Gospel Story Finder

The doctor at the base near Taejon, Korea, looked up at me and smiled. I had been congratulating him and his colleagues on their brilliant management of a carbon monoxide poisoning incident. As Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U.S. Army and for the United Nations Forces, I had been so impressed by this young doctor’s actions that I came down personally to review the case with him.
In his tent we chatted about the incidence of such poisoning among soldiers. Korean homes are heated with a soft coal, called yantan, which is pressed into large bricks and burned in a stove beneath one corner of the house. Smoke and fumes are ducted through the clay and tile floor to a chimney on the opposite side of the structure, warming the building and its occupants. If a leak develops, carbon monoxide is released into the house.
Often U.S. soldiers would leave their base of assignment, go into a nearby village, get drunk, and fall asleep near a yantan stove. Occasionally they suffered carbon monoxide poisoning and were returned to the base unconscious. In the course of treatment, it was customary to check the alcohol level in their blood.
I asked the doctor what this soldier’s blood-alcohol level had been, and his answer was both startling and satisfying.
“Oh, I didn’t get a blood-alcohol reading on Private Christian,” he said. “He’s a Mormon.”
I played along.
“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked. “This fellow went into town and was found unconscious. How do you know his unconsciousness wasn’t caused by alcoholic intoxication?”
The doctor replied, “Because this is Christian. He never does anything that is not proper and exemplary.”
The doctor explained that nearly everyone on the base knew that Private Christian was a returned missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had served his mission in Korea, spoke the language, and during his off-duty hours he often went to the village to visit with the people. He had taught some of them about his church, and they had joined. They lived in a small hamlet next to the base but had gone with Christian to religious services in Taejon.
The private had returned home with them Sunday evening and was invited to spend the night. Because he was the honored guest, he was given the place closest to the smoldering yantan. But it was a cold night, and all the openings in the building had been closed. A crack in the floor had not been noticed. As the American soldier slept, he had been overcome by the gases.
With utmost pride I informed my medical colleague that I, too, was Mormon. I marveled that he could have known this young private so well. He replied that he didn’t know many soldiers closely but that Christian’s life was so distinct that it set him apart from all the other men on the base.
I have never had the opportunity to meet Brother Christian and can only speculate about the total amount of good he did in an environment that normally draws out the base instincts of men. But I will never forget the impression he made on the doctor who treated him and the example he set for me. He had made proper decisions about many things in life years before being plunged into the challenges of military life, and he had not allowed environment to deter his power to do good. The other soldiers knew him for what he was—uncompromising. I am sure that many of them carry his example in their memories, even as I do, and I’m grateful to him for letting his light shine.

After experiencing four miscarriages over the span of six years, I became familiar with an unpleasant phenomenon. Many times, others tried to offer comforting comments, but the comments stung more than they helped. An encouragement to “look on the bright side” made my sorrow feel invalidated. A suggestion to “just relax” made me feel at fault. And so on.
The comments stung when I heard them, and if I let them, I soon found them festering—stinging again and again as they echoed in my memory. I let the comments add to the weight of my burden.
But as time went on, I discovered, in the words of the hymn, where I could “turn for peace.”1 I decided, with the help of the Savior, to listen to people’s intentions instead of their words, to extend more mercy and forgiveness. While their comments stung initially, I ultimately knew that people meant well. I knew they were simply trying to “mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9).
I turned to the Lord and spent time giving words to their unspoken intentions. Their intentions said:
“I’m sad that you’re sad, and I want to make you happy.”
“I care about you and wish I could make this go away.”
“I want to help, but I don’t know how.”
Sometimes I would even repeat these phrases in my mind when someone shared a comment that, while given with a good intention, caused me some pain.
With that change of perspective, I found myself feeling only love for people when they attempted to comfort me. With the Savior’s help, I was able to hear their love louder than their language. He helped me filter the imperfections from their comments, leaving only their love to sink in. And I found myself even feeling happy that they had not experienced miscarriage themselves.
Listening to their intentions made me feel deeper love for others. The results felt liberating, like a secret “life hack” unknown to anyone else. At its core, listening to intentions rather than taking offense is a form of forgiveness, and it is made possible by the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ. I discovered that I didn’t need everyone to understand my pain perfectly in order for me to accept their love. I stopped placing unrealistic expectations on other people’s comments as the source “to make me whole.”2
Ultimately, the only person who truly has power to offer lasting peace and understand perfectly is the Savior. “Who, who can understand? He, only One.”3 The Savior offers peace “not as the world giveth” (John 14:27). His peace transcends the limits of worldly peace. When I relied on Him to understand and sought His help in extending mercy to others, only then did I feel “the quiet hand to calm my anguish.”4

Hold an “iron-in” to raise money for a missionary? That’s what the young people of the Blacktown Ward, Sydney Australia Parramatta Stake, did for 74 hours to raise money for a ward member who was called to the France Toulouse Mission. They worked through the night to get their work done (and enjoyed several stacks of steaming pancakes that were donated to the cause), raising over $200. Additional happy results of the activity were the smiling mothers of the stake holding their empty ironing baskets.

About this time, President Joseph F. Smith and his counselors in the First Presidency suggested to members of the Church that they hold a family home evening once each week. Accordingly, my father would gather us around a little table after supper to read the Book of Mormon. We read it from cover to cover that year. Because Mother had taught me to read, I was privileged to take my turn in reading aloud. What excitement I experienced as we approached the Third book of Nephi and the coming of the Savior! With feelings of sadness we continued through the books of Mormon, Ether, and Moroni. These feelings were strongly reinforced by my father.

Father told me the story of Grandfather Durham, who had been inspired to compose a melody called “The Nephite Lamentation.” Thomas Durham had been promised in a patriarchal blessing that he would hear music as it was sung in the heavens. My father related how one night my grandfather had a dream. In it he saw twenty-four men by a stream. They looked very sad. Their leader arose and addressed them. Then he heard a melody played on what sounded like a trumpet. The impression came to him that it was a dream concerning Moroni and the last twenty-four Nephites. He awoke. In the late hours of the night he went to his little organ and played the tune he had heard and wrote it down. Later, a choir in the Parowan Ward in southern Utah sang the tune to the words of “O My Father.” It was published in modified form in the old Primary songbook as arranged by Henry E. Giles.

Hearing this music and reading the Book of Mormon in these early years with my parents made a forceful impression upon my mind as to the reality and truth of the Book of Mormon.

I hope that each of you will watch and listen carefully to what your parents say and do. I pray they will teach you well. I also hope that the music you hear in your home will be uplifting and inspiring, because we believe that “if there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” (A of F 1:13.) The place to begin with good things is at home with your family.

Finally, let us all remember the commandment: “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” (Ex. 20:12.)

After I got baptized, I didn’t go to parties with alcohol and cigarettes anymore. One day my friends told me, “Come on, let’s go. Nothing’s going to happen.” But I told them no because I had promised that I would not drink alcohol, smoke, or take drugs. They understood because they knew that I belonged to the Church, and they know how important making a promise is.
We need to please not our friends but our Heavenly Father. If we fulfill the promises we made to Him when we were baptized, we will be blessed.
Roxana C., 19, Lima, Peru

The Provo Utah Sharon East Stake often goes camping or holds outdoor activities for part of its youth conference. But last year, the youth stayed in town and helped in the revitalization project of one of the pioneer neighborhoods in Provo.

Mark Stringham, 16, was on the youth planning committee. They were tossing around the idea of doing a service-oriented project. One of their leaders is involved in city government. He said there was a neighborhood that needed some help. Mark said, “The minute he said it, everybody’s mind just went, Boom. That’s what we need to do.”

The teens worked with an organization already involved in helping the residents improve their land and keep their homes in good repair. To make the project even more enjoyable, the stake invited the teens who live in the neighborhood to come to their youth conference. The young people didn’t know each other because they attended different high schools, so giving service together also became a time to gain new friends.

Brendan Wright, 17, said, “The theme of our youth conference was by helping others you can raise yourself. When you get here, it just explodes. It’s fun. You get to know people. You take pride in what you’re doing. This is my little section of the house. I’m going to paint it the best I can.”

The group not only painted houses, they helped cut down the high, dry weeds running along the railroad tracks. One spark from a passing train could start a fire, and the growth was so tall and dry, it could have caused major problems if it spread to nearby homes. Looking a little like they had been rolling in haystacks, because of the bits of dry grass sticking to their clothes and hair, one group had the weedeaters going full blast. Then passing motorists began to stop and tell them it looked good and how much they appreciated them helping out. The word was spreading with the good works.

Giving service is like dropping stones in a pond of water. From one small act, the ripples start to spread. One act of service creates ripples of hope and encouragement that spread through neighborhoods, communities, and towns.

The ripples are not just on the outside. The teens who made themselves get up early and participate found out that being of service did something for them as well. There is satisfaction in working hard, in joining your friends involved in good works, in making something better. Now if it were only a little easier to get out of bed.

Call the mayor’s office or city government. Ask if there is a person who coordinates volunteer efforts, and set up a meeting with them to come up with ideas.
Create a planning committee. Include both young people and leaders.
Identify everyone that needs to be contacted and what permissions will be required.
Select a day and time. Make sure there are no major conflicts with other church or school activities. Make sure everyone receives notification of the event at least two or three weeks in advance.
Plan in some fun breaks in the work schedule.
Make realistic plans. Make sure you can finish what you start.
Enjoy the good feelings that go with being of service.

We found Athens hot and humid when our group arrived there. Without air conditioning, the bus trip left us tired and bedraggled. But it didn’t take long before the light-hearted quips and personal concern of the young people had the rest of us forgetting our discomfort. It was Carolyn who decided we needed some singing, and Virnell, Shelley, Bonnie, and Diane soon joined in.
As usual, Melvin was the first to help with the luggage when we reached our hotel, checking the number of pieces and helping the ladies with their heavier bags.
“How do you control them?” the lady had asked.
It was just past noon when we returned from a spectacular tour of the Acropolis and Mars’ hill where Paul preached to the Athenians. The young people had assisted their not-so-young associates along the rugged terrain among the ancient ruins, not only giving their physical strength, but sharing their excitement and wonder as well. When we returned to the hotel, we were stunned by the news that Greece was at war with Turkey. Cyprus had been invaded by Turkish troops. All of the Greek men between the ages of 18 and 45 were to be mobilized within the next few hours. Suddenly the streets were filled with people. Young men carried small tote bags; neighbors gathered for brief farewells; a woman stood in her doorway weeping as she saw the men leave. She told us her children were too young to go, but she had five brothers who would have to fight.
This was not just a disruption of the afternoon-scheduled tour to Corinth. This was not just the temporary inconvenience of having no other bus at our disposal. Greece was at war! Greece’s borders were sealed. Her harbors were closed. Her airports were shut off. No commercial transportation was allowed in or out of the country. With the shortage of help in the hotel, we were informed that we would receive no further clean linen, there would be no room service, and the waiters from the dining room were gone. Making our own beds would be no problem. Hanging our towels to dry was no inconvenience. But what kind of chaos would the dining room be in without anyone there to help?
Dinner time arrived, and we walked into the dining room. To our delight there seemed to be plenty of help. John seated me at our table, and Jerome filled our water glasses. Carolyn was serving the rolls to other hotel guests, while Virnell followed up with butter. Bonnie was laughing and joking with some of the tourists as she and Diane served them cool beverages. Shelly was clearing dirty dishes from the tables and refilling glasses with ice. Melvin did anything that might have been overlooked—clearing tables, bringing a salad where one was forgotten, or resetting tables for the next group. They had not been asked; they had volunteered. For the duration of our stay in Athens, their service made the dinner hour something to look forward to.
With the tension of the war mounting, rumors of a military coup circulated throughout the city. Tanks were brought in, and armed police platoons became numerous on the streets. The U.S. Embassy warned us to remain in our hotel until further notice. Thus confined, we were threatened with boredom. But again our young people came to the rescue; they would have nothing to do with boredom. At our sacrament meetings our priests, Melvin and Jerome, prepared the sacrament and were assisted by John in passing it. Virnell and Carolyn served as chorister and organist. By recalling our experiences of the previous week in the Holy Land, our sacrament hymns were even more meaningful to each of us. We followed the admonition that “the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me.” (D&C 25:12.)
In the days that followed, the strain of being in war-inflicted Greece, our evacuation from Athens, and many long delays between planes were all made lighter by the humorous good nature and thoughtful consideration of the young travelers in our group. The lives of all those who traveled with them were made richer by their influence. Our LDS youth serve as an ensign, proclaiming the spirit of the gospel to all the world.

Harm or accidents. I laughed again, remembering what I used to call them.
I was probably about three years old when I first became aware of all the people in my ward who prayed for “no harm or accidents to befall us as we go home.” To my three-year-old ears, however, it always sounded like “Harmer accidents.” Since my last name was Harmer, this was great! Public prayers immediately took on a new aspect of interest and importance for me.
In our own family prayers, of course, Dad had always asked that we be protected from Harmer accidents, which we children categorized as car crashes, fires, spankings, or other bad things. Amazing to me was that everyone prayed about Harmer accidents! In Sunday School, Primary, and sacrament meetings, someone always prayed that no Harmer accidents would happen on the way home. I always felt so important after these prayers. Because no one wanted my family to get hurt (I was sure it was because everyone liked us so much), they had a special part of the blessing just for us.
Even people I didn’t know prayed for me! I remember attending a session of general conference once and hearing a General Authority promise protection from Harmer accidents as we traveled home. Well, I just about floated right out of the Tabernacle.
As I look back, I can see that I had a lot of faith in prayers when I was a child. When I heard so many people using my name in the prayer, I was sure Heavenly Father must hear, too. When I prayed, I really talked to my Father in Heaven and asked him for personal care. A prayer was more to me than a religious norm that opened and closed a meeting. Asking for protection from Harmer accidents was more than an expected and often overused closing to a prayer. It came to stand for my faith in prayer and my belief that every prayer was original and sincere.
I was about eight when I saw “harm or accident” written out and for the first time realized my mistake. I can remember having a feeling of great disappointment. People weren’t really praying for me after all. Heavenly Father wasn’t looking out for me in particular. Asking for protection from harm or accidents was just something that sounded appropriate at the end of a prayer. The feeling of disappointment soon faded, however, along with my keen interest in prayer. In fact, the only time I even wondered about prayer anymore was when my mind wandered during one, or when I laughed about Harmer accidents as I had done tonight.

Prior to his mission young Ezra fell in love with a vivacious young coed. He first noticed her when he and a cousin were standing on a street curb in Logan, Utah, and an attractive woman drove by in a Ford convertible. A few minutes later she drove by a second time. “Who is that?” Ezra asked. “Flora Amussen,” his cousin replied.

Though Ezra was a homespun farm boy from Whitney, Idaho, who had rarely been off the farm, he asked Flora for a date. She accepted. Wearing his blue serge suit, shiny from much wear, he pulled up in front of her large, three-story home, took a deep breath, and wondered what he’d gotten himself into, calling on the most popular—and apparently one of the wealthiest—young women on campus.

Many of his friends were amazed that Flora even gave him the time of day. She was very popular at Utah State Agricultural College (now Utah State University) and involved in everything from tennis to drama. But once they became acquainted, their courtship proceeded smoothly, and it wasn’t long before Ezra felt he’d found the woman for him. Marriage, however, wouldn’t come immediately. First there was a mission for “Elder” Ezra Taft Benson to serve in Great Britain, and before he knew it he was saying good-bye to Flora at the train station and heading for Europe.

Two-and-a-half years later when he returned, Ezra was delighted and a little relieved to find Flora still available. Their dating resumed, and it wasn’t long before he felt ready to settle down on his Idaho farm with Flora as his wife and begin to rear a family.

Flora seems to have liked the attention of this handsome young farm boy and had entertained thoughts of marriage herself. At 23, she was certainly of marriageable age. But something held her back. For some reason she felt the timing wasn’t quite right for their marriage. She saw in Ezra Benson more than a hard-working farm boy who would make a fine husband and father; she had the impression that Ezra had potential that might not surface if he returned to the farm immediately.

Flora didn’t discuss her feelings with Ezra, but “prayed and fasted for the Lord to help me know how I could help him be of greatest service to his fellowmen. It came to me that if the bishop thought I was worthy, [he would] call me on a mission. The Church came first with Ezra, so I knew he wouldn’t say anything against it.”

Without telling her beau about her plan, Flora talked with her bishop. And before Ezra had a chance to formally propose, she made her own announcement: she was going to Hawaii, where she’d been called to serve a mission. Ezra was shocked. Another separation from Flora? It seemed too much to ask of him. “I was ready to settle down on the farm,” he recalled. “And I didn’t have too much briefing as to why she was leaving. It was really tough. She was the light of my life.”

Flora knew she was taking a calculated risk. Though convinced her boyfriend needed to finish his education and that both of them would profit by maturing spiritually before tying themselves down, she also recognized the possibility he might not wait two years. Nevertheless, she felt she needed to serve this mission.

On August 26, 1924, Flora and Ezra boarded the westbound train in Salt Lake City, and he rode with her as far as Tooele, where he said good-bye. It tore at him for her to leave, but he knew, somehow, that things would work out. Later he wrote in his journal, “We were both happy because we felt the future held much for us and that this separation would be made up to us later. It is difficult, though, to see one’s hopes shattered. But though we sometimes had a cry about it, we received assurance from Him who told us it would all be for the best.”

Things did work out. When Flora returned from Hawaii, Ezra lost no time in proposing, and on September 10, 1926, they were married in the Salt Lake Temple.

It was through experiences such as these that the young Ezra Taft Benson gained confidence in the Lord, and confidence in what happened when he tried to do what was right—even when it wasn’t easy.

I hung my schoolbag in the closet and saw my reflection in the full-length mirror on the door. I stopped and looked at my loose ponytail, my wrinkled shirt, and my sagging socks. Words from my Primary teacher came back to me: “You are a special daughter of our Heavenly Father. He has many blessings in store for you in your future.”
I leaned forward and peered into the mirror, wishing I could see the future. What would I be like when I was 12 or 22? Would I be pretty? Would I be smart? Would I marry in the temple? Would I have beautiful children? These were my dreams, but were these the blessings God had in store for me?
“What are you looking at?” It was Mom’s soft voice.
In the mirror’s reflection I saw Mom standing behind me in the doorway.
“Me,” I said. “It’s just me in the mirror.”
Mom came and looked over my shoulder. “‘Just you’ is someone very special,” she said.
“That’s what my Primary teacher said. She said Heavenly Father has many blessings in store for me. What does my life have in store?”
“Come to my room. I want to show you something,” Mom said.
In her bedroom Mom opened a small box and lifted out a silver handheld mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, fingering the letter B etched on the back.
“This was my grandmother’s mirror,” Mom said. “When I polish this mirror, I try to imagine what Grandma Beatrice saw when she looked into it. Maybe at first she saw a young girl, like you, dreaming of her future.
“I can imagine the light of happiness she saw in her eyes when she looked at her long braids in the mirror before her baptism. Did you know she wasn’t able to be baptized until she was 18 years old?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“And then after her marriage to Grandpa, she had a baby daughter who lived only two days. I imagine the eyes she saw in this mirror then were swollen with tears.
“Many years after that, she would have seen her joyful reflection as she prepared to go to the temple to be sealed to her husband and three children.
“As an older woman, she may have used this mirror to place a hat on her head before going to her Relief Society meetings.
“And finally, as a gray-haired widow, she may have seen the brave determination in her eyes as she lived for many years alone but faithful to the end.”
“Did Heavenly Father bless Great-Grandma?” I asked.
“Yes, He did,” Mom said.
“Was Great-Grandma happy with her life?”
“Yes. It wasn’t exactly as she planned. Some of it was very hard, but she put her trust in God, and those experiences helped her become more like Him.”
“I guess I don’t really need to see the future,” I said, placing the silver mirror gently back in its box. “I’ll just trust in Heavenly Father and follow Him.”
“I’m sure God has a wonderful life in store for you,” Mom said. “And if you follow Him, in the end, the face you see in the mirror will reflect His image. And that would truly be a dream come true.”

It was much like an old Charlie Chaplin movie. Mother was still in her nightgown with her ski jacket unzipped and her boots unlaced. She was outside floundering around in circles, trying to catch up with our dog, Jenny, always a few feet ahead of her. Once, Jenny stumbled into a deep drift, and I thought the chase was over. Instead, Mother disappeared up to her waist in the same drift just as Jenny struggled to her feet again.
“What are you laughing at, Missy?” Dad asked, coming up behind me and rubbing his eyes and yawning. It was Thanksgiving morning, and all of us had slept late except Mother.
The smooth white snow behind our house was now covered by big squiggles, as though a fox-and-geese track had lost its way.
Mother caught up with Jenny at last. We saw her staggering toward the house with the large furry bundle in her arms.
“She’ll catch her death of cold!” exclaimed Dad. “It’s well below zero out there!” Dad was wide awake now, and he went bounding down the stairs to open the door for Mother. Soon I smelled bacon frying. Dad always cooks breakfast on weekends and holidays, and my brothers and I take turns doing the dishes.
When I went into the kitchen, Jenny was lying in an exhausted heap in the doorway. She didn’t even stir when I patted her and said, “How are you doing, old girl?” Jenny’s a black and white springer spaniel, nearly fifteen years old. She’s blind and almost deaf too.
“That poor dog completely loses her sense of direction in the snow,” Dad said. “I’m afraid it really is time she was put to sleep.” He poured out five glasses of orange juice. “Talking of sleep, you’d better wake Bruce and John. If they’re going skiing, they ought to get moving.”
The boys ate quickly. “We’ll head for home the minute the lift closes,” Bruce promised. “You can have the turkey ready any time after five o’clock.” He and John got up from the table and started to leave.
“Hey! It’s your turn to do the dishes,” I exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, Missy, you and I will do them together,” Dad said. “No squabbling on Thanksgiving Day!”
But Mother shooed us out of the kitchen, saying that she was in a hurry to get the turkey ready for the oven.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“You can keep an eye on Jenny for me,” Mother replied. “She’ll probably need to go out again soon, and we don’t want her wandering off a second time.”
“OK, Mom.” I watched Jenny feel her way toward her favorite spot in front of the living room fireplace. Each time she bumped into something, I cringed. Maybe Dad’s right, I thought. Maybe she’s not enjoying her life anymore. But surely we can keep her with us a little longer if we take good care of her.
Seeing that she was about to go to sleep again, I went up to my room to read. I’d just reached an exciting part of the book when I heard Jenny whimpering. Reluctantly, I got off the bed and went down-stairs to let her out.
“Don’t leave her outside long,” Mother warned. “The weather seems to be changing.”
About an hour later I finished the last chapter and looked out the window. It was snowing hard. Suddenly I remembered Jenny. Is she still outside or did someone let her in? I raced downstairs. She wasn’t in the living room or the den. Mother was still working in the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He went somewhere in the jeep,” Mother replied, switching on the electric mixer.
Quietly I opened the front door, hoping to find Jenny waiting on the step. She wasn’t there.
Slipping quickly into warmer clothes, I went outside. Jenny’s tracks showed up clearly in the fresh snow. I followed them around to the back of the house.
Half an hour later I was still searching for her. I no longer had any idea where she might have gone, for she had evidently wandered in circles, and her tracks had merged with those of other dogs. The snow was coming down thicker now, and the wind was blowing it into my eyes, making it difficult to see. My fingers and my toes were freezing, and my whole face was stiff from the cold. I decided to go back home and get help, even though it meant Mother and Dad would know that I was responsible for Jenny being lost.
Neither of them said a word of reproach. I wanted to start out again at once, but Mother made me drink some hot soup while she telephoned the neighbors. The soup was comforting, but the thought of Jenny lying half-buried in a snowdrift somewhere brought tears to my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Missy.” Dad patted my shoulder. “If none of the neighbors has seen her, I’ll take the jeep out and find her.”
Mother came back into the kitchen. “No one has seen her, but they’ve all promised to keep their eyes open.”
“Come on, Dad, let’s go!” I pleaded.
Dad drove very slowly while we both strained our eyes to catch sight of anything moving in the snow. Every now and then Dad would stop the jeep and we would search on foot. I was terrified that I might stumble upon Jenny’s lifeless body.
I almost cried again. Jenny had been a part of our family since before I was born. I couldn’t imagine life without her.
When we’d been gone about two hours, Dad looked at his watch. “The boys will be home by now,” he said. “I think we’d better go back. She wouldn’t have come this far anyway.”
Neither of us spoke as we climbed stiffly out of the jeep. I was praying desperately that Jenny had somehow found her way home. Instead, Mother said, “Bruce and John came home about an hour ago. They’ve gone to look for Jenny over by that new development. They figure people over there won’t know whose dog it is.”
Granny and Aunt Ruth were in the kitchen with Mother. “She’s wearing her tags, isn’t she?” Aunt Ruth asked.
Sadly I reported, “She’s wearing her rabies tag, but her name-and-address tag came off the last time I brushed her. I forgot to put it back on.”
A spurt of gravel in the driveway signaled Bruce and John’s return. I ran to the door. One look at their faces was enough to tell me they had not found Jenny.
“Perhaps she’ll turn up later,” Mother said, but she didn’t sound very convincing. “Right now there’s nothing more we can do, so let’s try to think of all the things we have to be thankful for. If everyone will wash up, I’ll bring you some hot cider to drink by the fire while I add the finishing touches to dinner.”
How heartless grown-ups are, I thought. Dad and Aunt Ruth were discussing a TV program they had both seen. Grandma was busy winding wool yarn with Bruce’s help.
John and I sat staring at the fire without speaking. I didn’t know exactly what he was thinking, but I was sure he wasn’t feeling very friendly toward me. He and Jenny had been born within a few months of each other.
Suddenly I had an idea. “Did you go to the Roberts’s place?”
“No. Why should we have? Mom said she’d called all the neighbors.”
“The Roberts moved, and the new people don’t have a phone yet. One of the kids is in my class, and I heard her complain that they have to wait two more weeks for one.” I was already halfway to the door.
“I’ll come with you,” John offered.
I wanted to say no, because I had lost Jenny and it was up to me to find her, but I realized that John was as miserable as I was.
It was dark outside now. The snow had stopped, and a few stars were appearing.
“Didn’t you come by here this morning?” John asked, as I rang the doorbell.
“Yes. No one was home.”
The door opened and Betsy, the girl in my class, said, “Why, hello, Missy.”
“Hi,” I greeted her. “This is my brother John. We’re looking for our dog.”
“Is she a springer?”
“Yes!” John and I shouted together.
“Come on in. She’s here.”
“Is she all right?” I asked anxiously.
“She is now.” Betsy laughed. “She’s just eaten a huge Thanksgiving dinner!” She led us into a big old-fashioned kitchen. Jenny was lying in front of the warm stove, looking very much at home. She thumped her tail on the brick floor when she heard our voices, but she didn’t get up.
“She’s still tired. When we came home about noon, she was lying in our driveway, and she was covered with snow. She didn’t even lift her head when Dad honked the horn,” Betsy explained.
I fell to my knees beside Jenny and buried my face in her soft fur. Betsy must have brushed her, I realized. Right then and there I silently offered a Thanksgiving prayer.
John thanked Betsy and the rest of her family for their kindness, then turned to me and said teasingly, “Come on, Missy, let’s go! I can’t carry both of you.”
I stammered my thanks to everyone, especially Betsy.
“Think nothing of it,” she said. “I love dogs.”
I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget that Thanksgiving. The dinner might have been a bit overdone, but nobody cared.

Brother Jung Dae Pan was also among those who learned the gospel from the first missionaries to serve in Korea. He had dropped out of the Seoul National University to attend a theological college. His dream was to become a pastor and to lead the Christian community in Korea.
One day a friend gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon in English because a Korean translation hadn’t been published yet. He was drawn into reading the book. He even read it during a class. When his classmates asked him what it was, he said that it was a book like the Bible and recommended that they purchase one.
In the end Brother Jung got in trouble at the college. Administrators summoned him and said that he was succumbing to Satan’s temptation to fall into heresy, and they forced him to choose either the school or the Book of Mormon. The decision was not difficult for him because he already knew the Book of Mormon was true.
However, after Brother Jung joined the Church, he suffered social and economic difficulties. The scholarship from the college and the financial support from the previous church discontinued, and all his friends left him. Dr. Kim took good care of him. Later, Brother Jung contributed greatly to the growth of the Church in Korea by translating the Doctrine and Covenants and editing the hymns. The beautiful lyrics he translated still touch the hearts of Korean members.

When I was serving as president of the Philippines Quezon City Mission, one day Elder Jones* arrived at the mission home wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes and carrying his suitcases. “I want to go home, President,” he told me.

After listening to his concerns, I told him: “Leaving your mission is a reactive response, which will diminish the control you have over your life. And if you continue to be reactive, you will have problems dealing with difficulties you encounter after you return home.” I also advised him to talk with other missionaries about his concerns.

After further discussion Elder Jones changed into his missionary clothing and returned to his area. He talked with other missionaries, and he prayed for strength to overcome his challenges. The next time I met with him, he expressed gratitude that he had persisted through his difficulties.

When Nick Turpin was 14, the only thing he knew about the Church was that his friends Steve Andersen and Jason Farrell were members. That’s when they gave Nick a Book of Mormon with their testimonies written in the front of it. Then they invited him to seminary, telling him their teacher was cool and they wanted Nick to learn more about the Church. That was February of 2002. Nick was baptized three months later.
That may seem quick, but Nick’s testimony didn’t come from one overwhelming spiritual experience. It came quietly, gradually. He says, “It just felt right at seminary and at church.” He says he always figured there was a purpose to life, and the missionaries explained what that purpose was. Reading the Book of Mormon also helped his testimony grow, and, pointing to Steve and Jason, he says, “These guys helped me to join the Church. When I was with them before I joined the Church, it was great to know that we were doing the right thing and still having loads of fun.”
Steve says, “Our friendship wasn’t based on Nick taking the discussions. We just wanted him to know more about the Church. If he had said no, our friendship wouldn’t have changed.”
Nick’s friends introduced him to the gospel, but it was the Spirit who converted him. Nick says, “In my heart, I know that if I didn’t believe that the Church was true, I wouldn’t have joined just because my friends wanted me to.”

As a young missionary going to Chile, I learned a life-changing lesson about the conversion power of the Book of Mormon. Mr. Gonzalez served in a respected position in his church for many years. He had extensive religious training, including a degree in theology. He was quite proud of his biblical expertise. It was obvious to us that he was a religious scholar.
He was well aware of the missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as they went about their work in his home city of Lima, Peru. He always wanted to meet with them so that he could school them in the Bible.
One day, almost as a gift from heaven, so he thought, two missionaries stopped him in the street and asked if they could come to his home and share the scriptures with him. This was his dream come true! His prayers had been answered. Finally, he could set these misguided young boys straight. He told them that he would be delighted to have them come to his house and discuss the scriptures.
He could hardly wait for his appointment. He was ready to use the Bible to disprove their beliefs. He was confident that the Bible would clearly and articulately point out the error of their ways. The appointed night came, and the missionaries knocked on the door. He was giddy. His moment had finally arrived.
He opened the door and invited the missionaries into his home. One of the missionaries handed him a blue book and bore a sincere testimony that he knew the book contained the word of God. The second missionary added his powerful testimony of the book, testifying that it had been translated by a modern prophet of God named Joseph Smith and that it taught of Christ. The missionaries excused themselves and left his home.
Mr. Gonzalez was so disappointed. But he opened the book, and he started to leaf through its pages. He read the first page. He read page after page after page and didn’t stop until late into the afternoon of the next day. He read the whole book and knew that it was true. He knew what he had to do. He called the missionaries, received the lessons, and gave up the life he had known to become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
That good man was my MTC teacher in Provo, Utah. Brother Gonzalez’s conversion story and the power of the Book of Mormon made a great impression on me.

Now, you young men, let’s carefully consider some examples from the lives of our prophets as they have spiritually prepared for the priesthood. President Joseph Fielding Smith shares with us his feelings in these words: “‘When I was a small boy, too young to hold the Aaronic Priesthood, my father placed a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hands with the request that I read it. I received this Nephite record with thanksgiving and applied myself to the task which had been assigned to me. There are certain passages that have been stamped upon my mind and I have never forgotten them.’ By the time he was ten years old he had read the Book of Mormon through not just once but twice. His brothers remembered of his hurrying to get through his chores as quickly as possible, and sometimes even leaving a ball game early, and secluding himself in the hayloft or in the shade of a tree to get back to his reading of the book.” (Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr., and John J. Stewart, The Life of Joseph Fielding Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1972, p. 57.)

A few years ago, while serving as a mission president, I received a call on a Sunday night from a leader at the Provo (Utah) Missionary Training Center. He said that a missionary who was assigned to our mission—and who would arrive the next day—was having a crisis of faith. While in the MTC, he had begun to question whether he really believed what he had been taught all his life. He then called his parents and said he needed to return home because he did not have a testimony. They were loving and supportive but encouraged him to give it at least one day in the mission field. He hesitantly agreed and the following day I sat with him in an initial interview. With much nervousness he described that he did not know how he could possibly be a missionary when he did not know if the Church and its teachings were true.
An inspired question came into my mind: “Elder, what do you know is true?”
“I know my family loves me.”
I then told him I would assign him a wonderful companion and encouraged him to simply go out and bear testimony of what he did know was true—how a loving Latter-day Saint family has blessed his life. I bore my testimony to him that as he studied the Book of Mormon each day and did all that was asked of a missionary, the Spirit would help him gain the testimony he desired. He nervously agreed to give it a try; and as he left the office, I wrote on my notepaper 50 percent (meaning there was a 50/50 chance he would make it through the first week).
All week long I worried about this sincere and good young missionary, who had so many doubts and who questioned his faith. I resisted the urge to call him and see how he was doing, knowing that might make it too easy for him to ask to be sent home. So instead I anxiously awaited his first weekly letter to the mission president. My joy was full as I read the following:
Dear President Palmer,
I can honestly say I’ve had a great past week. When I spoke with you in our interview, the only thing keeping me going was fear of what would happen if I went home. I truly had no desire to stay and serve a mission for two years.
But as of right now, I’m so glad that I stuck it out. I still don’t know everything that I need to. But just in the last few days I’ve come to fully understand how the Church brings change and happiness to people’s lives. That’s what I am basing my testimony on. I know I still have a lot to develop my faith on, but this is a huge step for me. I had been stuck between what I was learning in Church and what my brain was telling me made more logical sense. But I’ve felt the Holy Ghost.
On Saturday night, we taught a guy named Cory. My companion brought the Spirit so strongly, and I knew Cory was feeling it as strongly as I was. When it was my turn to speak, I explained how Joseph Smith read in James and then prayed to know if it was true. While I quoted the First Vision I could hardly breathe. My heart was pounding. It was so awesome.
Like I said earlier, I don’t have a testimony of everything yet, but one thing I cannot deny is that Cory’s life will never be the same. We didn’t even get the entire baptismal invitation out before he said yes. I couldn’t believe it. I just kept thinking back to what my mom said before I left the MTC, that if I didn’t really give it a real chance, I would never find out for myself. But I plan on doing that now.1
This young man went on to become an outstanding missionary, whose faith became strong as he continued to grow in his understanding of the gospel through diligent study — and who received powerful witnesses of the Spirit while bearing testimony to others.

Susan, baptized into the Church at age 28, had always lived the law of chastity. “My parents had integrity and expected me to have high moral standards, to be honest and chaste, so I just did it,” says Susan, who was raised in the midwestern United States. “Now I realize I was responding to the light of Christ. I never dated a Latter-day Saint until I met Tom. When I heard the gospel, I was glad I had never given in to sexual temptation. Later, Tom and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. One year later our baby daughter died at birth. We were devastated but grateful we had been worthy to be sealed in the temple when we were first married. Knowing that our baby was born in the covenant brought us understanding and peace.”
Susan and Tom still live in the Midwest after 24 years of marriage and five children. “Several of our friends and cousins have divorced,” says Tom. “We have had our share of financial and family challenges, yet we both want to be true to our temple covenants, so we just work things out.”

It was turning out to be the worst Christmas Eve a missionary could have. All three of our baptisms scheduled for Christmas day had just fallen through. Instead of the “white” Christmas my companion and I were hoping for, it was going to be just another hot day in Chile.
To top it off, our Christmas Eve dinner invitation was cancelled. Chileans hold their big celebration on Christmas Eve, so it was like missing out on Christmas dinner.
As my companion and I walked dejectedly past the small, fenced-in chapel, the branch president stopped us and asked where we were spending Christmas Eve. We told him we had no plans. He then invited us to his home that evening for dinner.
That night we went to the branch president’s house, a small structure covered with a tin roof. At the table, my companion and I were invited to sit in the chairs usually reserved for the branch president and his wife. They graciously shared their meal with us. It must have been a sacrifice for them to feed two hungry missionaries, especially with only a few hours’ notice. Then this kind family gave my companion and me each a wonderful gift of a white handkerchief.
We didn’t get our “white” Christmas with lots of baptisms. Instead, we learned from a young, humble branch president that it is, indeed, “more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).
Lester Dimit served in the Chile Santiago South Mission; he is a member of the Reedville Ward, Cedar Mill Oregon Stake.

President Benson had an expansive spirit, a generous faith. He was always willing to extend a hand to help another back to the Master’s fold. As a young counselor in a stake presidency, he once challenged a man who had wandered from the faith to change his life and accept a calling as elders quorum president. Years later, the man saw Elder Benson on Temple Square and thanked him. “I am now a bishop,” he said. “I used to think I was happy, but I didn’t know what real happiness was.”