Gospel Story Finder

“Matthew, Brother Erickson is here!” These were the words I had been dreading to hear all day. It was the type of situation you knew you would have to face eventually but hoped desperately would always be one more day away. But this was the day.
Earlier that morning, just before opening exercises for priesthood, 80-year-old Brother Erickson had caught me. “You have been called as my home teaching companion. Would it be all right if we visited one of our families later today?”
I was shocked. All my friends had been assigned to be their dads’ companions. At least when they made a fool of themselves it would be in front of a family member, not someone who has had eight decades to get to know everything about the gospel. I muttered to him that it would be fine.
He replied, “We will be going to the Wiseman family. You are going to love it!”
I was convinced this was a rather large lie.
The Wiseman family truly lived up to their name. Like Brother Erickson, they were older and wiser members of the ward. They had known apostles and even prophets and had a reputation for having a great understanding of the gospel. If that weren’t enough, there were two of them; what one didn’t know, I was sure the other one would. So I trudged out the door and into the car where Brother Erickson waited, smiling.
We talked a bit about school and my family on the way to the Wisemans. I think Brother Erickson sensed I was nervous. We finally arrived at the door, and I forced a smile. When I entered the home, warm smiles and hearty handshakes greeted me. The Wisemans were as amazing as I had thought, only they were so much cooler than I imagined they would be.
“Will you be starting school soon, Matt?” Sister Wiseman asked.
“I will be in ninth grade in August,” I responded quickly, not knowing how Sister Wiseman would react.
“That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, and she actually meant it.
“What things do you like to do in school?” she said, diving in for more.
“Well, I’m in the choir,” I said a little less timidly.
“I used to love to sing too,” Sister Wiseman said, and the conversation continued more fluidly from there as my nervousness slowly eased away.
We continued talking about school, skiing, television, and everything else imaginable. I was amazed that I actually had things in common with these people! And more than that, they seemed to enjoy talking to me. To my great surprise I found that when the lesson was over and the closing prayer said, I didn’t want to leave. My fear of home teaching turned into a fear of the clock telling us it was time to go.
As I continued as a home teacher I grew to love my companion, Brother Erickson, and the Wiseman family more than I thought I ever could. They taught me much and allowed me to teach them as well. I never knew I had so much in common with other members of the Church, regardless of age, background, or education.
I know that even though the home teaching program is meant to bless the lives of the families taught, it also has a great impact on the home teachers. To this day I still consider Brother Erickson and the Wisemans as three of my best friends.

In April 1992 my family and I were living in Provo, Utah, where we had moved from Canada so I could complete a degree in engineering at Brigham Young University. My son Jase, who was 17, had become friends with a young woman named Krista.
On the Saturday evening of general conference weekend, Jase came into the living room and asked if he could borrow the car to take Krista out for a milk shake. I tossed him the keys, and he went into the kitchen to call her. I could hear one side of the conversation, which went like this:
“Hi, Krista, it’s me, Jase. I was wondering if you would like to go out for a milk shake.” Silence. “You mean after priesthood meeting? Well, OK, I’ll call you then. See ya.”
Jase hung up the phone and came back into the living room.
“So are you going out with her?” I asked.
“She said she would like to go,” he replied, “but she told me to call her back after I get home from the priesthood session.” With a dejected look on his face, he slunk off to his room.
Something hit me like a ton of bricks. I had grown up in southern Alberta, nearly 80 miles (130 km) from the stake center. No one had expected me or even my parents, who had leadership positions in our branch, to show up for conference sessions, let alone the priesthood session. Now someone was counting on it.
What would my response be to my son’s look of sadness as he went to his room? I knew that my decision would set a precedent for years to come.
I got up from my chair and called down the hall to Jase and my second son, a newly ordained deacon, “Change your clothes. We have 10 minutes to get to the priesthood session at the stake center.” I hurried to get ready, and when I came out of my bedroom, both boys were ready, and we headed for the car.
I don’t remember the talks very well, but I remember that we felt the Spirit. It felt good to be at the priesthood session with my sons. When we came home, Jase felt good about himself, which made me feel good. He called Krista, and they went to get milk shakes.
In the two decades that have passed since that day, the priesthood holders in our family have not missed a single priesthood session of general conference. Because a righteous young woman stood up for her beliefs, our family had the opportunity to change, and we continue to hear the words of latter-day prophets and feel the Spirit in the priesthood session of general conference.

Elder Groberg: We will now view the final clip, which is about the other fear sailors have: severe storms at sea. We had finished a successful circuit of preaching on several islands and were sailing home when we were hit by a fierce, albeit brief, tropical squall. Notice the symbolism in Jean’s reaching out to save me. Many a man caught in the violent storms of life is saved by a faithful woman.

[A film clip was shown here.]

I remember thinking, when I was flipped out of the boat: This shouldn’t be happening. I’m a missionary. Where’s my protection? Missionaries aren’t supposed to swim! It didn’t take me long to realize that I had better quit complaining and start swimming. Eventually I made it to shore. In life, when “unfair” things happen to us, we shouldn’t use energy complaining but use it “swimming.” When things go against us, if we row or swim with all our might, the Lord will bless us, and we’ll make it to shore.

May 5. Tonight we had a family home evening lesson about Jesus’ love for others. Dad read Matthew 25:40 [Matt. 25:40], where Jesus said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Then he read in Matthew 22:35–39 [Matt. 22:35–39] about the two greatest commandments and talked especially about loving others like ourselves. Dad said that the Savior spent His whole life helping others. That He even died for others. For everyone. Then Dad bore his testimony about Jesus. At least he tried to—halfway through he started to cry. I guess his tears are the most powerful part of his testimony. That’s how it seems to me, anyway.

On 23 February 1979 Elder Richards was taken to the hospital, where he remained in critical condition for nearly a month. His obituary was written, and the First Presidency and the Twelve were informed that it was only a matter of hours before he’d be gone. But gradually Elder Richards recovered.
Later, in a meeting of the Twelve, Elder Richards said, “I read in the minutes where you’d received word of my imminent demise, but I fooled you, didn’t I?”

For example, after finishing my second emphasis in graphic design, I had difficulty finding a desirable job. I applied to so many places, even in countries I did not know existed, but I didn’t get the job I wanted. As the last straw, I applied at this place but didn’t get the job. I was so angry. I was in the depths of despair. I knew I shouldn’t be because I would be turning my back on God. Those words came to my mind at that time. But I was still angry at God for not giving me the job I wanted. I was fuming and crying in the bathroom.

Then, in my head, not physically, but like a vision, I saw a bright light on the right side of my head and heard a clear yet gentle voice saying, "I love you." Those simple words caught me off guard. I did not understand what it meant. What does that have to do with me in this situation right now? Then I heard it again, but this time I heard, "I love you. I want you to be happy." I knew, then, precisely what that meant. Everything made sense. All the so-called failures and rejections were not God tormenting me, but it was me tormenting myself and misunderstanding Him, who is a loving Father in Heaven. He only wants me to be happy. Instead of giving me a fancy job somewhere, He gave me an understanding of His love and divine identity as a daughter of God. It was another time of perspective shift.

Merrill saw Kathy and her friends after his mother made the comment she did about Christmas. It was bad enough seeing Kathy at all. But if a different set of mind wheels hadn’t been reluctantly pushed into a slow, rusty motion, it would have been more than bad—devastating in fact. He knew this and was glad he had let his resentments out of their tight bindings. They were still there, but, like so many helium balloons, they now tugged gently from a less painful position.
“Wipe Bobby’s mouth,” he heard his mother say, and for perhaps the millionth time in his 16 years, he automatically pulled out the big piece of flannel tucked in the back of the wheelchair and bent to soak up the drool from the grotesque, twisted face of his brother.
“He’s too excited,” his mother rationalized. “It’s so beautiful and magic-like. I knew we had to make the effort to bring him here.”
Bobby thrashed his useless arms. The red-knitted, thumbless mittens Sister Arnold had made hid the twisted bones that should have been workable fingers, but weren’t. A cruel accident at birth or before had ruined the control system for his muscles, and an intelligent spirit was imprisoned in a physical body that jerked spastically and made communication with the outside world a tortured affair at best. Sometimes, like tonight, the effort became too much, and he could accomplish nothing but a ridiculous flailing about, accompanied by unintelligible, animal-like sounds. Merrill knew the sight was distressing to anyone unfamiliar with the situation.
And all this Kathy and the others saw. There had been the usual giggling comments and the quick exodus away from the ugly and unpleasant.
Merrill shuddered and bent his arms around his brother. “Hold on there, buddy,” he whispered. This was a familiar reenactment of a familiar routine, one which was usually successful in calming the worst of the unwanted movements.
He stood that way, quiet, between the Tabernacle and the visitors’ center and let the below-freezing air pool around him. The millions of tiny lights pricked the starry night and caused it to back up and hover just beyond the thick, gray walls. It hung there, its own distant light spectacle forgotten as human attention was trapped in the canopy of electric glow. Temple Square at Christmas was spectacular to see, no doubt about it. It was more than even Merrill expected. He could imagine Bobby’s rapture.
Merrill felt something swell in the lonely part of him. It tangled with those feelings that had been dominant for a long time, those feelings of resentment because his life seemed destined to be circled by people, like Bobby, who could never bring opportunities his way.
He loved his mother but knew she, too, would never introduce him to the kind of people he longed to know. His mother’s life centered around Bobby, with her job in the evenings at the library only a necessary part of her circumstance. To expect another man to be big enough to tolerate the presence of a severely handicapped son would never occur to her—not after the boys’ own father couldn’t take it, and an accident in the oil fields ended his life before he had time for a change of heart, and before she was convinced it could be possible.
Between him and his mother the care of Bobby was divided. It held them both out of the reach of opportunities, at least that was the way Merrill saw it, and not without this awful resentment pulling his young features into a perpetual scowl. Tonight his mother had been objecting to that scowl when she said, “But Merrill, Christmas isn’t just for the whole and the beautiful.”
Maybe it was the million lights winking all around him, but for some reason he had been touched with a corner of what she said—just nudged enough to make his resentments back off a little. It was good to get some relief from the anger.
He thought about Jesus. How he had been subject to an imperfect world. A world where he had to deal with terrible things like leprosy and every kind of human misery.
Then he had seen the kids from school. Had he known they would be here, the group he secretly longed to be part of, had he known that, no way would he have consented to come.
Beautiful, blond Kathy. New at school this year, she sat by him in algebra and made his life painful. Each day he both dreaded and longed for the hour. Always he was too shy and couldn’t say anything but answer the few questions she sometimes asked. He always came to class boned up on the day’s assignment in case she did need help. She was one of the leaders in the straight crowd—the fun, respectable group. The ones who didn’t need cigarettes, drugs, or alcohol to give them confidence.
Now that Kathy knew he didn’t have a normal kind of family, would she ever ask his help again? He looked up at the likeness of Jesus looking down from the window of the visitors’ center and reminded himself that even though the eyes seemed to be looking directly down at them, it was just made of stone.
The Nauvoo Bell struck the hour, rolling the clear sounds through the cold air and causing a small vibration to answer back from deep inside where resignation grows. He straightened up and sighed, repositioning Bobby’s bright, red-knit hat. Oh well, it had happened. She had seen them. Might as well get this night over with.
Bobby quickly became frantic again. “Oh, he’s going to hurt himself,” his mother cried. “Can’t you do something?”
He tried, but it was too awkward pushing the wheelchair and keeping his arms around the struggling form at the same time.
“He wants to go in the visitors’ center. I know that’s what he’s trying to tell us,” his mother insisted. She was usually right in guessing what Bobby wanted. Watching his brother jerk his body and bang his head around made Merrill also think Bobby would end up hurting himself and make their holiday that much more difficult.
“Okay. I’m going to carry him,” he told his mother, after looking all around to be sure Kathy and her group had gone. “Here, help strap him on. You know, like we used to.”
Though Bobby was ten years old, he only weighed 60 pounds. Merrill opened his coat, picked him up and waited while his mother arranged the wild arms and legs inside the coat, all the time muttering soft, silly endearments. Then she used the straps from the chair to bind the two boys tightly together. Soon the jerking subsided, and Merrill relaxed the pressure that held Bobby’s face pressed into his shoulder. It was like strength from the one went into the other and brought control. “Don’t talk,” Merrill kept saying. “We know how you feel. Relax, I’ll take you in there.”
“You’re so wonderful when you’re like this,” his mother said. Now she was wiping something besides Bobby’s drooling. Merrill was surprised at her tears.
“Oh, come on, Mom. I’ve carried him around a lot like this.”
“I know, I know. But it’s been a long time.”
Yes, it had. Merrill was glad to welcome back the love he used to feel for his brother. It made him walk taller.
As they climbed the ramp to the second floor, music from some hidden source was playing, “We three kings of Orient are; Bearing gifts we traverse afar.” Merrill felt like asking Jesus how he would like what he was carrying. The thought held some of the old resentment. He stood angled so Bobby could see the Christus over his shoulder without raising his uncontrollable head. The view from the window, with Christmas declaring itself so dramatically, let a thought materialize. It gathered in small waves to gradually push into his mind and be recognized. He smiled as it put itself together. “Yes, Jesus would like the gift he carried. Locked up like this, Bobby was a spirit pure in heart and innocent. Oh yes, Jesus would like that.”
The music changed to “Silent Night,” and he turned to let Bobby see the lights out of the window. Then he saw her. Kathy, standing alone in the hall to the left. It seemed she had been watching, for now she smiled and moved toward them. Merrill watched her approach, too stunned to move. His heart raced, and he increased the pressure on Bobby’s head so hard he cried out.
“Merrill?” said the soft voice, and Merrill felt as if he were connected to a million little hot lights flashing at odd intervals. His face burned, and he wanted to run.
She acted like she didn’t notice. “Merrill,” she repeated. “I’m so glad I saw you here. I wanted to invite you to a Christmas party tomorrow night. Just a fun, game-playing time at my house with the gang—no big deal. I promise no algebra.”
Merrill knew his voice would crack and cleared his throat before trying to answer. Then he couldn’t put together anything sensible.
“I … gee … sure … sounds okay.” He felt stupid for not introducing his mother, for Kathy turned and asked, “Is this your mother?”
He tried to gather his wits and made the introductions.
“I know this is your brother,” she said, smiling with eyes that glistened with something that reflected the tiny lights. “The kids told me.” Then she turned to leave but paused with one hand on the railing. “Hey, you know, you holding your brother like that is the most Christmasy thing I’ve ever seen.” Then she hurried down the ramp.

Halfway through my senior year of high school, I received a huge surprise. My parents were called to preside over the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, which meant that they would be moving to another continent along with my four younger siblings. I was already stressed about graduating from high school, but now I would be attending college all alone.
My transition from high school to college could not have been harder. I had always thought that I’d have my family nearby when I entered university, but now to see them I’d have to spend nearly 24 hours on planes and in airports. While I was surrounded by kind roommates and thousands of students, I had never felt more alone.
The pressures of school were overwhelming. I didn’t know what I wanted to study and found my classes challenging. And I was also struggling in a difficult dating relationship. I never knew that entering adulthood could be so hard and didn’t know how to move forward. My fear of the future overwhelmed me.
Soon, my fearful feelings made it difficult to function. Getting out of bed and being productive was difficult. One morning, I was asking the Lord to give me the strength to make it through the day. “I can’t keep doing this alone,” I told Him. And in a rare moment of mental and emotional clarity, I heard the soft words of the Spirit whisper, “You don’t have to.” Peace flooded my mind. I knew that somehow everything would work out, even if it didn’t happen immediately.
I remembered those words on the most difficult days. They helped me through the first semester, but when the second semester came, I was once again flooded with fear. The Lord sustained me every day, but I was afraid I would never feel better.
Then, general conference of April 2017 came around. President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, then the Second Counselor in the First Presidency, taught about the power that faith and love have over fear. “I don’t believe God wants His children to be fearful,” he said, “‘For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind’ [2 Timothy 1:7].”1
I felt like he was speaking directly to me. I knew I didn’t want to keep feeling fear, doubt, and depression. But for the first time, I believed that God didn’t want me to feel those feelings either. Sure, there are challenges in mortality, but that didn’t mean I had to suffer forever. Through the strengthening power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I could have a “sound mind”—a mind that wasn’t broken by fear, depression, anxiety, or loneliness.
President Uchtdorf taught, “Rather than dwelling on the immensity of our challenges, would it not be better to focus on the infinite greatness, goodness, and absolute power of our God, trusting Him and preparing with a joyful heart for the return of Jesus the Christ?”2
Focusing on the goodness of God and trusting in Him didn’t mean I should have ignored my challenges and acted like everything was OK. But I could do my own part to find healing and progress. Choosing faith over fear meant moving forward with optimism, hope, and trust in the Lord.
So, I started working through the process of replacing my fear with faith. I realized how mentally damaging my dating relationship had been, and Heavenly Father gave me the strength to leave it behind. Even though I wasn’t healed completely, I felt like I should serve a mission. I submitted my papers, trusting that the Lord would prepare me. In the meantime, I studied everything I could find about Jesus Christ, trying to better understand how He could strengthen and heal me. As I talked to family and friends about my challenges and received professional help, my loneliness and depression started to fade.
As President Uchtdorf also taught: “As His covenant people, we need not be paralyzed by fear because bad things might happen. Instead, we can move forward with faith, courage, determination, and trust in God as we approach the challenges and opportunities ahead.”3
Now, years later, I’ve served a mission, married a man who cherishes me, graduated from college, and pursued a career that I love. My family returned from the mission in Uruguay, and we are closer than ever, even when challenges hit.
By holding on to faith instead of fear, my relationship with the Savior has been transformed. I no longer fear that my life will never get better. I truly know what it means to trust in Him and can testify that He has healed me emotionally and spiritually.
I don’t have all the answers for the future. I still fear many things, like the responsibilities of future callings or the challenge of raising children. But I know that when I trust in the Lord and choose faith over fear, I will always be led to hope and happiness.

In that spirit Brother Broadbent begins with a personal experience:

My wife and I first met Trudi Hoffman [(not her real name) when I was] spending six months as a guest professor in a German university where she was then working as a secretary. Trudi is a very bright, well-educated, widely traveled, . . . German woman of approximately our own age. She was proud to have been personally, albeit adventitiously, recognized by Hitler in her youth as a model German fraulein, and she was more than a little chauvinistic. Nevertheless, she had married a Jewish-American diplomat and had lived for ten years in the U.S. during her early married years. Life for Trudi had provided its full share of problems: family tragedies during and immediately following World War II; her marriage and divorce; her only child, a son, ungrateful and abusing drugs; and exploitative male friends. Thus she acquired a heavy, protective patina of cynicism and worldliness. A less likely candidate to be touched by the Spirit could scarcely be imagined.

She came to visit us following several weeks spent with her son in San Francisco and with friends there and in Berkeley and Oregon. She didn’t come to visit because of any interest in the Church, although she knew, of course, that we were LDS. She came because she had the typical German love for nature. She knew we lived in the relatively sparsely populated and unspoiled Central Rockies, and we loved nature too. She was amiable, naturally, but she kept her guard up letting us know diplomatically, but firmly, that she really wasn’t interested in our culture or religion. She maintained the barrier essentially intact through nearly a week in spite of attending Sunday services, which puzzled her, and enjoying a Labor Day family reunion with us, complete with a multitude of small grandchildren under foot, which offended her convictions about strict population control, although she was solicitous of the tiny ones, and I think she was secretly envious of our large family.

But all the barriers came tumbling down, precipitously—the worldliness and the cynicism—after her tour of our campus in the company of my wife and under the guidance of the Hosting Center. . . . During lunch [with my wife and me] she decided she wanted to repeat the tour, this time alone. Perhaps she doubted her initial impressions or feared the experience was just a fluke. . . . After all, she wasn’t born yesterday. She had been on many college campuses for extended periods in many places. But the second tour confirmed the first. She was truly impressed, almost against her will. There were several factors: the personable young man at the Hosting Center who happened to speak excellent German, the beautiful campus, the buildings ([she] is something of an authority on architecture and once worked as secretary for Ludwig Mies van der Rohe), the retrospective slideshow, but the overwhelmingly dominant fact was the transparent wholesomeness, love, and goodwill, truly the light of Christ shining through the countenances of the people she encountered. It permeates our environment and conditions every human relationship in work, play, and worship. However imperfect, to a considerable degree it does model those “Zion” societies celebrated in the scriptures, old and new. . . .

It made me half ashamed to realize that I had become so accustomed to it that I had allowed myself to become a little cynical, insensitive, and unappreciative, and that it took a person from “another world” to refocus my attention. It made me proud once more to be a part of BYU. . . .

Several decades ago an acquaintance of mine left a small southern Utah town to travel east. He had never traveled much beyond his little hometown and certainly had never ridden a train. But his older sister and brother-in-law needed him under some special circumstances and his parents agreed to free him from the farmwork in order to go. They drove him to Salt Lake City and put him onto the train—new Levi’s, not-so-new boots, very frightened, and 18 years old.

There was one major problem and it terrified him. He had to change trains in Chicago. Furthermore, it involved an overnight layover, and that was a fate worse than death. His sister had written, carefully outlining when the incoming train would arrive and how and where and when he was to catch the outgoing line, but he was terrified.

And then his humble, plain, sun-scarred father did something no one in this room should ever forget. He said, “Son, wherever you go in this church, there will always be somebody to stand by you. That’s part of what it means to be a Latter-day Saint.” And then he stuffed into the pocket of his calico shirt the name of a bishop he had taken the time to identify from sources at Church headquarters. If the boy had troubles, or became discouraged and afraid, he was to call the bishop and ask for help.

Well, the train ride progressed rather uneventfully until it pulled into Chicago. And even then the young man did pretty well at collecting his luggage and making it to the nearby hotel room that had been prearranged by his brother-in-law. But then the clock began to tick and night began to fall and faith began to fail. Could he find his way back to the station? Could he find the right track and train? What if it were late? What if he were late? What if he lost his ticket? What if his sister had made a mistake and he ended up in New York? What if? What if? What if?

Without those well-worn boots ever hitting the floor, that big, raw-boned boy flew across the room, nearly pulled the telephone out of the wall, and fighting back tears and troubles, called the bishop. Alas, the bishop was not home but, aha, the bishop’s wife was. She spoke long enough to reassure him that absolutely nothing could go wrong that night. He was, after all, safe in the room, and what he needed more than anything else was a night’s rest. Then she said, “If tomorrow morning you are still concerned, follow these directions, and you can be with our family and other ward members until train time. We will make sure you get safely on your way.” She then carefully spelled out the directions, had him repeat them back, and suggested a time for him to come.

With slightly more peace in his heart, he knelt by his bed as he had every night of his 18 years and then waited for morning to come. Somewhere in the night, the hustle and bustle of Chicago in the 1930s subsided into peaceful sleep.

At the appointed hour the next morning, he set out. A long walk, then catch a bus. Then transfer to another. Watch for the stop. Walk a block, change sides of the street, and then one last bus. Count the streets carefully. Two more to go. One more to go. I’m here. Let me out of this bus. It worked, just like she said.

Then his world crumbled, crumbled before his very eyes. He stepped out of the bus onto the longest stretch of shrubbery and grass he had ever seen in his life. She had said something about a park, but he thought a park was a dusty acre in southern Utah with a netless tennis court in one corner. Here he stood looking in vain at the vast expanse of Lincoln Park with not a single friendly face in sight.

There was no sign of a bishop or ward or a meetinghouse. And the bus was gone. It struck him that he had no idea where he was or what combination of connections with who knows what number of buses would be necessary to get him back to the station. Suddenly he felt more alone and overwhelmed than at any moment in his life. As the tears welled up in his eyes, he despised himself for feeling so afraid—but he was and the tears would not stop. He stepped off the sidewalk away from the bus stop into the edge of the park. He needed some privacy for his tears, as only an 18-year-old from southern Utah could fully appreciate. But as he stepped away from the noise, fighting to control his emotions, he thought he heard something hauntingly familiar in the distance. He moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. First he walked, and then he walked quickly. The sound was stronger and firmer and certainly it was familiar. Then he started to smile, a smile which erupted into an audible laugh, and then he started to run. He wasn’t sure that was the most dignified thing for a newcomer to Chicago to do, but this was no time for discretion. He ran and he ran fast. He ran as fast as those cowboy boots would carry him—over shrubs, through trees, around the edge of a pool.

Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day.
The words were crystal clear, and he was weeping newer, different tears. For there over a little rise, huddled around a few picnic tables and bundles of food, were the bishop and his wife and their children and most of the families of that little ward. The date: July 24, 1934. The sound: a slightly off-key, a cappella rendition of lines that even a boy from southern Utah could recognize.

Gird up your loins; fresh courage take;
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we’ll have this tale to tell—
All is well! all is well!
(Hymns, no. 13)

It was pioneer day. The gathering to which he had been invited was a 24th of July celebration. Knowing that it was about time for the boy to arrive, the ward had thought it a simple matter to sing a verse or two of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” to let him know their location.

I feel victimized by the nanny agency with whom we worked. Though they advertise that they place “helpers with high moral standards” and that they screen for “any negative health or behavioral traits,” the nanny who came to me in September drank, had used cocaine, chain-smoked in bed, and I later learned, had a psychiatric history of many years’ duration which included injury to children. I terminated her employment on the third day when she gave my three-year-old son a plastic garbage bag and when he wandered from the fenced-in yard while in her care.
Nancy Sharts EngelBryn Mawr, Pennsylvania

“It is related of Tamerlane (1336–1405) the honored warrior, the terror of whose arms spread through all the eastern nations, and who was victorious at almost every step, that he once learned from an insect a lesson of perseverance, which had a striking effect upon his future character and success.

“When closely pursued by his enemies—as a contemporary tells the story—he took refuge in some old ruins, where left to his solitary musings, he espied an ant tugging and striving to carry a single grain of corn. His unavailing efforts were repeated sixty-nine times, and at each time as soon as he reached a certain point of projection, he fell back with his burden, unable to surmount it; but the seventieth time he carried away the grain of corn, in triumph, and left the wondering hero reanimated and exulting in the hope of future victory.”

Tanna Island, in the Tafea Province of Vanuatu, is a 45-minute flight—or a very long boat ride—to Efate Island, where the mission office for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is located.
During the global pandemic, travel to Vanuatu was severely restricted, making it difficult for the Church in the area to send out or receive missionaries. Eventually, Tanna Island had no full-time missionaries and missionary work was forced to slow down.
In early 2022, as life began returning to normal, Vanuatu’s mission president, Mark Messick, was delighted to receive a request from Tanna’s district president: “Send missionaries as soon as possible!”
President Messick learned that while Tanna was without full-time missionaries, local members of the Church and returned missionaries on the island continued to teach the gospel to their friends and neighbours, and they had around 85 candidates ready to be interviewed and baptised. President Messick immediately arranged to send his assistants to Tanna.
The plan was postponed because Tanna’s live volcano started rumbling. Then, a small cyclone hit the island, causing widespread damage—further solidifying Vanuatu’s status as number one on the World Risk Index for the likelihood of natural disasters. Just as Tanna began to recover from the cyclone, a sudden outbreak of COVID-19 shut all of Vanuatu down, and once again, travel was restricted.
It wasn’t until the middle of August that President Messick was finally able to send his APs to Tanna to interview the baptismal candidates and prepare them to join the Church. By then, President Messick was worried that the long wait had deterred some of them, that their interest might have waned.
But when Elder Silas Toa and Elder Brian Moses Nalin arrived—armed with a stack of paperwork for the baptismal interviews—they found the opposite to be true. Not only were all 85 still eager to join the Church, but their numbers had increased by 29. Now, 114 candidates were faithfully waiting to be interviewed and baptised. The elders embarked on their tour of all eight of the Church’s branches in Tanna.
After they interviewed and baptised six people at the first branch, Elder Toa and Elder Nalin headed to Saetsiwi, an isolated area tucked high in the mountains. They had no way to contact the Saetsiwi Branch president but knew he was expecting them at some point, so the missionaries drove their truck as far as they could then continue on foot for the remaining 3-hour trek. When they finally arrived, the branch president was nowhere to be found. The elders had hiked all that way in vain.
Then the big rain fell. Everyone in Saetsiwi knows that when it starts to rain hard, getting off the mountain is treacherous. Elder Toa and Elder Nalin rushed back to their truck, knowing every second counted before the local rivers swelled and became impassable. They made it to the truck in time to drive through the first and second rivers, but they knew the third river would be a challenge.
Sure enough, their truck got stuck partway. They tried to push it—no luck. They called the district president, and soon help arrived, but the truck still wouldn’t move. The river rose and flowed so swiftly that the helpers had to get out and move to safety. Then, Elder Nalin spotted something else that worried him. He saw that the waters in next river over—which converged with this river—had become torrential and threatened to break through.
In his mind, it seemed to Elder Nalin that an invisible force was holding that third river back, as though buying time for them—but he knew it wouldn’t be for long. The torrent was racing.
Elder Toa and Elder Nalin are examples of the finest possible young men from Vanuatu—responsible and excellent in every way. To them, a truck is of almost incomprehensible expense, especially in a country where families can barely afford to educate their children, much less buy a vehicle. The elders were determined to preserve the Church’s truck at all costs, but now the water was up to its door handles. They called their mission president and asked, “What should we do?”
President Messick’s response was: “Thank you for calling. Now get out of the truck and save yourselves. I don’t care about the truck; I care about you.”
As they rushed out of the truck, Elder Toa climbed into the back seat to grab their scriptures and the 114 interview papers they needed for the baptisms. He couldn’t see them anywhere. Then a voice yelled, “The water is coming! Get out of the truck!” and Elder Toa slipped out of the back door just as the truck was swept downstream.
As soon as the elders realised that their scriptures and the 114 interview papers were still in the truck—which was now well out of sight—they used the power of the priesthood and commanded the truck to protect their precious documents. “That’s what you can do with the priesthood,” the young men said later, with absolute confidence. “You can command.”
Elder Toa and Elder Nalin managed to pull themselves out to safety, and there by the side of the river, they knelt and prayed. As they prayed that the truck would be safe and that their scriptures and interview papers would stay dry, the missionaries felt a peaceful assurance that all would be fine. Then they walked the rest of the way off the mountain.
The next day, the elders received a call from the district president. Saetsiwi’s branch president had found their truck, 250 meters downstream. When the Elders arrived to retrieve it, they discovered not a dent or a scratch on the body of the vehicle, despite its journey in the river, past trees, rocks, and debris.
The inside of the truck wasn’t so fortunate. It was drenched. The engine suffered electrical damage, and everything in the cab—pamphlets, manuals, books—was soaked beyond repair, except for the Elders’ scriptures and the 114 interview papers. These sat in plain sight above everything else, completely dry.
While the truck was being repaired, Elder Toa and Elder Nalin resumed their tour on foot. At their next stop, they interviewed and baptised 48 candidates before continuing right across Tanna Island. “When you get tired of walking,” one of them told a fellow missionary, “You walk with your heart.”
Their hearts and a priesthood miracle helped these faithful elders reach and bring all 114 candidates safely into the Church of Jesus Christ.

The group recently participated in a service project they called a “heart attack.” The group chose three people at their school, including the principal, to “attack” with large paper hearts, a Book of Mormon, and a plate of cookies. One evening after they had eaten dinner, the students tiptoed out of their dorms to the homes of the people they had chosen. Although it was cold and the ground was icy, the group was able to tape several red paper hearts to the outside of their “victims’” homes, set the cookies and the Book of Mormon on the doorstep, and leave undetected.
“It was during the winter and it was hard because there was snow on the ground which made it slippery, so most of us fell, but it was fun,” says Jill Henderson.
“All of us tried to come quietly out of the dorms, but we couldn’t hear ourselves, so we couldn’t tell if we were quiet or not,” says Jennifer.

Which church are you from?
I have had many wonderful experiences as a chaplain. One that I shall always remember happened when I was working voluntarily in a community hospital in Somerset. During the team meeting that day, I was asked to visit an elderly gentleman who shared a room with another patient. He was happy to see me. We shared some time together. At the patient’s own choosing, the encounter was brief.
But as I turned to leave, the other gentleman in the room asked me, “Which church are you from?” With a smile, I explained that I minister to all faiths and none, and my own faith tradition is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Immediately, the gentleman’s face lit up, and he exclaimed: “You’re a Mormon! I used to be a Mormon!”
Between that encounter and my next shift at the hospital, I thought deeply about that experience. The chances of encountering a former member of the Church in a rural Somerset hospital were slim, to say the least. Was it providential? I asked myself, “Would I ever see this gentleman again? After all, it is important that a chaplain does not go with the intent to seek people out and evangelise. Perhaps that short encounter would be our last?”
When I next arrived, however, I noticed that the inquisitive gentleman had been moved to the main hospital ward and had requested a chaplaincy visit from me. I walked the corridors with a smile, and as I approached his hospital bed, he beamed at me and started to talk. I pulled up a chair and listened. This man had been a member of the Church for many years, but sometime after he and his wife moved, they began attending their local Church of England. When his wife later fell ill and passed away, his Anglican congregation had been incredibly caring and supportive. He told me how much their kindness and love meant to him.
Then he asked me whether I knew anyone from his old Latter-day Saint ward. As it happened, he had attended the same ward as my parents and grandparents, and we both knew many of the same members. He remembered my father as a boy, and the man who had given me my patriarchal blessing was the same man who had been his bishop.
He fell silent. His eyes welled up with tears. A feeling of pure love seemed to connect us. Without speaking further, we wept together. I felt overwhelmed with compassion for this good gentleman. And I felt a distinct impression that, on that wintry afternoon, he needed to reconnect spiritually with his former faith. I just so happened to be with him in his very moment of need.
Who guides a chaplain’s feet?
I have reflected on that experience many times since, and it continues to teach me to this day. As a chaplain, I don’t walk hospital corridors, or prison wings, to seek out converts to our faith. I go to listen and support every individual where they are and assist them in their own personal journey to be the best person they can be. I have since had many encounters when I’ve realised more clearly that God directs my path, and that He allows me to assist Him in caring for His children.
It is striking to me that Jesus, at the beginning of His earthly ministry, selected these words in the synagogue: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised,
“To preach the acceptable year of the Lord” (Luke 4:18–19, see also Isaiah 61:1–2).
As chaplains go about their work, they are participating in Jesus’ ministry to those who are sick, imprisoned, isolated, bereft, or otherwise afflicted. And they do so without malice or prejudice; but collaboratively, with a desire to extend the pure love of Christ to all.

It was a hot day in early summer when the big black Labrador retriever appeared. They saw him trotting along the riverbank. Brad stopped eating his lunch. He glanced quickly at Kevin and Tom and Jill sitting in the shade of the maple tree near him. They were all staring at the dog too. Even baby Kristy was watching him.
“Come on, boy,” Brad coaxed softly. This time he was sure Heavenly Father had answered their prayers. The dog started down the path toward them. He came slowly, a few steps at a time, then hesitated before venturing closer. Brad glanced toward the house. He could hear the clink of jars from the kitchen. Mother was still busy making jam. The dog had gained another ten feet when Brad looked back at him. He wagged his long tail uncertainly.
“Here, boy,” Jill whispered. She raised her arm with a sandwich in her hand.
“Don’t throw it!” Brad warned quietly. “You’ll scare him.” Jill dropped her arm.
The dog trembled as he came closer, his eyes bright and eager and friendly. Brad got to his feet and held out his half-eaten sandwich. The dog sat down and swept the path with his wagging tail. Brad moved closer to the dog and dropped the sandwich in front of him. The dog wolfed it down and looked for more. Quickly three more half-eaten sandwiches landed in front of him. He gulped them down and licked his chops.
Little Kristy toddled over and stuck her sandwich under his nose. Brad held his breath. The dog was hungry—he could bite Kristy’s hand as well as the sandwich! But before Brad could move, the dog reached out and daintily took a corner of the bread between his teeth. He waited until Kristy let go, then swallowed the sandwich whole.
Kristy clapped her hands and laughed. Then she threw her arms around the dog’s neck. They all surrounded the dog and petted his dull, rough coat. Brad squatted beside Kristy and stroked the dog’s head and ears. The dog stood quietly for a few moments, then trotted off into the tall grass and brought back a stick. He dropped it at Brad’s feet and wagged his tail expectantly.
“He wants to play!” Brad said as he tossed the stick down the path. The dog raced after it and brought it back.
“It’s my turn!” Jill shouted. She snatched up the stick and threw it without taking aim. The stick landed in the river.
“Now we have to find another one,” Kevin said disgustedly.
But the dog was already leaping from the bank into the swiftly flowing water. His jaws closed over the stick, and he swam back against the current. He climbed up the bank and shook himself off. Then he trotted over to Jill and dropped the stick at her feet.
“Did you see that?” Jill cried.
The screen door slammed, and the children looked up to see their mother coming toward them. She stopped a safe distance away with her hands on her hips. “So that’s what all the noise is about. Where did that dog come from?” she asked.
Brad shrugged. “We don’t know. He just came to us.”
“He was hungry,” Tom added.
“And I suppose you fed him your sandwiches,” Mother said with a sigh. They all hung their heads and nodded. “Well now that he’s full, chase him away.”
“Can’t we keep him?” Kevin pleaded. “He isn’t wearing a license, and we’ve been praying to Heavenly Father for a dog for a long time.”
“He’s gentle too,” Jill added. “Please, Mom.”
“We’ll keep him outside,” Brad offered eagerly, “so he won’t track up the house.”
Mother shook her head. “I’ve been praying to Heavenly Father, too—but for help, not a dog.” She clapped her hands and shouted, “Shoo!” The dog streaked away along the riverbank and disappeared around the bend. Mother’s face softened. “You know we can’t afford to feed an animal with the new baby coming and your father out of work. Now hurry and pick that flat of strawberries for Mrs. Linden. She’ll be here soon. Jill, you help the boys while I take Kristy in for her nap and get started on the sewing for Mrs. Fredricks.” She picked up the baby and went back into the house.
The four youngsters picked up their berry carriers and started for the strawberry patch.
“I hope Dad gets that job today,” Tom said. “Then we can have a dog.”
Jill sighed. “No, we can’t. Mom is afraid of dogs,” she confided. “Grandma once told me that Mom was bitten by a dog when she was a little girl. She’s been afraid of dogs ever since.”
“Now we’ll never get a dog,” Kevin wailed.
“I guess we’d better get the strawberries picked,” Brad said.
Their carriers were half full when they heard Mother shout. They left the berries in the field and ran for the house.
“What’s the matter?” Brad called when they saw Mother hurrying down the path to the river.
“It’s Kristy,” Mother sobbed. “I was on the phone when I looked out the window and saw her heading straight toward the river. By the time I got outside, she had disappeared.”
They all ran to the riverbank.
“I don’t see her anywhere,” Brad said. He searched the swiftly moving water, hoping to catch sight of Kristy’s blue overalls.
“Maybe she’s already been carried around the bend,” Tom suggested.
“I’ll go look,” Brad said. He turned to run, then stopped and listened. “Did you hear something?” he asked.
From the bushes on the riverbank came a muffled, angry sob. The big black dog backed slowly out of the bushes, tugging a dry, struggling Kristy by the back of her overalls. When she was free of the branches, he let go of the little girl and nudged her toward her mother.
“No! Water!” Kristy cried and started off again before Mother could catch her. But the dog blocked her path.
Mother laughed and picked her up. “Heavenly Father works in mysterious ways,” she said. “I prayed for help, and you all prayed for a dog. We all got what we wanted when He sent us this ‘angel.’” She reached out and patted the dog.
“Angel?” they all asked, staring at her in disbelief.
Mother smiled. “Yes, because he must be a guardian angel,” she explained. “I’m not afraid of him, and Kristy certainly needs one. She might have drowned in the river!”
Kevin and Brad and Tom and Jill watched Mother walk back to the house with the dog padding along beside her. Then they turned back to look at each other.
“We’ve got a dog!” Brad whooped.
They skipped and laughed all the way back to the strawberry patch.

When I think of what respect for others looks and feels like, I think of an experience from the life of President James E. Faust. On one occasion after he had been called as a General Authority, then Elder Faust, his wife, and two family members decided to attend a session at the Washington DC Temple. His son recalled that after they had arrived and entered the temple, his father
presented his recommend, which [was] a special one issued to the General Authorities and look[ed] somewhat different. The gentleman who was checking recommends did not know what it was and told my father he wouldn’t be able to enter the temple. Rather than embarrassing the man by telling him who he was, Dad politely excused himself and we all left. [Marcus G. Faust, quoted in James P. Bell, In the Strength of the Lord: The Life and Teachings of James E. Faust (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1999), 188]
I am moved by the deep respect that President Faust showed to the man at the recommend desk. President Faust acknowledged and respected him, letting him do his duty as he had been instructed. Because of that respect, President Faust would rather not go in the temple than cause the man embarrassment in front of others. So, as a fellow disciple, President Faust did the respectful thing: he thanked the man and left.

Throughout my life, I have received “golden nuggets” of counsel and inspiration from the people around me. Some of those nuggets came from Primary teachers. I was a rambunctious (lively and somewhat mischievous) child who spent many hours sitting outside the classroom door in the time-out spot. More than a few times, my teachers went to my mother, the stake Primary president, and said, “That Ronnie Rasband is a tough little kid.” But they never gave up on me. They showed me great love and always invited me back into class.
When I was called to the Quorum of the Seventy, Sister Afton Pedigrew, one of my faithful Primary teachers, was at a meeting at which I spoke. She told me, “If someone had told me thirty years ago that Ronnie Rasband would someday be a General Authority, I wouldn’t have believed it.” But tears were flowing from her eyes, and I could hear a quiver in her voice as she complimented me in her sweet way and said as my Primary teacher that she was proud of me. There were tears in my eyes, too.
Those teachers helped me to recognize some of the talents Heavenly Father has blessed me with. For example, they told me that I had a good reading voice. They often chose me to read a scripture or to be a narrator in Primary presentations in sacrament meeting. It was through Primary that I developed my love for the scriptures.
The scripture I best remember reading in a Primary program was 1 Kings 19:10–13, especially verses eleven and twelve: “And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:
“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.”
That was where I learned how we should expect to be prompted by Heavenly Father. We may not see a vision as Joseph Smith did. We may not see angels. We may not hear a rushing of great winds or feel an earthquake or see fire. We will hear the still, small voice of the Spirit. From then on, I knew that I would have to listen carefully for the voice of the Spirit and that it would be small and precious. What a wonderful nugget that was.
I grew up in a strong Latter-day Saint home. In my patriarchal blessing, I was counseled to pay particular heed to the advice of my parents and was promised that if I did, I would never be led astray. That promise—another golden nugget—has been fulfilled.
My father drove a bread delivery truck. All during my growing-up years, he got up at three or four o’clock in the morning and came home late at night and collapsed because he was so tired. By example, he taught me the principle of work.
My mother taught me the same principle by insisting that I work hard. She got me out the door, mowing grass, trimming the hedge, and doing other chores around the house. I would gladly have played basketball or football or played army or ridden bikes all day long, but my mother believed that work came first. I didn’t appreciate that at the time. I thought that I was being driven pretty hard. It wasn’t until I reached the mission field that I was grateful to know how to work. I had been given a priceless nugget.
My call to the Eastern States Mission was another golden nugget. My family had little money, and I was never quite part of the “in-crowd” at school. But in the mission field, I realized that it didn’t matter what side of town I came from or what my father’s income was. We were all servants of the Lord and equal. I learned that through the principles of hard work, prayer, and seeking to follow the Spirit of the Lord, everyone could succeed.
I have a golden nugget for you children: Follow the living prophet. Our current prophet loves children. He loves his own grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and he loves you. He cares about the direction of your journey through life. He cares about your family. The Proclamation on the Family was given to your parents to help them be better parents to you. At general conference time, listen to what our dear prophet is saying. And when that small whispering of the Holy Ghost tells you that he is speaking the truth, pay special attention. Follow the promptings that come through listening to the prophet of God. You are not too young to hear the promptings of the Holy Ghost or to follow the living prophet.

Years ago when we moved from one ward to another, I was given a class of Primary boys to teach. As I asked about each boy on my roll card, my adviser answered about one, “Oh, you can’t interest that family. They have never been active!”
Young, full of hope, and idealistic, I made personal visits to each home on the list prior to the first class. Upon visiting the home of the “inactive” boy, I discovered two other children of Primary age. After explaining the activities I had planned for the summer, I said that I would be happy to pick him up each week since my children wouldn’t fill up the car. In fact there would be room for all of them if they would like to go with me.
I was treated very kindly and made to feel that they were happy I had come, regardless of the boy’s decision. “You give it some thought,” I said, “and I’ll drive by, just in case you decide to join us, okay?”
The following week when I drove hopefully into their yard, my happiness knew no bounds, for not only was he all dressed up and ready to go, but the other two children as well!
Many months later, during a cold winter when I found myself too ill to teach my Young Women class, in fact too ill to even take my children, my daughter’s new teacher offered to take them all with her for several weeks.
This thoughtful teacher was the mother of my little Primary boy. She was not only active now, but one of my children’s teachers and a wonderful blessing to me and my family.