Gospel Story Finder

This story happened in South Korea.
Jayne took one last bite of her noodles. Mmmm. Delicious!
“Let’s play Yut Nori!” Uncle Ji-Ho said.
It was that time of year again! Her family was celebrating Chuseok, Korean Thanksgiving. Today Jayne’s family had gathered to eat lots of food and play Yut Nori together. Yut Nori was Jayne’s favorite game.
Everyone sat in a circle on the floor. Jayne looked around. What team did she want to be on? She scooted over to sit next to Uncle Ji-Ho. “I want to be on your team!” she said. “We’re going to be the big winners!”
Uncle Ji-Ho laughed. “With you on our team, we sure have a good chance!”
Jayne’s mom set the game board in the middle of the circle. Jayne helped her set out the pieces. They passed the four sticks to the team that would go first.
Jayne’s cousin Ana took the first turn. She threw the sticks into the air. The way the sticks landed showed how many spaces that team could move on the game board. All four sticks were facing down, which meant that Ana got a Yut! She got to move her team’s piece forward four spaces and got an extra turn.
But Ana was not on Jayne’s team.
Jayne folded her arms and frowned. “I was hoping she wouldn’t have a good throw,” she whispered to Uncle Ji-Ho.
“Cheer up!” Uncle Ji-Ho said. “The game just started.” He gave her an encouraging smile.
After Ana’s second turn, Jayne’s team threw the sticks. But they didn’t get to move their pieces as far as Ana’s team did.
With every turn, Jayne’s family members cheered and laughed. Jayne watched the game pieces move around the board. Everyone was having fun.
Everyone but Jayne. Her team was still losing.
Finally it was Jayne’s turn. She threw the sticks in the air, but only one landed face down. Her team’s piece moved forward only one space.
Jayne folded her arms. “I quit!” she yelled. “I wanted us to win.”
Suddenly, everyone was quiet. When she looked up, her family was staring at her. They seemed surprised that she was so angry.
Jayne’s face felt hot. She felt bad that she wasn’t happy for her family. She didn’t usually get so mad. She stood up to leave the circle.
Uncle Ji-Ho put a hand out. “You don’t have to leave,” he said. “Winning isn’t everything. Just try to have fun.”
“OK.” Jayne sat back down. She wanted to have fun like everyone else. She took a deep breath and watched her cousin Ben toss the sticks.
“Nice turn, Ben!” Uncle Ji-Ho said. He sounded happy.
Jayne looked at Uncle Ji-Ho with wide eyes. He was cheering for the other team! Maybe that was why he was having so much fun.
As the next turn began, Jayne decided to cheer for everyone on both teams. Uncle Ji-Ho was right. Winning wasn’t everything. Jesus could help her be happy for her family members even if she lost.
When it was Ana’s turn again, Jayne smiled at her. “Good luck! You’ve got this.”
From across the circle, Ana smiled back. Jayne felt warm inside. She was having more fun already!

Another source of strength is the example members provide for those who are interested in the gospel. Such an example helped bring Adrien and Greta Teihotaata and their children into the Church. Although they had been without religion for years, “we decided we wanted to change,” Sister Teihotaata says. “We asked the Lord to guide us.” Just a few days later, neighbors invited them to an open house at the Uturoa Ward. “We decided to come back on Sunday,” Brother Teihotaata recalls, “and at church, we were impressed that everyone was involved—teaching, going to classes, taking care of children. They really seemed to love each other.”
It was fast Sunday, and “when testimony meeting began, we felt something peaceful we had never felt before—the Holy Ghost. We said, ‘This is something we need,’” Sister Teihotaata says. The family met with the missionaries and continued learning. Though their oldest son did not join the Church, Brother and Sister Teihotaata and their five other children were baptized and confirmed in 1998. Since then, keeping the commandments, studying the scriptures, and going to the temple “has strengthened us in our testimony, and so has the continuing example of members who have taught us and helped us,” says Sister Teihotaata.

Some months ago Sister Faust and I were privileged to hear the testimony of Sister Fay Richardson, the wife of Bishop Richard Richardson of the Nottingham England Stake. Sister Richardson said, and with her permission I quote:
“I learned not to be passive about my testimony quite a long time ago during a religious-knowledge lesson in a schoolroom. I was fourteen years old, and after asking us all our religions, the teacher asked the question of us, ‘How many of you know God lives?’
“I felt myself go hot, and my face turn red, and I thought, “Oh, no, time to stand and be counted.” I instinctively knew that no one else would raise their hand, for they were far too sophisticated to believe in God, but I slowly raised mine. Then, feeling rather embarrassed and aware that all eyes were upon me, I said, ‘Well, I suppose so.’
“How I wished I hadn’t said that! I had added doubt to what could have been a firm testimony. In the years that followed I often dreamed of being able to stand boldly in front of that same class and bear firm testimony of the living God. I wished over and over again that I could relive the experience and be able to tell them just how much I loved my Heavenly Father. Fortunately, I learned from the experience, and I never since have said, ‘I suppose so,’ where the gospel is concerned.”

Not everyone agreed with him about the valley. Despite its streams and grassy fields, the new settlement was drier and more desolate than any place the Saints had ever gathered. From the moment he arrived, Sam Brannan had pleaded with Brigham to continue on to the green fields and fertile soil of the California coast.16
“I am going to stop right here,” Brigham had told Sam. “I am going to build a city here. I am going to build a temple here.” He knew the Lord wanted the Saints to settle in the Salt Lake Valley, far from other western U.S. settlements, where he was sure other emigrants would soon take up residence. Brigham appointed Sam to serve as president over the Church in California, however, and sent him back to San Francisco Bay with a letter for the Saints.17
“If you choose to tarry where you are, you are at liberty to do so,” Brigham noted in his letter. Yet he invited them to join the Saints in the mountains. “We wish to make this a stronghold, a rallying point, a more immediate gathering place than any other,” he told them. California, on the other hand, was to be a way station for Saints headed to the valley.18

The Church News recently told of Aaron Thatcher, a young man with a love for baseball. Aaron had had many baseball scouts observe his unique talents, but he told them repeatedly that he would not sign a professional contract until after he had fulfilled his obligations to the Lord by serving a two-year mission.
“How could a young man turn down such an offer?” people ask. But he did! His desire to serve the Lord was greater than his desire for instant fame. Aaron explained, “I’m going on this mission not because … my Dad went. I’m going because I have a testimony of the gospel and the prophets have told us that every worthy and healthy young man should serve a full-time mission. I want to with all of my heart” (in Quig Nielsen, “Baseball ‘On Hold’ While He Serves Mission,” Church News, 4 Sept. 1993, p. 5).

Many faithful Latter-day Saints have been warned by the Spirit when they were faced with injury or possible death. Among these was President Wilford Woodruff, who said:
“When I got back to Winter Quarters from the pioneer journey [1847], President [Brigham] Young said to me, ‘Brother Woodruff, I want you to take your wife and children and go to Boston and stay there until you can gather every Saint of God in New England and Canada and send them up to Zion.’
“I did as he told me. It took me two years to gather up everybody, and I brought up the rear with a company (there were about one hundred of them). We arrived at Pittsburgh one day at sundown. We did not want to stay there, so I went to the first steamboat that was going to leave. I saw the captain and engaged passage for us on that steamer. I had only just done so when the spirit said to me, and that, too, very strongly, ‘Don’t go aboard that steamer, nor your company.’ Of course, I went and spoke to the captain, and told him I had made up my mind to wait.
“Well, that ship started, and had only got five miles [eight kilometers] down the river when it took fire, and three hundred persons were burned to death or drowned. If I had not obeyed that spirit, and had gone on that steamer with the rest of the company, you can see what the result would have been” (The Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, selected by G. Homer Durham [1946], 294–95).

A couple of years ago, a young man I’ll call John came to my office shortly after he had returned from his mission.
“Elder Clarke, I need help,” he said to me with great concern. “I loved my mission. It changed me. However, I am losing some of those sacred and special feelings that I felt in the mission field. What can I do to feel like I felt in the mission field?”
I have seen this happen many times. What he was asking was, “What can I do to be happy, feel the Holy Ghost, and be close to the Savior?” This is a question we all should ask every day.
On that afternoon in my office, we turned to James 1:27 and read, “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”
Next we read Alma 34:28: “If ye turn away the needy, and the naked, and visit not the sick and afflicted, and impart of your substance, if ye have, to those who stand in need—I say unto you, if ye do not any of these things, behold, your prayer is vain, and availeth you nothing, and ye are as hypocrites who do deny the faith.”
Then we reviewed the story in the Gospel of John in which Peter and other disciples had gone fishing and caught nothing but then were told by the Savior to move their net to the other side of the boat and caught 153 fish. After they had eaten, Peter and the Savior talked. The Savior knew He was instructing this soon-to-be prophet and president of the Church for one of the last times.
“Lovest thou me?” the Savior asked.
Peter answered, “Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee.”
Then the Savior said, “Feed my lambs.”
The Savior asked the same question two more times and then instructed: “Feed my sheep” (see John 21:3–17).
Peter was really being instructed to practice pure religion, or to care for the people.
I told John that if he would practice pure religion, he would be happy and feel as he had felt on his mission. Likewise, if you want to be happy, feel the Holy Ghost, and grow closer to the Savior, then practice pure religion. From the scriptures above we learn four key practices that can be defined as pure religion.
John went back to college and acted upon what we had discussed. Later he sent me an email in which he shared his experience reading inspirational stories from the Church magazines to elderly people at an assisted-care facility.
“Many individuals felt a great amount of love and support from the Savior as the Spirit testified of simple truths and testimonies,” he wrote. “I had never known I was capable of feeling such love from and for strangers with whom I had little connection. But I felt the Savior’s love for them, for those kind souls. It appeared clear to me that I would meet these individuals—now riddled by dementia and physical ailments—on the other side. I would see their husbands and wives, who have been looking over them from the other side of the veil. I felt very much the presence of my grandfather—whom I had never met—as I sat with my grandmother, and his spirit strengthened me and supported me. I knew he was thankful for my simple visit.”
He continued: “Who knew that I could find such tender mercies? It seems so meaningless to come home after something like that and just turn on the TV or tune out in some other way. It has changed me to realize that these tender experiences are available at all moments of the day as we, as Saints, strive to focus and help others in some way.”

But did you ever stop to think that some of the smaller undomesticated creatures of the earth may be equally anxious to get home again? And because of their very smallness, their journeys may be very arduous ones. An experiment conducted by Martin Thornhill of England with a common toad is a case in point. First, Thornhill took the toad from its favorite lily pad at the side of his garden pool and placed it in a hedge about fifty yards away. Shortly afterward the toad was back on its lily pad. He then carried the toad one-fourth mile to a friend’s garden. Within a week it had returned. Marking it with a harmless red paint spot, he transported it a mile distant. In less than ten days the toad had returned. His last experiment was to deposit it by a stream three miles away. The persistent amphibian doggedly hopped across country and through town to settle itself many days later on its favorite lily pad.

One Sunday morning in early spring, nine-year-old Emily sat with her family in sacrament meeting. The bishop looked sad as he got up to make the announcements.
“The Schwartz family found out this week that Brother Schwartz has cancer,” the bishop said.
Emily saw that both her parents had tears in their eyes. Emily knew that cancer was a serious illness. She was sad for the Schwartz family too.
After church Emily was reading in the living room when she heard her parents talking about Brother Schwartz’s illness.
“He’s so young,” Mom said.
“I know.” Dad spoke softly. “His medicine and treatment will cost a lot of money. I wish there was something we could do to help.”
Emily looked out the window. The spring rains had made the neighborhood beautiful and green. The grass and flowers were growing fast. Seeing the yards all along the street gave Emily an idea. She ran to the kitchen to tell her parents.
“I want to help Brother Schwartz!” Emily said with a smile.
“What do you want to do, honey?” Mom asked.
Emily pointed out the window. “I want to mow our neighbors’ lawns and give the money to the Schwartzes.”
Dad smiled. “That’s a great idea, Em.”
That week Emily talked to lots of neighbors about mowing their lawns. By Saturday she had a full day of grass cutting lined up.
On Saturday, Emily pushed the mower up and down the yards in her neighborhood. All day. As she mowed, her arms and legs seemed to get heavier and heavier. But she was determined to keep going. She wanted to finish all the lawns.
It’s for Brother Schwartz, she kept telling herself. Her arms were sore from pushing, and her legs were tired and wobbly. But she kept mowing—only a few more lawns to go.
It was time for dinner when Emily finally finished. She walked home slowly. I’ve never been so tired in my whole life! she thought.
After dinner Emily walked to Brother Schwartz’s house. She was excited as she rang the doorbell.
Sister Schwartz opened the door.
“Hi, Sister Schwartz,” Emily said. “I mowed a bunch of lawns in the neighborhood and wanted to give you the money to help your family.”
Emily handed an envelope stuffed with money to Sister Schwartz.
Sister Schwartz started to cry. “Thank you, Emily,” she said.
“You’re welcome! I hope Brother Schwartz gets better.” Emily turned with a big smile and headed home.
She was tired from her hard work, but she felt warm and happy because she knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy when we help others. And now she just couldn’t stop grinning.

In a secluded spot, away from the notice of other visitors, 11 Latter-day Saint young women gather. Seminary and institute students from nearby San Benito, they have spent the morning together, exploring the secrets of Tikal.
It has been a rich, full day. Now, shaded from the burning sun by the protecting shadow of an ancient palace, the young women pause in a stone courtyard to rest and to share their feelings and testimonies. They softly sing “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,” and then someone offers a prayer.
“We are fortunate to live so close to this place,” one of the group says reverently. “It was a special place for our ancestors.” Others agree, expressing respect and gratitude for the legacy and the lessons of Tikal.
As these Latter-day Saint youth sing, pray, and bear testimony, the Spirit of the Lord fills this quiet corner of Tikal’s ancient domain. It’s a temple-like feeling.

Maren Nelson, 16, of the Alma Branch, was helping her mother make a salad for dinner. When the house started to shake, she automatically dove under the table, pulling her mother with her. Huddled together, they could see cupboard doors flying open, dumping dishes out. The refrigerator fell over, spilling food everywhere. The built-in oven was wrenched from the wall, kitchen cabinets tore loose and fell into a messy heap on the floor. A massive china cabinet tipped over against the table, crushing the chair between. “After the shaking stopped,” Maren said, “I remember the terror in my father’s voice as he yelled into the house to find out if we were safe.”
The Nelson home was one that was heavily damaged. Maren was grateful her family was uninjured. “Even though our home was destroyed, I have learned and continue to learn from the experience. The most important thing is that we are all alive and together.”

Elizabeth sat contentedly next to her grandmother and idly traced the pattern of the old woman’s faded blue gingham apron. A few strands of her grandmother’s yellow-white hair, smelling faintly of gingerbread and apples, brushed the child’s cheek.
“Grandma, tell me one of your long-ago stories,” Elizabeth murmured lazily.
“What kind of story today, Bess?”
“Tell me about when you were a girl living in England before you joined the Church and came to live here in Canada.”
“Oh, child, that was so many years ago! Let me think.” The old woman tilted her head in thought. Then her wrinkled face broke into a sudden smile. “Have I ever told you about our village’s May Day celebration?”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly, her dark eyes filled with curiosity.
“What a grand time it was, Bess. Before dawn each May first, my sisters and I would go into the woods to pick flowers and branches to decorate our cottage with. That morning our mum would make crowns of leaves and wildflowers for us to wear as we went singing from door to door. But the best part was the May Queen.”
“Your town had a real queen, like in fairy tales?”
“No, only a make-believe one for May Day,” Grandma replied. “The village chose the prettiest girl, and she rode in a flower-covered cart to the center of town.”
“Were you ever picked?” asked Elizabeth.
“No,” chuckled Grandma. “I was too plain. Of course, I always wanted to be, but I was never asked.”
“What happened then?”
“The May Queen, wearing a crown of wildflowers, was taken to the maypole to preside at the spring party given in her honor.”
“What’s a maypole?”
“It was a tall tree that had been cut down that morning. After all its branches were cut off, it was placed in the village green, and flowers and ribbons in all colors of the rainbow were hung from the top of it.”
“And then the party started?”
“Yes, love. The May Queen sat beneath an arch of flowers and watched the villagers dance around the maypole, welcoming spring. When I smell the first blooms of the lilacs each year, I feel like I’m a little girl in England again.”
“Grandma, I think I hear Mommy calling. I guess I’d better go now,” Elizabeth said, kissing her grandmother’s cheek.
Throughout the last week of April it rained constantly. Elizabeth stared out the window, muttering, “It will never be sunny in time. Everything will be ruined.” But on the morning of the first of May, the sun broke cheerily through the clouds and covered the land with warmth and brightness. Tossing back her covers, Elizabeth leaped excitedly out of bed. By the time her parents came downstairs for breakfast, Elizabeth had finished her cereal and juice and was slipping out the door.
“What’s the rush today, kitten?” her father asked.
“I have a lot to do, Daddy.”
“Have fun, sweetheart, but be sure to play closeby,” her mother said.
“I will, Mommy. I promise.”
For the next three hours Elizabeth was busy behind the barn. Occasionally she had to run up to her room. From downstairs her mother could hear Elizabeth’s dresser drawers sliding open and slamming shut, followed by the thumping of Elizabeth’s feet as she bounded down the stairs.
Shortly after noon, Elizabeth knocked on her grandmother’s door, bursting with excitement.
“Come in, Bess. I’ve just baked some biscuits.”
“Oh, Grandma, you have to come with me right now! I want to show you the lilacs. They’re blooming behind the barn.”
“Oh, how lovely! Let’s go pick a bouquet for the parlor.”
As Grandma walked around the corner of the barn, her mouth dropped open in amazement. The branches of a young peach tree, decorated with brightly colored hair ribbons, swayed gently in the breeze. Beside it, a rickety wooden chair had been transformed into a throne of roses and daisies.
“Sit down, Your Highness,” said Elizabeth with a curtsy. “The May Day party is starting, and you are the May Queen—the fairest in the land.”
As the old woman slowly seated herself, a crown of blossoms was placed on her head. Gracefully spreading the faded apron over her knees, she blinked back tears of happiness while she watched Elizabeth dance around the peach-tree maypole.

The most effective missionaries, member and full-time, always act out of love. I learned this lesson as a young man. I was assigned to visit a less-active member, a successful professional many years older than I. Looking back on my actions, I realize that I had very little loving concern for the man I visited. I acted out of duty, with a desire to report 100 percent on my home teaching. One evening, close to the end of a month, I phoned to ask if my companion and I could come right over and visit him. His chastening reply taught me an unforgettable lesson.

“No, I don’t believe I want you to come over this evening,” he said. “I’m tired. I’ve already dressed for bed. I am reading, and I am just not willing to be interrupted so that you can report 100 percent on your home teaching this month.” That reply still stings me because I knew he had sensed my selfish motivation.

I hope no person we approach with an invitation to hear the message of the restored gospel feels that we are acting out of any reason other than a genuine love for them and an unselfish desire to share something we know to be precious.

If we lack this love for others, we should pray for it. The prophet Mormon’s writings about “the pure love of Christ” teach us to “pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ” (Moro. 7:47–48).

In 1993, I began five years in the Nigerian Army, where I served as a peacekeeper in Liberia and Sierra Leone. I had enlisted after finishing school at age 16. I had many experiences at such a young age, but one I will always remember—it serves as a defining incident in my life—happened while I was in Liberia.
My commanding officer, a captain, learned I was a Mormon. He asked me, “Trooper Arungwa, are you a Mormon?”
“Yes, sir,” was my reply. “I am a Mormon.”
My punishment was to run five times around the camp, which was a total of about 25 kilometers. As I finished on that hot, tropical day and reported to him, he told me in stern language that I had received the punishment because I was a Mormon.
He explained his understanding that members of the Church worshiped Mormon as their God. I replied just as sternly, “No, sir!”
“Good night, trooper,” he barked back at me. “I will see you tomorrow.”
This conversation was very upsetting to me because I did not know what tomorrow would bring.
Eventually I was invited to his home and had the privilege of discussing the Church and my testimony. We discussed Adam’s transgression, the Apostasy, and the need for a restoration. At this young age, I discussed with him the coming of the Savior. I was thrilled as we talked about who Mormon was—an abridger, a prophet, and one of the writers of an ancient record.
I presented the commander a copy of the Book of Mormon. He was amazed that I was not afraid to share these things with him. He said I was the only one in the Nigerian Army he had seen preaching of Jesus Christ. He asked me if it was because I was a Mormon. I answered yes.
A year later this same commander, then a major, was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I experienced the deep joy of helping someone gain a testimony. I felt the happiness of bringing “save it be one soul” (D&C 18:15) into the fold.
This event was a great inspiration to me, and after my military service was complete, I obeyed the call of our prophet to serve a full-time mission. I answered that call in April 1998 and served with much enthusiasm in the Nigeria Enugu Mission.

Three days after Sally arrived home from Mexico, she was crowned Miss Utah. A short time later a special letter for Sally came in the mail. It was one she had written to herself several weeks before as part of an assignment in an M Men and Gleaner class.
“Write something which will help you later in your life,” the teacher said. “And then, when the time is right, I’ll mail you your letter.” Appropriately, the letter came:
Hi Sally …
By the time you receive this letter, you will have been to Mexico and probably will have made some important decisions.
Just remember, the Lord loves you and he has a very special responsibility for you in the near future. Strive each and every day to draw close unto him and to let him guide and influence your life.
You have a very special talent that you should work at diligently. If you do, you will bring joy and happiness to those around you and will please the Lord.
Always keep your ideals high and be the kind of girl that a wonderful young Latter-day Saint man will love and cherish as his wife.
Honor your parents, and though there may be problems sometimes, remember to love and understand them and to be as patient and tolerant as you would want them to be with you.
People are aware of your example. Remember always to walk in the ways of the Lord and he will bless you beyond measure. You will have many opportunities to be in the public eye, so do nothing that would be contrary to Christ’s example.
Work hard. Use discipline. Have courage, faith, and pray always.
As you love yourself, you will love others.
Smile,
Sally
“Sally,” I exclaimed when she shared the letter with me, “you were positively prophetic when you wrote that!”
“Not really,” she replied thoughtfully. “It is the kind of letter any young Latter-day Saint person could have written to himself.
“Every one of us has important decisions to make,” she continued, “little decisions like whether to attend a bull fight or a Sabbath day meeting and larger ones like whether or not to attend college, go on a mission, marry in the temple—the list goes on …
“Each of us has special responsibilities, talents—and parents to love and to honor.
“Others look to our example. Each of us is ‘that Mormon girl or boy’ from someplace or other. Wherever we go, we represent ourselves, our parents, and the Lord.
“And each one is preparing himself (or herself) to be the eternal companion of someone special who is also preparing. Then when both are ready, we will find one another.
“But for right now, each of us has 24 hours every day in which to work, pray, practice discipline, and cause the wonderful experiences of life to happen.”

On March 11, 2011, I was standing on a platform in the Tokyo Shinagawa train station to visit the Japan Kobe Mission. At approximately 2:46 p.m., a 9.0-magnitude massive earthquake struck. I was not able to stand because of the intense shaking, and I held tightly to a stair rail. Lights on nearby ceilings began falling to the floor. All of Tokyo was in a panic.
Fortunately, I was not injured, and four hours later, I was relieved to learn that my entire family was safe.
On television there was a stream of terrifying, shocking footage. A massive tsunami surged into the Sendai mission area—sweeping away everything in its path: cars, houses, factories, and fields. I was stunned by the tragic images, and I wept. And I fervently prayed that our Heavenly Father’s protection and assistance would be upon all the people living in this region that I so dearly love.
Later, it was confirmed that all the missionaries and Church members were safe. However, many members were affected, losing their family members, homes, and household possessions. Nearly 20,000 people perished, communities were destroyed, and many people were forced to leave their homes as a result of a nuclear power plant accident.

While I was on my mission, I met an unknown hero. Living an ordinary life, whose neighbours had no idea whom they were living next to.
We knocked on his door, one of 40 houses in the estate. There was no answer, but we continued knocking. Even when we moved on, I could not get my mind off his house. I did not know why. In one of the last houses, we spoke to a lady who was responsible for the supply of wine in her own church but was finding it hard to keep up with the increase in consumption. As I looked out the window, my mind was drawn to the house at no. 5, so I asked her if she knew who lived there. She told us not to go there. The man living there did not speak to anybody and would often smell of alcohol. I asked if he was angry or violent. She said no, and that he was just a quiet man who kept to himself.
We thanked her for her time and left. Again, I felt drawn to no 5. So, we returned and knocked once more. At first there was no answer. On the second try, the door finally opened, and a gentlemanly looking man greeted us and introduced himself as Bill. We said we had a message we would like to share with him, and he invited us in.
We asked Bill about his life. As we listened, we noticed all the pictures he had on the wall of various aircraft and people. He explained that he was a pilot during World War II. The pictures were mostly of the aircrafts he flew and of him together with his crew. While he talked, we could see that these memories were very special to him.
As we asked more about his service in World War II, he produced a medal, together with a letter from the royal family thanking him for his service. He explained that the medal was for flying the highest number of missions over enemy territory. At that moment, we were taken aback. We suddenly realised that a true hero stood before us. He was such a humble man who only claimed that he had done his duty.
We listened for a couple of hours and were educated about what it was like to be a young pilot. From being shot at most days, to coping with friends dying. All while continuing to serve.
As we asked what happened after the war, and he told us he had returned to his home, but his wife and children were no longer there. It had been hard for her to wait, and her departure hit him hard. He continued to live on his own ever since. He said we were the first real visitors he had in many years.
I asked Bill if he believed in God, and he did. I asked him if he wanted a blessing and he agreed. It was a very tender and responsible moment to give him a blessing that God had not forgotten him, that God understands, and that he will be blessed in the life hereafter.
He thanked us deeply for coming and said we were an answer to his prayers. We hugged, with tears in our eyes, and promised to be back.
As I stood outside his house, I looked around on the estate feeling like I wanted everyone to know what a special neighbour they had. But immediately I got the feeling, “God knows”.
Every year when it is Remembrance Day, I always remember Bill, and the huge sacrifice he made, so that we can all live in peace, and have the freedom we enjoy. I also learned to never judge someone but instead seek to help them.

It was a hot, humid summer day, and I was hanging out with my friends at the local skate park, riding on the half-pipe. This ramp was huge—11 feet tall, with the top 2 feet completely vertical. We’d ride back and forth between the walls, trying out tricks as we soared over the top of each side.
While we always had a lot of fun skateboarding, we knew it could be a dangerous sport and we’d have to be careful to avoid injury. The skate park enforced rules to ensure the skateboarders’ safety. We knew about the park rules, which were posted on a sign at the front gate, but we generally ignored them.
One of the rules was that only one skater was allowed on the ramp at a time. This rule was easy to obey, because no one wanted to collide with another skater while on the half-pipe. It was just common sense. Another rule, however, seemed so ridiculous that my friends and I refused to follow it. This rule stated that skaters must yell “free” before dropping onto the ramp. No way were we going to do that!
Of course, the idea behind this second rule was to get others off the ramp and out of the skater’s way. The rule existed to help us obey the first rule. Together, both of these rules nearly guaranteed skaters would never collide. But those of us who were advanced skaters considered yelling “free” to be beneath us. So we ignored the rule and created our own method of clearing the ramp.
Skaters would line up on either wall and wait for whoever was on the ramp to finish. Then, whoever was next would push his board into the “drop-in” position, glance around to make sure he was the only one going, and drop in. This wasn’t as foolproof as yelling “free,” but it was much more cool.
On this particular day, about 20 of us were taking turns on the half-pipe. Because there were so many of us on the ramp, there was very little time between the skaters who were finishing their rides and the skaters who were dropping in. Once a skater was done, three or four others would be ready to drop in. The skaters jockeyed for position, each one wanting to be next.
In spite of the crowd on the half-pipe, everything went smoothly for about an hour. Then tragedy struck.
Those of us still on top of the ramp watched in horror as two skaters, Bill and Donnie, dropped into the half-pipe at exactly the same time from opposite walls. Neither of them had looked to ensure the ramp was empty.
Descending an 11-foot skateboard ramp can generate a lot of speed, especially if the skater knows what he’s doing. Both of these skaters were sponsored by a national skateboarding company and were very talented in their sport. They both had bright futures ahead of them as professional skateboarders.
But those futures came to a sickening halt as they collided at the bottom of the ramp.
Bill, who weighed about 200 pounds, came out of the crash with only a few bruises. But Donnie was very short and thin and weighed only about 125 pounds. He lay unconscious on the ramp for several minutes, and we could tell he had been hurt quite badly. The paramedics arrived quickly, and Donnie was whisked away to the emergency room.
We found out the next day that Donnie’s leg was shattered in multiple places, and it would take several surgeries and months of physical therapy before he could walk again. His skateboarding career was over.
As the paramedics and park staff helped Donnie, they asked us, “Did either of them yell ‘Free?’ ” Only then did we realize how foolish we had been to ignore that simple rule. We thought it was ridiculous and beneath us, but if we had obeyed this rule, it would almost certainly have saved two boys from a terrible accident.
I have thought a lot about that day and the sign we ignored. It contained principles and guidelines that would both protect us and help us enjoy our skateboarding experience. But we were more concerned with looking cool than following the rules, and we put our safety at risk.

Before I left on that mission, President Anthon H. Lund, who was then a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, talked to us missionaries, and he said, “The people will love you. … They will love you because of what you bring to them.” I did not understand that then, but before I left Holland, I went around saying good-bye to the Saints and the converts whom I had brought into the Church, and I shed a thousand tears, as compared to what I shed when I told my loved ones good-bye.

For instance, in Amsterdam I went into a home where I had been the first missionary there, and the mother, looking up into my face with tears rolling down her cheeks, said, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few months ago, but it’s much harder to see you go.” Then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”

I went to tell a man good-bye. He stood erect in the uniform of his country. He got down on his knees and took my hand in his and hugged it and kissed it and bathed it with his tears. And then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant.

Now I have labored so much with the missionaries. I have been on four missions, and presided over two, and I have toured many missions. I love to hear those young men bear their testimonies. For instance, a young man in Oregon in our testimony meeting said there wasn’t a company in this world that could pay him a large enough salary to get him to leave his missionary work.

I received a letter here from a missionary from Idaho. He wrote this:
“There is no greater work than that of missionary work. … My life is dedicated to serving the Lord. My heart is overflowing as are the tears of joy that are now coming from my eyes. There is nothing so wonderful—nothing—as tasting the joy and success of missionary labors.”

After all the missionary service I have had, I wouldn’t want to raise a boy and not have him go on a mission, for his good and because I think we owe it to the world to share with them the truths of the gospel.

“Why have these great missionaries and others like them been willing to sacrifice … to answer the call to serve? It’s because they have a testimony of Jesus Christ. … And because they are faithful to their callings, thousands will revere their names throughout the eternities” (Ensign, Nov. 1995, 42).
—Elder Harold G. Hillamof the Quorum of the Seventy

I have a friend like you. More than forty years ago we were in the mission field together. In the years that followed he went off to war. In his loneliness he picked up with careless companions. He married out of the Church. He followed habits which had made him feel he would not be welcomed. He moved from one part of the country to another. His identity was lost.
One Sunday I found myself in a California city for a stake conference. My name and picture had been in the local newspaper. The phone rang at the stake center as the stake president and I entered the building that morning. The call was for me, and the caller identified himself. He wanted to see me. I excused myself from the meeting I was to have held early that morning and asked the stake president to carry on with it. I had something more important to do.
He came, this friend of mine, timidly and somewhat fearfully. He had been away for a long time. We embraced as brothers long separated. At first the conversation was awkward, but it soon warmed as we discussed together days spent in England many years ago. There were tears in the eyes of this strong man as he spoke of the Church of which he had once been so effective a part, and then told of the long, empty years that had followed. He dwelt upon them as a man speaks of nightmares. When he had described those wasted years, we talked of his returning. He thought it would be difficult, that it would be embarrassing, but he agreed to try.
I had a letter from him not long ago. He said, “I’m back. I’m back, and how wonderful it feels to be home again.”