Gospel Story Finder

Before he became an apostle, George Albert Smith served two missions—one as an MIA missionary in the Southern settlements of Utah and one in the southern United States, where persecution against Mormons was still rampant. Elder Smith was once with a group of missionaries in a log cabin that was under seige by a mob. While the missionaries huddled against the floor, a barrage of bullets poured into the room. Yet, through all this experience, there was no bitterness on Elder Smith’s part, just a determination to work harder to “share the gospel with the rest of God’s children.”

Sister Kapp also feels that by spending a lot of time with her father, she “learned a lot about patience and about living in anticipation. When you live on a farm, you have to wait for the season, and you have to wait for the crops, and you have to wait for the ripening of things. When my family made ice cream, we’d get the ice from the river in the winter, or from an icehouse in the summer. Then we’d cut and chip the ice. Mom would mix the ingredients for the ice cream, and then we would crank the handle on the freezer, each taking a turn. After all that effort, the ice cream tasted especially good because we had anticipated it all the time that we were making it.

As an introduction to a third choice, I now relate a personal experience about others who set a path for me to follow. I attended graduate school at Indiana University. My first day in an economics class was with a well-known professor who had the reputation of being tough, demanding, and, for a number of other reasons, was somewhat feared. As this was the first day in his class, he asked each of us to stand and introduce ourselves, giving our name and the university we graduated from. When it was my turn, I gave my name and said I had just graduated from Brigham Young University.

The professor stopped the introductions and said something like this, "It is wonderful to have another great student from Brigham Young University in this class." Now, he did not say this about the very capable students from Indiana, Minnesota, Harvard, or other respected universities. He then asked, "Do you know 'so and so' from BYU?" I knew him. He went on, "Do you know 'so and so' from BYU?" I knew him. Then he named others, some of whom I knew and others I did not. Then he said they had all been outstanding students and great examples.

As I savored the undeserved limelight for those few moments, I was grateful for a string of LDS students who had preceded me at Indiana University. I was grateful for the impressions and influence these students had made on the life of this professor and probably others. I was determined not to mar the reputation of myself or those who had left such a legacy of example. This legacy was a motivation to me throughout my schooling at Indiana and my professional life. These accolades came because of a value system reflected in the lives of the students, a value system based upon the principles and doctrines of the gospel, a value system included and taught in the curriculum of BYU. At Indiana, I was grateful for the footprints that had been left and the candles that had been lit. You also can leave footprints and light candles.

On one day of the campaign, Sister Parkin was helping with crowd control, checking children for the ink mark indicating those who had received the vaccination. One young boy didn’t have the mark. Through her translator, Sister Parkin asked why he hadn’t received his shot. He said he was afraid. “Will you go if I go with you?” Sister Parkin asked. He agreed.

“It was a sweet experience,” Sister Parkin recalled after returning from the trip. “Maybe I’ve helped one child. It was life-changing for me.”

Several years ago Elder Christensen set a date of January 31. Early January came, and despite having initiated conversations with dozens and dozens of people and inviting several of them to meet the missionaries, he failed to find anyone who was interested. He was scheduled to travel to Honolulu, Hawaii, for an academic conference on January 20, and the way his schedule looked, it seemed clear that he had to meet the person he could introduce to the missionaries on his flight to or from Hawaii. There was no other time. He pleaded in daily prayer that God would cause a person to sit next to him on the plane who would accept his invitation.
After all that effort, he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw his seatmate—a man named Vinnie who was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his sternum, sporting three gold chains on his hairy chest. Vinnie explained that he worked 11 months every year to save enough to escape to Hawaii for a month in winter to chase women. Clayton was so disappointed. He had tried and prayed so hard to find someone—and instead he got stuck next to a man who didn’t seem to have a religious bone in his body. Discouraged, Clayton turned to some reading.
When the flight attendant brought lunch, Clayton put his reading down and made small talk with his seatmate. Vinnie asked Clayton if he had been to Hawaii before, and Clayton responded that he had attended a language training school in Laie en route to a mission he had served for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Korea. Surprisingly, Vinnie put his fork down and said, “So you’re a Mormon? The funniest thing has happened to me over the past year. I’ve never had any interest in religion, but I’ve had this growing curiosity to know more about Mormons. I don’t know why. Could you tell me a little about your church?”
For the next three hours, enveloped by a wonderful spirit, they discussed the gospel of Jesus Christ, article of faith by article of faith. Several times on the remainder of the flight, Vinnie interrupted to say thanks for telling him about the Church. As the plane landed, Clayton told Vinnie there were missionaries in his hometown and asked if they could visit him when he returned. Vinnie asked if there were missionaries in Honolulu. Clayton received this golden answer to his prayers by using a “Mormon” phrase to open the door to a conversation and by suspending his judgment of what might be in Vinnie’s heart.

Again I have to interject a comment about my mother. On one occasion when I was writing the score for Indian, I was back at Richfield and the recording engineer called to see how it was coming. I said, “It’s going great, just fantastic! You’ll love this sequence!” I went on and on, and afterwards my mother said to me, “Merrell, we never brag about ourselves; we never tell how good we are.” I said, “They’re putting out 20 thousand dollars just to record it. They want to know how it’s coming along.” She said, “Just remember that you shouldn’t become too boastful because the Lord won’t bless you.” I try to remember that—the Lord isn’t pleased if we’re too boastful. We should show thankfulness.

Bishop Edgley: An experience I had with my Aaronic Priesthood quorum was on a Scout outing. We were sitting around a fire with my wonderful Scoutmaster, who was also the assistant deacons quorum adviser. A couple of guys who were not active in the Church were looking at some pornographic material.
The Scoutmaster stopped as he was talking to the Scouts and asked if he could have the magazine. He closed it and then told us how hurt he was, how troubled he was. Then he testified of the power of the priesthood when we honor it. He handed the magazine back, and that young man threw it in the fire.
That Scoutmaster taught us by the power of the Spirit about the priesthood. Of all the lessons I’ve had in quorums and chapels, I am still impressed by that experience.

After doing what he could for his family and friends, Daniel’s first words to me were, “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a lot to do if we are going to report back to Salt Lake by tonight.”
Somewhat shocked by his remark, I explained to him that we could get to the remainder of the cities by ourselves and that he was needed at home.
“My father can take over now,” he said. “My calling is to help the Saints and elders elsewhere. Can I please go?” After such a plea, we consented.
The day was going by quickly and we still had three cities to get to, two of them inaccessible by road because of quake damage. So we decided to split up. Elder Choc and I drew the assignment of going to Comalapa. He was so anxious to reach the city that he suggested we run all the way—17.7 kilometers!
I was sure he was joking. After all, we had to go through a deep canyon that was sure to be dangerously steep because of quake-caused landslides. I was willing to walk around the canyon, but Daniel, already familiar with the terrain, insisted that we would never make it unless we ran through it. He reminded me that with the Lord’s help, we could do it. He asked me if I would pray for physical strength and endurance, and plead with the Lord for a special blessing on the canyon because there were many in Comalapa who needed help but were trapped there because of the dangerous condition of the canyon. Humbled, I did so.
And we ran every step of those 17.7 kilometers! As we did so, he rehearsed with me the words of the Savior to the people of ancient America. Daniel said he had pondered them deeply in his heart and was anxious to know more.
When we got to the canyon, we found it calm and quiet, and it stayed that way the rest of the day. After helping and securing the information we needed in Comalapa, we made our way back to Patzicia, and I left Elder Choc there with his father and surviving family.

“Yes. It’s a story about a little girl named Ida, who was very, very sick. In fact, she was so sick that her parents were afraid that she might die.”
“Didn’t they take her to the doctor?” asked Kristi.
“Well,” continued Mother, “this story happened a long time ago, before penicillin was discovered, so although the doctor tried to help Ida, he wasn’t certain that she would get well.
“For many days Ida stayed in her bed. She didn’t feel like eating, even though her mother coaxed her, and she became very weak. When she slept, she tossed and turned and cried out in her sleep. Then, little by little, she began to improve.
“When her strength began to return, it wasn’t easy for Ida to be patient. She wanted to be completely well immediately. The sounds and fragrances of summer came drifting through the open window. Bees droned around the snapdragons, birds chirped, and the scent of blossoms filled the air. Peals of laughter echoed across the lawn as Ida’s older brothers and sisters scrambled to fill Mother’s big blue bowl with sweet cherries from the orchard. How Ida longed to be with them, climbing the leafy branches and plucking the juicy red fruit.
“‘Perhaps in a few days you will be well enough to sit on the porch,’ her mother had said. But ‘a few days’ seemed like forever to Ida.
“Creak-bang! went the screen door downstairs as Ida’s father returned, tired and dusty from his work in the fields. Ida could hear the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen and the soft wails of Baby Beth, tired and cross from the heat.
“‘Poor Baby Beth,’ Ida sympathized. It seemed like such a long time since Ida had played with her brothers and sisters. She missed them all, especially Baby Beth. But because her illness was contagious, the other children were not allowed to come into Ida’s room. Because it was summertime, her father spent nearly every day working in the fields. And with cherries to preserve, a hungry family to feed, and little Beth to look after, it was difficult for Ida’s mother to find time to just visit with her. For Ida, the hardest part of being sick was the loneliness.
“‘Are you asleep?’ her mother asked one day, setting a cup and bowl down on the little table next to Ida’s bed.
“‘No,’ Ida replied with a frown. ‘I was just thinking.’
“‘What about?’
“‘I was thinking about how summer evenings seem so long.’ Ida paused. ‘Mama, will it be long before I’m well again? Will there still be cherries on the tree?’ Ida peered anxiously at her mother’s tired face.
“‘It seems awfully long to you, doesn’t it?’ Her mother smiled sympathetically. ‘Try to be patient.’ She blew Ida a kiss as she turned to leave.
“Ida listened to her mother’s footsteps on the stairs, then folded her arms and closed her eyes.
“‘Dear Heavenly Father,’ she whispered, ‘I thank Thee for this food. Help me to eat it so that I can get better soon. And please help me to not feel lonely tonight.’
“After dinner, Ida closed her eyes again. The sun had nearly set. If only I could sleep, she thought. But it was no use. Her eyes just simply would not stay shut. The corners of the room were beginning to get dark, and Ida heard the sound of a lullaby floating up the stairs, accompanied by the clickety-whirr of her mother’s treadle sewing machine.
“Ida felt a wave of loneliness sweep over her. She wanted to run downstairs and tuck Baby Beth into bed or watch her mother sew or just sit on her big brother’s lap. She tried not to cry, but a big salty tear slipped from her eye and rolled down her nose. And that is when she saw it: Poised on the windowsill, ebony-black against the twilight, was a cricket. It sat silent and motionless for a moment, then burst into a chirping song.
“‘What a strange sound!’ Ida exclaimed. She caught her breath as the cricket hopped up in the air and landed again on the windowsill. Ida watched, entranced, as the cricket leaped and chirred in the fading light until, at last, her room was enfolded in darkness and she was fast asleep.
“In the morning the cricket was gone. But when twilight came, it returned to the windowsill to sing and dance until Ida fell asleep. After that the cricket came every night to sing Ida to sleep.
“One day Ida was finally well enough to leave her bed and go downstairs to sit on the porch. That night the cricket didn’t come. It never came again. But always after that, whenever Ida heard the song of a cricket in the twilight, she remembered ‘her’ cricket and felt again the assurance that there is a loving Father in Heaven who answers the prayers of His children.”

The bishop and his two counselors stood in the hallway, posed to shake hands with those few college students who had braved the rainy evening. As I stepped inside, one of the counselors walked over to me and said, “Hi there. I’m Brother Johnson. I don’t believe I’ve met you. Are you a freshman?”
“No, I’m a senior. I came to this cookie dunking last year, and you asked me the same thing then.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. But I didn’t have the beard last year.”
“Oh sure! I remember you now.” But his face still wore a question mark. “Well, hang up your coat and meet some people. I guess you’ve met the bishop.” He pointed to a large man now standing just inside the recreation hall.
“Was he bishop last year at this time?”
“No.”
“Then I haven’t met him.”
Brother Johnson walked over to the bishop. “Bishop, this is … what did you say your name is?”
“Greg Jeffreys.” He grabbed my hand and shook it eagerly.
“Where you from, Greg?”
“Glendive.”
The bishop placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you related to President Jeffreys?”
“He’s my father.”
“Well, how about that! I attended a regional meeting once and met him. How’s he doing?”
“He’s always doing good,” I said with just a touch of sarcasm.
“You say you’re a senior here. Do you go home a lot?”
“Hardly ever.” There was a long pause. It is sometimes assumed that the offspring of stake presidents’ counselors will, by osmosis, turn out okay. For some time I had been living proof that the assumption was not entirely valid.
“Look, Bishop, let’s not beat around the bush. I’m inactive. I have no interest in the Church. I come here every year at this time to see what kind of girls you’ve got, and also to have my annual glass of Kool-Aid and a chocolate-chip cookie. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
I walked away leaving him hunting for the phrase that would make everything all right. I grabbed a couple of cookies and a glass of punch and sat down.
The cultural hall had been disguised as much as a five-dollar decoration budget would allow. Along the perimeter of the gym floor was a single line of folding chairs. Underneath one basket two long folding tables had been set up and covered with white paper. In the center of one of the tables was a punch bowl. A stack of paper cups lay waiting for the rush that never quite materialized. On each side of the punch bowl lay a plate of cookies and a pile of napkins. Hanging from the other basket was a sign reading, WELCOME NEW STUDENTS TO THE STUDENT ASSOCIATION OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS. Someone turned on a record player and the sound echoed in the big recreation hall, distorting the music.
There was a group of about twelve guys and seven girls standing around talking and eating cookies. Every few minutes one of them would come over and introduce himself. I was enjoying being unfriendly.
My eyes then focused on the latest visitor. She entered my life wet. The letters on her freshman beanie had started to run. Her long dark hair was also wet and was beginning to make her look like a cocker spaniel. She shook hands with the bishop and his counselors, walked with the bishop over to the punch table, and filled up. She was introduced to the group and finally sat down with one of the clean-cut types.
When he ran out of punch and had gone to get refills for both of them, I walked over and sat down.
“I guess you know why I called this meeting,” I said.
She smiled back. “Are you president of the Student Association?”
I evaded her query—but built upon it: “In the interest of the organization, we’d like to get some information about you.”
Her friend came back with two glasses of punch. I stood up and said authoritatively, “Thank you. Jim. I’ll take care of this.” I reached over and took the cups from his hands, gave one to her, and kept the other for myself. He stood looking at me for a moment, and then turned around and walked away, shrugging his shoulders as he went.
“He told me his name was Bob,” she said.
“Oh, was that Bob? Now you see why I need things written down. I was about to fill out your personal information card. I must have loaned out my clipboard to someone. Let me use this napkin.” I reached in my shirt pocket for a pen. “Now then, for our records. Name?”
“Debbie Forsburg.”
“Where from, Debbie?”
“Columbus.”
“I see you’re a freshman. Where do you live?”
“Ellsburg Hall, room 212.”
“Phone?”
“Yes. Extension 2364.”
“Now, Sister Forsburg, I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but we need to know this in planning activities. Are you engaged?”
“No.”
“Currently going steady with anyone?”
“No. I was, but we broke up at the first of the summer.”
Forgetting the role I was playing, I asked, “Debbie, for our records, what color eyes are those?” I once stood on a high cliff and looked down into a pool of clear water. And that’s the way her eyes affected me.
She was beginning to suspect the line of questioning. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m a member of the Church?”
“My very next question.”
“I am. I was baptized two years ago.”
“Debbie, I want to welcome you here. I see that our program is about ready to start. But I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
I walked out into the foyer and grabbed my coat. As much as I wanted to get to know Debbie, I knew it was time to go. As I walked out the door, I heard the bishop announce, “We’d like to have you meet the officers of the Student Association.”
The next day I walked over to her dorm and phoned her from the lobby. “Debbie, this is Greg Jeffreys. I’ve got a confession to make. I’m not really with the Student Association.”
She laughed. “They spent the entire evening reassuring me of that.”
“Could you come down and walk with me over to the SUB for a fresh lime? We need to get acquainted.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to ask you to the festival dance and I wouldn’t want you to go out with a stranger.”
That was the beginning. We spent a lot of time together after that. And that meant that sometimes she went with me to a Student Coalition for Peace meeting. But it also meant that I went with her to Sunday School and Sacrament meeting.

Since both of my parents have passed away, it became necessary this year to clean out their home to prepare it for sale. During these past few months, as my siblings and I cleaned and sorted through my parents’ home, we found family histories and many important papers and documents. It has been fascinating to read through personal histories and patriarchal blessings of my parents and grandparents. I have been reminded of the covenants they made and kept.
My grandmother Ellen Hanks Rymer was a young mother in 1912 when she received her patriarchal blessing. When I read her blessing, these lines jumped off the page and stayed in my mind: “Thou wast chosen from before the foundation of the earth, and a chosen spirit to come forth in this day. … Thy testimony shall be magnified and thou shalt be able to testify. … The destroyer has sought to destroy thee, but if thou wilt cleave unto thy God, he [the destroyer] shall not have power to harm thee. Thou through thy faithfulness shalt have great power and the destroyer shall flee from before thee because of thy righteousness. … When the hour of fear and trials come upon thee if thou wilt retire to thy secret closet in prayer thy heart shall be comforted and the obstacles removed.”2
My grandmother was promised that if she would keep her covenants and stay close to God, Satan could have no power over her. She would find comfort and help in her trials. These promises were fulfilled in her life.
In reading from my grandmother’s personal history, I learned of her great joy in her covenants. She loved going to the temple and performing the ordinances for thousands of those who had died. It was her life’s mission. She served as a temple worker for over 20 years in the Manti Utah Temple. She wrote that she had experienced many miraculous healings in order for her to raise her children and to serve others by doing their work in the temple. As her grandchildren, if we knew anything about Grandma Rymer, it was that she was a righteous woman who kept her covenants and wanted us to do the same. When people sift through our possessions after we have died, will they find evidence that we have kept our covenants?

Last year my stake took the youth to Martin’s Cove. Each participant was to trek in the name of either a rescuer or a handcart pioneer. Part of our preparation was to learn as much as we could about their experience. Our goal was to “walk in their footsteps.” Through my research I discovered that two of my great-grandfather’s brothers had been involved in this pioneer tragedy. Moses Cluff, who had just returned from a mission to England, joined the Hodgett Wagon Company that accompanied the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies. His younger brother, Harvey Cluff, who was only 20 years old, was one of the “valley boys” who formed the first wave of rescuers to meet up with the stranded pioneers. As I learned about their experiences, one interesting detail stood out. Harvey’s history reads:
[The] raging blizzard from the north compelled the relief party to seek shelter some miles down the river where the growth of willows was dense enough to break the force of the wind and afford shelter to animals and some protection to the camp. While encamped in this retired spot, three miles from the road, Harvey was called upon by the captain to take a sign board to the road, in case there were any who might pass along the road and thereby miss the camp. . . . In a few hours after the board was up, two men, Captain Willie and his companion, rode horseback into camp. . . . These two men, without bedding, could not have survived through the night, had they not been directed to the relief camp by the sign board.
Harvey’s obedience and willingness to make the appropriate sacrifice of self not only saved Captain Willie and his companion but facilitated the rescue of all those who were stranded along the trail.

Through grace, participants regain the hope they have lost. One participant, Edward, grew up in the Church, but his childhood insecurities left him feeling that he wasn’t as good as other people. He says, “I didn’t understand the Atonement, and I didn’t love myself, so nothing really mattered.” When he was in his 20s, he started drinking and using drugs in an attempt to dull his negative feelings—a pattern that continued for 20 years.
When he was arrested a second time for drunk driving, he was ordered to get treatment. In the Church’s program, he learned that receiving forgiveness and regaining a sense of self-worth were possible. He attended church every Sunday, studied the 12 steps, and applied these gospel principles and actions to his life. He became willing to turn his life over to Heavenly Father and, in the process, learned how to love himself and how to let the Atonement work in his life. “I couldn’t overcome all these things by myself,” he says. “The Savior can do for me what I can’t do for myself.”

Janet and Pete had grown up next door to each other, had been great friends, and had eventually begun dating. Now that Pete had been back from his mission for several months, we were expecting to see an engagement ring soon. When I heard they had split up, I was shocked. They had a great deal in common and had always seemed so happy around one another. They had been so sure.
“We had an argument,” Jan explained, “and he won’t apologize. We haven’t spoken for weeks.” Then she added, “I’m certainly not going to apologize. It’s not my fault. He’s the one who said some mean things.”
“Had you ever argued before?” I asked.
“No, never. That’s just the problem. I have no idea how to handle this. Guess it’s over.” When I asked her what they had argued about, she couldn’t remember, but she could remember clearly the harsh words that had been exchanged. In fact, she had memorized them. Anger had made each of them stubborn, and Pete and Jan were both certain each was the injured party and the victim of injustice.
I remembered hearing once about the “temporary apology,” and I suggested it to her.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Even if you don’t think you’re the one at fault …”
“I know I’m not!”
“Even if you know you’re not at fault, apologize for what you are sorry about. You could tell Pete you’re sorry you haven’t been on good terms. Then at least the ice will be broken.”
“He’s the one who should do that,” she said. But I could tell she was thinking about it.
When I talked to Janet again, she said she had tried the “temporary apology” and that she and Pete had started speaking again. “In fact, Pete told me he was really sorry and had been wanting to apologize for quite a while but just didn’t know how. He said he was glad I had had the courage. Thanks for the tip on the ‘temporary apology,’” Janet said. “It did take some pride-swallowing, but it was worth it. I can’t believe we almost broke up over such a stupid word exchange.”

Snowflakes fell as Sofia stepped outside. Snow usually made her happy. But this year, things were different. She bent down and scooped up some snow in a bowl, then went back inside.
The kitchen was warm, and Mama was at the stove cooking breakfast. Sofia dumped the snow into a pot so it could melt. They would use the melted snow for washing their hands and faces.
“Merry Christmas, Sofia,” Mama said.
Sofia wanted to say Merry Christmas back, but the words stuck in her throat as she walked toward the barn to help feed the animals. The barn was attached to the house by a long hallway, and Sofia was grateful she didn’t have to go outside again.
Papa and her older brother Isak were already in the barn when she got there. A knot formed in Sofia’s stomach as she looked around. Cows, goats, and sheep were chewing their breakfast. Chickens pecked around her feet. But the barn was a lot emptier these days.
A month ago, some of their animals got sick and died. People in the community were afraid the disease would spread to other farms, so Sofia’s family’s farm had been quarantined. That meant no one was allowed to visit or leave their farm until they could be sure the sickness was gone.
Sofia had not seen any of her friends. She could not go to school or church. Her family could not sell their milk or go to the store. They were like prisoners on their own farm.
“Merry Christmas, Sofia!” voices squealed when Sofia returned to the kitchen. Her little brother and sister, Frej and Kaia, were sitting at the table eating bits of bread soaked in milk.
“You won’t have any room in your tummies for dinner!” Sofia said, smiling.
“Not that it matters,” she thought. Christmas dinner was going to be the same food they’d been eating for a month. Bread. Potatoes. Dried vegetables. All things they had stored from summer. They couldn’t even afford to eat one of their chickens. Who knew how long the quarantine would last?
“Hey, everyone,” Isak said, coming in from the barn. “Get your coats on. I want to show you something.”
Isak led them through the pine forest near the farm.
“Are we going to cut down a Christmas tree?” Kaia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Sofia said. “We can’t go to the store to buy decorations. We don’t even have any presents to put under it.”
Kaia and Frej looked disappointed, but soon they were running through the snow, trying to see who was fastest.
“Wait!” Isak called after a few moments.
Sofia peered into the forest. “What’s that?” she whispered.
There was a little click, and suddenly a light flared in the darkness.
“Oh!” they all gasped.
In front of them was a table built from fallen branches. A small stable made from moss sat on top, and inside was their family’s Nativity set. Angels, shepherds, and Wise Men gathered around Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus. A small lightbulb in the roof of the stable lit the scene.
Kaia and Frej stared, fascinated. Sofia stared too. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“Merry Christmas,” Isak said.
And suddenly Sofia knew that it was. There would be no presents, no tree, and no special dinner. But there would always be the precious gift of the Savior. And that was enough.

Elder Devere Harris of the First Quorum of the Seventy told me of a recent visit he made to a long-established ward in Utah. He said, “I entered there as a stranger and tried every way that I knew to strike up a conversation, or to say hello, or to be kind, or to be greeted, or to be known. Everyone ignored me; nobody would speak to me—no one!

“Finally, a man recognized me. He said, ‘Oh, Elder Harris.’ The bishop turned around and said, ‘What did you say?’ The brother said, ‘This is Elder Harris of the First Quorum of the Seventy.’

“Well, things changed. It wasn’t long before I was asked to sit on the stand; they wondered if I wouldn’t like to bear my testimony. After the meeting, many people shook my hand. As I left, I thought, ‘What a tragedy! A gray-haired man who was unknown walks into a meeting. Nobody recognizes him, nobody says hello, nobody is kind. Then, because of his Church position, everybody changes and wants to be friendly.’”

I was born on March 7, 1998, in Congo Town, near Monrovia. Growing up, I attended church regularly with my grandmother in another church. Unfortunately, when she died in 2009 from pressure (hypertension), my church attendance stopped because there was no one around to encourage me about going to church and how to gain salvation.
As I grew older, I became curious about spirituality—how to get salvation and one day go to heaven. That became my goal and wish because my grandmother always told me that heaven is way better than the great America that I wished to visit.
However, I did not attend church again. I later relocated to Brewerville with no involvement in church activities. A big tree had fallen from the family—there was no more support, and everyone had to fight for themselves. I started looking for opportunities to gain an education since my grandmother was no longer around.
My life took many turns, as it does for most people, and through all these experiences, I found myself at a crossroads—searching for something more meaningful.
Later, a young man moved into our community from Nigeria. I found out that he had recently completed his mission and relocated to my community. I enjoyed coming around him because of his strange accent and his stories about the development happening in Nigeria—the beautiful streets and cities.
One day, while we were arguing, one of my colleagues, Amos Bangura, made a statement: “Liberia is a hell, and if you are born and die in Liberia and go to hell, it is a double punishment. Then God is not fair because things are so tough in Liberia.”
The returned missionary, Brother James Kolue, quickly used that statement as an opportunity to teach us about Heavenly Father’s love for all His children—no matter their location, family background, or country. He taught us that God’s love extends beyond our imagination.
After his teaching, I quickly asked him: “Which church are you attending?”
He replied, “I attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Have you heard about this church before?”
I quickly said, “Yes, I sometimes see their missionaries passing by.”
He asked if I would like to learn from the missionaries, and I accepted the invitation. I started meeting with the missionaries. They were friendly and kind, and their message about Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation felt different from anything I had ever heard before.
I spent several weeks learning more about their beliefs and reading the Book of Mormon. There was something about the teachings that resonated deeply with me. I remember the day I prayed for the first time to know if the Church was true, and I felt an overwhelming peace—something I had never felt before.
That was when I knew I had to take the next step.
However, life became tough, and I moved to Logan Town in search of opportunities. There, I met different missionaries and stopped them to explain that I had been learning with missionaries in Brewerville. They contacted the other missionaries and continued my teaching.
The missionaries introduced me to the bishop, who was then Bishop Paul Wrotto. He guided and helped me as I took this new step. Soon after, I was baptized. The moment I emerged from the water, I felt like a new person. My heart was full, my mind clearer, and I was ready to follow the path that Heavenly Father had set for me.
The gospel changed everything in my life, and I felt a strong desire to share it with others—just as the missionaries had shared it with me.
I felt prompted to serve a full-time mission and discussed this with Bishop Wrotto. The decision wasn’t easy. I had doubts about leaving behind the life I knew, especially the part-time job that I struggled to get. But my bishop said two things that remained in my heart:
God knows you personally. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).
You should create time for God. God should not create time for you.
These words kept playing in my mind. I knew it was what I was supposed to do.
I began preparing for my mission, and soon I was called to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission under President and Sister Young. I left my job to fully prepare, but then the unexpected happened: COVID-19.
The pandemic spread rapidly, buildings were shut down, churches were closed, and public gatherings were prohibited. The missionary training center (MTC) was closed, and I was stuck at home—no job, no mission, just frustration.
During this period, I began questioning my decision. But my bishop encouraged me to use the time as an opportunity to study the scriptures and follow the Come, Follow Me program.
Later, we were notified that we would begin online MTC training. Finally, I was blessed to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission.
My mission took me to places where I met incredible people and worked with companions who taught me to be bold in sharing the gospel and patience in helping others find the same joy I had found.
When I returned home, I felt the desire to share the gospel with my family—especially my brother. He had been skeptical when I first joined the Church. He didn’t understand why I was so passionate about it. But instead of forcing him, I decided to live by example.
One evening, I sat down with him and shared my testimony. I told him how the gospel had changed my life. To my surprise, he listened. We discussed the Book of Mormon, the teachings of Jesus Christ, and the Restoration of the gospel. It wasn’t a quick process, but over time he started reading and praying on his own.
Months later my brother made the decision to be baptized. I couldn’t have been happier. I saw him changing, growing, and the same light I once felt began to shine in him.
Eventually, he felt inspired to serve a full-time mission as well. He is currently serving in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission.
It brings me so much joy to see how far he has come. I know he will touch lives and help others find the same peace that comes from knowing Jesus Christ.
The gospel is meant to be shared, and I will continue to share it with those around me—just as I once shared it with my brother.
As I reflect on my journey—from meeting the missionaries, becoming a missionary myself, and helping my brother find his own path—I know that the Lord’s plan is much bigger than we can understand.
I call this story “a journey of faith.”

When Joseph Smith, Sr., was dying, his children gathered to receive his final blessing. After first blessing his wife, Father Smith began with Hyrum, his eldest, and gave each child what he called a “dying blessing” (see Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, ed. Preston Nibley, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1956, pp. 308–13; Pearson H. Corbett, Hyrum Smith, Patriarch, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1963, pp. 240–41).

My mom took my sister and me to the hospital, to a class where we learned about how to help take care of our new baby brother when he is born. In the corner were a lot of balloons that were going to be given to us at the end of the class. I saw a cute mouse balloon that I really wanted, so when it was time to get balloons, I hurried fast so that I could choose that one. And I got it! I was very happy.
Then I saw a little girl who was crying. I thought that maybe she was sad because she didn’t get the balloon she wanted. I asked her if she wanted my balloon. She said she didn’t. (I think maybe she was too shy to take it.) My mom saw what I had done and told me that she was proud of me. I felt good inside because I went to see if the girl wanted my balloon. I know that Heavenly Father saw me, too. I am trying hard each day to be kind and to do things that Jesus would do.

Heidi Tuttle, now Heidi Kim, says her perspective has changed tremendously in 15 years.

“When I was 17, I didn’t see the whole picture,” she says as her toddler son, Kennan, dashes by in red overalls. She scoops him up and kisses the top of his head as he squirms away.

“After my mission to Korea and getting married, I realized the gospel and my family are what’s most important,” Heidi says, as she looks proudly at her husband who is singing Kennan a special song in Korean.