Gospel Story Finder

When my turn came to respond, I turned to a brother on my right, a few seats down the row from me, and said, “My hero is Ken Sweatfield and his wife, Jo Ann.” For 20 years I watched Ken and Jo Ann care for their comatose son with all the love and patience a parent could possibly give. I had often pondered the shattered hopes and dreams they surely had for Shane before he suffered a terrible automobile accident just two weeks before he was to begin his mission in Leeds, England. I have watched Ken and Jo Ann wheel Shane into the sunlight or push him through the neighborhood, describing the scenery, hoping that he might hear and feel, and hoping that the fresh air and sunlight might lighten a very subdued spirit. For 20 years there were no vacations from this care, few evenings out, but there was always a spirit of faith, optimism, and gratitude—never a show of anger, despair, or questioning of God’s purposes.

Two relevant memories for young fathers. When I was such, I had just received a phone call telling me of a friend’s death in an accident. I was sitting in the living room with tears streaking down my cheeks. Our young son, Cory, saw the tears as he passed in the hallway. I learned that he had anxiously assumed the tears were because he had disappointed me in some way. He didn’t know about the phone call. Brethren, we underestimate how genuinely and frequently our children want to please us.

Long before I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I wanted to serve the Lord. I always said to myself that I would devote all of my time to Him no matter what. Serving Him throughout my life was my dream. And joining the Church of Jesus Christ gave me an even better chance at following my dream.
In December 2017, I was baptized. That was the greatest day of my life. The gospel taught me how to think differently, how to inspire others, how to overcome my fears, and how to reinforce my talents and discover new ones. Eventually I also learned about the opportunity to serve a full-time mission. I immediately knew that was something I wanted to do. So day by day, I worked to prepare. I read the scriptures, attended institute, and magnified my calling. However, there was one problem in my family that made me so uncertain about the future.
Poverty.
When I turned 18, poverty struck my family. We could barely eat, go to school, or even pay for transportation to church. The only thing we had left to hold onto was our faith. This situation really slowed down my process of serving a mission. I opened up to mom about my desire, but she repeated something she had often told me: “Finish school, then follow your dreams.” Because of our financial situation, I didn’t have much of a choice. So I worked hard to get through school.
Eventually I graduated and was finally ready to go out and serve the Lord. But poverty was still affecting us.
I was frustrated.
I thought, “I’ve finished school, and I’ve done everything I can. Why is this still not working out?” I didn’t want to wait for my dream any longer, but despite being discouraged, I trusted that things would work out with time.
I decided to work extra hard to earn all the money for my mission expenses. I prayed every day, visited with the missionaries as much as possible, and strengthened my testimony by studying Church materials.
A lot of my relatives were against my dream to serve a mission. They would tell me that serving a mission would only make things worse for me and my family. But I stood my ground. I knew that I wanted to serve a mission and that Heavenly Father would provide a way.
After a long while of working and saving money, I finally submitted my mission papers. When my bishop called me and told me my call had arrived, I shouted and jumped for joy! I immediately went to the stake office and got the letter. That evening, I opened my mission call and announced to my family that I was called to serve in the Philippines Cabanatuan Mission.
I cried tears of joy that night. Despite all that had happened, with faith and hard work and trust in the Lord, I finished everything I needed to do to serve a mission and fulfill my dream. I realized that if I hadn’t experienced that hardship before my mission, I might not have been completely physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and financially prepared. But because of my circumstances, I was able to grow in so many ways.
I know that Heavenly Father has a plan for all of us. Everything you’re going through might not make sense at times, and you might want things to happen sooner rather than later, but trust in His timing rather than your own. If we trust in Him and exercise faith and work hard, He will lead us to our righteous desires at the right time and help us grow along the way (see Enos 1:12 and Alma 29:4).
Marc Deo Dela Cruz is from Cagayán, Philippines.

Bitterness became quiet as Tim turned his mind to thoughts of past years. When he was just a boy, he had left Ireland with his two older brothers and a younger sister to come to America. They landed in New York and then moved to Baltimore to join an uncle.
The streets of Baltimore hadn’t been paved with gold. They had had to work long hours in their uncle’s store. Slowly the hours began to pay off, and the sweat and toil became the mortgage price of prosperity. Ever so slowly, poverty released its strong icy fingers from around the immigrants.
When he was 17, Tim Ryan had let his brother Michael talk him into going to a parish dance. “Come along, Timmy. It’s time that you began to think about the ladies. And what better place to meet them than at the parish house?”
Tim went with Michael, shyly, unwillingly at first. He stood off on the sidelines, watching the others dance and hating them for their social graces and himself for his shyness. Then Maggie appeared and the climate changed.
She was short, no taller than his five foot three inches, with long black hair. She smiled often, and once, when he looked enough in her direction, she smiled at him. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks.
He summoned up the courage to go over and introduce himself. She asked him with that ever-present smile if he always blushed so brightly. “No,” he said, “it only happens when I talk with a beautiful young lady. And by the way, may I have the next dance?” She said yes.
Tim Ryan walked Maggie Rourke home that night after the dance. They saw each other often in the next year. Then, one night, on the anniversary of that dance in the parish house, he asked her another question. She answered yes to this one too, and they made arrangements with Father Kelly to perform the ceremony.

A newly baptized member told me what she felt when she received that gift. This was a faithful Christian woman who had spent her life in service to others. She knew and loved the Lord, and she had felt the manifestations of His Spirit. When she received the added light of the restored gospel, she was baptized and the elders placed their hands upon her head and gave her the gift of the Holy Ghost. She recalled, “I felt the influence of the Holy Ghost settle upon me with greater intensity than I had ever felt before. He was like an old friend who had guided me in the past but now had come to stay.”

Sister Burton: Knowing and living our purpose unites us across cultures. I met a woman in Uruguay last year who told me how she had been called to be Relief Society president at the darkest time of her life. She was tempted to say, “I can’t do it right now.” But because she had made sacred covenants, she said, “I will do what I’ve been asked to do. I have faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know through His Atonement I can do it.” Then she said to me, “My calling brought light into my life as I served my sisters. I relied upon the Lord, and He blessed me.”
I recognized the purpose of Relief Society in her story. Her faith in Heavenly Father and in Jesus Christ and His Atonement helped her. She had made sacred covenants and wanted to keep them. As she worked in unity with the bishop, she fulfilled her calling. Now she has a testimony that the Lord blesses us when we trust Him. I add my testimony to hers that our Savior Jesus Christ will help us through every mortal challenge and everything that seems unfair in this life.

Throughout his journey, Elder Walker has witnessed many faith-building experiences that have deepened his testimony of the gospel. One such experience with a humble family in Tonga profoundly strengthened his faith in the power of sacrifice and obedience to the promptings of the Holy Spirit.
Elder Walker was on assignment in Tonga when he met a couple whose lives exemplified faith and devotion. This couple was known for their unwavering obedience to the Lord, consistently prioritizing His work, even at the expense of their own health and personal needs.
As he got to know them, Elder Walker learned that the husband suffered from a heart condition that required surgery, an operation that would cost $24,000 and needed to be performed in Australia. The couple could not afford the procedure or the travel expenses, but thankfully, a family member in Australia offered financial help.
Soon after arriving in Australia for the surgery, however, the man felt a strong prompting to return home, even before the operation. Trusting this spiritual impression, he returned to Tonga, where he was soon called as the stake president. His sense of duty replaced any consideration for his own wellbeing, and he postponed addressing his health concerns to focus on serving the members of his stake.
Elder Walker counselled with the couple, urging them to prioritize the husband’s health so that the Lord could continue to bless him and use him to care for his family and his stake. Shortly after, the man was able to receive financial assistance and returned to Australia for health tests and medical advice.
Following some of these tests, Elder Walker received an intriguing message from a family member in Australia. The family member reported that during one scan, the technician noticed something unusual—something resembling a metal stent appeared exactly where the pain originated. When asked if the husband had undergone any surgery before, the family member assured the technician that he had not.
This unexpected finding was a sign of divine intervention, a miracle that allowed the husband to continue his service without needing the costly operation.
This experience left a lasting impression on Elder Walker, strengthening his testimony of the miracles that occur when we exercise faith and obey the promptings of the Holy Ghost. The humble couple’s willingness to sacrifice and trust in the Lord exemplifies the truth in 2 Nephi 27:23: “For behold, I am God; and I am a God of miracles; and I will show unto the world that I am the same yesterday, today, and forever; and I work not among the children of men save it be according to their faith.”

Eliza smiled as she walked back to her seat. Sharing her testimony in sacrament meeting had made butterflies flutter in her stomach. But she’d also felt the Holy Ghost, and that made it worth it.
After sacrament meeting, Bishop Baldry walked over to Eliza and her family.
“Thanks for sharing your testimony today, Eliza,” the bishop said. “It was really great.”
Eliza felt her cheeks get warm. “Thanks!”
“Would you be willing to give a short talk about family history next week?”
“Um—” Eliza’s heart started racing.
“Eliza, you love family history!” Dad said. “That’d be the perfect topic for you.”
“I don’t know,” Eliza said, looking down at her shoes. “It’s hard enough to say my testimony. I don’t think I could stand up there and give a talk.”
“That’s OK,” the bishop said. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He smiled as he walked away.
Dad patted Eliza’s shoulder. “I think you’d give a great talk about family history. If you change your mind, I could help you get ready and practice. Then maybe you wouldn’t feel as nervous.”
Mom nodded. “And Heavenly Father would help you too.”
Eliza thought about standing up in front of everyone. Those butterflies in her stomach started to flutter again.
Then she thought about family history, and she felt more peaceful. Maybe she could give a talk next week.
“OK,” Eliza said. “Where’s the bishop?”
That week, Eliza spent a long time writing her talk. She learned about the prophet Elijah. She learned how, when we get excited about doing family history, we call that feeling “the spirit of Elijah.” My name sounds kind of like Elijah, she thought. She added that as a joke to begin her talk.
But what if no one laughed at her joke? What if she talked too fast? What if she got tongue-tied and couldn’t talk at all?
Her dad helped her practice all week. He got out the broom for a pretend microphone. The first time Eliza read her talk out loud, she couldn’t stop laughing at her joke. But she kept practicing until she could give her whole talk without messing up or going too fast.
On Sunday, Eliza sat on the stand in the chapel. Her heart thumped as she watched the room fill up. She prayed and asked Heavenly Father to help her feel calm.
After the sacrament was over, Eliza heard the bishop say her name. Her legs wobbled as she walked to the microphone. She took a deep breath. “Hi, my name is Eliza. My talk is about family history. I was asked to give this talk because I have the spirit of Eliza—I mean, the spirit of Elijah.” People smiled, and some even laughed.
The butterflies fluttered in her stomach while she spoke. But Eliza also felt the Holy Ghost helping her along. Finally, her first talk was almost over! “I’m glad I got to share my love for family history with you. I know that when I do family history, I am helping people who died without learning about the gospel. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

We had just moved to a small rural town where not many members of the Church lived. Our little branch was a friendly, close-knit group, and we enjoyed each Sabbath day and the opportunity to attend church. Our only concern was for our children, who had few playmates their ages in our branch. My husband and I decided to look for ways to make friends outside of the Church so our children could have new friends and get to know people from different faiths.
My hopes were soon dashed, however, when a local children’s group told me that because we were “Mormons,” we were not welcome in their group. I had belonged to similar groups in other areas where there weren’t many Latter-day Saints, and religion had never been an issue before. I assured the leaders of the group that I would not try to proselytize or force my religion on anyone; my family and I just wanted to make friends and meet new people. But they remained firm in their decision and did not allow us to join.
I decided that I would be kind, Christlike, and friendly to the people of this town so they would see that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are good people. We started inviting other children over to play, inviting neighbor families to dinner, and visiting with others in an effort to get to know people. I read conference talks, Church magazine articles, and scriptures about fellowship, kindness, and serving others. Then I worked to put these principles into practice in my life. I knew if I could show the people of this town how kind and loving Latter-day Saint families can be, this group would be sure to accept us in time.
Time passed, however, and although we were able to befriend the leaders of this social group, they remained firm in their “no Mormons allowed” position.
I decided then to continue being neighborly and kind to the people in my town, but I also decided to search out a similar social group in a neighboring town. But even there I was told that Latter-day Saints were not allowed to join their group. By then I was so frustrated I wanted to cry. What was wrong with the people in these two towns? Couldn’t they see that we were a kind, fun family?
I prayed for the Spirit to guide me and help me be as friendly and Christlike as possible. I prayed that those who knew me would feel in their hearts that we were good people. I prayed they would experience a change of heart that would lead them to accept us. Still, I felt as if my prayers weren’t being answered. No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to soften their hearts.
Then one evening I received a phone call that shattered my hopes altogether. The leaders of the group called and told me once again that my family was not welcome in their group. They were concerned that we might be expecting to join in the future because we had made so many friends in the community. They said some very hurtful things, and I cried with a broken heart. All of the dinners, service projects, cookies, and sidewalk chats had meant nothing to these people. Where had I gone wrong?
That night I prayed a heartfelt and sincere request for help in dealing with those who had such strong feelings against the Church. I felt as if I were now entitled to their favor because of my efforts, and I explained this to my Father in Heaven.
The answer was stronger than any impression I had received for quite some time: “Follow Christ.”
It confused me at first. “Yes,” I thought, “but I already do.” The cookies, the friendship, the reaching out—I was being as Christlike as I could. Still, the only impression I received was “Follow Christ.”
I then realized that when my energies are focused on following Christ, I am not affected as much by the opinions of others. I serve them because it is right and not because it will help my image as a Latter-day Saint. I am friendly and neighborly because I feel friendly and neighborly, not because I have some self-centered reason for being friendly.
“Follow Christ” has become my motto whenever I am troubled by those who dislike us because of our faith. I now find joy in serving others regardless of their reaction to my kindness, and I am blessed for it. I did not come to earth to win the approval of others. I came here to prepare to return to my Father in Heaven, and the only way to get there is to follow the Savior.

Almost forty years ago I received an invitation to meet with President J. Reuben Clark, Jr., a Counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, a statesman of towering stature, and a scholar of international renown. My profession then was in the field of printing and publishing. President Clark made me welcome in his office and then produced from his old rolltop desk a large sheaf of handwritten notes, many of them made when he was a law student long years before. He proceeded to outline for me his goal of producing a harmony of the Gospels. This goal was achieved with his monumental work Our Lord of the Gospels.
Recently I took down from my library shelf a personally inscribed, leather-bound copy of this classic treatment of the life of Jesus of Nazareth. As I perused the many pages, I paused at the section entitled “The Miracles of Jesus.” I remembered as though it were yesterday President Clark asking me to read to him several of these accounts while he sat back in his large leather chair and listened. This was a day in my life never to be forgotten.
President Clark asked me to read aloud the account found in Luke concerning the man filled with leprosy. I proceeded to read:
“And it came to pass, when he was in a certain city, behold a man full of leprosy: who seeing Jesus fell on his face, and besought him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
“And he put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will: be thou clean. And immediately the leprosy departed from him” (Luke 5:12–13).
He asked that I continue reading from Luke concerning the man afflicted with palsy and the enterprising manner in which he was presented for the attention of the Lord:
“And, behold, men brought in a bed a man which was taken with a palsy: and they sought means to bring him in, and to lay him before him.
“And when they could not find by what way they might bring him in because of the multitude, they went upon the housetop, and let him down through the tiling with his couch into the midst before Jesus.
“And when he saw their faith, he said unto him, Man, thy sins are forgiven thee” (Luke 5:18–20).
There followed snide comments from the Pharisees concerning who had the right to forgive sins. Jesus silenced their bickering by saying: “Whether [it] is easier, to say, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Rise up and walk?
“But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power upon earth to forgive sins, (he said unto the sick of the palsy,) I say unto thee, Arise, and take up thy couch, and go into thine house.
“And immediately he rose up before them, and took up that whereon he lay, and departed to his own house, glorifying God” (Luke 5:23–25).
President Clark removed from his pocket a handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. He commented, “As we grow older, tears come more frequently.” After a few words of goodbye, I departed from his office, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his tears.

While growing up, Elder Cardon says, he benefited from the righteous example and teachings of his parents. “I had a mother who taught me to pray and a father who taught me to trust and love the Lord,” he says. Their guidance helped him recognize the Spirit at a young age. On one occasion, a concern weighed heavily on his mind. “Because of the way I’d been taught, I went out to kneel in the fields near our home. I remember getting some distinct answers.” Tutoring experiences continued throughout his life and helped prepare him for his call to the Second Quorum of the Seventy.

I think of dear Sister Amy Gent, whom I was privileged to visit for several years as branch president, home teacher, and friend. The first time I visited her, she was 87 years of age. Widowed twice, she was the only member of the Church in her extended family. Was she lonely? Never!

She read the scriptures every day. Once she asked me to bring her some missionary tracts, which I thought were to vary her reading. I gave them to her saying, “You will enjoy reading these, Sister Gent.”

“Oh, they are not for me,” she replied. “I visit an old lady, and I want to share the gospel with her!”

Reaching out, helping, serving, this is the way we overcome the fear of loneliness.

The answer to this question from the Roy Utah Central Stake young women is a resounding, “Yes!” With a goal to collect 1,000 pairs of new or gently used shoes from the members of their stake, the young women organized a shoe drive. On the day of the drive, the young women collected, cleaned, polished, tied together, sorted, and boxed up 1,223 pairs of shoes. The week following the activity, shoes continued to trickle in. When the shoes were finally dropped off at the Church’s Humanitarian Center, there were nearly 1,500 pairs of shoes ranging from baby shoes to hiking boots to sneakers.
One person who donated shoes left a note for the young women that read, “Thanks for doing this. It is a super neat thing for you to do. You will bless many lives.”

“Dennis, will you give a talk in Primary next week?” Sister Harris asked. “We’d love for you to talk about a prophet in the Book of Mormon.”
Dennis gulped. He had shared a scripture and said a prayer in Primary before, but he wasn’t sure he could give a whole talk. What if he stuttered? He went to speech therapy, but it was still hard to speak clearly when he got nervous.
“I’ll try m-my best,” he said.
Sister Harris smiled. “That’s all that Heavenly Father asks of us.”
Dennis couldn’t stop thinking about the talk for the rest of Primary. As soon as his family left church, he blurted out, “I’m scared of giving a talk!” His voice trembled, and he felt hot tears in the corners of his eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I trip on my way to the microphone? Or what if I can’t remember what to say and freeze like a human statue?”
Mom smiled and put her arm around his shoulders. “I believe in you, and I have faith that Heavenly Father will help you.”
“Does Heavenly Father know I’m scared?” Dennis asked, wiping his eyes.
“Yes! Heavenly Father always knows how we feel,” Dad said. “He and the Savior understand everything we go through. They love us with all Their hearts.”
Dennis felt better after that. That night, he prayed about what he should say in his talk. He decided to share a scripture story. He thought of when Nephi’s bow broke. Nephi was brave and faithful, even when his older brothers were mean to him.
The next day Dennis wrote down that story in his own words. Mom helped him spell the words he didn’t know. Dennis practiced telling the story every day for the rest of the week.
On Sunday morning, Dennis said his talk to his family one last time. But he was still a little nervous.
“Dad, will you give me a blessing?” he asked.
“I would love to,” Dad said.
Dennis sat in a chair, and Dad put his hands on top of Dennis’s head. Dennis listened carefully as Dad spoke. Dad blessed him that he would be calm and that he would be able to say what he wanted to say. “Dennis, your Heavenly Father loves you very much,” Dad said. “His peace will be with you.”
Dennis felt a warm, calm feeling. He knew what Dad said was true.
When it was time for Dennis to give his talk, he walked to the front of the Primary room. He felt his knees shaking, but that didn’t stop him. And he didn’t trip! He looked to the back of the room and saw his parents smiling at him. He smiled back.
“Nephi and his family lived in the desert for years. But one time, Nephi b-broke his bow, so they couldn’t get f-f-food.” Dennis stopped. He was stuttering! He thought about giving up, but then he remembered his blessing. He took a deep breath and kept going.
“Nephi made a n-new bow and caught some food for his f-family. I know that Heavenly F-Father will help us as we try to do what’s right. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
As Dennis sat down, he felt a warm, calm feeling again. He had given a whole talk! God had helped him, just like Dad had promised in the blessing.

I was 16 years old then. I had a girlfriend I loved very much, but she left me. That was hard for me. I suffered a lot for almost a year. Because of that experience, I wanted to understand where I came from, why I was on earth, what the purpose of life is, and what happens after death. I wanted to find the answer to these questions on my own. But after thinking about them a long time, I turned to God again and said to myself, “The Creator of life knows life better than I do. I should find answers from Him.”
Reading the Bible, I learned that Jesus called twelve Apostles. “If God had a church today,” I thought, “it should have Apostles.” I became more and more attracted to religion, and I wanted to be baptized.
When I talked about God with my father, he told me that God is just. He said either you are baptized to be saved, or you are damned to hell forever. I didn’t want to believe that a loving Father in Heaven would take pleasure in sending His children to hell forever just because they hadn’t been baptized. What about those who didn’t have a chance to be baptized?
In France, there are few believers. I had friends who were nice, but they weren’t baptized. I concluded that it was not right to think they would all go to hell.
So, I decided to form my own beliefs. I believed in a God whose love is perfect and who would do everything in His power to save His children. If His children don’t want to receive His glory, that would be up to them. But He would give them a chance.
One day two full-time missionaries who were working in my village felt prompted to take a detour to go home. On their way home, they met my mother. She stopped them and made an appointment for me to meet them. I wasn’t happy about that. I didn’t want to talk to them. I thought they would say, “You must listen to us. You must believe what we are going to tell you.”
When the missionaries arrived for our meeting, I told them, “Don’t waste your time. I have my own beliefs. What you are doing is good, but I believe that family is very important. I believe that church leaders should be married. I believe that a church should have twelve Apostles. I believe that God will save as many of His children as He can. And I don’t believe in smoking and drinking.”
I was surprised to learn that their teachings matched my beliefs. They gave me a Book of Mormon and asked me to pray about it. I felt the Spirit when I read the book, and I felt the Spirit with the missionaries. But I thought, “Maybe I’m just creating these positive feelings.”
I prayed and got an answer in a dream. In my dream, I opened the Bible. Inside the Bible were tabs with the different books of the Bible. The last tab said “Mormon.” This message helped me understand that the Bible and the Book of Mormon contained the same gospel (see Ezekiel 37:15–19).
My testimony was further strengthened through other experiences reading and studying the Book of Mormon. When the missionaries invited me to be baptized, I accepted with joy. I was baptized exactly one year after my girlfriend left me. My baptism marked a big change in my life. I lost some friends when I joined the Church, but I found new ones in the branch I attended.
“The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness,” says Nicolas. “God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters.”
The gospel brought me a lot of light and happiness. I was filled with the Spirit and with joy. I thought, “All that I have suffered before has brought me here.”
God blessed me. I met a good woman, and we have three good daughters. Two of them have served missions, helping others understand what I came to understand years ago: “The family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children,” “the dead who repent will be redeemed, through obedience to the ordinances of the house of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 138:58), and the Lord calls apostles and prophets in our day to lead His Church (see Ephesians 2:20).

Because my mother was raised in Southern California and that was where we lived, I knew my mother’s side of the family much better than my father’s side in Utah, simply because of proximity. My dad felt strongly about my getting to know the Utah side of the family and getting to know the people in Salt Lake. He thought there was experience to be gained and strongly encouraged me to go to the University of Utah, which I did.
When I arrived, I joined a fraternity. A majority of the fraternity were also Church members, some of whom were returned missionaries. After a while I began to notice that the returned missionaries just seemed to “have their act together” in a way that the others, in my opinion, didn’t. I had not been raised with the notion of serving a mission, although as I got to be an older teenager my parents began to mention it. My father had not served a mission because of World War II. His medical school training went right through the war.
As I spent more and more time in Salt Lake and got to know the returned missionaries, somehow I was able to perceive that these missionaries had gotten more out of life and were further down the road in a very positive way than others of the same age. They were directed. They had goals. They had a feeling for who they were that others didn’t seem to have. In my view, they had social skills that I thought were an advantage. That was what got me started thinking about a mission. At first, it was entirely for the wrong reasons, for selfish reasons.
Even within this group there were some returned missionaries whose stories about their missions made me feel hesitant about service. Their stories were about how hard it was or how cold it was or how primitive the circumstances were. I was basically reluctant to do anything cold or difficult. But other returned missionaries took me aside and said, “Whit, let me tell you what it is really like, how wonderful it is.”
Nobody who was a returned missionary said, “Don’t go.” They all told me to go, but a few of them delighted in telling me the hard parts. I decided to listen to these others who said, “That’s just the way he talks. He had a great experience, and look what he became. You’ll have a great experience too.”
At the same time I had an experience that was very important to me. I used to go down to a local gym to work out. One time when I was down there in the late morning, I noticed Elder Marion D. Hanks of the Seventy. We were the only two in the gym, and he struck up a conversation with me.
After a little small talk, I asked him if I could ask a question.
“Sure, please go ahead,” he said. He was very friendly, very warm.
“I’m trying to decide whether to go on a mission.”
He said, “What are the things that you are thinking about? What are the considerations?”
I said, “Really just one, and it is a question about the amount of time it would take.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
At this point in time I thought I wanted to be a doctor. My father was a doctor, and I wanted to be a doctor. This was before I knew much about organic chemistry.
I said, “I’m 19 now and still have three years of college and then time as an intern and a resident. I expect to be drafted into the military (it was during the Vietnam conflict) plus a mission. You add all of these things up, I’ve got 14 or 15 years to go before I get to real life. If I do all of these things, I won’t get to real life until I’m 33 or 34 years old. That seems like a very late start.”
He said, “Well, that’s an interesting question. You should know that I did not serve a mission. I was in the military during World War II and was not able to serve a mission, but I’ll tell you how I think you should answer the question.”
He asked me, “How old are you now?”
I said, “I’m 19.”
“How old will you be in 14 years if you don’t do any of those things?”
I answered, “I’ll be 33.”
He again asked me, “How old are you now?”
I said, “I’m 19.”
“How old will you be in 14 years if you do all of those things?”
I said, “I’ll be 33.”
Then he asked me. “When you are 33, what would you rather have done? None of those things, half of those things, or all of those things?”
I saw immediately the wisdom of his response, and it just penetrated me. I saw how it fit with what I had seen in the returned missionaries on campus. I decided then and there I was going to serve a mission.
That was the best decision I have ever made, because everything good in my life has come from that decision. I don’t believe my wife would ever have been willing to consider marrying me if I had not been a returned missionary. I think her decision to marry me was the best thing that has happened in my life. Our experience together across the years, raising a family and being involved in Church service, our community involvement, my professional involvement, all of those things have been influenced by that mission.
I am so grateful for the example of returned missionaries—for the way they dressed, for the way they talked, the way they worked, for the light in their lives, which was immediately evident to me. I could see the difference in the way they dressed, spoke, and carried themselves, in the way they behaved. It was discernible. I could see it, and I wasn’t looking for it. It was simply that I began to perceive something that I hadn’t noticed before, and I learned that the Lord blesses those who do the things He asks them to do. He blessed me, and He blesses everyone who goes on a mission and then stays in essentially a modified missionary lifestyle after that. I’m grateful for that.
Those two experiences—watching returned missionaries and having a chance (well, maybe not a chance) meeting with Elder Hanks. That was the turning point in my life. My parents wanted me to go on a mission and were delighted when I did. And I think it helped my younger brothers to see me go.
Young men, look forward to serving a mission. It is hard; it is work, but there is nothing about it that you can’t do. You’ll love the experience. Doing hard things is good for us, and missions aren’t so hard that you can’t do them. They just require something of you. You have to grow up a little, and I promise you that if you will prepare yourself for a mission in every way—intellectually, physically, and spiritually—keeping yourself clean and ready to go, you’ll have a tremendous experience, and you’ll be grateful.

“Whom are you going to invite to your birthday party tomorrow?” Mom asked as I looked at the purple alligator piñata she was making for me.
Mom always made a piñata for our birthdays. She had made cowboys, horses, elephants, and pirates and stuffed them full of candy and surprises. We would invite our friends over, hang the piñata in our willow tree, and give everyone a chance to break it and grab some of the goodies inside.
“I’m going to invite everybody in the neighborhood.” I grinned as Mom glued big teeth and plastic eyes onto the alligator made of bright, fluffy tissue paper.
“Are you even going to invite Bobby Wilson?” my brother, David, asked.
I frowned and stuffed my fists into my pockets. “I wouldn’t invite Bobby to anything. He’s a jerk.”
“Benjamin!” Mom snapped, turning around and glaring at me. “You know you don’t talk like that about your friends.”
“I wasn’t talking about my friends.” I turned and stomped out of the house. Every time I thought about Bobby, I got mad. He was the worst pest a guy could have. He lived across the street and two houses down in a yellow house that needed painting. The lawn in front was never mowed, and most of the time it had big patches of brown in it because nobody ever watered it.
Nobody liked Bobby. He wore ragged clothes and a too-shiny baseball cap that looked like he’d dragged it from the trash. But the way he looked was only part of it. He was such a big mouth, bragging about all the things he had and all the things he could do.
“Mom’s going to make you invite Bobby to your birthday party,” David teased as he followed me out the front door and onto the lawn under the willow tree.
“I might have to take an invitation to his house,” I said defiantly, “but I’ll hide it in the bushes so he’ll never find it. When he doesn’t show, if Mom asks if I took him an invitation, I can tell her yes.”
We started to giggle, thinking of the good joke I’d play on Bobby.
“Hey, what are you two doing?” a voice called out.
David and I looked up. There stood Bobby, with his stupid baseball cap on his head.
“We’re not doing anything,” I said. “And we don’t plan to,” I added, hoping Bobby wouldn’t decide to stay.
Bobby strolled over and dropped down on the grass beside us. “I sure played a good game of baseball,” he announced smugly. “I hit about ten homers.”
“Ah, come on,” David scoffed. “You never hit a home run in your life.”
“I did so—with the new bat my dad sent me.”
“You don’t have a new bat,” I argued.
Bobby jumped to his feet. “I do too.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Go get your new bat and show it to us, then.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I figure that that’s what you are.”
I wasn’t expecting what happened next. Bobby grabbed me in a headlock and was punching and scratching and kicking all at the same time. I rolled over and tried to break away from him, but he stayed right with me.
“What are you boys doing?” I heard Mom ask.
I jumped up, glared at Bobby, and ducked my head as I turned toward Mom. “We were just messing around.”
“Well, it didn’t look like either of you was having any fun. If that’s the way you’re going to mess around, then maybe you’d better do it cleaning up the garage. That way you won’t get into trouble.”
The rest of the morning David and I stayed in the garage, cleaning up and grumbling about Bobby.
“I’m never talking to him again,” I told David as I swept the garage floor.
“Don’t let Mom hear you say that, or she’ll really make you invite Bobby to your piñata party.”
“I’ll just skip my birthday this year if I have to invite Bobby. And I’ll give my purple alligator away.”
“Hi, Benjamin. Hi, David,” someone shouted.
We looked up and saw Bobby coming up the driveway on his old, beat-up bike. David and I didn’t say anything. We just kept right on working.
“What’re you guys doing?” Bobby asked, leaning his bike against the side of the house.
“We’d be out playing ball if somebody hadn’t showed up this morning and got all smart,” I muttered.
Bobby didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. He came into the garage and looked around. “You still want to play ball?” he asked.
I didn’t say anything, hoping he’d just go away.
“Guess what tomorrow is?” Bobby asked excitedly.
David and I didn’t ask.
“It’s my birthday! I’ll be nine.”
“Your birthday?” David gasped. “You and Benjamin have the same birthday! His birthday is tomorrow, and he’ll be nine too.”
“Be quiet!” I snapped at David.
“My dad’s going to send me a new bike. A ten-speed.”
“Why don’t you stop all your bragging,” I said. “You aren’t getting anything, and you know it. You don’t even know where your dad is. You’ve probably never even seen your dad, so stop telling us about all the great things he’s going to send you. He hasn’t sent you anything so far. And he never will.”
I figured that Bobby was really going to tear into me then, so I threw my dustpan down and put my arms up defensively. But Bobby didn’t charge at me, swinging. He just stared at me for a minute, all sicklike. Then he swallowed once, ducked his head, and backed out of the garage. When he grabbed his bike and wobbled it down the driveway, he was crying.
I had wanted to hurt Bobby—after all, he was the one who had made Mom put us to work. But as I watched him ride away with his head bowed and his shoulders hunched, I felt sorry for him. It was the first time I’d ever felt sorry for Bobby Wilson.
David was staring at me as if he couldn’t believe that I’d said what I’d said.
“It serves him right,” I defended myself.
David turned away and started straightening some boxes.
I saw Bobby a couple of times that day in his yard, just sitting under an elm tree, staring at the ground. There was a cold, empty place inside me. I wanted to make it go away. I tried to think of lots of different things—fun things, exciting things—but no matter what I thought or did, that cold, empty place just stayed there.
That night, before David and I turned the lights off in our room, I lay on my bed, staring up at my piñata hanging in the corner. But I didn’t see the purple alligator. All I could see was Bobby Wilson.
“Are you boys going to keep the light on all night?” Dad asked, poking his head into our room. “You’d better get some sleep, Benjamin. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“Dad,” I said suddenly, “what makes Bobby Wilson the way he is?”
Dad thought for a moment, then came and sat on the edge of my bed. “Mom said that you had a little trouble with Bobby today,” he mentioned. “What was the problem?”
“Bobby’s the problem,” I muttered. “He’s always acting like a hotshot, bragging about all the things his dad is going to send him and about all the things he can do. Why does he act like that? It makes me want to punch him.”
Dad thought for a long time. “Bobby doesn’t have a lot of nice things. Maybe he’ll never have them. But he wants them, just the same. He’d like a new bike, but the only way he’ll ever have one is to dream about it, to hope that someday his dad, whom he never hears from, will send him the best bike in the world.”
“But he doesn’t even know where his dad is.”
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like if you didn’t have a dad or mom here all the time? Tonight Bobby’s probably climbing into bed by himself. There’s no one to go in and tell him good night and ask him if he’s said his prayers. He wants those things as much as you do. But the only thing he can do is dream about them and maybe talk as if he has them.”
I lay in bed awake long after David had gone to sleep. It didn’t do any good to close my eyes, because I kept tossing and turning and thinking. It wasn’t until I looked over in the corner and saw the dark shape of my purple alligator that I knew what I was going to do the next day. After that, going to sleep was easy.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilson,” I quavered the next day on Bobby’s front steps. Even though it was pretty late in the morning, Bobby’s mom was still in her robe and looked like she’d just got out of bed. “Is Bobby here?”
She stared at me a while and scratched her head. “I think he’s around in the backyard. You can go look. But don’t bang on the door anymore.”
I thanked her and walked around the house. Everything back there was kind of a mess. For a while I didn’t see anyone. Then I spotted Bobby sitting on a crate with his dumb baseball cap on his head and a cracked baseball bat in front of him. I called to him so he wouldn’t think I’d come to spy on him.
Bobby looked up. “What’d you come around back here for?”
I shrugged. “Just stopped by to see how things were going. I thought I’d wish you a happy birthday. It is your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Sure, it’s my birthday. I was going to have a big party.” He stopped and bit his lip. “I still am. But probably later. Mom isn’t feeling too well. And Dad hasn’t sent my ten-speed yet.”
“He will. Sometimes things just get here late.”
“Yeah.”
I hesitated, then blurted out, “Mom made me a piñata for my birthday. We’re going to break it this afternoon and have a big party.”
“I think I’ll ask my mom to make me a piñata, too, when she gets to feeling better.”
“She doesn’t have to do that. Why don’t you just share mine. There’s no sense in both our moms throwing a big party. Shoot, if your mom’s not feeling well, you can just come over to my place and we’ll have our birthdays together. In fact, you can be the very first one to take a crack at my purple alligator.”
“Do you mean it?”
I grinned. “Sure I mean it. I’ve never had a double birthday party before. Come on. We can help Dad hang the piñata in the willow tree.”
Suddenly we were running together. And I noticed that that cold, empty feeling was finally gone.

They have also performed for special events such as inaugurations and funerals. On September 11, 2001, the choir was scheduled to perform in the Tabernacle on Temple Square for a visiting group of conventioneers. Because of the terrorist attacks on the United States earlier that day, the performance was changed to a memorial concert. As a show of respect, President Gordon B. Hinckley asked the audience to refrain from applauding.

“Midway through the concert we sang ‘America the Beautiful,’” says choir member Stephen Stoker. “Unable to applaud, the audience stood as we began to sing. When we got to the third verse, where we sing, ‘Oh, beautiful for patriot dream that sees beyond the years, thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears,’ we were all crying. … It was a powerful experience for all of us.”

“Andy, don’t forget your umbrella.”

“Aw, Mom, it’s not going to rain,” Andy said. “I’ll look silly carrying an umbrella to school when the sun is shining.” But he took the umbrella and headed up the street.

“Why can’t this be the kind of umbrella that folds up small,” he grumbled as he neared the end of his block. “It’s too big to hide under my jacket!”

“Hi, Andy. Are you afraid it’s going to rain?” a group of fourth-graders greeted him as he entered the school playground.

“The weatherman said it would,” Andy defended himself.

“Oh, sure—but this kind of rain is called sunshine,” Kenny teased him with a big grin. The other children laughed.

At recess, the sky was still sunny, and Andy was glad when no one mentioned the umbrella. However, after lunch Kenny appeared on the playground with the umbrella in hand! He held it out to Andy. “I thought that you might want this,” he said. “There’s a cloud in the sky now!” Kenny broke out in a fit of laughter. Other classmates joined in.

Andy was angry, and he bit his lip to keep from saying anything.

But Kenny wouldn’t leave it alone. He jumped up onto the steps of the school building. “Come on, everybody—see the one and only Andy and his famous umbrella,” he shouted. “Step right up. The show’s about to begin!”

Andy felt his face turn red as a large group of children turned and stared at him. “What’s so famous about it?” they asked.

Suddenly Andy remembered what Mom always said: “Try to make the best of things. Don’t let anyone or anything get you down.”

OK, he told himself. I’ll go along with them! He stood up and made a sweeping bow toward his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This may look like a common, ordinary umbrella, but it happens to be very special. Watch—I’ll show you.”

Andy held the closed umbrella by the handle, and with head held high, he strutted around the center of the circle made by the children. “It’s a fancy walking cane,” he explained. “Only very important people use them.”

Then he held the handle close to his face and pointed the tip end toward the sky. “Now it’s a telescope,” he announced. “I see Jupiter and Mars and all the stars, even in the daylight.”

“On guard!” he yelled as he bent his knees in a fencer’s stance. With his other arm held high, he slashed through the air with his “sword.”

The children began to clap. “More! More!” they called out.

With big dramatic motions, Andy opened the umbrella and held it over his head. He stepped along carefully as he pretended to be a circus tightrope walker.

As he neared one of his classmates, he closed the umbrella quickly and poked the pointed end through a piece of paper on the ground. “You see,” he said, “it’s also a good trash picker-upper.”

His classmates were laughing with him now, not at him. “That’s great, Andy,” they said. “What else can you do with it?”

Andy grabbed the middle of the closed umbrella and began to whistle “Yankee Doodle” while he strutted around like a drum major waving a baton. When he stopped, he twirled it around and around in his hand.

Finally, he opened it and placed it handle up on the ground and said, “It’s a TV satellite dish!” Then he turned it over and crawled underneath it. “It makes a good tent or fort too.”

Just then the bell rang. The children filed back into the classroom.

About fifteen minutes before school ended, the rain began. The light sprinkling had turned into a heavy drizzle by the time Andy got outside. He opened his umbrella and smiled to himself. Mom was right, as usual, he thought.

He passed the cars that were lined up in front of the building. Up ahead Andy saw Kenny with his shoulders hunched forward and his head down. Knowing that Kenny’s mom was still working and would not be there to give him a ride home, Andy hurried to catch up with his classmate. “I forgot to show you the most important thing this umbrella can do,” he told Kenny.

Andy held the umbrella so that it covered both their heads. “It’s really good for keeping a friend from getting wet too.”

Kenny stood up straight and smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Andy,” he said.

The summer wind rustled the long grass as it gusted across the vast, rolling plains of northern Montana, whistling by the gray, unpainted, weather-worn boards of the small house. The house sat almost alone out there in that great expanse of land with the mighty Missouri River gliding by in the middle of its journey to its rendezvous with the Mississippi. Occasionally one of the loose boards on the house would rattle a bit as a particularly strong gust would hit it, and the flapping could be heard inside.
It was Sunday, but except for a few rather puny creations of man, the great, sweeping plains and grass looked much as they had for many hundreds of Sundays, and other days of the week as well. There was a certain feeling of changelessness to this immense land.
Inside the lone, sparsely furnished house, propped up on the old chipped and rusted hospital bed to which he was confined, was old Pointing Iron, once a great warrior of the proud and magnificent Sioux nation. Now he was confined by age and frailty to this small, one-room wooden shack.
His eyes wandered around the walls of the room, not noticing the pasteboard that served not only as a covering for the walls but as the wallpaper as well. It was the same in most of the Indian homes on the reservation. Instead, he would let his gaze roam around the walls, stopping to gaze upon some old, faded picture or memento out of his past, and memories of long ago events would flood back into his alert mind. Pointing Iron didn’t know how old he was, nor did anyone else who knew him, but his memory went back to many of the happy times of his people. He had seen many snows in his lifetime.
Brother Pointing Iron hadn’t forgotten what day it was, and he looked forward with anticipation to the time when the sun would approach midday. As midday drew near, he reached out his once powerful arms and attempted to straighten the blanket and the worn quilt that covered his weakened body. Then his gnarled hands went up to the two straight braids of beautiful gray hair that hung well below his shoulders. It was important that they fall neatly in place and that his head be held proud and erect, however hard it might be to hold it there.
He waited now for what he knew was to come. Shortly there was a sharp knocking, and as the door creaked open, two young men in dark suits entered, glad to be sheltered from the wind.
Brother Pointing Iron anxiously reached out his hand and warmly shook the hands of the two missionaries who had come on a special errand to his humble home. Not many words were exchanged, as Pointing Iron could speak very little English and the elders knew almost nothing of the Sioux tongue, but there was a communion of the spirit that all of them felt.
The elders did, however, have a hymn book in the Sioux language, so while one of them selected some music, the other moved an old, rough, wooden chair, held together mostly by wire, into the center of the room. He then very carefully unfolded two clean, freshly pressed handkerchiefs and laid them on the seat of the chair. A small, clean plate was produced and placed on the handkerchiefs. On the plate he put a small morsel of bread and beside it a small glass of clear well water. Now all was in readiness for the meeting to begin.
The elder had opened the hymn book to page 25, and the three of them sang, as best they could, “Sweet Hour of Prayer,” after which one of the missionaries offered the invocation. Then the senior companion knelt and repeated the blessing on the bread. As the plate was handed to Brother Pointing Iron, his trembling hand reached out and picked up the small piece of bread, which represented to him the sacrificed body of his beloved Savior, and the tears flowed slowly down his wrinkled, weather-beaten cheeks.
After the water had been blessed and given to Pointing Iron, the elders once again opened the hymn book, and they all joined in singing, “Israel, Israel, God Is Calling.” Then the junior companion offered the benediction. The chair was cleared off and put back in its place by the wall, and the meeting was over. Once again Pointing Iron’s covenants had been renewed. The elders lingered, reluctant to leave that special spirit they felt so strongly in that old wooden shack on the Montana plains.
Finally they shook the hand of their loved brother and said their good-byes. They stepped once again out into the brisk prairie wind, but somehow the wind didn’t seem to be so much of a bother to them anymore.
This was a cherished weekly Sabbath day assignment and they gladly carried it out until the brave old warrior, Pointing Iron, left this mortal life and was placed to rest in the great old Indian cemetery at Chicken Hill.