Gospel Story Finder

In 1837, when the Church was struggling in Kirtland, Ohio, the Prophet Joseph Smith called Heber C. Kimball to go to England to open the work there. Brother Kimball exclaimed in self-humiliation: “O, Lord, I am a man of stammering tongue, and altogether unfit for such a work; how can I go to preach in that land, which is so famed throughout Christendom for learning, knowledge and piety; … and to a people whose intelligence is proverbial!”
But then on reflection he added: “However, all these considerations did not deter me from the path of duty; the moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed; and although my family was dear to me, and I should have to leave them almost destitute, I felt that the cause of truth, the Gospel of Christ, outweighed every other consideration” (quoted in Orson F. Whitney, The Life of Heber C. Kimball, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1967, page 104).
He traveled over the sea and commenced the work in Preston, Lancashire, with the very devils of hell opposing him and his companions. And thus began a work in that part of the world that has blessed for good countless lives.

Craig MacDonald carefully eased his bad leg out of the car and slowly stood up. “Take your time; we’ve got plenty of time,” Wayne, his home teaching companion assured him as they walked slowly across the parking lot into one of the Heritage Hall apartment buildings and up the stairs to room 201.
A freckled girl opened the door. “Our home teachers are here,” she called out. “Clear the deck.”
They walked inside to the kitchen area. Wayne introduced Craig to the girls in the apartment. “Craig is new in the branch this summer. This is his first time at the Y.”
Craig listened while Wayne gave the lesson; he told about an experience he had on his mission.
“Have you been on a mission?” one of the girls asked Craig.
“No,” he answered quickly.
The girl nervously shot a glance at his leg and blushed.
“Well, girls, is there anything we can do for you as home teachers?” Wayne asked, changing the subject.
“No, we’re all getting along fine,” one of them replied.
After the lesson, Wayne and the girls talked about school and Church activities while Craig sat quietly, his eyes fixed vacantly on the opposite wall. One of the girls looked nervously at the clock and excused herself to get ready for a date. Soon another girl left for the library. Wayne started to get up to leave.
“Now don’t run off without some cake. I made it especially for you two. We always have some treat when the home teachers come,” one of the girls insisted. She was blonde, overweight, and outwardly almost jolly. The other girls called her “Mom.”
“I’ve got to be going,” Wayne replied. “Craig, you can stay if you want, but I’ve got to pick up my date. Is it okay if I just leave now? Can you get back to the apartment all right?”
“Yes.”
Wayne left after the prayer. “How do you like it here at summer school?” the girl who had made the cake asked.
“Okay.”
Another girl excused herself to answer the door. She didn’t come back to the kitchen.
The two sat in silence eating the cake.
Would you like another piece of cake?” she asked.
“Okay.”
She got up and cut two additional pieces of cake for them. Halfway through the second piece she said, “I really shouldn’t be eating this.”
“Then why are you?”
“What?”
“You said you shouldn’t be eating the second piece. Then why are you?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“You’re already overweight.”
“Thanks, you’ve really brightened my day.”
“Don’t you have any self-discipline?”
“Don’t you have any manners?” she asked sharply.
“No, I guess not.” He grabbed the edge of the table to help him as he got up. She looked away from him in embarrassment as he laboriously boosted himself up. In the process he knocked a plastic glass onto the floor. She rushed to the spot and wiped up the spilled water.
“I’m sorry about the glass.”
“Don’t be; it’s nothing.”
“Can I help you?”
“No, it’s all done,” she said, standing up.
“Are you embarrassed about my leg?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then why did you look away when I got up?”
“I don’t know.”
“I embarrass people. All I have to do is enter a room and people start looking at the floor and mothers grab their children to stop them from pointing.”
On his way out, she opened the door to her room and showed him the large poster-size picture of a young man wearing a white shirt and dark tie.
“That’s my missionary,” she said. “Elder Kirby Jackson of the Dakota-Manitoba Mission. I took his picture and sent it in to be blown up to poster size.”
She walked into the room, while he paused in the hall. “These are his letters,” she said pointing to a couple of shoe boxes on her desk. “I’m keeping his journal for him.”
“Is that a picture of you with him before his mission?” Craig asked, looking at a slender girl with flowing blonde hair standing beside a tanned 19-year-old guy on a Honda.
“Yeah,” she answered. “I’ve put on a little weight since that picture was taken.”
“How much? Forty pounds?”
“You were on your way out. I shouldn’t keep you.”
He said good-bye to the only other girl in the apartment and walked out. The blonde came out with him.
“I forgot your name,” he said.
“Paula Miller.”
“Good-bye, Paula.” He started slowly down the stairs.
“Let me walk with you,” she asked.
“I don’t need your help.”
“I know, but is it okay if I come for a little while?”
“Why?”
“I can’t face another Friday night in that place alone.”
They made their way outside. He walked slowly; several couples passed them on the sidewalk heading for the Wilkinson Center.
“It’s 30 pounds, not 40 pounds, that I’ve put on since he left.”
“I was pretty close,” he replied.
“He’s coming home at the end of the summer. Last week he wrote and asked me to send him a picture. My roommate and I tried all day to get a pose that wouldn’t give me away. It was useless.”
“What did you do?”
“I sent him a picture of me that was taken before he left on his mission.”
“‘We believe in being honest.’”
“Okay, it wasn’t honest. But I can’t let him know until I have to.”
They waited for the traffic light to change so they could go.
“He wrote back and said I hadn’t changed a bit,” she added.
The light changed, and they started across. About halfway across, the light changed again. The line of cars waited while they got across.
“Quit eating cake,” Craig said.
“That’s easy to say. On the weekend all my roommates have dates, and I’m all alone in the kitchen. I usually decide to fix a little snack for them when they get back. Sometimes it’s all gone before they return.
“At first I ate because I missed him. Now I eat because I’m depressed that I’m fat. The more depressed I get, the more I eat.”
They walked into the Harris Fine Arts Building and looked at some artwork on the first floor.
“When people talk about me anymore they say, ‘She has a sweet spirit.’ That’s the only part of me that’s not overweight.”
“Can’t you date until he comes back?”
“I’ve dated. After the second date, l make my little speech about waiting for a missionary and can’t we be friends.”
They stopped in front of a large oil painting.
“He asks me about Kirby and tells me how much he admires any girl who will wait for a missionary. Then he takes me to the door and shakes my hand. I never hear from him again. The kids in the branch know I’m waiting, and nobody asks me out any more.”
“Are you going back later and finish off the rest of the cake?” Craig asked.
“You’re really something, you know that? Do you act this suave with other girls?”
“There haven’t been many other girls. My mother’s a widow, and she feels it’s her duty to protect me so I won’t get hurt.”
“I couldn’t imagine anybody could ever hurt you,” Paula said.
“Last year when all my friends went away to school, I stayed home and took correspondence courses.
“She kept saying that if I went to college I’d slip on the ice and not even be able to walk at all.”
They left the building and continued walking in the warm summer evening.
“Finally I talked her into letting me come in the summer, but she still follows the weather report to warn me if any sudden storm blows in. And she calls me all the time and asks me if I’m ready to come home.”
“You do okay,” she said.
“It’s not the walking that’s hard. It’s being around so many people. I spent my high school years in a back bedroom reading old Life magazines. Sometimes here I don’t want to leave the apartment and go to class because people will look at me. I just want to stay in the nice room and hide.”
They sat down by the reflecting pool in front of the administration building.
“What do you suppose people think when they see you with me?” he asked. “Do you imagine they admire you for being so noble?”
“Is that why you think I’m with you? To be noble?”
“Yeah. Or is it my charming personality?”
She ignored the question.
“Can you picture me on a mission?” he asked her.
“No. Not because of your leg really, but I think you’d scare people.”
“I can’t picture myself on a mission either,” he said. “But my bishop at home can. He even got me an appointment with a specialist who gave me some exercises. The specialist thought I could complete a mission if I worked at getting stronger.”
They stood up and began to walk toward the library.
“I started on the exercises, but my mother told me that there were plenty of ‘healthy young men’ who could go on missions without sending me. She said I’d only drag my companions down because I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them. Soon after that I quit the exercises.
“Maybe she was right,” Paula said.
“Maybe. I hope she’s not always right. She told me I’d be better off staying home instead of coming here this summer. If I don’t make it this summer in school, then I go back home. This may be my only chance to prove that I can cope with life.”
He stopped and turned to her. “Will you help me?”
“How can I help you?” Paula said.
“Teach me how to get along with people. I don’t know how to dance. I don’t know how to talk to girls very well. I’m always saying something wrong. If you’ll help me, I’ll help you lose weight.
“You know I can’t get involved.”
“We could not get involved together. Just for the summer until your missionary gets back.”
Monday they went to the health center to get advice on a diet for Paula and discuss exercises to strengthen Craig’s leg.
On the way back she went ahead of him half a block and sat down to watch him walk.
“Well?” he asked.
“You carry an apology on your face, you know that? And you lower your head when someone approaches you on the sidewalk. Are you embarrassed that they should have to see you?”
“How should I walk?”
“With style, like you have something to offer the world.”
“What do I have to offer the world?”
“Whatever you decide, H.T.” she said, calling him H.T. for home teacher. “By the way, have you got any money?”
“I’m loaded. Why?”
“I’m going to make you a legend in your own time. Let’s walk downtown and get you some clothes.”
It took them two hours to get to the store. They passed a small grocery store on the way, and he bought them two cucumbers. They borrowed a knife from the lady at the counter, sliced the cucumbers, and ate them on the way.
“You like that?” he asked her. “That’s lunch.”
She had the salesman at the store get his measurements, and then she picked out some clothes. She picked out a pair of wine-colored check slacks, a wine-colored blazer, and a new tie.
“How’s this?” she asked him. “Great for a used car salesman. But I like gray.”
“What do you want, camouflage?”
“Gray is conservative,” he said.
“You’re 19 years old. Wear gray when you’re 40, not now. Will you wear it if I show you how to wear clothes with style?”
He bought her a notebook, and she wrote down everything she ate each day. At noon they met in the cafeteria for a light lunch. At that time he looked at her notebook and went item by item through all the food she had eaten during the past 24 hours. She began to lose weight.
At first they walked two miles a day. One day they decided to walk four miles.
“H.T., how many times have I got to tell you? Straighten up. You look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“My leg hurts. Can we call a taxi?”
“You’re the one who said four miles, remember?”
She started to walk away from him. He followed after her.
“Quit walking away from me!” he demanded.
“Keep up with me. The tough get going when the going gets tough.”
“Is that something your missionary friend at Dead Fish wrote?”
“It’s Deadwood and Spearfish, not Dead Fish. Yeah, he wrote that. Why?”
“It’s the dumbest thing I ever heard in my life.”
“Yeah? Says who?”
“Says me.”
“You wanna fight?” she asked.
“What weight class? Heavyweight?” he taunted.
“Not anymore, H. T. I’m losing.”
“Well, quit walking away from me.”
“No. If you want to be babied, go home to your mother. It’s a cold, cruel world, H.T.”
They were in a residential area of the town. She maintained about a 30-foot lead, not looking back.
A young boy was watering the lawn with a hand sprayer. “Could I borrow your hose to get my friend a drink?” The boy handed him the hose. He adjusted the spray so it sent out a narrow burst of water. He directed it at Paula who was still walking in front of him, not looking back, barking out commands for him to hurry up.
“Aahhhhh!” she screamed when the spray caught her in the back.
There were days when they didn’t mention her missionary, days when they walked in the hot summer sun together, sometimes holding hands. There were days when they talked about themselves. He told her about the comic books his uncle had given him when he was eight. They were Captain Marvel comic books about a crippled newsboy who becomes the world’s strongest man merely by saying “SHAZAM.” He talked about how he used to dream that he was that newsboy, and how he would wake up at night from a dream screaming “SHAZAM!”
There were nights during the weekend when they danced. She taught him every dance she knew. Sometimes she danced close to him on the slow dances.
He always knew when she’d received a letter from Kirby because she drew away from him, becoming more harsh with him.
“Go ask someone else to dance, H.T.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“Look, you have to. It’d be better if you got to know other girls.”
“I don’t want to know other girls.”
“Maybe I won’t always be around for you.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning Elder Kirby Jackson is coming back.”
“Who’s he? I’ve forgotten all about him.”
“H.T., go dance. I’ll dance every second dance with you.”
He went and asked another girl to dance.
When he came back, she asked as clinically as she could, “Why didn’t you talk to her? We’ve gone through how to talk to girls.”
“Paula, do you mind? Can’t you treat me like a person instead of some project you’re doing for extra credit?”
He told her he didn’t want to dance for a while, and he asked her to come with him to the outdoor overlook on top of the Wilkinson Center. She seemed hesitant but finally went with him.
“Have you been here before?” he asked her as they looked out across the campus.
“Yes. Once.”
“With him?”
“Can you tell?”
“He’s like a ghost that follows me around all over the campus,” he said.
“We came here on our last date before he went into the missionary home.”
“What did he say that night?” Craig asked.
“He said, ‘I hope you’ll wait because I love you.’”
“That’s what he said, huh? How did he say it? Paula, I love you.”
“Can we go back to the dance?” Paula asked nervously.
“No, I’ve got to practice. I want to get it just right. With style. You’re very big on style, aren’t you? Paula, I love you.”
He grabbed her hand. “Did he hold your hand? Paula, I love you. Or did he put his arm around you?”
“My heart isn’t a yo-yo, H. T. Please stop.”
“No. I’ve got to know how he said it. How can a guy say three words, go to Salt Lake, get on a plane, fly away, and leave you standing here for two years, waiting for him to get back?”
“Do we have to put ourselves through this?” she asked.
“What if I told you that I love you?”
“We said we weren’t going to get involved.”
“Is it the wrong accent, or should I say it louder? Paula, I love you.”
“Craig, I’m the only girl you’ve ever known. How do you know you love me?”
“The next thing you say is ‘Can’t we just be friends?’ Don’t say it. I need you, Paula. I can’t make it without you.”
She backed away from him, tears beginning to form. “Oh no! What have I gotten myself into?” She turned suddenly and ran for the stairs. He started after her, yelling at her to stop. But he was only halfway down when he saw her run outside. He sat down on the stairs and buried his head in his hands.
Sunday after church he met with her and apologized.
That night when he got home, he was told that his bishop from his home ward had called long distance for him. When Craig returned the call, the bishop asked him again about a mission.
“I don’t think so. Not now.”
“Physically how are you doing?”
“Better. We’re walking five miles a day.”
“We?”
“This girl and me.”
“Oh. Look, Craig, I’m sending you a copy of the missionary lessons. Why don’t you look them over.”
Paula read the lessons over to find out what Kirby was teaching. They decided to try and memorize parts of the first discussion while they walked. One of them would hold the lessons while the other tried to repeat the lesson plan from memory.
The last dance they went to before Kirby was scheduled to be released from his mission, they were both quiet. During one of the slow dances, he realized he was trying to remember everything about her, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her next to him. She was more beautiful than the picture of two years ago.
“There might be nothing left between you and Kirby now,” Craig said. “Two years is a long time. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll be here waiting for you.”
“Sometimes I wish there were two of me,” she said.
“A few weeks ago, there was almost enough to make two of you. But not anymore.”
The next Saturday she left campus for the weekend to stay with Kirby and his parents at their home in Idaho.
When she got back to school, she called Craig up, and he walked over to her place.
“Well, how was it?”
“It was good, H.T.”
“Are you going to marry him?”
“I think so. Someday.”
He sat for a few minutes, silent and expressionless.
“Well, that about wraps up the summer doesn’t it?”
“I’ll never forget you,” she said.
“It’s funny you know. You told me about Kirby. At first I never believed I had a chance. But near the last I figured he didn’t have a chance. Funny, isn’t it? About a person’s attitude, I mean. It turns out I can do anything I set my mind to … except to keep you,” he said.
She threw her arms around him. He cherished the feeling of having her close.
Suddenly he pushed her away from him, held her hands in his, and said, “Good-bye, Paula.”
He took a long walk through campus. After a while he realized he was walking with a bad limp and that he was slouched over. In his mind he heard a voice barking out at him, “The tough get going when the going gets tough.”
He straightened up and began walking the way they had practiced.
“Hey, Elder Johnson,” somebody called at him from behind.
He turned around, “You talking to me?”
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were a missionary I knew in Ohio. He walked with a little limp too.”
“That wasn’t me.”
He turned around, walked a few feet more, stopped and turned back facing the guy who had called him.
“Hey, this Elder Johnson, was he a good missionary?”
“One of the best.”
“And his limp, it didn’t slow down his companions?”
“Are you kidding? We called him Johnson the Baptist.”
Craig began walking slowly homeward, going over in his mind the first discussion of the missionary lessons.

One young woman received understanding of a significant gospel principle as she attended an institute of religion class. The lesson that day helped her realize she had not fully repented of past transgressions. She felt the influence of the Holy Ghost and knew she must be obedient and confess her transgressions, but she was too frightened to talk to her bishop about it.

As she humbly prayed, the words of a hymn filled her mind: “Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed, For I am thy God and will still give thee aid” (“How Firm a Foundation,” Hymns, number 85). Enlightened and assured, she went to the bishop and began the process of repentance.

In 1988, I went with other British teachers to teach at a school in Sudan. The children were delightful, and we quickly adjusted to the rigors of living in a developing country. Our employer, however, turned out to be an oppressive leader who persecuted anyone he perceived as opposing him in any way. He hated me from the day I stood up for someone he had abused.
One day he called me into his office. For over half an hour, he subjected me to all manner of verbal abuse and threats. I left the room in a state of shock. I have no memory of how I got through the rest of the school day. All evening I could not get his terrible words out of my mind.
At bedtime, I sat on my bed and read the scriptures. Then I knelt and fervently prayed for comfort and relief, but I felt none. I got into bed but couldn’t sleep. Twice more I got up, read, knelt, and prayed, but to no avail.
“Oh, well,” I thought, “Heavenly Father doesn’t always answer our prayers how and when we want.” I resigned myself to a wretched, sleepless night.
But as I lay down again, I thought, “There’s one more thing I can do.” I started to repeat the words of the temple ordinances to myself in my mind. As I did this, a wondrous miracle happened. All the misery and darkness flowed out of me, and the most wonderful peace and joy flowed in and filled my entire being.
I arose and prayed, giving tearful thanks to Heavenly Father. Then I got back into bed and slept. The next day, which should have been full of fear and misery, was the happiest day I have ever spent with a class of children.
I realized that the Lord had wanted me to ponder the temple ordinances. To the Saints crossing the plains after receiving their blessings in the Nauvoo Temple, President Brigham Young (1801–1877) said, “Let the fire of the covenant which you made in the House of the Lord, burn in your hearts, like flame unquenchable.” As our temple covenants burn in our hearts and minds, we also will find strength, peace, and comfort.

Everyone in the mission knew about Madame Dupont. Her husband, President Dupont, was the branch president of one of the smallest branches in France. He had labored faithfully for years to establish The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in his hometown. In all that time, however, his wife had opposed his membership in the Church. She didn’t like his “folly.” She wouldn’t listen to his testimony. And she wouldn’t allow missionaries in her house—not even in her courtyard!
The day I arrived in town as a brand-new senior companion, my missionary companion, Elder Granville, informed me that the branch president’s wife was just getting up and around after a short sickness.
“Great,” I said, “let’s take her some flowers to wish her well. Maybe it will help to fellowship her.”
“You don’t know Sister Dupont,” he said. (We called her sister anyway even though she wasn’t a member.) “She’ll probably just snarl.”
I couldn’t believe anyone would refuse flowers after an illness. I was wrong.
I held the bouquet while Elder Granville knocked timidly at the gate.
“She’ll never hear you if you don’t knock louder than that!” I said, and I rapped on the wood. A small, gray-haired woman in her 60s peered at us through the window. I knocked again, and the front door of the house opened. “Go away!” the lady said.
“But we have something to give you,” I replied.
“If it’s for my husband, just leave it at the gate,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Elder Granville whispered.
“We have something for you,” I said again, trying hard not to sound like I was yelling.
She opened the door and walked toward us from the house.
“Oh no!” Elder Granville whispered, pulling at my coat.
By now the short little woman was nearly up to us.
“What could you possibly have for me?” she said.
“Flowers,” I said, “Flowers to wish you—”
“Don’t like flowers,” she interrupted. “Never did.”
“But—”
“Don’t like flowers. Don’t like missionaries either. Now leave me alone.”
“But there must be something you like,” I said, almost in desperation.
“Yes,” she said, “I like fruit. Fresh fruit. Never get enough of that around here. Now thanks for bringing the flowers, but I really don’t want them.”
And she turned around and walked back to the house.
“Au revoir,” I shouted after her. “Ayez une bonne journée!” It wasn’t the most authentic French, but I did want her to have a good day.
“Brother, were you ever lucky,” Elder Granville sighed as we walked away. “When Elder Stokeley and I said hello to her one day, she slammed the gate in our face.”
I handed him the bouquet of flowers.
“Let’s go tracting,” I said.
The next day was preparation day, and we were shopping at the market near our apartment. It was then that I saw the basket of apples.
“Hey, Elder Granville,” I said, “I’ve got an idea.”
I picked up the basket and started toward the check-out stand. Visions of a month of apple crisp at every meal must have danced through Elder Granville’s mind.
“We can’t eat that many apples!” he said.
“They’re not for us. They’re for Sister Dupont.”
That left him speechless. For a moment.
“Elder Romney, you’re the craziest senior companion I’ve ever had!”
“I’m only your second companion since the Missionary Training Center.”
“Well, you’re still the craziest senior I’ve ever had.”
By now the clerk was wondering what two Americans were doing arguing in English about a bushel of fruit. I set it on the counter.
“Nous prendrons toute la corbeillée,” I said.
“You’ll take the entire basketful,” the clerk repeated (in French, of course). “Trés bien, monsieur.” Then, in an effort to be friendly, “Vous devez beaucoup aimer des pommes.” (“You surely must love apples.”)
“They’re not for us, they’re for a friend,” I said.
“For a friend.” The clerk tried hard not to be amazed. “Trés bien, monsieur.”
“The whole bushel!” Elder Granville moaned. “And we could have spent the grocery money for yogurt!” He picked up the rest of the groceries, and we headed for the door.
We did eat some of the apples. We even made some apple crisp and a pie. But most of the fruit went to Soeur (Sister) Dupont. We never delivered the apples in person. Each day we would leave one, with a note attached, in her mailbox. Sometimes the note would simply say, “Ayez une bonne journée.” Sometimes it would say, “Bon rétablissement!” (“Get well soon!”) One day I even tried to translate “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” into French. I’m sure “Une pomme tous les jours vous protégera contre les maladies” lost something in the translation, but once again the wish was sincere. By the end of the month, when the apples started to shrivel, we would cut paper into the shape of an apple, write a note on the paper, and leave that inside the mailbox instead.
All this time Elder Granville kept telling me I was crazy. And all this time we never heard a word from Sister Dupont. At church President Dupont was as cordial and friendly as usual, but he never said a word about the apples.
We were having a dish of soup for lunch one day when we heard a knock at the door. I stepped from the kitchen into the hallway to answer it. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the latch and neither could Elder Granville. There stood Sister Dupont, with our latest apple message in her hand.
“What’s the deal with all these apples?” she said. “Who do you think I am, Eve?”
“We just wanted to let you know we care,” I said.
“I thank you,” she managed. And she actually tried to smile. “But please, I’ve had enough apples for awhile.” She pulled her black shawl more tightly around her head. I was about to invite her inside when she turned to go.
“Oh, by the way,” she said when she reached the top of the stairway, “my husband says I should invite you for dinner on Sunday night.”
“Dinner?” Elder Granville gasped from somewhere behind me. “With Sister Dupont?” I thought he was going to faint. But as soon as the door closed, we both whooped for joy.
Sister Dupont was a marvelous cook. There’s no cuisine like French cuisine, and it’s even better when it’s homemade. That first Sunday evening we mostly ate well and offered compliments. We also watched hope glimmer in Brother Dupont’s eyes. It had been a long, long time since he’d had missionaries in his home. This was the first time since his baptism some 17 years before. We returned for dinner the following Sunday, and the next, and the next. Through bits and pieces of the conversation, we patched together the Duponts’ story.
Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed, when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! and she’s asking questions, good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.” If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior missionary companion. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactive members coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney” it began. “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

The day after my baptism, I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was during a fast and testimony meeting, and I decided, for the first time ever, to bear my testimony. As I spoke, a wonderful, warm feeling filled my heart. It was a confirmation of the Spirit that joining the Church was the right thing to do. That warm feeling was the beginning of my small testimony, which grew as I grew older. I know that children can gain testimonies of their own and that even small testimonies are enough to help us choose the right.

Illustration by Mark Robison
Before Christmas my parents bought a box full of copies of the Book of Mormon to give to people. That was when I had the idea to take some to school and give them as presents to three of my teachers.
When I got to the music classroom, I saw my music teacher and thought, “Go ahead, Sophia. Give one to her!” I walked slowly up to my teacher. But I didn’t have the courage to give her the book.
I went to a corner of the room and prayed very quietly. “Heavenly Father, I ask Thee to help me give this book to my teacher.” When I finished my prayer, I felt very strongly that I should give the book to her. Suddenly I had courage.
I went up to her. She looked at me, and I gave her the Book of Mormon and said, “Teacher, I love you from the bottom of my heart, and I want to give you this Book of Mormon!”
She took it and looked at the cover. “Look inside!” I said. She saw that I had written a few words.
She hugged me and said, “Oh, Sophia, thank you for giving this to me!”
After I sat down, she said to the class, “Look what Sophia gave me. I am going to read it during the holidays!”
When I got home, I ran to my mother and said, “Guess what! I gave my teacher a Book of Mormon.”
She smiled and said, “That’s wonderful! You’re a great example to me, Sophia.”
We decided to pray to thank Heavenly Father for giving me the courage to give my teacher the Book of Mormon.

On Tuesday, Susan suggested they pick flowers from their garden, make bouquets, and take them to the retired people’s center. That afternoon, while Susan and Roger cut flowers with Mom’s permission, the other three children found old jars that they cleaned and covered with foil or pretty wrapping paper.
“Off we go,” they cried as they headed into town, pulling a wagon loaded with colorful blossoms. At the retirement center, they split up and each delivered three small vases of flowers.

São Paulo, Brazil—Jose Evandro Pontalti was close to fulfilling the dream of most Brazilian boys to become a professional soccer player, when he decided to serve a full-time mission.
Jose was playing for a minor league soccer team in Cambara, Brazil, when the team trainer, Brother Alcides dos Santos Goncalves, introduced him to the Church. Brother Goncalves would discuss the Bible, family relations, and similar topics with the team. Then he moved away.
Jose began to read the Book of Mormon and soon gained a testimony. The Church was not organized in Cambara so he had to travel to Bauru, near São Paulo, and to be baptized.
While in Bauru, he played in a soccer competition, was named the team’s best player, and received an offer from the Regatas do Flamengo, a professional team. After some months as a reserve team member preparing to turn professional at age twenty-one, he decided to serve a mission. Despite arguments from the club owner and coaches that he could be giving up a promising career, Jose would not change his mind.
Even though some people don’t understand his decision, says Elder Pontalti, “I am very happy to be serving in the São Paulo South Mission.”

Soon I made friends at school and looked forward to seeing them each day. One friend, Larry Dawson, lived about a mile from my home. Larry invited me to his house for a birthday party. I had never been to a birthday party before. It was so much fun! I still remember some of the special toys Larry received—especially his new toy fire engine.
Larry and I rode the bus to school because we lived too far from school to walk. Larry got off the bus at the bus stop on the main highway just before I got off. He then had to cross the highway and walk half a mile (about 1 km) to his home. At that time cars did not stop when a school bus was loading or unloading students.
One day as we were returning home from school, a car speeding by the bus hit and killed my friend. I felt very sad. I missed being with Larry at school and on the bus. My mother and father comforted me by explaining that even though I wouldn’t see Larry anymore in this life, his spirit continued to live in the spirit world. Larry was so kind and good that I knew he would be worthy to live with our Heavenly Father. As I grew, I learned more about our Father’s plan for His children.

Easter was going to be different this year. There would be no Easter dinner at Grandma’s, no Easter baskets, and no dyed eggs. My parents were going on a cruise to the Caribbean. My brother was staying in Arizona, and my sister was at BYU. I was going to visit friends in Minnesota. I hadn’t seen them since we moved to Illinois six months before.
“This spring break is going to be great,” I thought. I hadn’t made many friends at my new home, so I was ready for some fun, even though I was still disappointed that I wouldn’t have a traditional Easter with my family.
On Easter Sunday I lazily flopped out of bed to get ready for church. It didn’t seem much different from every other Sunday until sacrament meeting. As I sat listening to the testimonies, I noticed the family sitting in front of me was one I used to babysit for. The kids were always fun to watch, and it was good to see them again.
Simeon, their young son, got up to bear his testimony. When he spoke, I could hear his voice shaking from fear, but he still went on. He bore testimony that Easter was not about eggs and candy, but it was about how Jesus Christ gave His life for us. He expressed his love and gratitude for the Savior and His sacrifice for us.
As the tears welled up in my eyes, pangs of guilt tore at my heart. I had forgotten what Easter is all about!
I didn’t get a chance to thank Simeon for his testimony, but as I drove back to my friend’s house, I continued to think about his words. “How many others learned this lesson today?” I thought.
I pulled off to the side of the road and prayed in gratitude for the Savior. I asked forgiveness for my shortsightedness. As I started driving again, I knew I would never forget what a little child taught me about Easter.

Our lives have been blessed by setting aside time on a regular basis to enjoy personal interviews with each of our sons. During one interview I asked our son about his desires and preparation to serve a mission. After some discussion, there was a moment of reflective silence; then he leaned forward and thoughtfully declared, “Dad, remember when I was little and we started having father’s interviews?” I said, “Yes.” “Well,” he said, “I promised you then that I would serve a mission, and you and Mom promised me that you would serve a mission when you got old.” Then there was another pause. “Are you guys having some problem that will stop you from serving—because maybe I can help?”

A young mother told me she would never forget the day her husband came home distraught over leaving his wallet in a telephone booth. Her first reaction was to criticize his irresponsibility at losing the family’s rent money. But as she glanced at his sad, pained face, she kept silent. The rent could be paid a few weeks late. The young mother said the look on her husband’s face—a look that clearly showed his relief at not being criticized—was well worth her silence. After all, she reasoned, what good would have been accomplished had she heaped criticism on her already upset husband?

Another little miracle occurred two months earlier, when Evonne received a strong impression that they needed to insure their property. This troubled David, as none of the 15 providers he had contacted would insure them. He prayed, “Heavenly Father, if we are meant to insure the house, please help me find an insurer.” The very next company he called agreed to insure the property for a portion of its value.

Elder Patricio M. Giuffra was four years old when his father died of cancer. As a child, he grew up questioning God and wondering why life was so unfair.
“My father was a good husband, father, and provider,” Elder Giuffra recalled thinking. “Why did he have to die?”
Answers and understanding came about a decade later when Patricio and his mother met the full-time missionaries and accepted the gospel.
The plan of salvation gave him hope because it helped him understand his family’s loss. “My father prepared the way for us to join the Church,” he said.
From the time he was baptized, the gospel of Jesus Christ has anchored Elder Giuffra’s life. “The Church has been my life,” he said. “I feel like I’ve always belonged to the Church.”

The first of this group in England were Elders John Taylor and Wilford Woodruff, who docked at Liverpool January 11, 1840. Immediately they began their work, and Elder Woodruff became one of the most productive missionaries in the Church’s history. He preached first in the Staffordshire Potteries, working with members among their friends. One member especially helpful to Elder Woodruff was William Benbow, who undoubtedly told the apostle of his brother, John Benbow, a prosperous farmer at Herefordshire, who had joined the United Brethren in his search for the ancient gospel. In early March Elder Woodruff noted in his diary that “the Lord warned me to go to the South.” Immediately he and his host journeyed to the John Benbow home, where the gospel was preached to that family and then to hundreds of willing listeners. In that area alone, Elder Woodruff baptized 158 converts within a month.

When I was eight, I lived in a house that had the best view overlooking a valley. In the evenings, I would sit on top of my barn, watching the purple-and-orange glowing sunsets with my calico cat, thinking about and observing the world.
These moments of pondering eventually led to a lot of questions about life.
One day I asked my mom, “What happens when we die? I know there is a heaven, but what actually happens after this life?”
The look on her face implied that she wanted to know the answer as well. I could sense her anxiety when she replied, “I’m not quite sure.”
After that conversation, I immediately started thinking of all the possibilities of what would happen after I died. I feared that I would just cease to exist. These thoughts spiraled and often turned into panic attacks over the years.
I constantly questioned my identity, my purpose, and what would happen to me after I died. I felt so lost. And when I got to high school, I struggled and made decisions I wouldn’t have if I had understood my divine worth and eternal potential.
While I was attending college in Oregon, USA, I found myself at the lowest point of my life, praying for help to get out of the darkness I was in. I didn’t feel right about anything in my life. I didn’t know who I was or why I was on this earth or even what my purpose was.
During this time, I made a new friend named Nick. We met through mutual friends, and for some reason, as I got to know him and spent time with him, I felt a strange pull toward him, and I wasn’t quite sure why. He seemed different than all my other friends—in a good way.
One day, I felt like I had reached a breaking point with my unanswered questions and anxiety, and I had an impression to visit Nick. I told him how I was feeling, and we talked for hours! He mentioned that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That news unsettled me because of various false rumors I had heard about “Mormons” growing up, but since nothing scared me more than the unanswered questions I had about life, I listened to what he had to say.
A few days later, as I pondered what Nick had told me about what he believed about life after death and our purpose as God’s children, I had a strong, overwhelming feeling that I needed to make a change in my life. I ended my relationship with my boyfriend and moved back home to start over. Nick also invited me to go to church, and while I was scared, I agreed to go with him.
As I was sitting in church, I was amazed at how friendly and loving everyone was. I also felt a peaceful, warm feeling that I had experienced only a few times before in my life—a feeling that I would later learn was from the Holy Ghost.
But what truly struck me was that every lesson and talk I heard that day focused on Jesus Christ and His Resurrection and what His sacrifice means for each of us. Learning that He still lives taught me that there is life for each of us after we die. That knowledge gave me so much peace.
I learned about the plan of salvation and about who I truly am and why I am here. And as I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me understand and believe these truths, I felt my faith grow.
Nick baptized me a month later. For the first time, I truly felt the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I felt like I finally understood my divine identity, my purpose, and my worth.
After I received my endowment in the temple, I felt that the big questions I had about life that had stirred in my heart since I was eight years old were finally answered. And a year later, Nick and I were sealed in the Portland Oregon Temple.
Now that I know my true identity and that “the worth of [my soul] is great in the sight of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 18:10), my life is so much more joyful. And even when I still have moments of anxiety, focusing on that truth helps me keep moving forward.

During his lifetime, President Smith lost his father, his mother, one brother, two sisters, two wives, and thirteen children. He was well acquainted with sorrow and losing loved ones.
When his son Albert Jesse died, Joseph F. wrote to his sister Martha Ann that he had pled with the Lord to save him and asked, “Why is it so? O. God why had it to be?”
Despite his prayers at that time, Joseph F. received no answer on this matter. He told Martha Ann that “the heavens [seemed like] brass over our heads” on the subject of death and the spirit world. Nevertheless, his faith in the Lord’s eternal promises were firm and steadfast.

I was baptized when I was 17 years old. My first responsibility in the Church was to pass the sacrament. I was very excited to exercise the priesthood and to do my part.
On my first Sunday to pass the sacrament, I tried to do my very best. But about halfway through passing the water, I realized I had been taking the tray back from the members too quickly. They didn’t have time to put their empty cups back into the tray.
I felt terrible. I felt like I had failed in my duty.
When the meeting was over, an older gentleman, Brother Ostos, came up to me and gave me a hug. He said, “Rafael, you did wonderfully.”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t,” I said. “I didn’t give the members time to put the cups back.”
He just smiled and said to me, “That doesn’t matter, Rafael. You were so reverent. You did a wonderful job.”
It was such a short conversation, but this good man’s friendship and support made a lasting impression. It gave me strength and courage to continue serving in the Church. How powerful kind words can be!

A friend—we will call him John—shared what can happen when we see another’s less visible need: “A sister in my ward attempted suicide. After two months, I discovered no one in my quorum had approached her husband to address this traumatic experience. Sadly, I had not acted either. Finally, I asked the husband to lunch. He was a shy man, often reserved. And yet when I said, ‘Your wife attempted suicide. That must be overwhelming for you. Do you want to talk about it?’ he openly wept. We had a tender and intimate conversation and developed a remarkable closeness and trust within minutes.”
John added, “I think our tendency is just to bring brownies rather than figure out how to walk into that moment with honesty and love.”