Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago I read a book titled The Way to the Western Sea by David S. Lavender. It provides a fascinating account of the epic journey of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark as they led their famed expedition across the North American continent to discover an overland route to the Pacific Ocean.
Their trek was a nightmare of backbreaking toil, deep gorges which had to be crossed, and extensive travel by foot, carrying with them their supply-laden boats to find the next stream on which to make their way.
As I read of their experiences, I frequently mused, “If only there were modern bridges to span the gorges or the raging waters.” There came to my mind thoughts of magnificent bridges of our time which accomplish this task with ease: beautiful Golden Gate Bridge of San Francisco fame; sturdy Sydney, Australia, Harbour Bridge; and others in many lands.
In reality, we are all travelers—even explorers of mortality. We do not have the benefit of previous personal experience. We must pass over steep precipices and turbulent waters in our own journey here on earth.
Perhaps such a somber thought inspired the poet Will Allen Dromgoole’s classic poem titled “The Bridge Builder”:
An old man, going a lone highway,
Came at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast and deep and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fears for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.
“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,
“You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again must pass this way;
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide—
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?”
The builder lifted his old gray head:
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for him.”
The message of the poem has prompted my thinking and comforted my soul, for our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ was the supreme architect and builder of bridges for you, for me, for all humankind. He has built the bridges over which we must cross if we are to reach our heavenly home.
The Savior’s mission was foretold. Matthew recorded, “And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name Jesus: for he shall save his people from their sins.”
There followed the miracle of His birth and the gathering of the shepherds who came with haste to that stable, to that mother, to that child. Even the Wise Men, journeying from the East, followed that star and bestowed their precious gifts upon the young child.
The scripture records that Jesus “grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom: and the grace of God was upon him” and that He “went about doing good.”
What personal bridges did He build and cross here in mortality, showing us the way to follow? He knew mortality would be filled with dangers and difficulties. He declared:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
Jesus provided the bridge of obedience. He was an unfailing example of personal obedience as He kept the commandments of His Father.
When He was led of the Spirit into the wilderness, He was weak from fasting. Satan was at his seductive best in the offerings he proffered. His first was to satisfy the Savior’s physical needs, including His hunger. To this the Savior replied, “It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.”
Next Satan offered power. Responded the Savior, “It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.”
Finally the Savior was offered wealth and earthly glory. His response: “Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.”
The Apostle Paul was inspired of the Lord to declare for our time, as well as for his: “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.”
Lest we equivocate, I mention something Ted Koppel, TV news journalist, said in a university commencement address: “What Moses brought down from Mt. Sinai were not the Ten Suggestions. They are commandments.”
A bit of humor is found in an account of a conversation between author Mark Twain and a friend. Said the wealthy friend to Twain, “Before I die, I plan to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I will climb to the top of Mount Sinai and read the Ten Commandments aloud.”
Replied Twain, “Why don’t you stay home and keep them?”
The second bridge provided by the Master for us to cross is the bridge of service. We look to the Savior as our example of service. Although He came to earth as the Son of God, He humbly served those around Him. He came forth from heaven to live on earth as mortal man and to establish the kingdom of God. His glorious gospel reshaped the thinking of the world. He blessed the sick; He caused the lame to walk, the blind to see, the deaf to hear. He even raised the dead to life.
In Matthew 25, the Savior tells us this concerning the faithful who will be on His right hand at His triumphal return:
“Then shall the King say unto them … , Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
“Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
“Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
“When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
“Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Elder Richard L. Evans (1906–71) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once counseled, “We can’t do everything for everyone everywhere, but we can do something for someone somewhere.”
May I share with you an account of an opportunity of service which came to me unexpectedly and in an unusual manner. I received a telephone call from a granddaughter of an old friend. She asked, “Do you remember Francis Brems, who was your Sunday School teacher?” I told her that I did. She continued, “He is now 105 years of age. He lives in a small care center but meets with the entire family each Sunday, where he delivers a Sunday School lesson. Last Sunday Grandpa announced to us, ‘My dears, I am going to die this week. Will you please call Tommy Monson and tell him this. He’ll know what to do.’ ”
I visited Brother Brems the very next evening. I could not speak to him, for he was deaf. I could not write a message for him to read, for he was blind. What was I to do? I was told that his family communicated with him by taking the finger of his right hand and then tracing on the palm of his left hand the name of the person visiting and then any message. I followed the procedure and took his finger and spelled on the palm of his hand T-O-M-M-Y M-O-N-S-O-N. Brother Brems became excited and, taking my hands, placed them on his head. I knew his desire was to receive a priesthood blessing. The driver who had taken me to the care center joined me as we placed our hands on the head of Brother Brems and provided the desired blessing. Afterward tears streamed from his sightless eyes. He grasped our hands, and we read the movement of his lips. The message: “Thank you so much.”
Within that very week, just as Brother Brems had predicted, he passed away. I received the telephone call and then met with the family as funeral arrangements were made. How thankful I am that a response to render service was not delayed.
The bridge of service invites us to cross over it frequently.
Finally, the Lord provided us the bridge of prayer. He directed, “Pray always, and I will pour out my Spirit upon you, and great shall be your blessing.”
I share with you an account described in a mother’s letter to me relating to prayer. She wrote:
“Sometimes I wonder if I make a difference in my children’s lives. Especially as a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I sometimes come home to confusion, but I never give up hope.
“My children and I were watching a television broadcast of general conference, and you were speaking about prayer. My son made the statement, ‘Mother, you’ve already taught us that.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he replied, ‘Well, you’ve taught us to pray and showed us how, but the other night I came to your room to ask something and found you on your knees praying to Heavenly Father. If He’s important to you, He’ll be important to me.’ ”
The letter concluded, “I guess you never know what kind of influence you’ll be until a child observes you doing yourself what you have tried to teach him to do.”
No relating of a prayer touches me so deeply as the prayer offered by Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. I believe Luke describes it best:
“He … went … to the mount of Olives; and his disciples also followed him.
“And when he was at the place, he said unto them, Pray that ye enter not into temptation.
“And he was withdrawn from them about a stone’s cast, and kneeled down, and prayed,
“Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.
“And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.
“And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.”
In due time came the trek to the cross. What suffering He endured as He made His burdensome way, carrying His own cross. Heard were the words He uttered upon the cross: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
At length Jesus declared, “It is finished: and he bowed his head, and gave up the ghost.”
These events, coupled with His glorious Resurrection, completed the final bridge of our trilogy: the bridge of obedience, the bridge of service, the bridge of prayer.
Jesus, the Bridge Builder, spanned that vast chasm we call death. “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.” He did for us what we could not do for ourselves; hence, humankind can cross the bridges He built—into life eternal.
I close by paraphrasing the poem “The Bridge Builder”:
“You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide—
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?”
“There followeth after me today
A vast throng whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
To that great throng may be a pitfall be.
They too must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for them.”
I pray that we may have the wisdom and determination to cross the bridges the Savior built for each of us.

“I am a convert to the Church of four and a half years, the only member in my family. I became interested in the Church through a girl I dated that was a Mormon. My testimony came slowly over a period of ten months. I really didn’t want it to be true because it meant I would need to change my life-style. But the more I was exposed to the Church the more convinced I became that it was true. The things that rang true were that there is a prophet on the earth today and that there is modern revelation. As a child I always wondered why the Bible stopped where it did and why we didn’t have someone like Moses on the earth.
“Since I was 23 when I joined the Church I thought I’d be too old to go on a mission. But I went to a Young Adult conference in Brisbane, and after talking with some friends there I was motivated to go. I worked as a civil servant before my mission, and I had saved enough money to support myself as a missionary.
“My mission has changed my life, too. I used to be shy, almost embarrassed to talk about the Church. That shyness has left me and I feel now that I can talk about it with anyone. When I told my parents I was going to go on a mission they were quite upset—they were concerned about my job. But when I received my call they were really happy for me. So in a period of about six weeks there was a real transition in my family’s attitudes. And now they are actually having a friendship with the missionaries at home. I don’t know if they’re being taught or not, but there was a time when they wouldn’t even let missionaries in the door.”
Both Elder Brooks and Elder McKim say they’ve had to adapt a little to life in the States. “The biggest adjustment is to cars being driven on the wrong side of the road!” Elder McKim said. “Several times my companions have saved my neck as I’ve gone to walk out in front of an oncoming car,” Elder Brooks agreed.
They’ve also had a few strange looks from fellow missionaries when they talk about Australian children eating fairy bread (bread and butter with candy sprinkles), or when they reminisce about hot summer Christmases celebrated with a barbecue at the beach.
“One preparation day we had an Australian day for missionaries in our zone. We invited them to an Australian party and tried to make it as authentic as possible, with food like fish and chips served on newspaper. It was especially fun for me and Elder Brooks, and the other missionaries seemed to enjoy themselves,” Elder McKim said.
In the early days of Church history, the gospel restored in New York and eventually headquartered in Utah sent missionaries from America to other lands around the globe. As the Church continues its worldwide growth, young men like Elder Brooks and Elder McKim will increasingly represent a new generation of missionaries, those who leave their homes to help share the gospel in a foreign land—America.

The Anchorage Stake holds early-morning seminary at the stake center. It isn’t always easy to get there. With the deep snow and bitter temperatures plus the dark, many have to be truly dedicated to make the effort to get to seminary. One girl and her brother paddle a canoe across the lake in front of their home. When the lake is frozen, they take a snowmobile. After seminary, all the Mormon students catch the school bus at the same stop. They sometimes get teased about always being together, but it causes their friends to ask why they all are in the same place at the same time early in the morning. Several friends have become interested and started attending seminary too. Michelle Warner says, “Everyone at school knows you’re a Mormon. Even though they sometimes make fun of our standards, you can tell that deep down they respect you.”

In that regard, I wish to share with you a letter which I received while I was serving in the BYU–Idaho First Stake. It was a letter from the mother of a young man sent to his bishop in our stake. It was received during the week we were about to call a new bishop. With the permission of this mother, I will share some of her thoughts about her son. I will not refer to him by his real name, but today we will call him Wilbur.
Dear Bishop,
I am writing in hopes of receiving whatever help you might be able to give me in regards to my son, Wilbur who is presently in your ward at BYU–Idaho.
I have prayed and fasted for guidance and thought to write to you in case you might know how to reach him.
His dad and I spoke to him on the phone last night at which time he informed us that he is coming home at the end of the semester. He has planned to try to live with friends so that he can get away from the influence of the Church in his life. He says that he has prayed several times to know if the gospel is true and claims he has never received an answer. So now, he says, “I give up.” “I’m not going to try anymore.” He says it is misery to be around so many people there at school who say they know it is true and that their prayers are answered while his are not. “Therefore,” he says, “he is rejecting it all.”
Bishop, Wilbur has been struggling with this for several years. Somehow he is unable to recognize the still small voice and perhaps expects a lightning bolt or a vision. He has made some mistakes in his life . . . hanging around hard rock musicians who put no pressure on him to try to better himself and who are therefore, easy to “hang out with” because they have no expectations of him. Whereas, he feels that to be a faithful member of the Church requires so much obligation, more than he can stand without a testimony.
Though rebellious, we know our beloved son is valuable and that his soul is of great worth to the Lord. We love him tremendously and know that the Lord would not have us give up on him.
If there is anything you can do to reach my son’s heart or to help him with this struggle of faith, I would be eternally grateful.
As I mentioned, the Bishop handed me the letter near the day of his release. I immediately tried to contact this young man and found that he had checked out of school early and returned home. I called his mother to see what might be done – to see if there was something we might do to help him return. Wilbur had moved on, joining those who “had little expectations of him”
Later I contacted his mother to see how Wilbur was doing. During the conversation, she shared with me that she felt that things could have been so different if Wilbur had simply chosen to associate with different types of friends in his life – “good friends” as she described them.
I have thought a lot about that comment since then and about some of the comments the mother had written in her letter. Might I point two observations which this very insightful mother suggested would have been of great benefit to her son:
Wilbur needed to be with those who genuinely cared about him. Unlike Wilbur’s friends mentioned in his mother’s letter, friends who truly care do have expectations of us. Expectations which are not critical or intended to be overwhelming or burdensome; but a simple assumption that the best we can be is really who we are. Associating with those who expect little or nothing from us usually results in our actions yielding just that – very little. On the other hand, as we associate with those who recognize our potential, our true character, our tender heart; their association instills in us a desire to live according to our highest potential. We come to realize, as they do, that the best we can be really is who we are.
Wilbur needed to be around people who not only bear their testimony in Sacrament Meeting but actually lived their testimony through their actions, their selfless deeds of service and kind gestures. Through such examples, good friends provide us with occasional snap shots of what it means to be Christ-like. As we witness such qualities in others, the Spirit of the Holy Ghost whispers to us that these qualities are genuine, lasting, good and virtuous. We find ourselves wanting to incorporate those qualities into our lives.
Because Wilbur, while here, chose not to heed the promptings of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost, Wilbur’s mother had prayed earnestly that his path would cross with those who could provide an example, with those who could touch his heart, with those willing and worthy to be instruments in our Father in Heaven’s hand to deliver the message that God is mindful of him.
As I prepared my remarks for today, I again called Wilbur’s mother. I guess I was sort of surprised that 6 years later she still had the same telephone number and that she remembered who I was. She reported that although Wilbur had not yet returned into full activity in the Church, that he was making great progress. She expressed deep gratitude for BYU–Idaho and the students, ward members, faculty and priesthood leaders that are here. Given that he hadn’t had a very good experience here, I wondered why she had such gratitude for this place? During our conversation, the answer became clear. Because, as she said, he remembers. He remembers the associations – although very brief – which he had while he was here. He remembers the example of the people here. He remembers their testimonies.
She said her prayers, unknown to her at the time, had been answered. You see, Wilbur had been touched by some wonderful caring angels while here at BYU–Idaho. I am sure some of them didn’t even know it at the time, but they touched his heart through their example. Even though he rejected them while he was here, now he remembers. Six years later, he is now beginning to recognize the influence for good which was here. As we were saying goodbye, she remarked “My prayers were answered before and I have faith they will be answered again.”

By way of background, I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was fifteen, in May 1978. My brother and I were raised by our father, who was a secular Jew, in Southern California. We gathered for the High Holy Days with our aunts and uncles and in many ways were deeply affected by our cultural background. Although indoctrination in the Christian religion was not a part of my upbringing, I had nevertheless read much of both the Old and New Testaments in my own personal search for truth as a teenager and was gradually drawn toward the persona and teachings of Jesus Christ.

The first experience happened just a week or so after my baptism. I was invited by a friend of my brother to attend a home worship service of an Evangelical fellowship. After the meeting, the preacher invited me to stay and discuss my new religion. Although we shared a common belief in the divine mission of Jesus Christ, his ensuing attack on the character of Joseph Smith was ruthless, and as a fifteen-year-old convert, I was unprepared to defend the Church. I discovered that night that we disagreed on two points: my very personal witness from the Spirit regarding the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and the foundational belief that we are not creatures but actually spirit children of God.

About a month ago four of the Young Adults gathered in Loughborough for a Young Adults conference, along with others from all over England. This group of four went to perform, as did the others, some unsolicited Christian service. Their intended activity, through no fault of their own, could not be performed, so they were left with some time on their hands. While walking along the street, they decided to stop at a pay telephone and call the local public hospital to see if they could be of help. A nurse in one of the wards answered the telephone and was asked by the one calling if four young people could come over to the hospital and scrub floors or walls, wash dishes, or do any other similar needed task without pay. Apparently this was an uncommon request, because the young man calling said, “After the nurse picked herself up from the floor, she said, ‘Are you kidding?’”

During a morning of helping to scrub and of visiting patients, these four Young Adults had an unforgettable experience. They seek, as Aristotle said, to be those “who have at heart the best interests of the state and of its citizens.”

I remember a cold winter evening as I was on radio car patrol on the east side of Salt Lake. Suddenly the silence was broken by the beep, beep, beep of an emergency radio call. “Car 16,” came the dispatcher’s voice. “Such and such an address, 9–40.” Nine-forty was a police code meaning unknown trouble. It might be a cat in a tree, family fight, lost child, or even a homicide. Calls like this were always tense because you just didn’t know what to expect.
I arrived at the address, an old two-story home surrounded by a rickety picket fence. I made my way toward the front porch along a broken and weed-choked sidewalk. The paint was peeling off the house, and it looked like it could have been the scene for a good Halloween movie. I knocked on the door, and as I did, it came partially ajar. There was no sound. I pushed the door open a little wider and cautiously poked my head inside. “Hello. Did anyone here call the police?” No answer. I opened the door wider and stepped inside.
I found myself in a small vestibule, no more than four feet square. It was nearly dark inside and smelled of a strange and musty odor. To my left was a narrow and steep stairway going to the second floor. “Hello,” I called again. “Is anybody there?” This time I heard a sound. It wasn’t much of a sound, just a quiet sound like a sob. The beam of my flashlight cut through the gloom as I pointed it up the stairway toward the sound.
There, huddled miserably on the bare wooden stair, was a young girl. She was barefoot and poorly dressed, with long, straggly hair. Her eyes were red, and I could see she had been crying hard. Her breath came in gasps, and I inquired again concerning the call for help. “Did you call the police?” All she could do was sob and point through the open doorway at the top of the stairs.
I made my way past the girl and entered into a scene of true desolation and tragedy. The room was small. No carpet covered the bare wooden floor. It was littered with the obvious signs of drugs and alcohol. Empty beer cans were strewn about, and evidence of marijuana was everywhere. Lying in the center of the floor was a young man. A dark pool of blood surrounded his head, and near his lifeless fingers lay a small, shiny revolver. I was heartsick as I called for assistance and began the investigation of a terrible tragedy.
I share this experience to emphasize again the fickle nature of the friends that Satan might send to tempt you to take part in such parties as these. We learned from our investigation that there had been 20 to 30 young people at the party. The gun was a plaything, and a game of Russian roulette seemed exciting to those using drugs and alcohol. No one expected to be hurt, yet tragedy struck and a young man’s life was lost. No friends stayed behind to help. No friends even did anything to comfort the one who did stay—the sister of the poor dead boy.

“Hey, wake up,” someone says, poking you.
Groggily, you look at the clock next to your bed. It’s 6:30 a.m.? What’s going on? Wait, that’s not your clock. And this isn’t your bed. Where are you?
“Hey,” the voice says, “you’re the one who wanted to follow us around. It’s time to get the day started.”
As you peer up at the missionary standing over your bed, you finally remember what’s going on. Church magazines offered you the opportunity to follow a missionary companionship around for a day, and you jumped at the chance to see what missionary life is really like.
You just didn’t realize it would start this early.
“Hi, I’m Elder Jesse Ward, from Utah,” the tall missionary says as you sit up. “Welcome to Spain. This is my companion, Elder Pierrick Triplet.”
Elder Triplet is from France, and he isn’t learning just Spanish but English too. Despite the challenge of having to learn two languages at once, Elder Triplet is grateful to be on a mission.
“I’m a convert,” he says. “I’ve had a great change in my life, and I’d like others to have it too. A mission can be hard work, but seeing someone change his or her life is worth it.”
They’ve got your attention. You’ve always heard that a mission can be the best two years of your life. Today you get a chance to find out why.
6:41 a.m. After taking time to pray, the missionaries spend some time working out. Push-ups, sit-ups, even a little light weight lifting are the usual for Elder Ward. Breakfast follows a shower and shave. Cold cereal is a favorite.
8:07 a.m. Missionaries spend a good deal of time studying individually and as a companionship so they can obtain the word before declaring it (see D&C 11:21). After language study and personal scripture study, it’s time for companionship study using Preach My Gospel.
9:55 a.m. Missionaries dedicate a lot of time to planning, at the beginning of the day, throughout the day, and at the end of the day. They talk not just about what they’re going to do but about what each investigator needs.
Today the elders are talking about a man from France, an investigator they’re going to invite to be baptized.
“He’s worried,” Elder Triplet says. “He doesn’t feel worthy.”
“Let’s talk about repentance and how God remembers sins no more,” Elder Ward suggests after the companions think it over. “Why don’t you teach it in French to make sure he understands?”
The last thing the elders do before leaving is pray—again. This is one of many prayers they’ll offer today. Missionary work requires a lot of heavenly help. Then it’s out the door and off to the bus stop in a hurry.
11:09 a.m. Missionaries talk to anyone anywhere anytime about the gospel, because they never know who is going to be interested. While waiting for the bus, the missionaries chat with a young man and give him a pamphlet with their phone number on it.
11:21 a.m. A 10-minute bus ride and a short walk later, the missionaries arrive at a rented meetinghouse at the same time as their investigator. The meeting begins well, but the investigator’s concerns push the 45-minute lesson they had planned on to more than an hour.
“That was the most frustrating lesson I’ve ever been in,” Elder Triplet says afterward. “He likes the Church. He thinks it’s true. He wants to pay tithing. But he doesn’t believe he needs to be baptized again. He was a little argumentative.”
“He’s a great guy,” Elder Ward says, shaking his head. “Maybe he’ll be ready to talk about baptism next time.”
2:06 p.m. The missionaries jump on another bus, this time to El Casco, the historic quarter of Toledo, Spain. They stop by an investigator’s business to invite him to an activity that night.
“You can get lost in here really quick if you aren’t paying attention,” Elder Ward says of the maze of narrow streets lined with buildings that seem to lean over those walking below.
2:24 p.m. While navigating the tight streets, the missionaries stop to offer help to a woman carrying a heavy load. They spend a moment explaining who they are and what they do, but the woman isn’t interested.
2:47 p.m. It’s siesta time in Spain, so the missionaries catch a bus back to their apartment, or piso, for lunch. “Everything shuts down between 2:00 and 4:00 p.m.,” Elder Ward explains. “Some people get mad if you knock on their doors.”
“This is chorizo, or sausage,” Elder Triplet says poking at lunch. “It’s typical food. We eat a lot of noodles and chorizo because it’s cheap and easy to make.”
“The mission is great preparation for marriage,” Elder Ward laughs as he mixes his Kool-Aid. “You have to learn to get along, cook, clean, do laundry, budget, and take care of yourself.”
4:24 p.m. Back in El Casco, the missionaries meet with a counselor in the mission presidency about current activation efforts.
“This is a great area,” says Elder Ward, who explains that Church attendance has gone from about 15 to 80 members each week because one family set the example of fellowshipping.
4:59 p.m. The elders end up with a little unexpected free time on their hands, but missionaries are used to doing some planning on the fly. Their backup plan was to do some tracting.
5:42 p.m. In El Casco, where so many people live above street level, knocking on doors often means carrying on conversations with people on their balconies. And even in historic tourist towns, a missionary has to look out for dogs.
The elders have some success: “We found some great people,” Elder Ward says. “There were some youth from Paraguay. They invited us back tomorrow.” And some failure: “We had a half-hour conversation with one man,” Elder Triplet says. “It was like talking to a wall.”
7:45 p.m. Two buses later the elders make it to the activity they had planned with the sister missionaries who work in the same city, Sister Kathleen Bonifay and Sister Brittany Hofman.
The people they were expecting to come didn’t. “That’s the way it goes sometimes,” Elder Ward says. But after a little footwork, the missionaries are able to gather a handful of other investigators living nearby. After a hymn and a video, you can feel the influence of the Holy Ghost as the missionaries bear testimony of the Book of Mormon as another witness of Jesus Christ. The activity is a success.
“The Lord takes care of you when you put forth your best planning and best effort,” says Sister Bonifay.
9:13 p.m. After a hike to the bus stop, the elders and sisters have made it back to their respective apartments, where they’ll call their leaders, review the day and their long-range plans, and make plans for the next day.
“Well, this is what we do,” Elder Ward tells you. “It doesn’t change much.”
Elder Triplet laughs. “We are the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.”
Things didn’t go exactly as the elders had planned, but the day went well anyway. They made some good contacts, pulled off a powerful activity, bore testimony of Christ, and did their best to follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost.
“I’ve heard people say these are the best two years of their lives,” Elder Triplet says. “The two years are great, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the best 730 days of my life. There are some days I thought would never end. But I have loved being a missionary.”
Elder Ward agrees. He has mixed emotions about leaving. “I always thought I’d be excited to go home,” he says. “But I see life differently now. I love my life. I’m a missionary. I’m speaking to people about Christ every day. Leaving will be bittersweet.”
You’ve enjoyed getting a taste of missionary work as well. As exciting as it is, missionary work can be exhausting. Now it’s time to get some rest and prepare yourself for your day as a missionary. It has a way of coming faster than you think.

In the Brazil São Paulo South Mission there was an Elder Malheiros who entered into the field not being able to read or write very proficiently. He was even a little fearful of giving a prayer in public. But this young man, according to his mission president, Wilford Cardon, became one of the very greatest missionaries imaginable. The president asked him toward the end of his mission how he had turned into such a dynamic, very successful missionary. (He had baptized more than two hundred people and had baptized every week for fifty-two consecutive weeks.) In a very humble manner Elder Malheiros answered, “Well, president, I never doubted you. You said one could baptize every week, so I knew I could baptize every week. I never doubted. It was not always easy, but I tried to obey.”

I remember feeling uncomfortable as I learned in college about the lives of great artists. It seemed like the truly memorable and remarkable ones had become great artists by neglecting their family and sacrificing their sanity. Great artists painted on Christmas morning while their kids opened presents. One was married six times. Another cut off his ear and sent it to his loved ones. And another even killed someone! I started to wonder if becoming a great artist while also being a great wife and mother (all while keeping my sanity!) was even possible.
My professors taught that if we really wanted to become great, we would have to make sacrifices for it. We would have to work harder than anyone else. We would have to put art first in our lives. My mind would often question, “But if an artist kept the commandments, put first things first, and had the Spirit of the Lord to direct their work, couldn’t they become just as great and possibly even greater?” This question stayed with me throughout my studies.
By the time my husband and I graduated, we had been married for a year. Elder Russell M. Nelson (at the time, he was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles) came to speak at our graduation. A luncheon followed, and only 16 students were invited to attend. Oddly enough, both my husband I were selected to be there. When the discussion was opened for questions and answers. I raised my hand, looked Elder Nelson in the eye, and expressed my concerns about being both an artist and a mother. I had worked so hard to build my talents in school, and I wanted to continue to work hard and improve, but I also knew that motherhood took precedence. Was there a way to do both? Elder Nelson’s eyes sparkled as he replied, “Absolutely!” He encouraged me to improve upon my talents and to pray to Heavenly Father for help in knowing how I could do both and that with Him, I would be able to do things I once thought impossible. I took that advice to heart.
My husband and I now have four kids. We’ve learned the dance and the juggle of parenthood. In the beginning, I began most days at 4:00 a.m. to get some painting in before my kids woke up. I tried to paint six days a week, even if some days only allowed 30 minutes. I started each painting session with prayer, knowing I wasn’t much without the Lord’s help. I prayed not only to be enabled in my art but also to know what was most important that day and committed to putting His purposes first. Progress wasn’t fast, but it was steady.
Fast forward 12 years from my graduation day. I was having a moment of discouragement. Life seemed too full. Motherhood had been more challenging than I had anticipated. I sat at my easel crying, wondering if I would ever really be able to become the great artist I had dreamed of being. I felt impressed to pull my old journal off the shelf, and I turned to my entry on April 30, 2006, the day after my graduation. I had totally forgotten my remarkable experience with President Nelson! Somehow the whirlwind of life had almost eroded it from my memory. There before me were words from the current prophet, “Absolutely!” The tears turned to ones of gratitude as I looked back at all I had been able to accomplish since that time, and I also looked forward with hope.
A few months later, I got a call from one of the Ensign magazine’s designers, asking if they could use one of my paintings on the inside cover of the November 2018 general conference issue. I was floored! Growing up, the first thing I had always done when getting the Church magazines was to peruse them for paintings. Now one of my pieces would be in there! Then, when I was told that they wanted to pair my painting with words from President Nelson, I could see the hand of God encouraging me forward.
I still have a long way to go on my artistic journey, but I’m so thankful for President Nelson’s hope in the Lord and in us. I’m thankful for his optimism and his confidence. I know that as we exercise faith in the Lord we will be able to do great things, even things we once thought impossible. “For with God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37).

The small auditorium was brimming with people, most of them family friends and relatives. As a young man dressed in a formal black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie entered from a hallway to the rear of the stage, the audience began applauding. But when he stopped before the piano he was about to play and indicated he had something to say, the applause subsided.
“This concert, as you know, is dedicated to my 99-year-old grandmother Alice L. Kenner,” he said. “I would like to tell her that I love her very much.” Then the applause began again.
Only a couple of days before, Kevin Kenner, 19, had been a semifinalist in the 1982 Gina Bachauer International Piano Competition held in Salt Lake City, Utah. The Bachauer competition is considered one of the top piano events in the United States, narrowing a field of 200 entrants from all over the world down to 50 performers, then 15 semifinalists and six finalists. The winner not only receives a piano and prize money, but also a recital opportunity in New York.
Although Kevin didn’t make it to the finals (as he has in other competition), he was given a special recognition as the “most promising performer.” He was glad to receive the recognition, but he was also disappointed that he hadn’t made it beyond the top 15. He could have packed his bags and returned home to California to the rigorous practice schedule he had set to prepare for school in the fall.
Instead, Kevin was giving a free performance, open to anyone. That’s the kind of person he is. “It’s fine to make music for yourself, and sometimes you want to make music for music’s sake or for the judges,” he said. “But music is at its best when you share it with others. Audiences are who you make the music for.”

I remember a time when things didn’t look good for our family when I was a child. It was in the winter of 1944, one of the coldest during World War II. The war front was approaching our town, and my mother had to take us four children, leave all our possessions behind, and join the millions of fleeing refugees in a desperate search for a place to survive. Our father was still in the military, but he and Mother had agreed that if they were ever separated during the war, they would try to reunite at the hometown of my grandparents. They felt this place offered the greatest hope for shelter and safety.

With bombing raids during the night and air attacks during the day, it took us many days to reach my grandparents. My memories of those days are of darkness and coldness.

My father returned to us unharmed, but our future looked extremely bleak. We were living in the rubble of postwar Germany with a devastating feeling of hopelessness and darkness about our future.

In the middle of this despair, my family learned about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the healing message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. This message made all the difference; it lifted us above our daily misery. Life was still thorny and the circumstances still horrible, but the gospel brought light, hope, and joy into our lives. The plain and simple truths of the gospel warmed our hearts and enlightened our minds. They helped us look at ourselves and the world around us with different eyes and from an elevated viewpoint.

Paper stars. I am half Thai and half American. I spent three years living in Laos, next to Thailand. For the first two years we were in Laos, my parents hired a pileang, or nanny, named Rojana, who took good care of me. Since she was Buddhist, I didn’t expect a gift from her at Christmas.
On Christmas morning I found a jar filled with at least a hundred tiny paper stars, folded so they were three-dimensional. They were blue and pink and glittery. Rojana had no money to buy me anything, so she spent hours folding those stars for a child who wasn’t her own.
It was a wonderful Christmas gift, a gift of time and dedication.Faye H., Virginia, USA

Some years ago during a beautiful early fall evening, a young woman sat on a stone bench down by the Spori Building. At that time it was the original Spori Building. And as this young woman and a friend sat there talking and enjoying one another’s company (they had been dating for some time), the young man brought himself to the point of saying to this young women, “I have kept myself worthy my whole life so that I could ask a girl like you to be my wife.” He reached into his pocket and took out a ring, attempting to place it on her finger. At that moment, she became distraught. She jumped up, placing the ring that he had tried to put on her finger on the bench, and left him there. She anguished about that for days and finally did what we would understand to be the proper thing to do. She went to her bishop and began the repentance process. It is what she said to her bishop that I think is compelling: “What I could not bear to tell him is that I was not the girl he thought I was. But I wish to be.” A moment intended to be one of rejoicing had been robbed of its joy. She had wished at that point, more than anything else, to let the ring be placed on her finger. To her credit she had too much integrity to do that. It certainly was a moment where she desired to rejoice, but her heart groaned because of her past choices and decisions.

Several years ago I wrote a story about my sister and submitted it to you. It was published in the April 1984 issue under the title “Lifeline.” It told of my little sister’s trials during the time she lived with my father (a Baptist minister) in southern Georgia. The story described the heartache she felt at being cut off from the Church she loves and the help she received when her home teachers listened to the promptings of the Spirit and came to visit her.
My sister (Jean Swilley) remained true to the gospel and passed through the refiner’s fire. She moved to Chicago in July of 1984 to live with my mother. Jean became active in her ward, and before long her bubbly spirit was charming the members in Illinois just as it once had in Mississippi. My Mom could not help but be influenced by the strength of Jean’s testimony, and she began her journey back into the fold of the Church. Both she and her new husband are now strong, active members of their ward. They are very happy even though they miss my sister very much.
Jean left Chicago last week to enter the MTC. Though she always insisted she had no desire to go on a mission, she obeyed her Father’s call and is now a very excited sister earnestly studying her discussions in Swedish. Though I am sure Jean will face many a refiner’s fire in Sweden, I know that she will come through them clinging to the lifeline her Father tossed to her many years ago. We thought you might like to know. Thanks again for printing Jean’s story.
Elizabeth (Swilley) SheridanIrmo, South Carolina

Q. There was another time you altered your career plans for other goals—when you took two years off to serve a mission. How did you make that decision?
A. It was difficult. To be honest, I met this girl (whom I ended up marrying. Her name is Melodie. It’s perfect). And when she started talking about the kind of guy she wanted to marry, she said he had to be an “R.M.”
I misunderstood her and thought, “Why is it so important for her to marry a nurse?” But then she explained. I thought, because I’d joined the Church later, I’d be off the hook with the mission thing. She didn’t buy that theory, and I knew it wasn’t right either. But I was worried that I would come back and I wouldn’t have my music anymore. I think athletes go through the same thing. They’re afraid they won’t be able to play when they get back.
Q. And what happened?
A. I went to Yugoslavia. I was able to use my music a little. I played piano for church and for city things, but I really didn’t do a lot of music on my mission. So when I got home, I was pleasantly surprised to find that not only had I remembered how to write music, but the maturity, perspective, and depth that I’d gained really helped. Plus I realized the power of music.

Suddenly Jody’s muscles tightened. From out of the sky darted Sir Lancelot, his satiny black plumage glinting in the sun like a feathery jewel.
Sir Lancelot was the name Jody had given the big raven the first time he had seen it, nearly six months before. Any bird that could appear so regal had to have an important name, he’d decided.
He stood and hurried to the rock where he’d laid the brass button, picked it up, and sat on the rock with it in his open hand. This time the bird would have to come to him for his prize.
Jody had come up to Raven’s Roost nearly every week since he had moved with his family to Tucker Springs, and he’d gotten to know Sir Lancelot quite well, at least from a distance. “If you want this button to add to your collection of shiny things, you’ll have to take it from my hand!” he told the bird.
The huge bird alighted on a limb of the scrub oak. He cocked his glossy black head and eyed the lustrous object. “Come on,” Jody encouraged.
The raven cawed noisily, his high, harsh cry echoing off the red rocks. At length, he hopped to the ground, advanced a step or two, and came to a stop.
“That’s the best you can do?” Jody questioned. “All right, but next time it’s all the way or nothing, understand?” He tossed the button a few feet in front of him. The raven, cawing at Jody and eyeing the treasure, stretched forward and plucked the button up in his long bill. Then he flew back to the limb.
He regarded the boy a moment, as if saying thanks. Then, just as Sir Lancelot was about to fly off with the precious gift, Jody heard a whizzing sound, followed by a soft thud. The raven toppled lifeless to the ground, the brass button rolling from his slack bill and disappearing into a crevice in the rocks.
For an instant Jody just stared, disbelieving. “Sir Lancelot!” he choked out. Then his attention turned to the direction of the sound.
Hollis Fletcher stepped out of the brushwood about a hundred yards away, a rock flipper in his hands. “I told you I’d get even, Farnsworth,” he sneered. “You should have dropped out of that spelling contest, like I told you. Outside of the Fourth of July and the county fair, it’s the biggest thing that happens around here. And I would have won.
“I’ve lived in Tucker Springs all my life,” Hollis went on. “Every time I earned a hundred on spelling at school, I rewarded myself with getting a new marble for my collection. I probably have the best marble collection in the whole state, but there aren’t any trophies for that, like there is for the spelling contest. I worked hard to win it—it wasn’t right for some nobody from nowhere to come into town and take the trophy that should have been mine. Especially some kid two years younger than I am.”
“I won fair and square,” Jody retorted through his tears, dropping to his knees beside the dead bird and touching its blood-spattered plumage. “Besides, you won the trophy in last year’s contest.”
“I could have had two, Farnsworth!” Hollis growled. “Around here, two is better than one, especially at my house. With one, it can be just luck. Nobody questions or forgets a two-time winner—especially my father! He would have given me a horse, Farnsworth, just like he did my brother for his two-year win at the county fair for his Jersey cows!”
Hollis turned and started down the path, then paused and burned a look over his shoulder at Jody. “Maybe now you’ll know how it feels to lose something.”
Jody scooped up a rock, jumped to his feet, and hurled it at Hollis’s retreating shape. “I hate you!” he screamed, his face twisting with grief and rage. “I hate you!”
Hollis turned back toward the screaming youth and smiled. “That’s good, Farnsworth. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
At home, Jody poured out the story to his father. “He killed Sir Lancelot to get back at me!” he sobbed. “Sir Lancelot was just a good old bird who didn’t do anything except make music.” Jody wiped at the tears that burned his eyes. “It wasn’t the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard, but it was music to me. I hate Hollis for what he did.”
His father sighed. “It was wrong what he did, Son, no doubt about it. But you can’t go around with all that hate in your heart. For one thing, it isn’t healthy; for another, it’s—”
Jody pulled away from his father. “I hate Hollis Fletcher, Dad. I wish he’d move away!”
In the weeks that followed, the resentment and bitterness in Jody Farnsworth’s heart grew.
“You can’t tell me that you’re happy, Jody,” his father commented one day as they walked down the dirt road toward Hennesey Lake, their fishing poles over their shoulders.
Jody didn’t look at his father. “Is it wrong for a kid not to be happy all the time?” he blurted, kicking at a pebble in the road. “Even Jesus got mad at the moneychangers in the temple. And when Lazarus died, He wept. Is it wrong to be like Him?”
“No,” his father returned, “but this is the first time we’ve gone fishing that you haven’t been happy.” After a long silence, his father continued. “You know, Jody, if harboring all that spite for Hollis was right and proper, you’d be feeling pretty good inside. But I’ve never seen you look so poorly.”
Jody’s eyes fired up like smoldering coals rekindled. “I’m just supposed to forget about what he did, is that it?”
“It would be hard to forget what happened,” Jody’s father admitted. “But you can forgive him for what he did.”
Jody’s eyes widened. “What? Forgive Hollis Fletcher for shooting Sir Lancelot? How am I supposed to do that?”
His father stopped and eyed the boy. “You have to want to. That makes it a whole lot easier.”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
Jody’s father set his fishing pole aside and squatted down to the boy’s level. “There are a lot of things in this life we don’t like doing that need doing. Your mother dreads wash day, especially in the middle of July. It’s a hot, exhausting, all-day job. But what do you think would happen if our clothes didn’t get cleaned on a regular basis? We’d go around looking and smelling like Amos Twigg’s cow barn. And last fall I dreaded having to shoot Jack. That old horse was in constant great pain, and nothing more could be done except put him out of his misery. It was the hardest thing I had to do in my life. But it needed doing. And that brings me to you, Jody.”
“Me?”
“For the past month you’ve been carrying around such poisonous thoughts that I worry about your soul.”
“I just can’t forgive him, Dad,” Jody said angrily.
Later that morning, as they sat fishing, Jody accidently snagged his finger on his hook while baiting his line. “Shall we leave that hook in your finger?” Jody’s father questioned.
“Of course not!” Jody winced, at the smart.
“Why not?”
“I want to get the hurt out so it will heal, of course.”
“It might be a good idea to let that other, bigger, hurt out, too, Jody.” His father helped dislodge the small hook from the boy’s finger, then dug in his fishing box for some ointment and applied it to Jody’s finger. “The best medicine for resentment is forgiveness. It lets out the poison so that the wound can heal.
“You know,” he added, “I was thinking about what you said earlier today about being like the Savior. There’s a lot to that. He loved everybody, didn’t He? Even His enemies. Don’t you suppose He was the best example of forgiveness, too, Jody?”
Jody’s eyes fell, then lifted. “You mean, while He hung suffering on the cross He forgave the soldiers who crucified Him?”
“Yes. And in Gethsemane He suffered for all our sins.”
Jody was silent a long spell. Then he stood up. “Can we go home now, Dad? There’s something I need to do. Something I want to do.”
Jody was halfway up the little rutted lane that led to the Fletcher farmhouse, when Hollis spotted him. Jody’s heart was pounding. He never imagined that something he wanted to do could be so hard.
Hollis met Jody a short distance from the house, his countenance as dark as a storm over the tablelands. “You came to tell my father what I did, didn’t you, Farnsworth?”
“No,” Jody answered. “I just came to tell you that I forgive you for what you did. I’m not saying it was right; I’m just saying that I don’t hate you.”
“What?”
“Staying mad isn’t going to change anything,” Jody said. “It just makes things worse.”
After an awkward silence, Hollis wondered aloud, “Why are you doing this?”
“It was just something that needed doing. Well,” Jody concluded after another uncomfortable silence, “I still have a few chores to finish up at home, so I guess I’d better be going. See you later.”
A few days later he returned to the mesa and searched the skies for another raven. “I know there are more of you up there somewhere,” he said out loud. “I don’t have any shiny stuff to give you—I’m all out—but—”
“I do,” a voice behind Jody said. Hollis stepped out of the brushwood. He pulled out a leather pouch he’d brought with him and displayed its contents to Jody. “Now we have a lot of shiny things to give those ravens!”
Jody stared at the multitude of shiny aggies, taws, glassies, cat’s eyes, and other bright-colored marbles. “Why are you doing this, Hollis?”
The older boy’s smile grew as big as Jody’s wonder. “It was just something that needed doing.”
Hollis set a bright yellow glassie on a rock, then sat next to Jody beneath the scrub oak, where the two boys waited and watched.

As she became a young adult herself, Ioana wanted to do the same and help others feel welcome in the Savior’s Church. Though she felt nervous about reaching out to people she didn’t know, she was learning to listen to the Holy Ghost and trust the promptings she received.
When another young woman joined, Ioana got up the courage to talk to her. They discovered a mutual interest in music, and Ioana offered to teach her to lead the singing. Before long they were spending time together, serving as branch pianist and music leader.
“As I prepared myself to receive the guidance of the Holy Ghost, I started to notice Him putting thoughts in my head, answering my questions, prompting me,” Ioana said. “There were times I didn’t know what to say, and then something would come. It felt right when I said it. I’m learning to trust the Holy Ghost.”
She learned that often the things that help others feel like they belong aren’t big. For her, it was being included in Sunday School or activities, playing sports or crazy games, baking cookies, and having dance nights. “It wasn’t fancy. It was just having a good time or being able to talk. And when it’s connected to something spiritual, that can make it extra special.”

Ralph Foster Diston was born at Trimdon Grange, Durham, England, on the 24th of October 1912. His parents, Ralph and Elizabeth, were Latter-day Saints and he was brought up in the faith. In 1921, at age 8, he was baptised and confirmed. He had grown up as a member of the Sunderland branch, but by 1939 he had moved to Newcastle where he worshipped with the Saints. For employment he had worked at a colliery before joining the army. In 1933 he married Francis Bransby and in 1938 they had a son, Francis. He was an ordained Deacon.
During the Second World War he served as a Company Sergeant Major (CSM) in the Durham Light Infantry (DLI). Brother Diston is remembered for his extraordinary bravery and leadership, particularly during the Battle of the Mereth Line near Wadi Zigzaou, Tunisia, on the 21st of March 1943.
During this battle, Ralph was ordered to capture a redoubt (a fortification). He led his men through intense combat, showing a complete disregard for danger and demonstrated ‘magnificent leadership’. His actions included leading assaults on enemy fortified positions, clearing trenches, and rallying his men under heavy fire. After capturing the redoubt they secured 120 Italian prisoners. His courage and determination were instrumental in the DLI’s success, and he was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal, with commendations from General Bernard Montgomery.
Despite the overwhelming odds, Brother Diston continued to inspire his men. The next day, German tanks and infantry approached the redoubt on three fronts. His cool leadership helped his company hold their position until they ran out of ammunition, after which he guided them to safety. In a nearby anti-tank ditch they armed themselves with more ammunition and continued their defence.
After recovering from wounds he incurred during the defence, he continued his military service and was involved in the Allied Invasion of Sicily. In July 1943 he led his soldiers into battle and was involved in the Assault on Primosole Bridge which spanned the Simeo River near Catania. This time, however, there was a resolute German defence and he was injured during the assault. He died of his wounds on the 18th of July leaving behind a wife and young son.
Although Ralph was only 30 years old at the time of his death, he showed immense bravery and leadership. Brother Ralph Diston is buried at the Catania War Cemetery in Sicily, Italy. On the 22nd of August 1943, a one-minute’s silence was held in honour of Ralph in the Newcastle branch.

I didn’t know yet if the gospel was true when I was about seven and a half years old. I thought that if it was good enough for my parents, then it was good enough for me. One night, as I was pondering my life, my mind focused on thoughts of religion. I wondered if I was in the right one. I remembered Joseph Smith and that he had had the same thoughts. Thinking about this, I decided to follow his example. I got out of bed and began to pray. At first, I had a hard time concentrating on praying because it was pretty cold that night and I wanted to get back into my warm bed. After I finished my prayer, I listened for the Holy Ghost to tell me what to do. Finally, just as I was about to give up, I felt an amazing feeling. It was as if my heart was about to explode with joy! When I am in doubt of the scriptures and am not sure if Heavenly Father is really there, I look back at this time and remember that wonderful night when I first felt the Spirit for myself.