Gospel Story Finder

“The young women of the Fort St. John Ward were inspired to undertake a 15K hike through the Peace River Valley. With 14 young women plus leaders, we set off. The weather cooperated, and we felt a growing feeling of camaraderie. We visually drank deeply from God’s creations and appreciated the fact that He created it all. We spoke of gospel principles, expressed our love for the Young Women program, the activities, and each other. We knelt as a group and prayed on behalf of every young woman in attendance and for those who were not with us. We then wrote our declaration of virtue with charcoal on a piece of fabric, fastened it to a stick, and raised our banners high. We shouted as loud as we could the following five declarations so that we would know and those listening would know what we stood for: I will dress modestly and be a symbol of virtue! I will not use vulgar or degrading language! I will not let pornography destroy my family and friends! I will defend the family and the importance of marriage! Calling for a return to virtue!

“We know there will be many occasions where we will be called to stand and fight for good and righteous aspects of life. We are prepared. We are ready.”
—Kara Strate

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to the leeward islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.

A couple I know about married later in life; the wife had been married before, but it was the husband’s first marriage. After several months of marital bliss, a serious disagreement erupted that so hurt the husband emotionally that he could not function at his daily tasks.
As he reeled from the impact of this confrontation, he stopped to analyze the problem and realized that at least a part of the problem had been his. He went to his bride and stammered awkwardly several times, “I’m sorry, Honey.” The wife burst into tears, confessing that much of the problem was hers and asked forgiveness. As they held each other, she confessed that in her experience those words of apology had not been used before, and she now knew that any of their future problems could be solved. She felt secure because she knew they both could say, “I’m sorry;” “I forgive.”

The first story is about someone I will call Ethan. He had recently started his job in a career he had longed for, and he wanted to make a good impression. He came early to work and stayed late. He picked up extra projects and did excellent work. He was well liked by many of his colleagues and was enjoying his job. One day at lunch with a couple of co-workers, he felt comfortable telling them he was gay. An awkward silence followed because no one knew how to respond. Ethan was disappointed by his colleagues’ cold response, and he felt hurt and rejected.

After that lunch meeting, things became increasingly awkward for Ethan at work. He began to feel vulnerable and less valued. He found himself excluded from large projects and social activities after work, and his productivity began to suffer because he felt he did not belong and was not wanted. After a few months he was let go because his boss felt he was not keeping up. Despite all the claims to the contrary, Ethan knew he had been fired for being gay.

A story is told that during the bombing of a city in World War II, a large statue of Jesus Christ was severely damaged. When the townspeople found the statue among the rubble, they mourned because it had been a beloved symbol of their faith and of God’s presence in their lives.
Experts were able to repair most of the statue, but its hands had been damaged so severely that they could not be restored. Some suggested that they hire a sculptor to make new hands, but others wanted to leave it as it was—a permanent reminder of the tragedy of war. Ultimately, the statue remained without hands. However, the people of the city added on the base of the statue of Jesus Christ a sign with these words: “You are my hands.”

In November 1966, I had been in the combat zone in Vietnam for nearly ten months. I was an infantry platoon leader. I had experienced much of the perils, the trials, the moment-to-moment anxiety of combat. Our battalion had just returned to our base camp for some “R and R”– rest and relaxation– after several weeks in the jungles and rice paddies. It was a Saturday night. Having taken our first showers in a very long time, we were sitting around on our bunks cleaning our rifles and listening to music on the Armed Forces Radio Network. Suddenly, an urgent message crackled over our battalion radio net. A sister battalion in our brigade– still in the jungle– was being overrun by a much larger enemy force. We were needed to go, right then, to the rescue.

It is very hard to adequately describe the icy feelings that clutched at my heart in that moment. I had experienced the anxieties of combat many times before. I had seen men horribly wounded. I had seen men die. But the news that we were going again– right then– back into the jungle-...at night..to face a fierce and determined foe. That news brought with it what I can only describe as a dark sense of foreboding. Borrowing from my metaphor of this talk, I found myself yanked from “calm water” to “white water” in a matter of seconds.

How I would have liked time to prepare! Time to ponder inspiring scripture. Time to pray...to fast, even. Time to “gird up [my] loins.” But there was no time. I only could grab my helmet, my rifle, give some terse orders to my men and move out. But one thing I could do was to utter a silent prayer in my heart. And as I did, there came to my mind– literally– a “still, small voice.” The voice repeated the words to a passage of scripture that I had memorized in seminary, and memorized again as a missionary. Words that have become my very favorite in all scripture: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths.”[12] As those words came to mind, peace filled my heart. The foreboding retreated.

More weeks passed. We remained in the jungle on that operation following that nocturnal SOS message. Finally, it was the very last day of this particular operation. I was riding in an armored personnel carrier through a lightly forested area of jungle. Suddenly, an enormous explosion beneath the vehicle seemed to lift it off the ground. Some enemy soldiers nearby had detonated a huge landmine. The engine was blown out. The tracks and all the road wheels were blown off. Everyone inside, including me, was wounded. But no one died.

And in that very moment, there again came to my mind that same still voice and that same passage of scripture. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths.”

As Heber J. Grant matured, his faith in God also matured. His wife lay critically ill, and Heber J. Grant called his children into her hospital room and told them that their mother was going to die. President Grant’s daughter, upon learning of this, pleaded with her father not to let her mother die. She pleaded with him to exercise his priesthood in her behalf. She and his other children left the room and President Grant knelt by his wife’s bed. Of that prayer President Grant said:
“I told the Lord, I acknowledged his hand in life and in death, in joy or in sorrow, in prosperity or adversity. I did not complain because my wife was dying, but that I lacked the strength to see my wife die and have her death affect the faith of my children in the ordinances of the gospel. I therefore pleaded with him to give to my daughter Lutie a testimony that it was his will that her mother should die. Within a few short hours, my wife breathed her last. Then I called the children into the bedroom and announced that their mamma was dead. My little boy Heber commenced weeping bitterly, and Lutie put her arms around him and kissed him, and told him not to cry, that the voice of the Lord had said to her, ‘In the death of your mamma the will of the Lord will be.’ Lutie knew nothing of my prayers, and this manifestation to her was a direct answer to my supplication to the Lord, and for it I have never ceased to be grateful.”

I straightened up in my seat in English class when I heard the topic of the next speaker: why the Mormon Church is wrong and why Mormons are hypocritical haters. During the speech, I felt my cheeks burn, and shock and betrayal settled within my chest. How could my very own friends, knowing I was LDS, choose to say slanderous remarks in front of my entire class?
After the bell rang, I was approached by the speaker and some of my other friends. With the Spirit burning inside me, I told them what they said was wrong and that the Church doesn’t hate people who don’t live our beliefs. In return, they bombarded me with false statements and accusations. I felt alone. I thought, “How is it fair that when I am living what I know to be true, I must constantly be persecuted?”
When I got home from school that day, I saw an email from my grandma. In it she told me to look up Matthew 5:11–14. With tears in my eyes, I read: “Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you. … Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.”
The Holy Ghost filled my heart as I read those words. I know that persecution can strengthen our testimonies, and I know that the blessings in heaven will be well worth the pain we go through here on earth. The Savior made it possible for us to find peace when we are being persecuted for living His gospel, and for that I’m truly grateful.

Our Church members demonstrated the healing and pacifying power of love in their shipment of food and clothing to relieve the suffering of the German Saints just after World War II. U.S. President Harry S. Truman was amazed when President George Albert Smith told him the supplies would not be sold. “You don’t mean you are going to give it to them?” he exclaimed.

President Smith replied simply, “They are our brothers and sisters and are in distress” (in Edward L. Kimball and Andrew E. Kimball, Jr., Spencer W. Kimball [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1977], p. 222).

A few months later, Elder Ezra Taft Benson saw a German member in tears as he ran his fingers through a container of cracked wheat and whispered, “Brother Benson, it is hard for me to believe that people who have never seen us could do so much for us” (in Sheri L. Dew, Ezra Taft Benson [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1987], p. 219).

I served mass in the Catholic Church virtually every Sunday, from the age of nine to the age of twenty-one. In this experience, my religious experience, I was taught that any prophet that comes forth in modern times would be a false prophet. When I talk about doctrinal baggage, that was a problem for me. From day one, Joseph Smith could not be a prophet for me because I had been taught prophets in the latter days would be false prophets. With that kind of beginning, and then to be introduced to Joseph, how does one break through that barrier of doctrinal baggage and other baggage – and come to the knowledge of the truth?
Part of my doctrinal baggage was a belief system that declared a God incomprehensible to understand by definition and by logic. I had to work through that with the help of the true doctrines of Christ revealed through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I was introduced to the idea of a Restoration of the gospel through Latter-day Saint friends at Washington State University. My wife today and other young people were my first contacts with the teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
At the age of 21, a returned missionary seminary teacher invited me to attend the first early morning seminary class taught in the state of Washington. It was in Pullman, Washington where I was a senior at Washington State University and was taught by a young man named John Madsen. Brother Madsen was a fellow university student, yet he invited me to come to his class with the young high school students and learn about seminary. I thought that was a curious thing: seminary was where I would have gone to become a Catholic priest. What were these Mormon youth doing in seminary?
During the first few weeks into the course on Church History; who was the major character in Church History? You can’t go a day without learning about Joseph Smith. Some six weeks into the course, Brother Madsen played a tape that most of you have probably never heard. It was called “Profile of a Prophet” by Hugh B. Brown, a former member of the First Presidency of the Church. It was a Friday morning, and in that setting, I still remember the words “under girding and over arching” his testimony as they came into my soul about this prophet, Joseph Smith. I received a powerful witness that morning that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet.
Joseph Smith was truly the latter-day prototype of “asking God.” When we ask the right questions, what can be the answers? I was yet to learn many glorious things. I had said thousands of prayers in my life, but I had not yet learned to pray.
I testify to you that many years ago after one year of investigation of this Church, none of my experiences of past years have been any more powerful, more revealing, more convincing than on a special Friday morning 42 years ago. After going back to my little apartment following the seminary class, having heard the words of President Brown concerning the “Profile of the Prophet”, after having been invited to read selected passages from the Book of Mormon; I was prepared to ask God in sincere prayer “if these things are not true”. As invited to do so by the prophet Moroni in Moroni 10:4-5, I asked with real intent, having faith in Christ that he would reveal it unto me by the power of the Holy Ghost. I desired to know the truth of all things. I asked the right questions, finally. Is Jesus the head of this Church? Is Joseph His prophet? Are there living prophets on the earth today and in this Church? Is this the true Church and should I join? Is the Book of Mormon indeed the word of God? What must I do?
As Moroni promised to the readers of the book, “by the power of the Holy Ghost, you may know the truth of all things.” In that moment of humble prayer, standing reverently and humbly in my little room in my apartment, from the top of my head to the soles of my feet there was burned out of my being every doubt, every concern, every worry, every question that I had about joining the Church. I was still a Catholic, I had never met a missionary, thus what does one do? I sought out those who taught that the Restoration of the gospel had occurred in these latter-days through the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Coming to know the Prophet Joseph Smith was the key to my conversion, along with reading the Book of Mormon, the keystone of our religion. I learned then, as I have continued to learn in these years as a convert, that Joseph Smith’s remarks about the Book of Mormon are true. “A man can get nearer to God by abiding by the precepts of this book than by any other book.”[13] I know that to be true, and that is my personal experience. I have been able to shed the doctrinal baggage that I learned as a youth and I now have been able to understand what God has revealed from the heavens. Through His prophets, through His Christ, through His records, I know these things are true. As I have learned the doctrine of Christ in the plain and precious teachings of the Book of Mormon, I have drawn nearer to God and I know that He lives and He has helped me walk the paths of life.

It seemed like the bell would never ring. Why does the day that Grandfather comes always seem like the longest day of the year? Alma wondered. And when will—
The clanging schoolbell interrupted Alma’s thoughts, and he quickly ran out of the classroom.
“Alma Cutler, slow down!” his teacher Miss Young called after him.
Alma barely heard her. He just had to get home in a hurry today. Grandfather was coming to visit!
Alma tripped over a rock in the dirt road and fell head over heels. His school books and papers were scattered everywhere. He jumped up and gathered his books and papers into a bunch and continued running. “Why does everything have to slow me down the day Grandfather comes?” he said to no one in particular.
As Alma ran into the kitchen where his mother was baking bread, he went so fast that he couldn’t stop, and he crashed into the table, sending the baking flour flying like a cloud into the air.
“Alma Cutler! What on earth’s wrong with you?” his mother scolded, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I’m just excited to see Grandfather,” Alma replied. “Where is he?”
“He and your father haven’t come from the railroad station yet. Now get yourself out of my kitchen and go and gather the eggs.”
Alma hurried to the chicken coop to gather the eggs. He was proud that he didn’t break any, since everything else had gone wrong. But then when he went to get some chicken feed, he leaned too far over the grain barrel, and it fell over. Alma tried to scoop up the grain, but the chickens were eager to get to the spilled feed and scrambled all over him. He had a terrible time.
Once out of the chicken coop, Alma ran back to the house and yelled, “Is Grandfather here yet?”
“Not yet,” his mother answered.
Alma sat down on an old tree stump outside the kitchen window and picked some chicken feathers off his pants. “How come Grandfather’s not on time?” he grumbled.
“Good heavens, child!” his mother said. “Finish your work and stop worrying about when your grandfather will be here. He’ll get here when he gets here.”
Alma got up and kicked at some weeds. He couldn’t understand why he was the only one who got excited when Grandfather came.
At the side of the house, Alma picked up a bucket of potato peelings and vegetable tops to feed the pigs. When he got to the pigpen, Alma used all his strength to lift the bucket up on to the fence but he wasn’t careful where he put his feet. Suddenly he slipped and fell against the fence, and some of the messy mixture spilled on him. Alma was sure the pigs were laughing at him.
Alma put the bucket away and walked back into the house. Before he could ask about Grandfather, his mother sniffed the air and groaned, “Alma, did you have to play with the pigs? Now get yourself cleaned up before your grandfather comes.”
Alma went to his room and took off his dirty clothes and began to wash himself. He was scrubbing his face when he heard his mother calling out a greeting. “Grandfather’s here!” Alma shouted, letting the soapy water run into his eyes. “Ow!” he yelled, and he quickly rinsed the soap from his eyes.
As soon as he had put on clean clothes, Alma ran to the kitchen. Just before he got there, he heard his mother say, “I’m telling you, Father, I just don’t know what happens to the boy when he knows you’re coming. He complains all day long, wondering when you’ll get here, and he can’t do anything without it going wrong.”
Alma blushed, and he wanted to hide, but there was Grandfather coming out of the kitchen. “There you are, Alma! How’s my favorite grandson?”
“I didn’t mean to complain, Grandfather,” Alma said. “I just wanted you to get here faster.”
“You heard what your mother said, didn’t you?” his grandfather asked.
“I didn’t mean to,” Alma told him, “but—”
“Now, don’t you worry,” Grandfather said. “Come and sit down next to me and let me tell you a story that taught me a lesson about complaining.
“You see, Alma, complaining about being thirsty didn’t get us to the water hole any sooner.”
Alma looked up at his grandfather and saw a smile in the old man’s eyes. The next time Grandfather comes, Alma thought, I’ll be just like Hunkup. I won’t want Grandfather to be here until he comes.

I remember the first time I encountered the Americans. We came through a dense pine forest, and we had to go across the street. We opened the branches and all of a sudden a huge tank was right in front, and the gun was aimed at us.
I was scared. I had never seen an American tank or an American. The top of the tank opened, and an American came out. Russian prisoners who had been freed by the Americans were sitting on top. They saw that we were shaking. The American asked me where we came from and where we wanted to go. I told him we wanted to go home. “No way,” he said. “You just jump on here, and we’ll take you along. At the next stop we’ll put you on a truck that will take you to a camp.”

The Russian soldiers seated on the tank made me think of a possible solution to our dilemma. During the war the feeling of love I had learned all my life in church was in my heart. I didn’t hate anyone. I thought about being my brother’s keeper.

The Russian soldiers imprisoned in our camp weren’t treated well. They went without much to eat and we had plenty, so we asked them to clean our mess kits, and they consented. We left food in them all the time just to feed them.

My commanding officer noticed, and he called me in. “What do you do with your mess kits?”
“The Russians clean them for us,” I replied.
“I checked and there was food in them.”
“We cannot eat it all. That’s why we leave it in there.”
“You know that’s strictly forbidden. I could report you and you would be in trouble. Don’t do it again,” he said, and patted me on the shoulder.

One of the Russians to whom we had given the food wrote me a note. He told me that whenever we lost the war or I needed help from the Russians to show them this note.

I had put it in my pocket, and at the moment that we were confronted with that tank I remembered it. I pulled it out and gave it to the Russians. They read it and then all of a sudden said, “Friend! Friend!” in German and talked to the American, telling him that I had given food to the Russians. He said, “I hear you have been good to the Russians. Instead of us taking you along, just go ahead.”

Toward the end of his mission in Seoul, Korea, Michael Tally Ringwood spent a day with an ill, apartment-bound companion, which provided an additional opportunity for study, reflection, and prayer.
“I felt that I needed reassurance,” says Elder Ringwood, now a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. After praying for as long as he had ever prayed, the reassurance hadn’t come. It didn’t come when he turned to scripture study either. But finally, when Elder Ringwood turned to his missionary journal, the confirmation came.
“In every entry I read, I had written something significant about the Spirit. The message that came to me was this: ‘I have told you many times. How much more assurance do you need?’ That was the answer to my prayer. I realized that these witnesses had happened repeatedly and often. The Lord had always been there. He was reminding me that I had felt the Spirit and the testifying of the Holy Ghost.”
That lesson has served Elder Ringwood throughout his life and callings as bishop, high councilor, high priests group leader, Young Men president, Scoutmaster, stake president, and president of the Korea Seoul West Mission.

At school that morning, Marcus noticed a new boy walk into the classroom.
“Good morning, everyone,” Mrs. Becker said as everyone quieted down. “This is Halim. He is new to our school. In fact, he is new to our country.”
Halim kept looking at the floor as he said hello. Marcus thought his voice sounded kind of different. Mrs. Becker kept talking.
“We are so glad he is here and that he is going to be part of our class. I hope we can all help him feel welcome.”
As Mrs. Becker showed Halim where to sit, Marcus thought about how nervous he would feel if he had to move to a new country and a new school.
After their morning snack, Mrs. Becker told everyone she had a surprise for them. Marcus sat up really straight so he could see what she was pulling out of her bag. They were small buckets. She started passing them out to everyone in the class.
“Each one of us has an imaginary bucket inside of ourselves,” she said as she handed Marcus a yellow bucket. “People fill our buckets when they do nice things for us. And we can fill others’ buckets by being nice to them. For example, when your mom gives you a hug, she is filling your bucket. When you say something nice to someone, you are filling their bucket.”
Marcus looked at his best friend, Caleb. He got a yellow bucket too!
“This week, we’ll keep these buckets on our desks so we can write nice notes for each other,” Mrs. Becker said. She folded up a little piece of paper and dropped it in a bucket. “And that will help us remember the imaginary buckets everyone has inside. We want to be kind so that we are bucket fillers.”
Marcus pulled out a piece of paper and thought of the things he could write to Caleb, like that he was good at sports. But then he looked at Halim. His shoulders were kind of bent over, like he was sad.
Marcus wondered if Halim had a best friend where he used to live. It must have been hard to say goodbye and scary to move so far away.
Marcus looked down at the blank piece of paper on his desk. He had an idea, then he wrote,
“Dear Halim,
Welcome to our school. If you want, we can play at recess. I will be your friend. And I bet Caleb will be your friend too.
From, Marcus.”
Then he carefully folded the paper up and dropped it in Halim’s bucket. Halim smiled. Marcus felt warm and happy inside. He liked being a bucket filler!

As a young swat team leader some years ago, I found this to be particularly true. On one occasion, our team was called to a house on the east side of Salt Lake City. This house was a notorious drug house and we were going to raid the house on a particular afternoon when we knew that there would be drug transactions taking place inside. As our team assembled and surrounded the outside of the home, I prepared to enter the front door. We knocked the door off of the hinges and I threw a flash bang grenade into the now open front door. Once the grenade exploded we rushed inside to the scrambling terrified people who were seeking refuge from the intruders. Noticeable, as we entered was the unexpected presence of women who were also running in fear. They were scantily dressed and it became immediately apparent that their purpose was not honorable.

In the corner was one woman who appeared no older than 18. She was visibly frightened and after we rounded up the suspects we had come for, we were faced with the dilemma of the young prostitute. We were not interested in arresting her and so I asked her if there was someone we could call who could come and pick her up. Her tears began to fall as she sat in silence for a few minutes and then she surprised me with her response. “Could you please call my young women’s leader,” she asked. I responded that I would be happy to call whoever she desired. She provided me with the phone number that she had memorized and I called the young woman’s leader. A woman’s voice was heard on the other end of the line. I explained the situation and gave her the name of the young woman we were holding that had requested assistance from her “young women’s leader”. Although this was in the middle of the afternoon, there was no hesitation in the voice on the other end of the line. “Tell me where you are,” she asked, and once I provided the address, she stated she would be right there. Within 30 minutes, the young woman leader entered the door-less front entrance. She quickly looked around the room and spotted her young woman huddled in the corner. In a sweeping gesture, she took up a blanket from a mattress and on bended knee she crawled to the side of the young prostitute and wrapped her in the blanket. As tough as a swat team may appear on the outside, most of the men that were with me shed tears as we watched this compassionate woman who, in the moment of distress, came to the rescue of one of those whom the Lord had given her stewardship. There were no words of condemnation and no looks of disgust as these two women cried in each other’s arms. Once the crying stopped, this leader pulled up her young friend and with the most kind and loving gestures led her from the house.

Illustration by Brooke Smart
Forty-five minutes after boarding the plane that would take me to Dallas, where I would meet with other missionaries en route to the Brazil MTC, we had yet to leave the gate. Finally the pilot came over the speaker and told us the plane had a mechanical problem that would take 15 minutes to fix. We were taken off the plane so work could begin.
Fifteen minutes soon turned into three hours. With each passing hour I began to worry I would miss my next layover, and I’d have to fly to Brazil alone, not knowing a word of Portuguese and running the risk of having nobody there to pick me up.
I started to get scared. I knew I was doing the right thing going to Brazil to serve a mission, but why couldn’t it go smoothly? Why was this happening?
I called my house from a pay phone. With tears in my eyes I asked my mom to contact the Church’s travel office to tell them I would miss my flight in Dallas. I wanted so badly to ask her to make the drive down to the airport to pick me up. I caught myself thinking, “Maybe I can leave for my mission next week.” But I knew that wasn’t the right thing, so I held my tongue. It was hard to say goodbye and hang up the phone.
I sat there for a second trying to collect myself, and I turned around. Just then a woman passed by me, holding her little boy’s hand. She saw my name tag and immediately stopped.
“Elder! Are you coming home or just leaving for the field?”
I told her I was just leaving, and with a smile she told me her little boy looked up to us missionaries. She wished me luck and left.
I don’t even know her name, but that conversation of less than one minute gave me the strength I needed to continue. It is one of the most memorable tender mercies I have experienced. I knew God was aware of me. He wanted me to do this—and I knew that I could.

The spicy aroma of teriyaki chicken greeted the members of the Healdsburg Ward, Santa Rosa California Stake, and their nonmember friends as they entered the cultural hall. The promise of a delicious dinner was fulfilled, followed by a song-and-dance program presented by 26 members of the ward who called themselves the “Healdsburg Kids.” It was a missionary dinner where any family who brought a nonmember was invited to eat for free.
“Everyone was pleased with the results of their efforts and were relieved when it was over!” said Elder Brent Mortensen, who was a member of the “Healdsburg Kids” and is currently serving a mission in Montana. “We didn’t realize at the time that it was really the beginning of an even greater missionary activity.”
Shortly after the dinner, Sister Kaye Davis suggested that the ward present its dinner show at the recently completed Historical Society Museum in Healdsburg. The members of the Church would decorate, provide the food and entertainment, cook, serve, and clean up, with all proceeds going to the museum.
The Society, after being assured that all they would have to do would be sell tickets, accepted the offer. The “Healdsburg Kids,” who had begun performing together five years before with seven members, eagerly accepted the challenge of three rehearsals a week for the next month. A special fast was held, and concluded with prayer, followed by a cast dinner and another rehearsal. The night of the dinner arrived, and the cast was excited! “We wanted to show the non-Mormons what the Church does for the youth, that it is a family-centered Church,” said Elder Mortensen.
Highlights of the evening included “An American Trilogy” (a medley comprised of old-time favorites) and a medley called “America’s Music Through the Years.” The program concluded with “Love at Home.” “We could feel the Spirit of the Lord,” said Elder Mortensen.
“It was a big job to prepare, both physically and spiritually, but it was fun and well-worth the effort! The seventies have been able to teach several people who first became interested in the Church after seeing the program. We discovered that a small ward can have success in missionary work. At one time all the wards in the Church were small. The Church is true in all parts of the world, and it’s our responsibility to make sure our neighbors know about it!” he added.

A mother who was diagnosed with cancer told of being isolated in a bare room for many long days behind closed lead-lined doors, feeling like a prisoner convicted of a crime she didn’t commit. Then she tells of her oldest daughter coming to visit:

She sat down behind the lead screen that separated us and proceeded to take off her boots and socks. She slipped her socks on her hands and pretended they were puppets and spoke through them. I laughed for the first time in months. That simple act brightened my outlook instantly. [Emily Farmer, “‘What Do I Say to Someone Who Is Dying?’” Ensign, April 1990, 73]

One of our main forms of proselyting was by using street meetings. On regular evenings we would start our meetings with a song and prayer at Pemberton Square in Boston or Harvard Square or Central Square in Cambridge. Sunday afternoon was usually spent on the “Commons” where there was a different meeting going on under every tree. Choosing a site for ourselves, we would pick up a discarded wooden ice-cream spoon, and stooping down, scratch out our topic in the gravel path. This usually brought a crowd of curious ones to see what was going on, and then it was up to the speaker to produce. It was interesting, and some lively conversations usually took place, but no conversions resulted.

On my mission I learned how to really study and feast upon the scriptures. Not only did I feel the Holy Ghost as I read, but I also started to feel joy as I searched the scriptures to find answers to my problems and those of my investigators.
After my mission, I continued to feast upon the scriptures daily. Because this practice invited the Holy Ghost into my life, I received His direction to help me use my time more efficiently. As a result, I did better in school and, later, at work. It became easier to make good decisions. I prayed more and was more diligent in fulfilling my callings. Feasting upon the scriptures daily didn’t solve all my problems, but life was easier.