recall that Joseph had a vision in which he saw that our ancestral line [meaning the Pratt brothers] and his [meaning the Smiths] had a common ancestor a few generations back.”64 Apparently neither Parley nor Orson was able to confirm the link. The letter remained in an attic until about 1930, but then a granddaughter took it to Archibald F. Bennett, one of the outstanding genealogists of the Church, and he did the research.
He discovered that several generations back from Joseph Smith there was indeed a common ancestor named John Lathrop, and that not only was he the common ancestor of the Pratt brothers and Joseph Smith but also of other early Church leaders, including Wilford Woodruff, Oliver Cowdery, and Frederick G. Williams. In fact one estimate concludes that one-fourth of the early Church members in America were descended from John Lathrop.65

A woman I know was married about 50 years ago in the temple. After she and her husband had had several children, his turbulent life led to their divorce and to his excommunication from the Church. Then she gave up her own Church membership and chose some thorny paths. Later her former husband passed away. I met her when her daughter brought her to my office to explore whether the mother could ever return to the temple.

After a peaceful conversation about how we can learn from experience without being condemned by it, we discussed the processes of repentance, rebaptism, and the restoration of temple blessings. Then I told her that the restoration ordinance would also restore her temple sealing. Was she ready for that?

The daughter spoke first. “I have bipolar disorder,” she said. “My son is bipolar. We know far more about that disorder than we used to, and we take medications that help. Looking back, I believe my father was bipolar, and that probably influenced many of the hard things in our family’s life. I don’t judge him now.”

The mother answered softly, “If I really can return to the temple someday, I will be ready for my sealing to be restored.”

As I watched them walk down the hall, I realized that the temple and Elijah’s sealing power are sources of reconciliation, turning not only the hearts of children and parents toward one another but also turning the hearts of wives and husbands toward one another. I later received a message that the mother was being rebaptized.

While I was serving in a small suburb of Seattle, there lived a man who had left the Church and made a profession of speaking out against it. I learned after I left the area he had fallen ill and was hospitalized. It is my understanding he had few visitors wishing him well, except for a faithful elder’s quorum president who magnified his calling.
The work in this area was difficult. While there, within one week’s time I experienced two miracles.
My companion and I lived in a small mobile home next to a highway that was traveled frequently by large trucks. In the morning we would take turns fixing breakfast for each other—one would cook, and the other study the scriptures. This old trailer had gas appliances that were well past their useful life. To use the oven, one would turn on the gas and wait a few seconds before throwing in a lit match.
I was training a new missionary, and I cooked until he had passed off all of the discussions. The first morning after my companion passed them off, he cooked for me. I remember laying on the couch reading, only a few feet from the kitchen area. I recall hearing the sound of my companion sniffing the air and then the striking of a match. There was an immediate explosion rocking the trailer and blowing all the windows open. I jumped to my feet believing that a truck had lost control and run into our small trailer, only to find my companion standing three feet from the oven, match in hand and still burning. His eyebrows and front of his hair were singed, but neither of us was injured. He later told me he smelled the gas and remembered he needed to light the oven with a match. He thought he could stand across the room, light a match, and slowly burn the gas off as he walked toward the oven. We immediately knelt in prayer and expressed gratitude that we were uninjured and able to continue working on the Lord’s errand.

Aaron’s experience at Sinai reminds me of a similar experience I had as the leader of a small group of men in my army platoon at Fort Ord, California.

Our platoon was preparing for a special inspection; after cleaning the barracks, the men went outside to clean their gear. The platoon sergeant called the four squad leaders into the barracks where he noted a few tasks that still needed to be completed. He told me to call some of my men in to do these jobs. So I opened a window and called out to three men in my squad, “Sergeant Carrington wants you to come in and do some more work!”

As I turned around, Sergeant Carrington asked, “What did you tell your men?”

“I told them you wanted them to come in and do some more work.”

“No,” he said, “I told you to call your men in to do the work. You know what to do.” In Sergeant Carrington’s language, “You know what to do” was an order to do one hundred pushups, right then.

I was frustrated and embarrassed at the time; but after a few hours, I began to appreciate what he was teaching me. I was the men’s squad leader, and I had the authority to order them into the barracks to do their jobs. Instead I had used Sergeant Carrington’s name and authority to try and impress the men to do their work.

Elder Bednar highlights both “learning by experience” and “learning by faith”. We all know what it means to learn by experience. I’m sure we’ve each had situations where what we learned by experience was both surprising and impactful. For me, learning to swim was just such an experience. When I was approaching my twelfth birthday, my mom decided that I needed to learn to swim, since my dad was the Scoutmaster and I would obviously need that skill to become an Eagle Scout. She enrolled me in a swimming class in the community.

I still remember my nervousness when she dropped me off for my first class. The teacher, a rather gruff track coach, lined us all up at the deep end of the pool and then walked along behind us, pushing us in one by one. I thought I was going to drown that night. I was angry and frustrated but also frightened, and intent on quitting the class. But my mother didn’t believe in quitting, and so I returned. Eventually, I became good enough to make the high school swim team and then, through continued experience, practice and learning, I made the University swim team. Later on, I became a swimming instructor at a Scout Camp and taught each of my five children how to swim. Even now, what I learned by experience about swimming allows me to enjoy exercising several mornings a week in our campus pool.

Another opportunity to learn by experience did not turn out quite as well. From about age ten until about age twelve, my mother had me enrolled in weekly piano lessons. Like many kids that age, I would much rather have been out playing instead of practicing the piano each day. As a result, I tended to complain often about how much I wasn’t cut out for the piano. Finally, one day in exasperation, my mother said that if I would take piano until my 12th birthday, it could then be my decision as to whether I continued or not. Because I’d spent so much time complaining, I did quit piano when I turned twelve. I still recall feeling bad about that decision because I was starting to enjoy the piano. But I felt like I’d already set the course to leave piano and didn’t have the courage to reverse my decision. That was the end of my piano learning.

When I was called as a General Authority, I was blessed to be tutored by many of the senior Brethren in the Church. One day I had the opportunity to drive President James E. Faust to a stake conference. During the hours we spent in the car, President Faust took the time to teach me some important principles about my assignment. He explained also how gracious the members of the Church are, especially to General Authorities. He said, “They will treat you very kindly. They will say nice things about you.” He laughed a little and then said, “Dieter, be thankful for this. But don’t you ever inhale it.”
That is a good lesson for us all, brethren, in any calling or life situation. We can be grateful for our health, wealth, possessions, or positions, but when we begin to inhale it—when we become obsessed with our status; when we focus on our own importance, power, or reputation; when we dwell upon our public image and believe our own press clippings—that’s when the trouble begins; that’s when pride begins to corrupt.

Once I had a friend who was being mean to others. People started telling me that I was kinder before I was friends with him. I worried that they were right.
One day when we were playing soccer at recess, I noticed that people started to leave the game. Then more and more people left. I went to see what was happening, and I saw my friend calling people names and saying the Lord’s name in vain. When he said those things, it upset some of the other players. I told my friend to stop. He didn’t listen.
When we got back to class, I talked to him about it. I told him I didn’t like it when he was mean to other people or when he took the Lord’s name in vain. He agreed to stop.
I also repented and decided I wouldn’t let anyone change who I was or make me less kind. I wanted to be a good example. After I decided to do better, I had this warm, comforting feeling in my heart. I knew that it was the Holy Ghost saying I had done the right thing.
After that day, my friend stopped being mean. I know that Heavenly Father wants us to listen to the Holy Ghost and stand up for what’s right.

The third experience involves me. Since I am the slow one in the family, this experience is more ambiguous than the other two. Some years ago I had the opportunity to make a choice about the path I would take in my career. The two choices offered to me were both good and honorable. I wanted to travel both paths, but that wasn’t possible. I felt I knew which path would be best. It was a path for which I felt I was well suited and that appeared bright with opportunity. Nevertheless, I prayed to know if I was making the right decision. I was surprised at how hard it was to be open and submissive when I had a bias about what I wanted the answer to be. I did not receive a clear direction about which path to take, so I moved ahead and made the best decision I could.

Given that I was unsure what I should do, what is the point of this example? It wasn’t too long after I made my decision that the path I chose—which appeared bright and promising at the time—turned dark and difficult. I lay awake many nights wondering how to address the problems before me. Just because the path I chose did not turn out as I expected does not mean it was the wrong path. In fact, just the opposite might be the case. Perhaps I learned lessons I could not have learned otherwise or I rendered service that I needed to give. But as I look back, I feel that if the same situation were to occur again—that of having to choose between two good paths—I would be less inclined to think I knew which path was best for me and less sure I knew what the future would bring. I would be, I hope, more submissive, more trusting, more open.

In 2019, one of the missionaries who found and invited us to follow our Saviour, Jesus Christ, told my wife, Lupe, and me a story. He said that in 1990, he and his companion knelt in prayer, seeking to know the will of the Lord. They were led to a particular street where they knocked on every door, but no one wanted to hear their message.
As they were about to leave, he felt impressed to go back and try again. Obedient, they began knocking on the same doors they had knocked on before, and when they got to the sixth house, I was sitting outside. So began my knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

We called upon the only native Filipino member we had been able to locate. He recounted a story which I remember as follows:
When he was a boy he found in a garbage can an old, tattered copy of the Reader’s Digest. It contained a condensation of a book giving the story of the Mormon people. It spoke of Joseph Smith and described him as a prophet. The word prophet did something to that boy. Could there actually be a prophet upon the earth? he wondered. The magazine was lost, but concern over the presence of a living prophet never left him during the long, dark years of war and oppression when the Philippines were occupied. Finally the forces of liberation came, and with them the reopening of Clark Air Base. David Lagman found employment there. His supervisor, he learned, was a Mormon, an Air Force officer. He wanted to ask him if he believed in a prophet, but was afraid to do so. Finally, after much inner turmoil, he mustered the courage to inquire.
“Are you a Mormon, sir?” the young man asked.
“Yes, I am,” was the forthright reply.
“Do you believe in a prophet? Do you have a prophet in your church?” came the anxious question.
“We do have a prophet, a living prophet, who presides in this church and who teaches the will of the Lord.”
David asked the officer to tell him more, and out of that teaching came his baptism. He was the first native elder ordained in the Philippines.

Now may I speak from my heart of what an honorable full-time mission has meant to me personally. I grew up in a home with very good parents, but my father was not a member and my mother was less active. After my mission, that changed. They became strong members and served devotedly in the temple—he a sealer, she an ordinance worker. But as a young man, like many of you today, I had no way to judge personally the importance of a mission. I fell in love with an exceptional young woman. At a critical point in our courtship, she made it very clear that she would only be married in the temple to a returned missionary. Duly motivated, I served a mission in Uruguay.

It was not easy. The Lord gave me many challenges that became stepping-stones to personal growth. There I gained my testimony that God the Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, did in fact visit Joseph Smith to begin a restoration of truth, priesthood authority, and the true Church on earth. I gained a witness that Joseph Smith is a singular prophet. I learned essential doctrines. I discovered what it meant to be led by the Spirit. Many a night I got up as my companion slept to pour my heart out to the Lord for guidance and direction. I pled for the ability to express effectively in Spanish my testimony and the truth I was learning to a people I had come to love. Those prayers were abundantly answered. At the same time, my future eternal companion, Jeanene, was being molded to become an exceptional wife and mother by her own mission.

Most important, all that I now hold dear in life began to mature in the mission field. Had I not been encouraged to be a missionary, I would not have the eternal companion or precious family I dearly love. I am confident that I would not have had the exceptional professional opportunities that stretched my every capacity. I am certain that I would not have received the sacred callings with opportunities to serve for which I will be eternally grateful. My life has been richly blessed beyond measure because I served a mission.

Sister Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir of Reykjavík, Iceland, endured a most difficult experience. One morning, two of her sons and a friend hiked up a nearby snow-encrusted mountain. During the hike, two of them—her oldest son and the friend, their branch president—lost their lives. Sorrow pierced Sister Gudmundsdóttir’s heart like a sharp knife. She could not understand why the Lord had allowed this tragedy to happen.
As she did each evening, Sister Gudmundsdóttir knelt to thank the Lord for the day that had passed. But she could not utter a word. She asked herself, “How could I thank Him for this terrible day?” And then she remembered the son who had come back alive. She thanked the Lord for protecting him and for the goodness of the two men who had died. She then expressed gratitude for her four other children and for children-in-law and grandchildren. “With each word of thanks,” she writes, “the burden on my chest lightened, and a warm, life-giving feeling started flowing through my body. My mind was filled with peace, and my heart with joy.” She wondered, “How could I feel joy after what had happened?” The ministrations of the Spirit taught her that “even in deepest sorrow our Father in Heaven can bless us with peace and joy” (“Even in Deepest Sorrow,” Liahona, December 1997, 44).

My 15-year-old son was excited about the many things going on in his life—friends, skateboards, cars, and his learner’s driving permit. He was not, however, excited about his responsibilities as a home teacher.
My heart sank one Sunday when he said, “Home teaching is a waste of time. I’m going to call my adviser and tell him that he needs to get someone else because I’m never going home teaching again!”
Before he had the opportunity to find his priesthood adviser’s name in the ward directory, however, the telephone rang. It was his newly assigned home teaching companion, Brother Bernd Suckow, who spoke with a thick German accent.
“Toby, I’m coming to get you right now,” he said. “You are my new companion, and I thought we could make a few visits. It is good? OK. Good-bye.”
Brother Suckow was either inspired not to wait for a response, or he assumed that Toby’s surprised silence was synonymous with consent. Either way, 10 minutes later there came a knock at the door. Before Toby could protest, an ebullient man had pulled him outside and stuffed a set of car keys into his hand.
“Your name is Toby? Nice to meet you,” Brother Suckow said. “Toby, it is the Sabbath, and I test-drive cars for a living. I think it is not so good for me to drive on the Sabbath since it is my vocation. Can you help me out? Do you have a driving permit? Can you drive us to our home teaching appointments?”
Toby’s jaw dropped as he saw the late-model sports car that Brother Suckow was test-driving that week. He quickly realized that he had almost lost what promised to be a memorable home teaching assignment.
When they returned a short while later, Toby showed Brother Suckow some new computer equipment, and they were soon talking about the latest trends in technology. When he left, Brother Suckow said, “I think it is good if we finish up our home teaching visits next Sunday. What do you think, Toby?”
Toby’s little brother blurted out, “Can I be a home teacher too?”
Toby never hesitated when it came time to home teach with Brother Suckow. After a few months, home teaching was no longer about the nice cars he had the opportunity to drive. Rather, Brother Suckow had become a genuine friend, and Toby learned how important home teaching was to the families they visited.
Brother Suckow and his wife, Barbara, eventually returned to Germany. Our stake misses them greatly. I will never forget Brother Suckow’s powerful example of love for a young man whose testimony of home teaching needed a jump start.