Gospel Story Finder

Illustrations by Clare MS Liao
McKay dressed in his church clothes. He put on his favorite yellow tie. McKay liked going to Primary. He liked his teacher. He liked his Sunbeam class.
But McKay also felt a little sad. Daddy, McKay, and Ryan went to church. But Mommy didn’t go to church.
When McKay was in Primary, he kept thinking about Mommy. He didn’t want her to be lonely. Then he heard his teacher say that it was time to sing “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
“That’s my favorite song!” McKay said. McKay loved how happy he felt singing. He sang in his loudest voice.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam,
Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam,
I’ll be a sunbeam for Him.
After the song, McKay’s teacher helped everyone make a sun necklace with paper and yarn. McKay colored his bright yellow and drew a happy face. He wanted Mommy to feel as happy as he did.
Daddy came to pick him up after class. McKay showed Daddy the sun necklace. “I want to be like Jesus. I’m going to give this to Mommy.”
Daddy smiled. “That’s a great idea.”
At home, McKay gave Mommy the necklace. “I made this for you! You can wear it when I’m at church.”
Mommy hugged McKay. “Thank you!” She put it around her neck. “I’ll think of you whenever I wear it.”

When I was pregnant with my youngest child, Margaret Blackburn served as our ward Relief Society president. We knew each other only from the little time we shared during meetings at church.
After I delivered my baby, women brought meals that first week, including Margaret, who was older and frail. I was grateful because I had no energy or desire to plan a meal, cook, or shop for ingredients—let alone all three.
After that first week, Margaret continued to bring meals. Whether they were home-cooked meals or leftovers from a ward activity, it didn’t matter to me. It was almost as if she knew that more than I needed someone to hold my baby or clean my home, I needed the blessing of not having to think about what was for dinner.
A short while later, Margaret was released from her calling because of failing health. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Once I learned of her diagnosis, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to serve her—not because I owed it to her or needed to repay her kindness. Rather, because of her service to me, I had grown to love her.
Margaret had taught me that through service, we truly become connected. When I thought of this incredible woman, my heart ached to think of her pushing a vacuum or sweeping her kitchen floor. So, each week I began visiting her and cleaning her home.
One day while driving home afterward, I became overwhelmed with gratitude that Heavenly Father had orchestrated these charitable opportunities. If Margaret had not served me so diligently, I probably would not have been comfortable making regular visits to her home. I came to cherish that time with her! God knew that by sending her to me in my time of need, the path would be paved for me to serve her in her time of need.
My eyes filled with tears as I realized how perfectly these inspirations and service opportunities had forever linked us.

Another young man lived on the outskirts of a large metropolitan area. There were no lights or water in the thin-walled, modest structure that served both as a home and a small shop. After his family’s conversion he attended seminary and developed an insatiable desire to learn. With great effort he entered the university, working part-time to buy books as well as to help support the family. When the desire to go on a mission became overwhelming, he had to double his efforts to save money for his mission. So he carried his books under one arm and his bag of wash rags, wax, and sponges in the other. Between classes he would go out and wash cars, then return for another class. The Lord blessed him with work. He multiplied his income until his leaders felt he had made the necessary sacrifice to help sustain himself.

There are scores of others, each one a lesson to all in the principle of obedience and sacrifice. A young lady with a great desire to fill a mission was counseled to buy ingredients, make cookies, and sell them at school during lunchtime. She did so. Then she bought more flour, baked more cookies, and continued this process for weeks, making a small amount of money each day to help toward her mission.

Are there not thousands of you listening today who are ready to match these two precious years of a young man’s life with sufficient additional funds from your abundance so that he can have the privilege of service? In this way, could you not become “nursing fathers and mothers” to these children of promise?

I call this matter to your attention for two reasons: First, time is of the essence! We need to get moving with the things of real import. The world must hear the gospel. Paul asks: “How shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent?” (Rom. 10:14–15.) And I ask, how shall they be sent today without sufficient means?

The second reason is the Lord counsels rather specifically about the wise use of property. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33.)

Jacob counsels:
“Think of your brethren like unto yourselves, and be familiar with all and free with your substance, that they may be rich like unto you.
“But before ye seek for riches, seek ye for the kingdom of God.
“And after ye have obtained a hope in Christ ye shall obtain riches … to clothe the naked, and to feed the hungry, and to liberate the captive, and administer relief to the sick and the afflicted.” (Jacob 2:17–19.)

The fact that Apii is alive is part of the reason her family joined the Church. When she was eight years old, she was desperately ill with asthma. Missionaries gave her a blessing, and she was healed literally moments later. “I was really weak,” says Apii. “I couldn’t do anything. I hadn’t been able to eat or drink. As soon as the missionaries said amen, I was all right. I opened my eyes and asked for something to drink. Everybody sort of laughed because they were so relieved. I concentrated on the blessing. I knew it would make me better. I was about nine years old when we joined the Church.”

When Vyacheslav and Zoya Gulko of Ukraine began investigating the Church, their 13-year-old daughter, Kira, wasn’t thrilled. She refused to participate in missionary lessons, and when she knew the elders were coming to their home, she “demonstratively shut the door of her room,” her mother remembers.
Brother and Sister Gulko, who decided to join the Church, suspected that if they could just provide an opportunity for Kira to feel the Spirit, her heart might be touched. Because Sister Gulko’s own testimony had begun when she attended another person’s baptism, she asked Kira to come to her baptism—just to help her change into dry clothes afterward. To Sister Gulko’s surprise, Kira agreed.
“It happened!” Sister Gulko remembers. “Heavenly Father was working in a very miraculous way.” Kira did feel the Spirit, and a week after her parents’ baptism, she agreed to meet with the missionaries. She began reading the Book of Mormon. A few weeks later, Sister Gulko noticed a piece of paper hanging above Kira’s desk; written on it were the words of 2 Nephi 2:25. Two and a half months after their own baptism, the Gulkos attended their daughter’s baptism. Now, 20 years later, Kira is married. She and her husband, Dave, have been sealed in the temple and are raising their two sons in the gospel. She has served faithfully in a number of callings and has remained active in the Church.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to help publish a book? Well, 11-year-old Anna M. from Edmond, Oklahoma, knows all about it!
One day, Anna had an idea for a story: What would happen if a girl went on vacation and ended up with a group of rowdy pirates from the past? Anna told her dad about the idea. He thought it was so good that they turned it into a book. A year and a half after they started writing, Anna was holding a finished copy of their book in her hands.
It was a long process, but Anna and her dad grew closer through the experience. After school they would sit in the school library and he would write while she did her homework. Without Anna’s great ideas their book never could have been written. It was a team effort, and Anna loved working with her dad.
The greatest lesson Anna has learned by helping write a book is that the road to your dreams can be long and hard. But you can succeed with patience and hard work! “If you have a dream, don’t let anything get in the way,” Anna says.

Another friend of mine is a prominent corporation lawyer. For years he’s had trouble sleeping at night. An ardent fisherman, he decided one restless night that he would try making the flies that fishermen use. The next day he bought some inexpensive equipment. He went completely overboard on flytying. He enjoyed it even more than fishing. In the space of a few years he must have tied half a million of those things, and he was proud of every single one of them. He became an expert.

I had the strangest feeling when the whole family left for church without me. My mother and father didn’t make half the fuss I had expected when, just before time to leave, I announced, “I don’t want to go to meeting today.”

“Oh!” Grandma said, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not, are you sick?” Mama asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. “I’m sick of listening to long, boring talks.”

“Well, sounds as though we have only a part-time Mormon,” Papa remarked.

“I am not a part-time Mormon,” I protested. “I’m one all the time.”

“Your testimony sounds a bit shaky to me,” Papa responded.

“What does a testimony have to do with going to church anyway?” I asked.

“Everything,” my sister Laura chipped in. “If a person knows the gospel is true, she tries to do what she’s supposed to.”

“You’re preaching,” I objected.

“What will you do while we’re in church?” Mama asked.

“I’ll play with Joyce and Joan and their cousins.”

“Church is out by five. You can play with them after that,” Mother suggested.

Everyone was looking at me like I had two heads. I was annoyed. Couldn’t I be different just once? I knew plenty of kids that didn’t have to go to church, and their parents didn’t go either.

“If we wait until after church, we can’t finish our hut down by the river,” I explained.

Shaking her head, Mama sighed, “So Papa is right. We do have a part-time Mormon in the family.”

Feeling hurt, I asked, “How come?”

“Just think it over,” she answered.

And off my family went to church without me. I almost ran after them as they passed through the gate, but then I overheard Laura say, “She won’t really miss meeting. She’ll catch up with us before we reach the corner.”

Well! I’ll show her, I thought.

To prevent my weakening, I changed quickly into my old sweat shirt and jeans. Already Joan and the others were calling for me over the picket fence.

I had a strong urge to shout, “I’m not going.” Instead, I met them at the gate.

Usually going to the river was exciting, but today it wasn’t. There was still time to change my mind and attend church with my folks, for they always left early. While I stood, debating, Joyce asked, “Well, what’s bothering you? Did your old cat die or something?”

“Of course not, silly. Come on, let’s go,” I answered decisively.

I didn’t feel much like talking, so I ran ahead, making the other girls race to catch up. When we came to the river, we were winded.

The river! Big deal! I thought. It’s nothing more than a trickle through sand and rocks, and I thought it would be so great!

The sun was sizzling hot, my clothes were sticky, and a rock was in my shoe. Suddenly Joyce wailed, “Oh, look! Someone has caved our hut in.”

Sure enough! All our hard work of cutting and placing tamarack branches was wasted. The hut was a wreck.

Discouraged, I plopped down against a boulder in the shade of a black willow, shaking the gravel out of my shoes. A gnat that wouldn’t be shooed away buzzed my ears.

“Who wants a tamarack hut anyway?” I snapped.

Indignantly, with hands on her hips, Joan stood before me. “Look! Something is bothering you. What is it? You’re the one who thought the hut was so important.”

“Ah, I’m all right,” I said. “I just have some thinking to do, OK? Why don’t you all forget about me and go have some fun?”

“C’mon, let’s let the old potato sit and stew,” Joan urged. “The last one in the river is a mud turtle!”

There was a scramble as the girls pulled off their shoes and stockings, and I was left alone.

I sat and thought, If I need a testimony, I’d better do something about it. All my life I’ve heard people get up in church and say what they’re thankful for. Being thankful is important. Our Heavenly Father wouldn’t want to bless us if we weren’t thankful. But a testimony must be more than that. I thought hard.

When Joseph Smith went into the woods to pray, he saw the Father and the Son. So he had a testimony. He knew Jesus Christ was the Son of God. Hot as the day was, that thought made my skin prickle, and I shivered.

In Sunday School we had talked about an angel of God coming down and showing the gold plates to the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So of course they had testimonies.

But I had never seen an angel or seen a light or heard a voice from heaven. So that’s probably why I was in this sorry state, sitting in the dirt against an old lava rock in my grubbiest clothes, while my sisters sat in church in their crisp pink and blue dresses beside Papa, Mama, and Grandma. Then like a bolt, the thought struck me! None of my family has seen or heard anymore than I have!

I learned back against that boulder ready to cry. I wanted a testimony too! “Please help me, Heavenly Father,” I prayed.

Gradually, a sweet, sweet feeling swept through me. Why, I did have a testimony. I had always had one. If I knew Joseph knew and that the Three Witnesses knew that Jesus Christ was the Son of our Heavenly Father—then naturally I knew too. How wonderful! Tears trickled down my gritty cheeks. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered.

I ran to the riverbank where my friends were playing. “Hey, everybody, c’mere,” I called excitedly.

“Well, look who’s come alive,” Joyce said. Eagerly they came.

“Come on, let’s go home. This is no way to spend Sunday,” I told them.

Timidly one of the cousins said, “Mama and Papa would never let us do this at home.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” I agreed. “And we’re not coming to the river anymore on Sunday. We’ll fix that hut tomorrow.”

“Then the hut matters?” Joan asked.

“Sure it does. Tamarack huts are important.”

The family was already home when I got there. I hurried and scrubbed away my disgrace. No one paid any attention to me except Mama. “Did you have a good time at the river?” she asked.

“I suffered,” I answered.

The following Sunday was fast day, and I had been saving a surprise all week for my family. I was the first one at the pulpit when it was time to bear testimonies. I knew exactly what I was going to say.

But when I looked down at the people, their faces blurred. I was scared. My heart pounded and my throat was dry. I couldn’t remember one single word I had planned to say. Lying on the pulpit was a slip of paper with the title of the closing song, “I know That My Redeemer Lives.”

Tingling from head to toe, I took a deep breath and said, “Oh, how very much I know that my Redeemer really and truly lives.” Tears began to sting my eyes. Fearing I might cry, I could only add, “in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Reaching my seat again, I squeezed in between Laura and Papa. His big brown hand closed over mine and his smile was broad and warm.

But think of the day when you must know what God would say and what He would do. It has already come for us all—wherever you are in your calling in the priesthood. I grew up in the mission field in the eastern United States during World War II. The members of the Church lived far apart, and there was strict gas rationing. I was the only deacon in the branch. The members gave their fast-offering envelopes to the branch president when they came to fast and testimony meeting in our home.

When I was 13 years old, we moved to Utah to live in a large ward. I remember my first assignment to walk to homes to collect fast offerings. I looked at the name on one of the envelopes I was given and noticed the last name was the same as one of the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So I knocked on the door with confidence. The man opened the door, looked at me, scowled, and then barked at me to go away. I went away with my head down.

That was nearly 70 years ago, but I still remember the feeling I had that day on the doorstep that there was something I was supposed to have said or done. If only I had prayed in faith as I went out that day, I might have been inspired to stand a moment longer on that doorstep, smile, and say something like: “It is good to meet you. Thank you for what you and your family have given in the past. I look forward to seeing you next month.”

Had I said and done that, he might have been even more irritated—and even offended. But I know now how I might have felt. Rather than feeling sadness or failure as I walked away, I might have felt the soft commendation in my mind and heart: “Well done.”

Next, Paula’s focus shifted to people living just across the border in Tijuana, Mexico. She heard about the desperate conditions many families were living in and she went to work. She collected clothing, food, and household items from everyone she knew. Soon the collected items were taken across the border and given to the families who so badly needed them. She is still collecting and sending on a continual basis.

The last of the rain that had let up an hour ago ran down the gutters, carrying leaves, papers, and other debris along with it. The air smelled clean and fresh, but Ian Rollins didn’t notice it as he drove slowly along the empty streets. Neither did he notice the distorted reflection of neon lights in the puddles on the ground as dusk came on, or the rising moon peeking through storm clouds. He just drove, not paying any more attention to where he was going than to the post-rainstorm outdoors. His thoughts and concentration were wrapped up deeply in more pressing matters.
Driving was what he did when he needed time to think, and this October night, there was plenty for him to think about. His birthday was coming up in a couple of months, his 19th birthday, to be exact. And something he had not thought about in a long time, had put off thinking about, had suddenly appeared—going on a mission.
His parents certainly wanted him to go. Their comments and questions about what he thought of a mission had become more and more frequent until, that evening at dinner, he informed them that they might as well stop bugging him about it because he didn’t know if he even wanted to go. “Why?” they had asked, as he knew they would. And the worst part about it was that he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know himself. The best way he could put it to himself was that he didn’t want to think about a mission, and that meant it wasn’t for him.
On another level, though, another thought would surface briefly. Maybe it was really skepticism that kept him from wanting a mission. It was hard for him to believe the returned missionaries who said a mission was the best two years of their life. Maybe there were better things to do with his time. No matter how he tried to explain it to himself, though, he always got a feeling of emptiness and misdirection when he put thoughts of a mission away.
Tonight Ian was determined to convince himself one way or another by thinking out the pros and cons while he drove. He continued to wrestle with his thoughts as he absently turned right onto a dark side street. Then something caught his attention and he looked around.
Most of the lights on the street were out, but one neon sign glowed blue light into the darkness. “Hats,” it said, and the sign underneath it in the window said “Open.” Ian had never seen this small shop before, and with a bit of curiosity that surprised him, he parked his car and crossed the street to go in.
Inside, he was confronted with what seemed like a mountain of hats, all shapes and sizes. Hats were piled on tables, stacked three or four deep on plaster mannequin heads, hanging from hooks on the walls the whole length of the shop. For such a small business they were well stocked, but that made it look more like a rummage sale than a hat boutique. Even the counter where the cash register sat had hats scattered on it. On the wall behind the counter was a sign that simply said, “We’ve got what you need.”
I doubt that, Ian thought sarcastically to himself. You don’t even know what I need. He was still curious about the place, though, so he began to browse.
The first thing he found was a score of baseball caps advertising various musical groups. He picked out one from a group he liked and took it to a nearby mirror to try it on. He stuck it on his head, and suddenly a strange thing happened. He was no longer in a quiet little hat shop. He began to hear a great roar, and the temperature in the room got hotter, and abruptly he saw a crowd of people bathed in glaring lights. Then he realized he was in an arena, and he was there to sing to all those people. He was the lead singer of the group, ready to step up to a microphone and belt out the lyrics to a top-ten hit. All the same, he knew he was still Ian Rollins, with the same indecisiveness plaguing him. That didn’t change, no matter how vivid this illusion was. He pulled the hat off, and slowly the image faded and he was back in the shop.
No hat had ever had that effect on him. He stared at it, trying to see what had made it do that, but in his hands it looked and felt as normal as any other hat. He was still contemplating this when a voice from behind startled him.
“Need any help?”
Ian turned, and behind the counter was an old man with curly white hair and a gray mustache. He was dressed in a white shirt and gray vest that struck Ian as old-fashioned for some reason. He peered at Ian through round, wire-rimmed spectacles.
“No, thanks,” Ian said, “I’m just looking.” The old man nodded. “How late are you open?” Ian asked.
“As late as we need to be,” the old man answered. “It varies from time to time.”
Ian turned back to the hats, shrugging off the strange answer the man had given. The next hat he tried on was a dusty old top hat. As soon as it was on, the cluttered shop became a spacious ballroom, and he was dressed in a tuxedo and shiny, black shoes as well as the hat. His arm was linked in the arm of a beautiful young woman. Her hair and clothing were styled in a way he had seen in old movies and in the pictures of his grandparents when they were young. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and the woman smiled at him as he led her onto the dance floor. But Ian still felt hollow and confused, and he removed the hat. Immediately he came back to the real world.
It had done it again! When the illusion was happening, it all seemed perfectly normal, but when he took the hat off and reality came rushing back, he realized that he had been dreaming or something. He looked at the old man, who was still behind the counter. He didn’t act like anything strange had occurred. He was sitting there, reading a book. Ian almost asked, “Did you see that?” then thought better of it. He didn’t want anyone thinking there was something wrong with him.
This is all very nice, Ian thought. But I still haven’t figured anything out, and it’s getting late. Even so, he decided to try on one more hat, just to see what it would do. After looking around a bit, he found an old, brown derby. Ian didn’t think very much could be interesting about such a nondescript hat, but he put it on anyway.
Before he even saw anything, he was suddenly very hungry, and his feet hurt like they did when he went on Boy Scout hikes. Then he saw where he was, on a dirt road lined with trees that were laden with leaves colored by autumn. A cool breeze made an occasional leaf float to the ground. He was walking down this road, and alongside him was another man slightly taller than he, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. Ian himself was carrying a Bible and a Book of Mormon bound by a leather strap. Suddenly, he heard himself say, “Do you think they’ll put us up tonight?”
The other man answered, “I don’t know, Elder. They don’t have much. You know that the father was killed last year at Belleau Wood, and they’ve been struggling ever since. We may have to go on to the next house after we talk to them, and ask for board there.”
Ian sighed. The next house was two more miles away, and he’d been walking all day on the oatmeal he’d had for breakfast. His feet hurt, but at the same time he was happy, because they were finally going to see the Kilminsters, with whom they’d been trying to make an appointment for weeks. Now that they’d consented to see the missionaries …
Ian stopped walking. He knew where he was this time. He was on a mission in a rural area around the end of World War I, a time when missionaries had no cars, no bikes, no apartments, no money. They walked to their contacts and took food and bed where they could get it. In spite of all that, Ian felt no sense of hardship or deprivation. He only felt calm and peaceful, as he knew he was in the right place. It was a good feeling, and it did not diminish with the visual imagery as he took the derby off. It replaced the confusion that had filled him. Tears came to his eyes as he stared at the hat without really seeing it. It was selfish of him to think that he couldn’t go on a mission today and reap rewards as great as those who went years and years before, fighting personal hardship to bring the gospel to God’s children. Ian knew now what he wanted. He took the hat over to the counter.
“How much is this?” he asked the man.
“Five dollars,” he answered. “Bit dated, ain’t it? Nobody wears ’em anymore.”
“I don’t know that I’ll wear it, but I kind of like it.” Ian paid for the hat, and the old man put it in a box. Ian hurried out to his car, eager to get home and talk to his parents.
The old man watched him through the window as his car pulled away. Then, with a smile, he turned the sign to “Closed” and flipped off the lights.

Two years later, Simon came home from work and asked Rostya if she would like to move to Brazil on a company assignment. “When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he replied. They were soon in Santos, Brazil, where Simon began work on an oil pipeline along the coast. They knew they had opened a new phase in their life. But the real change was yet to come.
The young couple soon joined a club for expatriates, where Rostya was attracted to a group of women that seemed enthusiastic and open. When Rostya introduced herself, one of the women said, “‘Gordon-Smith’ sounds English enough, but ‘Rostya’ certainly doesn’t.” “That’s because I’m Czech,” Rostya replied. To Rostya’s surprise, the women started speaking in Czech. Rostya had just met Zaza, a native Czech raised in Brazil, married to an American, Don Clark.
The Clarks and the Gordon-Smiths soon became friends, attending movies together, playing tennis, and just visiting. One day, two Latter-day Saint missionaries called at the Clark home while Rostya was there. “I did not know they were missionaries at that time,” Rostya says. “They were just two young men with short haircuts, dressed in shirts and ties. I asked them who they worked for, because I presumed any foreigner was working for a company. They gave me a very vague answer: they were working for a church, they said, and they were visiting people and reading scriptures with them in their homes. I thought it sounded very strange at the time.”
Don and Zaza Clark, who were members of the Church, began to talk to the Gordon-Smiths about the gospel. Soon, the Clarks invited their friends to attend a Church meeting with them. It was a fast and testimony meeting. “It was a shocker for me,” Rostya says. “All I could see was that everybody wept: men, women, and children. I was very, very embarrassed, and my husband was, too. When Don Clark asked me what I thought about the meeting, I looked at him and said, ‘I think it’s mass hysteria.’”
A short time later, Don and Zaza invited Simon and Rostya to an area conference in São Paulo, where President Spencer W. Kimball announced the building of the temple in Brazil. Rostya was impressed by the affection the people showed for the prophet. Following the conference, the Gordon-Smiths agreed to take the missionary discussions.
Nothing much happened until the lesson on repentance. “I was good at justifying any of my actions,” Rostya says, “but somehow the process of repentance seemed logical to me.” She found herself thinking about repentance, even writing letters of reconciliation. “But when the missionaries asked me to pray about the principle of repentance, I said, ‘How can I pray if I don’t believe in the existence of God?’ ‘How will you know if anyone lives on the tenth floor,’ they asked me, ‘if you don’t ring the bell? Ring the bell and see if anyone answers.’
“I was thinking about what they said while I was doing the dishes one day. I decided to follow their suggestion. I knelt down and said, ‘Heavenly Father,’ and a wave of warmth enveloped me. I started again, ‘Heavenly Father,’ and the warmth intensified. I felt enveloped in love and protection for the first time in many years. I asked all the questions: ‘Is this the true church?’ ‘Is Joseph Smith a prophet?’ ‘Is the Book of Mormon true?’ ‘Do you love me?’ My answers came in the affirmative by the power of the Spirit.
“I telephoned my friend Zaza Clark. ‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’ I cried. ‘What have you got?’ she asked in alarm. ‘A testimony!’ I exclaimed.”
Rostya and Simon were scheduled to be baptized after a stake conference. During the conference, Elder James E. Faust of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles called on members of the congregation to bear their testimonies. He motioned for Rostya to come to the podium. With Don Clark translating into Portuguese, she bore her testimony in English. When she finished, tears were running down her cheeks. “At the end, when I said, ‘Amen,’ Don Clark turned to me and smilingly said, ‘I don’t understand. What is all this mass hysteria about?’”
Before they left Brazil, the Gordon-Smiths introduced their friends Richard and Sally Hardwick to the Church. When Richard sustained a serious injury that required surgery, the Gordon-Smiths accompanied Sally to the hospital. Rostya said, “Simon, I wish you would give Richard a blessing.” Sally asked, “What is a blessing?” The blessing was given and fulfilled. The Hardwicks joined the Church.

I have just received my March New Era and I had to write and say “thanks” for the article by Elder Sill, “The Miracle of Personality.” It really helped me; I have just recently begun saving for a mission and today went to see my bishop. After he had told me all that was expected of me, I felt a little discouraged, but after reading this article, it really motivated me and made me realize that the harder I have to work, the better I can become. The Era has really helped me since I joined the Church last year, and I thank you for this.
Mike TaylorNewton Aycliff, Durham, England

In the Gospel of John, the Savior taught, “Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.”1 When I was 19, I met two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on my way home one evening. After three months of meeting with them, they invited me to enter the waters of baptism. Since then, my life has changed forever! Today, we have more than 67,000 full-time missionaries around the world working day in and day out to invite people to come unto Christ by accepting the baptismal covenant. Though there were over 230,000 convert baptisms in 2018,2 compared to the world population, this is a very small flock!3

“Please tell me a story,” Jeff said to his granny.
Granny began, “Once upon a time there was a boy.”
“He was a little boy,” Jeff said.
Granny began again. “Once upon a time there was a bad little boy.”
“No, Granny. That isn’t the way the story goes,” Jeff said. “He was a good little boy.”
Once more Granny started the story. “Once upon a time there was a good little boy.”
Jeff nodded his head up and down. “That’s the right story.”
“This good little boy was going to town.”
Jeff shook his head. “No, no, Granny. Don’t you remember? That very good little boy was going to his granny’s house.”
Granny smiled at Jeff. “That’s the same old story. Wouldn’t you like to hear a new one?”
“I like the old story,” Jeff insisted.
So Granny told it. “Once upon a time there was a very good little boy. His daddy took him in the car to see his granny. When they got to Granny’s house. Daddy stopped the car in the driveway. He smoothed Jeff’s hair and tucked Jeff’s shirttail in. ‘Be a good boy,’ Daddy said.
“Jeff climbed out of the car and waved good-bye to Daddy. Then Jeff rang Granny’s doorbell.
“When Granny opened the door, she pretended that she didn’t know him. ‘Good morning,’ Granny said. ‘Are you selling something? I don’t think I need anything today.’
“Jeff began to giggle. ‘Don’t you need a good little boy?’
“Granny made her face look surprised. ‘How did you know? That’s the only thing that I need.’
“Jeff laughed out loud. ‘I’m just what you need!’ he said.”
Granny stopped telling the story and hugged Jeff. “It’s the same old story,” she said.
“That’s why I like it,” Jeff told her. “Could we have a glass of milk and a cookie for that very good little boy? That comes next in that same old story.”

The story is told of a traveler who asked a farmer, “How’s the cotton crop going to be this year?”
The farmer replied, “There won’t be any. I didn’t bother to plant it, because I was afraid of the boll weevil.”
Upon hearing this, the traveler asked further, “Well, are you going to harvest a big corn crop?”
“It’s the same,” came the response. “I was afraid we wouldn’t get enough rain for the kernels to mature.”
The traveler pursued, “At least you will have a good potato harvest.”
“Nope. I didn’t dare plant any, because I was afraid of insects.”
Somewhat frustrated, the traveler then asked, “Well, what is it that you have planted?”
“Nothing, my good man,” came the answer. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Whose bright idea was it to come down in this dungeon?” Amy asked.
Just moments before, the debaters had been trying to study together in the school library, preparing for the state tournament that afternoon. The distractions became unbearable, so at Darin’s suggestion, they had relocated to the basement, in a secluded room the librarian said was only used occasionally, for tutoring.
“Excuse me?” Darin questioned.
“She’s referring to your idea of coming down here,” Jodi said, looking up from her book.
“Do you have a better idea?” Darin snapped back. It was like that with the debate team. Sometimes it seemed they couldn’t have any kind of conversation without turning it into a discussion of pros and cons.
“Hey, we’re leaving soon anyway. At least now I can hear myself think,” Brent jumped to Darin’s defense.
“I don’t understand what the problem with the library was,” Matt added. The debate continued. First, about how ugly and cold the room was. Then about Social Security, the topic of the tournament. Then movies, then … They were the intellectually elite of the school, skilled at making arguments. Getting any of them to back down was next to impossible.
The classroom door slowly opened. A young man entered and observed them carefully. They seemed oblivious to his presence.
“Excuse me,” he finally said.
“Did you need something?” Jodi said. She acknowledged his presence but was too caught up in the group discussion to be bothered.
“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet my math tutor down here. The principal sent me.”
“We’ll be done in a minute,” Matt said without looking up.
The young man eyed the others, then found a seat on the opposite side of the room. He chuckled to himself as he listened to their arguments. He recognized Darin and Matt as two of the smartest students in the school. He was definitely out of his league.
The ground beneath his feet suddenly seemed to move. The arguing stopped. The lights flickered. Then things crashed around them. Amy screamed as a large beam dropped from the ceiling, forcing her to the ground. Her arms flailed out, grabbing empty air for some support.
“Get under something!” the young man yelled as he dove for the ground. A sharp pain took him by surprise as the corner of a desk crashed into his head. A pipe burst, showering the room with cold water. It was totally dark.
Almost as quickly as it had begun, the room stopped shaking. The teenagers sat petrified for a moment as the gushing water slowed to a trickle before stopping.
Everything was suddenly silent. Thick dust drifted in the cool air, making it hard to breathe. Finally someone spoke, “Is everyone all right?”
The voice was answered with a muffled groan, a couple of coughs, and someone crying.
“What happened?” another voice asked.
Jodi stood up, spilling ceiling tiles and other debris into the puddle below her. “I think we just had an earthquake.”
Amy whispered in quiet, scared gasps, “Help me!”
The young man heard her cry. “Where are you?”
“Please hurry!” came the weak reply.
He kneeled down and began searching. His heart jumped as his hand finally fell on her cold arm.
“Please help. It hurts so bad!”
“It’s okay. Everything is going to be all right!”
He found the heavy ceiling beam resting across Amy’s small frame. He tested its weight and lifted. Slowly it rose. Amy cried out.
“You’ve got to push yourself free!” he gasped.
He was answered by short gasps of pain and fear. The burning in his muscles was overwhelming, telling him he couldn’t hold the beam up much longer. Just then someone startled him.
“I can help.”
“Pull her out of the way,” he managed to gasp. “Be careful; she’s hurt!”
Amy let out another cry as she was pulled to safety.
“Amy, it’s Jodi. You’re going to be all right!”
The strength in his fingers gave out, and he let the wood crash to the floor.
Brent soon found his way to Amy’s side.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. It really hurts to breathe,” Amy said softly.
Darin found his way to the others.
“The door’s stuck,” he informed them. “It won’t budge.”
“Looks like we’ll have to wait until someone finds us,” Jodi sighed.
“It better be soon,” Brent said matter-of-factly. “We need to get Amy some help.”
They became quiet as they contemplated their situation. Amy broke the silence with her quiet voice, “What’s your name?”
The young man realized she was speaking to him.
“Reegan.”
“Thank you, Reegan,” her voice trailed off.
“No problem,” Reegan replied, “just try not to talk.” He found Amy’s hand. It was cold and weak but still managed to close around his own.
“Where’s Matt?” Darin asked, suddenly remembering they hadn’t accounted for everyone.
“Over here,” came a reply from across the room. “I’m trying to find my backpack. My flashlight’s in it.”
The group settled down in the dark, listening. The floor was wet and cold, and the dark, dirty air stuck to them.
“Do you think they’ll find us?” Jodi asked fearfully.
“Oh, sure. They’ll have us out of here in no time,” Brent responded, a little uncertainly.
“Hey, Reegan, way to pick the right time for tutoring!” Darin said.
“No kidding,” Reegan said. “If I had known it was going to be like this in here, I’d have stayed upstairs.”
“I found it!” Matt cried.
Suddenly a large circle of light appeared on Reegan’s head. He squinted. The light bobbed around the room. The ceiling tiles were now all about them on the floor, exposing old pipes, beams, and wires. Then with a clank the light disappeared.
“Oh no, I dropped it!” Matt said. He reached for the flashlight, found it, and pushed the button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again, and his spirits dropped.
“Way to go, klutz!” Brent grumbled.
“Hey, Houdini, why don’t you pull a flashlight out of your hat,” Matt shot right back.
The fireworks began. The room, no longer silent, echoed the irritation as the debaters took turns blaming each other for their predicament. Finally Reegan let out a piercing whistle. The room quieted immediately.
“Hey, you guys. I know we’re all scared, but I really don’t think anyone here caused the earthquake,” he said.
“Well, God sure picked a nice time to give us a jolt,” Jodi said smugly.
“Oh, please. Do we really need your religious mumbo-jumbo to explain why the ground started shaking?” Brent asked.
“You believe what you want; I’ll believe what I want,” Jodi answered.
“Show me some proof, and I’ll believe anything,” Darin said.
Reegan chuckled. His memory returned to a few nights before when he sat in the home of a young couple. He’d been with the missionaries on splits. In the home he remembered hearing the same statement about showing proof.
“What’s so funny?” Darin asked.
“Nothing. I was just thinking it would be tough to show you guys anything,” Reegan said.
Time seemed to stop in the empty darkness. The group sat impatient and anxious, each engrossed in thought. Reegan closed his eyes as he silently prayed for help.
“Someday when we’re out of here, you’ll have to show me your proof of God, Jodi,” Darin finally said.
“Maybe we won’t get out of here, and you’ll be able to see him yourself.”
“What do you think, Reegan? You a churchgoer?” Brent asked.
“Well, yeah,” Reegan said.
“What church do you go to?” Brent asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Hey, I’m a Mormon too,” Matt said excitedly. “But I haven’t been to church since I was little.”
“That’s too bad. It’s an all-right place to be.”
“I think anyplace would be better than here,” Darrin moaned. “So what exactly do Mormons believe?”
“You want the condensed version?”
“I don’t think we’re going anywhere soon.”
Reegan took a deep breath. Then he recited the Articles of Faith. The group sat in silence and let the statements sink in.
“You know, I don’t mean to be rude or arrogant,” Jodi said, “but I am one of the top students in the school. I’ve studied all kinds of religions, and science just doesn’t seem to support any of them. What does that tell you?”
“I think it’s wonderful that you’ve become so knowledgeable about things of this world,” Reegan answered. “But you’d be even wiser to keep in mind that maybe—just maybe—there’s some truth to what I’ve just told you.”
“Only an idiot would believe something just because someone tells them it’s true,” Darin said, building a defense. “We’re debaters. We’re skeptical by nature. We want cold, hard facts.”
“Let me ask you something then, Darin,” Reegan said. “Who taught you how to read?”
“My parents.”
“How do you know they taught you the right way?”
Darin laughed. “Because when I open a book and see all those letters, my mind can transform them into words. Where are you going with this?”
“Patience, Darin. When you were learning to read, you had to trust your parents as they taught you the alphabet. Also, when they taught you the sounds and uses of each letter and then taught you to recognize those letters and words in simple sentences, you had to believe them. How long was it before you could read without their help?”
“A while. So what?”
“There weren’t any cold, hard facts involved in learning to read. You learned because you initially trusted that your parents knew how and would teach you. Now look at the great advantages you have gained through reading; it’s opened many doors for you. My church’s beliefs are kind of like that. We don’t start out with a complete knowledge. We learn it and earn it. I can’t debate truth with you, and I can’t make you believe what I believe—nor should I be able to. What I can do, what we can all do, is share what we know with others. Take them by the hand for those first few steps and let them see for themselves if it’s right or wrong.”
“Let’s just say for argument’s sake that there is a God and that this gospel you describe is true. Then why doesn’t everybody know it?” Brent asked. “It doesn’t seem fair that only a few people should be privileged.”
“You guys know what foods are good for you and which aren’t,” Reegan said. “You probably even know what size portions of certain things to eat to help you remain healthy, right? But do you suppose there are people in this world who are so hungry that they’ll eat anything, even if it’s not good for them?”
The group agreed.
“Well, that doesn’t make the knowledge of nutrition that you have untrue. But it does give you the opportunity to share it. It’s the same with the gospel. People are hungry for truth, so hungry they just want to be fed. Unfortunately there are others who take advantage of that hunger and use it for their own gain.”
“That’s kind of a cool concept,” Brent said.
“Hey, I’m completely serious when I tell you it’s just what I know,” Reegan answered. “I don’t want to debate or argue about it. If there’s one thing that can’t be argued, it’s the truth.”
“Come on, guys,” Darin said. “You’re not buying this, are you?”
No one responded.
“Listen, I didn’t mean to offend anybody,” Reegan apologized.
“You didn’t,” Amy added quietly. “We’re used to opposing points of view.”
Darin sighed his disgust in the darkness. Just then Reegan felt a cold hand on his arm.
“Will you please pray for us?” Amy asked weakly.
Suddenly fear sprang into Reegan’s heart. They were all so much smarter than he was. How could he pray in front of them? But quickly the hesitation vanished. Of course he would pray.
“Is that okay with everybody?” he asked.
The response was affirmative, even from Darin. “It can’t hurt, I guess,” he said.
Reegan took a deep breath then began. He gave thanks to Heavenly Father for their safety. He asked for comfort and strength, that Amy might be all right until help arrived, and that she would recover quickly and fully. He then asked that they be found. He also asked that they each might learn to put their faith in God and recognize his hand in all good things. When he finished, Reegan felt the presence of the Holy Ghost. He hoped the others did too.
As the hours continued to pass, the gloom and hopelessness began to settle back in. What was happening on the outside remained a mystery. Stomachs growled from hunger. Parched lips burned for water. The musty air was turning stale. Amy’s labored breathing continued as each person slowly dozed off.
Then they heard a horrendous crash beyond the door. In an instant they were sitting up wide-eyed as could be. What sounded like a muffled chain saw ripped through the air. A thin sliver of light appeared under the doorway. Those who were able jumped to their feet. They pounded on the large steel door, hoping that someone on the other side would hear them.
The chain saw stopped. Then, after some tugging, the door swung open. They all squinted as bright light entered the room.
“He’s here!” a voice called out. There was a brief pause before the same voice called out in confusion. “And there are more!”
They were rescued.
A couple of weeks later Reegan opened the mailbox. The large goose egg on his forehead had all but disappeared, erasing the only evidence of the excitement of the weeks past. As he walked back toward his house, he opened an envelope addressed to him. He pulled out a large thank-you card and began reading.
“Hey, Reegan, thank you so much for saving my life. The doctor said that with my punctured lung it was a miracle I lasted as long as I did. If it hadn’t been for your faith, I wouldn’t be here today. Love, Amy.”
Another note read, “Reegan, you showed me your religion by your example, and what an impression it has made. Thank you for what you taught me that I wouldn’t have learned otherwise. Matt.”
He continued reading. “Hey, Reegan, I just wanted to thank you. I hear the principal suddenly remembered she sent you down to the basement. Had she forgotten, we’d probably still be there. At any rate, we were the ones who needed tutoring that day. I’ve learned that love and compassion are more important than man’s knowledge. Thanks, Brent.”
Jodi had also scribbled a short message. “It’s amazing how my outlook on life has changed since our adventure. I think it really helped to get my world ‘shaken’ up. Love, Jodi.”
The final words were from Darin. “Hey, Reegan. I have to admit your example has taught me that, believe it or not, I don’t know everything. I’m beginning to see that there are things in life we just can’t learn about in school. I’m going to try to listen better. It’s nice to know a person like you. Oh, one more thing. Can I really debate with the two missionaries you’re bringing over?”
Reegan smiled to himself as he returned the card to the envelope. He envisioned himself on Darin’s porch with the elders.
“No, Darin. There’s no debate. But you can talk and listen all you want.”

I can attest to the truth of President Snow’s statement. Relief Society has always been comprised of those who put others first and self last. I remember that when I was a small boy during the Depression, my mother was the secretary-treasurer of the ward Relief Society. Back then dues were paid to assist those in need. Mother was not really a bookkeeper, so Dad would help her. The individual contributions were never so much as a dollar, but rather would be a quarter, a dime, a nickel, a few pennies.

I learned many lessons from my mother. I must have been a very active boy, for Mother was always telling me, “Slow down, Tommy, slow down. You’re on the verge of Saint Vitus’ dance!” You know, I never did know what Saint Vitus’ dance was. All I knew was that Mother said I was on the verge of it—and the way she spoke the words, I assumed it was a drastic ailment.

Since we lived just a block or two from the railroad tracks, frequently men, unemployed, without funds for food, would leave the train and come to our house for something to eat. Such men were always polite. They offered to do some work for the food. Indelibly imprinted on my mind is the picture of a gaunt and hungry man standing at our kitchen door, hat in hand, pleading for food. Mother would welcome such a visitor and would direct him to the kitchen sink to wash up while she prepared food for him to eat. She never skimped on quality or quantity; the visitor ate exactly the same lunch as did my father. As he wolfed down the food, Mother took the opportunity to counsel him to return to his home and his family. When he left the table, he had been nourished physically and spiritually. These men never failed to say thank you. Tears in their eyes revealed ever so silently the gratitude of their hearts.

When I was 17, I made an agreement with my friend José Luis to teach him how to swim. So one morning we dedicated time to practice. When our lesson was over and I was leaving the pool, I heard my friend shouting for help. He was drowning in the deep end of the pool.
I threw myself into the water and swam toward him while praying for help. As I grabbed his hand to pull him to the surface, my desperate friend climbed onto my back and put me in a choke hold. Now we were both drowning. Trying my best to reach the surface, I prayed with all my might for a miracle from God. Then, slowly but steadily, the power of God was manifest as I felt a hand propelling me toward the shallow end of the pool, bringing us to safety.
This experience confirmed a profound lesson President Russell M. Nelson once taught: “When you reach up for the Lord’s power in your life with the same intensity that a drowning person has when grasping and gasping for air, power from Jesus Christ will be yours.”

“Breathe deeply and exhale slowly,” his mother had said on their way to church. That’s what he did now. Then he breathed in again and tried letting the air out in short spurts.
“Why am I so scared? I’m not. I can’t be. I’ve got to control myself.”
He fingered his Book of Mormon and then pulled out the worn paper. He unfolded it carefully because the creases looked ready to tear.
“Brothers and sisters, I’m happy to have this opportunity to speak” wasn’t a very original way to begin. He folded the talk, stuck it in his pocket, then took it out of his pocket and put it back into the front of his Book of Mormon.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. Why wouldn’t they stop trembling? He just had to stop his body from shaking or his voice would shake too.
“Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy to be here today. I’m happy to have this opportunity. When the bishop, my dad, asked me to speak, I …” That sounded Dumb! Why hadn’t he thought of a better introduction?
It had been three years since he had spoken in front of people. Three whole years! Since that time he had always avoided it somehow. But the memory of his last experience had dimmed with time, and he wanted to learn to get up in front of people, so he had said yes. Now the memory of that former talk seemed painfully fresh again. There he was, struggling and stuttering. He could remember that talk even now. But back then, when he’d seen all those faces, the talk he’d memorized had vanished. It had simply evaporated. “But I didn’t have my notes with me that day,” he thought. “That was my downfall. I hadn’t taken my notes because I wanted to look super-intelligent. Besides, Dad never uses any. But now I’ve got notes, so there won’t be any problem.” If there would be no problem, he wondered, why was he so scared?
The announcements were over, his dad sat down a few seats from Jack and cleared his throat. Jack looked at his dad’s profile so much like his own. “But that’s where the similarity ends,” Jack thought. “Dad’s such a powerful speaker.” “His father’s talks were always rich with experiences and stories. “I don’t have one story in this talk,” Jack thought. “Everyone will fall asleep. Well, better if they do.”
His father, sensing Jack’s gaze looked over, smiled and nodded. Jack smiled back, tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and took out his notes again. “If I were more like my father, I wouldn’t be worrying like this.” But then he made a tight fist. “I don’t need to be just like Dad. I don’t need to be outgoing and dynamic. I can be just as good as myself.”
He lowered his head and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It wouldn’t do to have the wetness fog up his glasses. Then a thought came to Jack that made him shudder. He pushed his toes hard against the soles of his shoes. “What if I cry? What if I break down and cry or something? Cry, out of pure fright. No, I wouldn’t do that. I know I wouldn’t. Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy …” It would just take eight and a half minutes. For eight and a half minutes he could surely control himself. “Maybe my voice will crack a time or two in those eight and a half minutes, but I don’t think I’ll really cry at least I hope. …”
Sister Carlson was leading the sacrament hymn now, and Jack opened the hymn book and thumbed through it for the hymn. He hadn’t heard the page number. When he had finally looked in the index and found “Come, Follow Me,”he joined in on the last verses. But something was wrong with his voice. It wasn’t clear and deep. It was hoarse and timid. “I don’t have a voice. How can I give a talk without a voice?” He cleared his throat, coughed, and then tried to sing again. This time he was relieved to hear his voice clearing up a little.
“The Word of Wisdom is important for us to follow because …” The words to his talk were flowing through his mind now, but not in order. They were all jumbled. He sang a few more words and then breathed deeply in and out again.
After the sacrament Jack saw his father shuffle a few papers, smile over at him, and walk to the podium. “It is time now,” Jack thought. “Dad’s going to introduce the speakers now and I’m first. At least it will be over within eight and a half minutes from now.”
His father’s rich, bass voice echoed through the chapel. Dynamic, a powerful speaker. The congregation was staring up at the podium. In a moment he, Jack Miller, would be up there with everyone staring at him, expecting so much. There was a thickness in his chest and a slight pain. A heart attack. Maybe he would have a heart attack.
“I can’t get up there! I can’t do it! I don’t even think my legs will hold me when I stand up. I think I’m going to be very sick any minute. I’ve got to tell Dad I can’t. I … no, I’ve got to do it. I’ve just got to.” It didn’t make any sense. Where was his great self image? This morning in front of the mirror, he’d read his talk without a single error. He’d even used his hands, and he’d been in perfect control.
“We have a little problem tonight, Brothers and Sisters,” his father was saying. “It seems we were unwise in calling as our main speakers Brother and Sister Emery. We hope our asking them to speak didn’t start Sister Emery’s labor, but whatever the cause, a little spirit seems very anxious to join our ward family. I just received a note that the Emerys are at the hospital right now.” Everyone chuckled. Everyone except Jack. “Therefore,” his father turned and smiled at him. “We’ll tell our youth speaker, my son Jack, that he can have all the time he wants. I’m sure he’s happy about that.” The congregation chuckled again as Jack felt the heat rushing to his head. He had been so concerned about his own talk that he hadn’t even noticed that the Emerys were missing. “There goes the eight and an half minutes,” he thought.
“Then maybe we’ll ask a few members of the ward here tonight to say a few words,” his dad continued. “But before my son speaks, I’d like to say a few words about something I’ve been thinking about quite a bit lately—the priesthood.” His father confidently placed the one hand on the pulpit and put the other in his pocket.
Jack put his head in his hands. Oh no, this couldn’t be. He’d have to follow his dad. This was even worse than he’d thought. “Now I know I can’t do it,” he cried to himself. But what was his father saying?
“In our family we have someone who has used his power of the priesthood and magnified it. But that is not remarkable because even when he was small he believed in the power of the priesthood.” The warmth rushed to Jack’s head again as he realized his father was talking about him. “I have a special story about Jack that’s important to our family, and I’d like to share it with you. It’s special because …”
Jack looked up to see why his dad was pausing so long. He saw that his dad had taken his hand out of his pocket and was grasping the podium.
“It’s special because …”
“Not that story, Dad. Please. You can’t ever get through it.” Jack was writhing in his seat now, but not for himself. He knew the story well. His dad had blessed him after the automobile accident, and it had saved his life. But his dad had never tried telling it in public. Why now?
“My boy was only three, but he asked for a blessing …” Bishop Miller’s voice was coming out in spurts and his fingers were turning white. This time the pause was longer. “You’ll … you’ll have to excuse me. I shouldn’t try to tell this story. I …” Two more times he began the story, but emotion overcame him. Two more times he stopped, each time pausing longer than before. “I’m sorry … I … The doctors had said …” His father stood at the podium silently now, unable to control his voice. Jack sat behind him on the edge of his seat, grasping the arm rests. He had only one thought: “I’ve got to help Dad.”
As if all emotion had transferred itself, Jack felt curiously calm as he stood up straight and walked the few steps to the pulpit. There he put his arm around his father. “Bishop, I mean, Dad, let me finish the story for you.” His father turned to him in surprise, the tears still trickling from underneath his glasses. Then he nodded with relief and sat down.
It was strange how courageous he felt as he told the story that was so important to their family. Some of the members of the congregation wiped at their eyes at its finish. But, now, it was Jack’s turn to pause. What would he say now? Speaking on the Word of Wisdom just didn’t seem appropriate anymore. He opened his Book of Mormon to his notes and stared at them. Then he looked above them to a scripture he’d underlined on that page of his Book of Mormon. “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents.” (1 Ne. 1:1.) Immediately he read the scripture aloud for he knew now what he would talk about. He looked down into their faces. There was Sister Jackson, the Wade family, and good old Brother Price, their home teacher. There were the Smiths and the Jacksons, and there was his own family, with his mother smiling at him. He became excited to tell them all. He wanted to tell them his feelings.
“Sometimes, to tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit rebellious about having a father who is bishop,” Jack said. “Everyone expects so much. But now I, Jack Miller, having been born of goodly parents, would like to tell you what it means to have a dad like mine who honors his priesthood and loves others.” He looked back at his father who was smiling widely. “This is my chance to get revenge for all the stories he’s told about me and others in his talks.” The congregation laughed, and Jack heard his father’s deep chuckle behind him.
He confidently placed one hand on the podium and the other in his pocket as he continued. His voice echoed through the microphone with a mellow, subtle power. The Spirit warmed within him and he, Jack Miller, became a speaker.