Gospel Story Finder

In the morning the two hungry missionaries walked 12 miles in the rain before they came to a house. Wilford knocked on the door, and a man answered. The smell of bacon and eggs floated from the open door.
“We are missionaries traveling without purse or scrip. Could we have something to eat?” Henry asked.
“You Mormons are nothing but trouble,” the man said. “But I’m from Missouri, and we never turn away a stranger—even the likes of you. Sit down and grab a plate.”
Wilford and Henry sat down at the table and filled their plates with bacon and eggs. While they ate, the man swore and said terrible things about Mormons. Wilford and Henry ate until their stomachs were filled. Then they stood up, took their hats, and bade the man good-bye while he was still swearing.
“I trust the Lord will reward him for our breakfast,” Wilford said to Henry as they started off again.

When I was about 14, I had come to the conclusion that trying a beer once would be perfectly all right. Before I had tried one, however, I had an interview with my bishop to go on a youth temple trip. One of the questions was about experimenting with drugs or alcohol. I was glad I could say no, but the question puzzled me. “Wasn’t experimenting okay?” If that question was important enough to ask in a temple recommend interview, it must not be okay. Since then, I’ve realized if you never take the first you will never take the rest. I am grateful to the Lord and a bishop for guiding me and helping me avoid so much sorrow.
Elder Aaron Ellsworth, 20Washington Seattle Mission

I’ll never forget the man on the airplane who seemed very interested as I explained family home evening, the missionary system, etc., until we reached an issue on which he vigorously disagreed with me. Following Joseph Smith’s counsel, I avoided a vain dispute and changed the subject. As the plane began circling to land, I felt his agitation at our “small talk,” and finally he burst out, “Could two of those young men you told me about call on my family?” He smiled at my surprise and added, “I’m sure you thought you’d lost me, but I am impressed with your certainty on this matter. I want that for my family.”

Disagreement is encouraging. Don’t be put off by solid objections. Such objections usually indicate a real interest and that your friend is thinking in stride with you. So just lengthen your stride and hold fast to the truth. It is a firm, sure foundation. Remember the man on the airplane. It was my assurance that interested him.

I remember other Mexican Saints who, because floods had destroyed their crops, were fearful that they would not be able to attend the conference but who, after fasting and prayer, sold some of their belongings and pooled their money for transportation. For many there was no money left for food, but it did not matter. They decided they could fast for the three or four days of the conference. As you would expect, other loving Saints filled their plates as the Lord had filled their souls.

I anticipated success when I entered a Lions Club speaking contest that spring, too. The topic was “Generation Gap—Fact or Fantasy?” My talk was custom-tailored for the judges’ preferences, and I won the contest by defeating a girl named Karen, a Mormon.
I won because I had said what the judges wanted to hear. But in my mind, Karen’s talk based on her church’s doctrines, was far more thought-provoking. Her delivery enveloped me in its sincere conviction. We became friends.
As we got to know each other, our conversations sometimes evolved into debates, with Karen defending religion while I argued for science. Our discussions served mostly to frustrate her.
But Karen had a friend named Nese. Nese never said more than “Hi” to me in the halls, but she had paid close attention to my conversations with Karen.
Nese never told me directly that she was a Latter-day Saint. She strolled up to my table in the library one day during study hall. “May I sit down?” she asked. At some point during the conversation, she said she was a member of the house of Israel. I assumed she meant she was Jewish.
We had study hall at the same hour, and during the remaining months of our senior year, Nese and I sorted through the many religious questions flooding my mind. She told me later she “just wanted to share her opinion with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” I would voice my ideas on a subject like life after death, and then she would explain her beliefs. Her confidence amazed me. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was a Latter-day Saint.
By then our talks were so enjoyable I began spending lunch hours with Nese and her Mormon friends. They were refreshing to be around. No smoking, no swearing, no off-color jokes. Best of all, they never seemed to put anybody down—they respected each other’s feelings. It was different being with them, and I enjoyed it.
Toward the end of the school year, Karen invited me to a Gold and Green Ball, whatever that was! I had never been to a dance in a church, and I had to dress in a suit! I was amazed to see a gym in a church building.
But what went on in the gym surprised me even more. Adults and teenagers were talking, laughing, and even dancing together. My friends had always thought it was “uncool” to like your parents. All over the nation there was an uproar about communication breakdown between parents and their children. But these people all seemed to be friends, regardless of age.
I asked Karen about it. She said it was because of the Church. As she took me on a tour of the building, I pondered what she had said. By the time I went home that night, I felt these people were unique, choice in some way I didn’t fully understand. They had a lot to be proud of.
After graduation my summer job stole me from my new-found group of friends. I was employed at a gas station, where I was nearly starved by my co-workers’ lack of concern. I was depressed, unhappy, and alone.
One afternoon in July, Nese and a friend drove up to the station. Just seeing them boosted my morale. They were planning to sing in the Oakland Temple Pageant and invited me to attend.
I’ll always remember that special evening. It was the first time I heard the story of Joseph Smith and learned the history of the Latter-day Saints I had grown to admire. At the end of the pageant, the audience rose and sang “The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning.” How I wanted to know the words of the song so I could join the chorus! I felt completely full of respect and love.
The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.
When fall came, Nese left to attend Brigham Young University. I returned to Berkeley. Loneliness encompassed me again. Nese’s letters arrived regularly, two or three times weekly. I asked her why she was Mormon. The next letter bulged the envelope. It was a detailed explanation of her struggle to remain active and maintain a firm testimony while living with her inactive family.
I decided I had to go to church. That was a difficult decision because no one pushed me to attend. I had been allowed to come to the conclusion on my own.
I nearly changed my mind when I opened the door. I entered the chapel by myself, spotted an empty seat on the back row, and quickly sat down. Not all alone here, too! I wondered inside.
Then suddenly Karen, who had appeared from nowhere, was shaking my hand. “Good morning, David,” she said, grinning. I wasn’t alone anymore. She introduced me to people, showed me which class to go to, and sat beside me the entire time.
I was impressed to find a class I could bring my questions to and get answers. To top it off, the teacher, Sister Booras, took time afterwards to thank me for coming. “You added a great deal to our class,” she said. I had never felt so at home before.
But I still didn’t have that spiritual testimony all the Church members kept telling me about. I liked the Church; I could believe in many of its teachings, but I didn’t know it was true. I kept attending the meetings anyway.
One month later, Nese urged me to come to BYU. I jumped at the chance and rushed to Provo for a whirlwind visit. She described her school as if it were part of her. As we walked around campus, all we talked about was religion. My mind was overflowing with questions again, as it had been in the high school library. I still didn’t see how everything fit together.
The stone in my path was the principle of eternal progression. “It’s no good,” I said. “How can man, who was created by God, ever hope to be a god?”
We were standing in front of the Joseph Smith Building. Nese paused for a moment.
“Dave,” she said, “before we were ever created physically, we were created spiritually as God’s sons and daughters. A part of us, our spirit, comes directly from him as our Father.”
It finally clicked! It all fell into place. My grin spread to a smile and erupted as a laugh. I couldn’t stop grinning. My mind jumped from doctrine to doctrine. “Yes, yes, it all fits!” I wanted to dance or sing or run.
There, on the steps of the Joseph Smith Building, the Spirit bore witness to me of the gospel plan. I knew in my heart I would join the Church.
I still had to read the Book of Mormon, learn to pray, and take the missionary discussions. But my life was changed from that moment on. I had found truth, purpose, and a life to fulfill. Five weeks later I was baptized.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my head and changed my life.

Ring! It was the final bell of the school day on Friday afternoon. I jumped from my desk and raced to the door. My friend Kent had invited me and two other boys to camp out that night by his house. I had been looking forward to it for two weeks.
When I got home from school, I gathered my sleeping bag, pillow, flashlight, comic books, and a bag of snacks. When I got to Kent’s house, he and his father were just spreading out the tent. We took turns hammering the stakes that kept the tent secure on the ground.
Then Kent’s dad barbecued hamburgers, and we all played hide-and-seek in the woods. As soon as the sun went down, we turned on our flashlights and went exploring.
After a while, Kent’s mother called us all back from the woods and told us it was time to settle in for the night. We ran into the tent, laid out our sleeping bags, and got comfortable. Soon we were sharing snacks and listening to some of Kent’s amazing adventure stories. Kent always made us the heroes in his stories. We could always fly, and we always saved the day.
As it got late, everyone was tired and began to fall asleep. I could hear the crickets chirping in the night air and a train passing in the distance. I began to think about Kent’s stories. I realized that even though Kent had told me a lot of great stories, there was one important story he didn’t know. It was the true story of Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I should share this special story with my friend.
“Kent, are you still awake?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
My heart started beating a little faster and I felt anxious, but I kept talking.
“I was just wondering. Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Do you believe in the prophets in the Bible?”
“Yes,” Kent said as he sat up in his sleeping bag.
“Well, what if I told you that we have a living prophet on the earth today, just like in the Bible?”
“What do you mean—a prophet like Moses?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, that’s something new,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
My anxious feeling began to melt away, and excitement grew in its place. I told Kent about the Prophet Joseph Smith and how the gospel was restored to the earth. I told him about the living prophet and apostles on the earth today.
When I finished, I asked Kent what he thought about it.
He was quiet for a few moments. “I think that’s an amazing story that I really need to think about. Do you really believe it?”
“Yes, I really do.” I felt warmth inside my chest, and I knew I had said what Heavenly Father wanted me to say. I said a silent prayer that Kent would find out for himself that what I had said was true.
I later learned that Kent did pray to find his answer. He also shared what he had learned with his parents. Soon Kent’s family was studying the gospel and meeting with the missionaries. It wasn’t long until Kent’s whole family was baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Although many years have passed since then, Kent and I are still great friends. We both served missions, and we attended Brigham Young University together. I’m so glad that I took the time to share the gospel with my friend.

The first sacrament meeting I attended in Russia was at a small branch in the city of Kaluga. Only about 12 members attended the meeting. As I looked into the audience, I saw Sister Lydia Denisova. She was 83 years old. Though all her teeth were gone, she had a big smile on her face. She sang the hymns with gusto and enthusiasm. I thought about how Sister Lydia was just as old and wrinkly as every other babushka I saw on the streets, but unlike almost every babushka I had seen, her countenance shone with joy, shone with the happiness of the gospel and the fruits of righteousness and service. Brother Denisova, her husband, had been the branch president, but at ninety years old and almost blind, he was too old to carry out that calling. And yet, there he was still serving. I felt humbled as he served me the sacrament.

Near the end of our three years in Russia, the Denisovas were no longer able to come to church because they weren’t able to walk well enough to leave their apartment. Sister Woolley and I visited them. We found them living on the fifth floor of a walk-up, one-room apartment. The walls were decorated with pictures of the prophets and of the temple. On the tables were copies of the scriptures and the Liahona magazine. We had a wonderful visit. I asked Sister Denisova if she was happy. She told me that she was very happy. She told me of her many blessings: how she had been blessed to receive the gospel 15 years earlier, how she and her husband had been married in the temple. She was thankful to the Lord that she had enough to eat and a warm apartment. She didn’t moan or complain about the fact that she couldn’t walk or leave the apartment. Her gratitude, despite the opposition in her life, made Sister Lydia a happy person. She truly exhibited a state of joy. Her commitment to keeping the commandments and her deep-seated humility had given her the peace that the Savior offers despite what many of us might say was a difficult existence. Some of us might keep the commandments but not feel very happy if we were cooped up in an apartment with no way to leave for many months. Like Lydia, we need to be grateful and positive. We need to chose to be happy.

Let me begin with a legend. There is a story of a grandfather, a holy man, who, caring for his grandson, sent him out to play. Shortly the boy returned sobbing as if his heart would break. He explained, “I was playing hide-and-seek with my friends. I went and hid and waited but no one came for me. They all ran away.” The grandfather embraced him and said, “Now you know how God feels. He hides and no one comes for him.”

But in the palm of my hand I hold another indelible reminder, a glaring scar, one which resulted from a different motive, an act not so pleasant to remember.
I recall—though not in exact detail—that when I was nine years of age my mother sent me with a glass bottle to a nearby store for some milk. She cautioned me, along with other instructions, “Please do not run, because it is dangerous while carrying a glass bottle in your hands.”
Now, what do you suppose I did? I did exactly what my mother told me not to do. I ran, and when I was almost home I stumbled. As I fell my hand landed on the bulk of the broken bottle, leaving a large gash. As a result, today I have a scar on my right hand, and each time I see it or touch it, it reminds me of the experience of a disobedient child.

When Todd was about 15 years old, his father, a veterinarian, took a new job in New Brunswick, New Jersey. At the time of the family’s move, Lindon, Utah, had very few people, so the transition to the more populated setting of New Jersey was a dramatic shift for the entire Christofferson family. Still, the next several years—full of new places, people, and opportunities—would be some of the most formative of Todd’s life.
The only Church member in his high school class, Todd enjoyed friendships and associations with people from a variety of cultural and religious backgrounds, something that would continue throughout his life. Todd discovered that many of his friends felt their beliefs as fervently as he felt his own, which caused him to think deeply and pray fervently about what he knew. “I began to see that the Church wasn’t just nice,” he says. “It was life-and-death important. I began to appreciate what I had.”

Christmas morning in our house came early. Who can stay asleep when there are such exciting things to look forward to? I was awake by 2:00 a.m. I knew I wasn’t allowed to wake up my parents then, so I lay in my bed and dreamed. I was eight years old, and my one Christmas wish was for a Molly doll, a doll with dark hair and glasses, which looked a lot like me. I had dreamed about the doll so much that by Christmas morning, I had no doubt I would receive it.
Slowly the minutes ticked by. At 6:00 a.m., just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, my two younger brothers and I ran to wake up my parents. Then we stood at the top of the stairs and waited for my dad to say that he was ready with the video camera. My mom held my eight-month-old sister, Anna, in her arms.
My dad called up the stairs, “Okay, I’m ready,” and it was as if he had started a race. We all tumbled down the steps at a breakneck speed. I had my eyes trained on the place where I knew Molly would be sitting, but she wasn’t there. I stopped in my tracks and took in the whole family room in a single glance. No, she really wasn’t there. I was so disappointed I could have sat on the bottom step and just cried, but I didn’t. After all, it was Christmas morning. I found the present Santa had left me instead. It was very nice, and I played with it a lot, but I still longed to hold a Molly doll in my arms.
Fast forward nine years. I was 17. The doll-playing phase of my life had passed. It was October, and the whole family was gathered around the table for breakfast. Since that Christmas when I was 8, my family had added three more kids, with one more on the way.
“I need someone to clean out the flower beds,” my dad said amidst the general commotion made by seven kids and two parents. “You know, clean up the dead flowers and then plant tulips for next spring.” He was looking directly at my brother, leaving no doubt as to whom he intended that someone to be. “I’ll pay whoever will agree to do it.”
Ben did not seem fazed by the incentive of money, for he did not volunteer his services. Someone else did.
“I’ll do it,” Anna, who was now nine, said with determination.
Over the next several weeks, I vaguely noticed that Anna seemed to acquire a number of new jobs. I didn’t pay much attention. “She probably needs money for Christmas presents, or maybe she’s saving for something,” I thought.
One day she and I were cleaning the room we shared when she asked me a question.
“Amy, if you could have a doll, which one would it be?” she asked.
“Oh, I would still want Molly,” I said absently. I didn’t think too much about the question. She asked me questions like that all the time, and I knew she also wanted a Molly doll for Christmas this year.
Christmas morning came. I still got excited about what the day would hold, but I also liked my sleep. I could now see why my parents refused to let us get them up before 6:00 a.m.
When the time came, my little brothers and Anna were so excited they were practically dancing at the top of the stairs. At Dad’s command, we all ran down.
I took in the family room with a sweeping glance, and, wonder of wonders, Anna had received Molly! I was excited for her and surprised that I did not feel even the slightest twinge of jealousy. It didn’t bother me that she had received the doll I had once wanted so much. We shared the joy of her gift.
After an uneventful breakfast, we all wandered out to the living room to open more presents. Anna was jumping up and down and looked as though she were about to burst.
“I want Amy to open the present from me!” she exclaimed. She was so excited she could barely contain herself. I wondered what on earth it could be. “Maybe it’s something she made,” I thought.
From behind the Christmas tree, Anna pulled out a long, oblong box. I was confused.
“Is this from Anna?” I questioned. “Just from Anna?”
“It’s just from Anna,” Mom answered.
As I began to slowly remove the wrapping, I became even more confused. It was a doll box. Anna was enjoying every second of my confusion.
As I pulled off the lid, my breath caught in my throat. There, nestled snugly inside the box, was a Molly doll identical to Anna’s.
“Oh, my goodness,” I breathed. How could this be from Anna? I looked to my mom for an answer.
“Remember all of the work Anna did?” Mom questioned.
I did remember, and the tears ran down my cheeks. With sudden clarity I remembered all the jobs Anna had been doing that I had barely noticed. Even more than the gift, the impact of how much my sister loved me made me sob.
Anna ran up and threw her arms around me. I held her tight and continued to cry. Soon other family members were crying too. You could feel the love that was in the room. Gently, I lifted the doll out of the box. I had never dreamed that I would actually receive this doll—and from my nine-year-old sister, of all people! Anna’s smile was scattering sunshine all around the room. Everyone was smiling and grinning through their tears.
As I held my doll, I realized I would not have traded this moment for anything. If I had received the doll when I originally wanted it, I never could have shared this Christmas in this way with Anna. Isn’t it funny how things happen? Before, I just couldn’t understand why I didn’t get what I wanted. Now I had received an even more precious gift—my sister’s loving sacrifice for me.
I would think about all these things for years to come. But right now, two sisters were running off to play with their new dolls.

So how does this correspond to our everyday lives? Let me illustrate with a personal example. You may recall that one year ago we received some guidance from our living prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley. In the August 2005 Ensign, as part of the First Presidency message, he said:

We studied the Book of Mormon in Sunday School this past year. Nonetheless I offer a challenge to members of the Church throughout the world and to our friends everywhere to read or reread the Book of Mormon. If you will read a bit more than one and one-half chapters a day, you will be able to finish the book before the end of this year. . . .

Without reservation I promise you that if each of you will observe this simple program, regardless of how many times you previously may have read the Book of Mormon, there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord, a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to His commandments, and a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God. [Gordon B. Hinckley, “A Testimony Vibrant and True, Ensign, August 2005, 5–6]

I am sure you remember this challenge. How did you respond to it? Let me tell you of my experience. I remember that when the challenge came out, I was going strong with a personal study of the Doctrine and Covenants. I remember distinctly going through a thought process something like “I’m doing really well with my Doctrine and Covenants study right now. I’ve read the Book of Mormon many times, and, if I read it now before the end of the year, it will take enough time that I know it will mess up my current study. Maybe I can come back early next year and study the Book of Mormon.” Do you see the fallacy of my reasoning? I was sort of being a disciple of Christ and more or less striving to live the gospel, but I wasn’t following the counsel received through His prophet with exactness. I was rationalizing, saying I had read the Book of Mormon many times, when a prophet of God had said, “Regardless of how many times you previously may have read the Book of Mormon, there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord.”

After a few days of fighting this challenge, it finally sunk into me that I had been asked by a prophet to do something, and it was time to stop moaning about my Doctrine and Covenants study and get with the program. So I did start studying the Book of Mormon, and some interesting things happened in our family. My wife, who is always ahead of me in spiritual things, had already embraced the challenge and was studying the Book of Mormon. As we went forward accepting this challenge, we noticed that each of our five children, without any urging from us, had also accepted the challenge, and each was regularly studying the Book of Mormon. One or two of our children had a nontraditional New Year’s Eve last year as they finished up the last few chapters, but each member of our family was able to finish reading the Book of Mormon, including our youngest son, who finished a personal reading of the entire book for the first time. That in and of itself was enough blessing for me as a father, but I also observed, as President Hinckley had promised, that an added measure of the Spirit came into our home, and my testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel was strengthened.

A good friend of mine recently died in a tragic car accident. I have found comfort through coming unto Christ. I had to gain a testimony of Christ’s love for each one of us; I had to understand who we are as children of God; and most importantly I had to understand God’s plan and will for His children. As I turned to Him through scriptures, church, and Church materials, I was able to gain that testimony and feel peace and comfort. Especially helpful was the youth lesson titled “How can I find comfort when someone I care about dies?” All of the scriptures, articles, and videos referenced in this lesson are amazing and have changed my life.
Madilin N., 18, Iowa, USA

As a freshman in college, I was often disappointed with my classmates. That’s because many of them would cheat during exams. Some would sneak their notes into class. Some would text test answers to others. A few would even copy off the exams of their classmates.
Those who cheated always got higher scores than I did. Nevertheless, I was not tempted to join them. I always put into my mind and heart that it’s better to have an honest 0 percent than a stolen 100 percent.
If I cheated, I wouldn’t be setting an example for them. I wouldn’t be living in a way that I could share the gospel of Jesus Christ with them. I wouldn’t be showing them that the Church is true.
One afternoon I went to the college cashier office to ask about my remaining tuition balance. I had to pay all my fees before I could take final exams the following week. As I was walking, I worried about where I would get the money I needed. For a self-supporting student like me, finances were tight.
When I reached the office, I asked the cashier how much I still owed.
“You pay no more until you graduate,” she said.
Shocked, I asked her if she was sure or if she was pulling a prank.
“Yes, I’m sure, and I’m serious,” she said. “The guidance counselor processed an application for you to get a scholarship from a senator. You are now a scholar.”
Hearing those words made me very happy. I thanked her and ran to the guidance counselor’s office to thank the person responsible.
“You don’t have to thank me,” the counselor said after I told her how thankful and happy I was. “I was only an instrument.”
As I left, I remembered the scripture I always love to share: “And blessed is he that is found faithful unto my name at the last day, for he shall be lifted up to dwell in the kingdom prepared for him from the foundation of the world. And behold it is I [Jesus Christ] that hath spoken it” (Ether 4:19).
By doing right, I had shown my faithfulness in keeping the commandments of our Heavenly Father—even in a situation where dishonesty was common. I know that by standing firm in my faith, He will never leave me.
I am happy that I can now study with no payments to worry about. I’m also encouraged to continue doing what’s right, not because of the rewards and blessings I could receive but because I love Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, who set an example for me.

I played “the trick” the evening before school started. The principal, Mr. Sajack, telephoned and asked Stevo to have a short talk ready for the opening assembly. Stevo went to my room and prepared it. Later he read it to me and asked what I thought. I told him that in this part of America we had a special pronunciation for the name of his country and the natives of his land. He took notes.

The next day in the assembly he introduced himself, told them his “nickelname” and then said, “I come from the Sloback Republic and my people are known as Slobs.” Half the auditorium teetered in embarrassment and the other half rolled in the aisles. He just smiled as if it was okay and continued to talk.

Later that day in English class Mrs. Cartwright asked him who helped him with the pronunciation of the name of his country. Then she glanced over at me. Stevo asked, “Why?” When she told him what a “slob” was I thought he would really be mad. All he did, though, was run a hand through that black hair, grin, and say “That was funny joke, heh?”

You talk with people every day who say that God does not exist or is far, far away. A woman sat next to me on a plane. I spoke to her. She strained to understand me. When she spoke, her accent almost overpowered her English. In answer to my question, she told me that she was returning to the place of her birth. She said that the occasion which drew her was a religious observance of the death of her father, who died many years ago. She had made the flight on the third, the seventh, the thirteenth, and the seventeenth anniversaries of his death. And now she was going again.
I told her that I admired her devotion to her father. She said, quietly, that she believed in the veneration of her ancestors. I asked her if her family had attended church. She smiled and said, “No, only go to church when someone dies.” I asked her if she believed in a god. She said, “Yes.” I asked her if she thought he was close by. She said, “No. If we should need him we would say, ‘come here,’” and she made a beckoning sign with her hand. I asked her who she believed God was. Her soft, tentative answer was, “Well, he is like one of our distant ancestors.”
She needed to hear the words you have heard spoken here: Jesus Christ, the fall of Adam, the Atonement, the Resurrection, repentance, eternal life, and the pure love of God. But I realized those words would not touch her. I remembered and understood the power of what Elder Spencer W. Kimball wrote in the beginning of his book The Miracle of Forgiveness. You may recall this warning:
“This book presupposes a belief in God and in life’s high purpose. Without God, repentance would have little meaning, and forgiveness would be both unnecessary and unreal. If there were no God, life would indeed be meaningless; … we might find justification in an urge to live only for today, to ‘eat, drink and be merry,’ to dissipate, to satisfy every worldly desire. If there were no God there would be no redemption, no resurrection, no eternities to anticipate, and consequently no hope” (The Miracle of Forgiveness [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1969], pp. 3–4).
President Kimball’s words made me think not how different that woman was from me, but how much we were alike. God is our ancestor, not distant but close. He is the Father of our spirits; we are his children. But like that woman, we all at times feel far removed from him. Like her, if we are to have the words of the gospel of Jesus Christ touch us, then we must believe in God. We must want to be with him. And we must sense our need to be purified to be with him again.

Andy Taylor had a problem. And he was worrying about it so much that he hardly noticed anything else going on around him. He didn’t even hear the click-clacking music of his skateboard wheels as he rolled along toward Mr. Weber’s house.
The problem had started right after his baptism. “Now remember, Andrew,” Sister Thomas had said, “every member of the Church should be a missionary. And that’s what you are now—a real member.”
Even though he had always felt like a member, Andy knew now that he really was a member. Still, he’d asked Sister Thomas if even Primary kids were supposed to be missionaries, and she’d said “Yes, even Primary kids.”
When he got home, Andy asked his father the same question and got the same answer. That’s why he was going to see Mr. Weber. Maybe Mr. Weber can help me, he thought. He’s a great thinker.
Andy screeched his skateboard to a stop in front of Mr. Weber’s house, opened the door, and walked in. “Mr. Weber,” he called. “It’s me, Andy Taylor.”
Several months ago, shortly before Andy’s eighth birthday, Mr. Weber had been injured in a terrible automobile accident. He couldn’t walk or talk or do anything now except lie in his bed. He even had a full-time nurse to help take care of him.
Andy had started coming to see Mr. Weber every day after school, just for short visits, to keep him company. At first the visits had been hard for Andy because he had had to do all the talking. Then one day Andy discovered that Mr. Weber could sort of talk to him by blinking his eyes—one blink for “yes” and two blinks for “no.” After that they talked about everything. Well, Andy did all the real talking, and Mr. Weber did all the blinking, but it was almost like they were both talking out loud.
It was because he and Andy had become such special friends that Andy was allowed to walk into Mr. Weber’s house whenever he wanted. And now Andy just had to talk to his friend about his problem. “Hi, Mr. Weber,” Andy said as he seated himself on a stool by the side of the bed. He always sat close enough to clearly see Mr. Weber’s eyes. “Did you get a lot of rest today?”
Mr. Weber blinked his eyes once for “Yes.”
“Great! I have a really big problem that I want to talk over with you. Is that OK?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
So Andy explained about his baptism, about how he was now a real member of the Church, and about how every member of the Church should be a missionary. “But how can I be a missionary when I’m only eight years old?” Andy asked. “Maybe only grownup members are meant to be missionaries. Is that right, Mr. Weber?”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“You mean kids should be missionaries, too?” Andy asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s what Sister Thomas, my Primary teacher, said, and my father agrees with her. But being a missionary kind of scares me. You see, I don’t know how to be a missionary.”
Mr. Weber blinked once. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Andy repeated, surprised. “I do know how to be a missionary?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“But I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do.”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked twice.
“And I’ve never read to you from the Bible or the Book of Mormon.”
“No,” Mr. Weber answered.
“Boy, am I lost.” Andy tried to think of anything that he might have done that would make Mr. Weber think of him as a missionary, but Andy’s mind was as empty as the time he had flunked a spelling test. He just sat there and couldn’t think of a thing.
Andy glanced up and saw that Mr. Weber’s eyes were closed. It was his way of telling Andy that he wasn’t talking enough. If Andy didn’t talk, Mr. Weber couldn’t blink.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weber. I know you want to talk, but I’m stumped. How can I be a missionary?”
Mr. Weber’s eyes glanced quickly from one side of the room to the other, then he stared really hard at Andy. Deliberately he did the same thing again.
Let’s see, Andy thought. By first looking at his room and then at me, he’s trying to tell me something. “You want me to figure out some connection between your room and me?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
Andy got excited, knowing that he was close to the answer. “Let’s see. Your room and me, and we’re talking about me being a missionary. Am I being a missionary by visiting you in your room?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked again.
Andy was pleased with his lucky guess. Suddenly he remembered pictures he had seen of pioneers throwing seeds from sacks slung over their shoulders. “I remember something from a Primary lesson,” Andy said. “Farmers plant seeds that grow. And when I’m good and do good things, maybe I’m planting ‘missionary seeds.’”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked, and his eyes were really shining now. That meant that Andy had it right.
“So even though I’m only eight years old and I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do, I can still be a missionary by setting a good example and by being kind and thoughtful. And visiting you is one way that I do good—is that it, Mr. Weber?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“Wahoo!” Andy yelled. “That’s it! I can be a missionary by helping those around me. I’m going to help Mrs. Gandey in her garden and Mr. Thompson with his lawn. And I’m going to keep visiting you. Thanks, Mr. Weber.” Andy jumped down from the stool and added, “I’m glad that we had this talk. I’m going to be the best missionary that you ever saw!”
“And thank you, Andy Taylor,” Mr. Weber’s eyes seemed to twinkle back. “I’m glad that we had this talk too.”

Case in point: We have always had Saturday chores to do in our family, but you have never seen anybody go to so much trouble to avoid them as Todd. Last year, for example, Mom and Dad went to get a new dryer one Saturday, and Todd was up to his old tricks as soon as they left. I had dusted and vacuumed the living room, and I left the vacuum cleaner in a prominent place—in front of the refrigerator—where Todd would be sure to trip over it.

Of course, Todd had better things to do. He neatly ignored the vacuum, opting for the more-accessible freezer. A while later I found him watching cartoons in the family room with a big bowl of rocky road ice cream balanced between two knees. Our baby brother, Scottie, was sitting nearby with a diaper so wet he needed oars, but Todd was oblivious. I changed Scottie, then got the bathroom mopped and the tub scrubbed. When I walked past the family room, Scottie was staring at Todd, thumb in mouth. Todd was busy dragging one foot sideways across the carpet, every so often picking up an obvious piece of thread or dirt, evidently trying to give the impression of a freshly vacuumed room. I shook my head. Scottie and I couldn’t believe Todd. Wouldn’t it have been easier just to vacuum it?

It was 5:30 a.m. on a day in December 2004 when Bronco Mendenhall, then the second-youngest Division I head football coach in America, stepped into his office on the still-dark second floor of the Student Athlete Building for his first full day on the job. There was nothing on his desk or shelves. “It was a surreal experience. I was wondering, ‘What have I done?’ and, ‘What do I do now?’” he recalls. “I found myself on my knees within minutes.”

Sometime around 8 a.m. a knock interrupted his prayer. At his door stood the patriarch of BYU football, LaVell Edwards (EdD ’78). Edwards set a chair directly in front of Mendenhall’s chair, and the two sat down, knee to knee.

“[LaVell Edward’s] first words were ‘You have a tough job.’ Then there was a pause and silence,” says Mendenhall. “It wasn’t very comforting to hear that. But then [LaVell] just said, ‘But it’s a great job.’ I didn’t know what he meant by either at the time.”

Mendenhall has come to consider [Coach] Edwards a mentor and an advocate. “It’s nice to have someone who has done the job better than anyone, who clearly understands what it’s like to be a head coach here.” The relationship has helped Mendenhall frame what a BYU football team ought to be. [Peter B. Gardner, “The Bronco Way,” BYU Magazine, winter 2007, 22–23]

I was about nine years old when two foreign missionaries first visited my family in the Philippines. I was impressed with their grooming and friendliness, but I couldn’t understand a word they said. They taught in English, and only Mama and Papa understood them, because both were schoolteachers.
I still recall the day Mama threw down the Book of Mormon and refused to read any more. She had heard some lies about the Church and was upset that Papa was allowing the missionaries to teach us.
Papa just picked up the book and calmly said, “Open your heart and listen to the teachings. This book is true. Read this, and you’ll know it is true.”
I don’t know exactly what happened, but six months later I was surprised when Mama announced we were going to be baptized. I knew little of the Church, and I didn’t want another baptism. But I couldn’t resist my parents’ will, so I was baptized.
Joseph Smith, however, remained a big concern. I couldn’t believe he was a prophet of God, and every time someone taught about him I wanted to shout, “That’s not true!” But I couldn’t utter it. When I was asked to share my testimony, I repeated words I had heard others speak.
Though I did not believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, I did believe some of the Church’s teachings and enjoyed attending church—except for the first Sunday of the month. Over and over I would hear the members bearing testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet. It irritated me. I eventually became so angry that I didn’t want to attend church. I made up excuses not to attend, but Papa wouldn’t allow any of his children to be left at home on Sundays.
I was about 14 years old when Papa enrolled me in seminary. That really bothered me. I wasn’t interested, and I felt forced to attend. The first meeting, I purposely arrived late. But to my surprise, no one was at the chapel except Brother Cedillo, the custodian. He turned out to be my seminary teacher.
When the other students arrived, Brother Cedillo asked if any of us had read the Book of Mormon. Nobody answered. He opened the book and asked us to read with him, beginning at 1 Nephi 1:1. I do not remember what else my teacher said that day, but I do remember the powerful testimony he bore of the Book of Mormon. I was touched in my heart, and as I walked home I felt happy. I couldn’t understand why.
That night I resolved to read the Book of Mormon. I started reading after dinner, with a prayer that I could understand. I kept reading till midnight. As I read, I imagined the characters in the Book of Mormon acting out the scenes as if I were watching television. I didn’t understand some of the words, but as I read of the sufferings the prophets in the Book of Mormon endured for testifying of the truth, tears rolled down my cheeks. I had been angry at members of the Church for doing the same thing the prophets had done! I pictured myself as one of those who had persecuted the prophets—and realized how ungrateful I had been.
I continued reading the next day and into the night. I couldn’t sleep until I finished reading the Book of Mormon. When I finally closed the book, I knelt and asked God for forgiveness. In my prayer, I testified that I knew the Book of Mormon was true. And I knew that if the Book of Mormon was true, then Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, because he translated the book. As I said “amen,” my face was wet with tears. I felt at peace and filled with joy.
The experience helped me later when I served a full-time mission in the Philippines Cebu Mission. It helped me understand better my investigators’ concerns about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. Today my heart still fills with gratitude for the great blessings God has given me and my family.