Gospel Story Finder

Several decades ago an acquaintance of mine left a small southern Utah town to travel to the East. He had never traveled much beyond his little hometown and certainly had never ridden a train. But his older sister and brother-in-law needed him under some special circumstances, and his parents agreed to free him from the farm work in order to go. They drove him to Salt Lake City and put him onto the train—new Levi’s, not so new boots, very frightened, and eighteen years old.

There was one major problem, and it terrified him. He had to change trains in Chicago. Furthermore, it involved a one-night layover, and that was a fate worse than death. His sister had written, carefully outlining when the incoming train would arrive and how and where and when he was to catch the outgoing line, but he was terrified.

And then his humble, plain, sun-scarred father did something no one in this room should ever forget. He said, “Son, wherever you go in this Church there will always be somebody to stand by you. That’s part of what it means to be a Latter-day Saint.” And then he stuffed into the pocket of his calico shirt the name of a bishop he had taken the time to identify from sources at Church headquarters. If the boy had troubles, or became discouraged and afraid, he was to call the bishop and ask for help.

Well, the train ride progressed rather uneventfully until the train pulled into Chicago. And even then the young man did pretty well at collecting his luggage and making it to the nearby hotel room that had been prearranged by his brother-in-law. But then the clock began to tick and night began to fall and faith began to fail. Could he find his way back to the station? Could he find the right track and train? What if it was late? What if he was late? What if he lost his ticket? What if his sister had made a mistake and he ended up in New York? What if? What if? What if?

Without those well-worn boots ever hitting the floor, that big, raw-boned boy flew across the room, nearly pulled the telephone out of the wall, and, fighting back tears and troubles, called the bishop. Alas, the bishop was not home, but the bishop’s wife was. She spoke long enough to reassure him that absolutely nothing could go wrong that night. He was, after all, safe in the room, and what he needed more than anything else was a night’s rest. Then she said, “If tomorrow morning you are still concerned, follow these directions and you can be with our family and other ward members until train time. We will make sure you get safely on your way.” She then carefully spelled out the directions, had him repeat them back, and suggested a time for him to come.

With slightly more peace in his heart, he knelt by his bed in prayer (as he had every night of his eighteen years) and then waited for morning to come. Somewhere in the night the hustle and bustle of Chicago in the 1930s subsided into peaceful sleep.

At the appointed hour the next morning he set out. A long walk, then catch a bus. Then transfer to another. Watch for the stop. Walk a block, change sides of the street, and then one last bus. Count the streets carefully. Two more to go. One more to go. I’m here. Let me out of this bus. It worked, just like she said.

Then his world crumbled, crumbled before his very eyes. He stepped out of the bus onto the longest stretch of shrubbery and grass he had ever seen in his life. She had said something about a park, but he thought a park was a dusty acre in southern Utah with a netless tennis court in one corner. Here he stood looking in vain at the vast expanse of Lincoln Park with not a single friendly face in sight.

There was no sign of a bishop or a ward or a meetinghouse. And the bus was gone. It struck him that he had no idea where he was or what combination of connections with who knows what number of buses would be necessary to get him back to the station. Suddenly he felt more alone and overwhelmed than he had at any moment in his life. As the tears welled up in his eyes, he despised himself for feeling so afraid—but he was, and the tears would not stop. He stepped off the sidewalk away from the bus stop into the edge of the park. He needed some privacy for his tears, as only an eighteen-year-old from Southern Utah could fully appreciate. But as he stepped away from the noise, fighting to control his emotions, he thought he heard something hauntingly familiar in the distance. He moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. First he walked, and then he walked quickly. The sound was stronger and firmer and certainly it was familiar. Then he started to smile, a smile that erupted into an audible laugh, and then he started to run. He wasn’t sure that was the most dignified thing for a newcomer to Chicago to do, but this was no time for discretion. He ran, and he ran fast. He ran as fast as those cowboy boots would carry him—over shrubs, through trees, around the edge of a pool.

Though hard to you this journey may appear, Grace shall be as your day.

The sounds were crystal clear, and he was weeping newer, different tears. For there over a little rise huddled around a few picnic tables and bundles of food were the bishop and his wife and their children and most of the families of that little ward. The date: July 24, 1934. The sound: a slightly off-key a cappella rendition of lines that even a boy from Southern Utah could recognize.

Gird up your loins; fresh courage take; Our God will never us forsake; And soon we’ll have this tale to tell— All is well! All is well! [“Come, Come, Ye Saints, Hymns, 1985, no. 30]

It was Pioneer Day. The gathering to which he had been invited was a Twenty-Fourth of July celebration. Knowing that it was about time for the boy to arrive, the ward had thought it a simple matter to sing a verse or two of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” to let him know their location.

But by early February 1915, Elder Cowley was temporarily without a companion (a difficulty not encountered by present-day missionaries), and he battled homesickness by studying the Maori language and visiting his Maori friends. His journal entry for 8 February is typical: “This is a very lonely place and I am afraid that I would be inclined to be homesick if I didn’t have my books to study. … After studying several hours I took a walk up the road to another Maori home. Here I made some new friends and had a little religious conversation.”3

Neal A. Maxwell said, “God does not begin by asking us about our ability, but only about our availability, and if we then prove our dependability, he will increase our capability!”1
When we were called to help start service missions in the UK and Ireland, in the middle of what became a year of lockdowns and self-isolation, the obstacles seemed overwhelming. But we embraced the new reality of virtual meetings. This increased our capacity to meet leaders and members without having to travel the long distances that this calling would have required. We have seen many blessings due to making ourselves available, giving all that we can to this exciting new chapter of the Church in the UK and Ireland.
Across the 47 stakes, and 333 wards and branches, we have been welcomed by ward councils, delivered youth firesides, presented fifth-Sunday lessons to Relief Society and priesthood, spoken in sacrament meetings, participated in lessons, and joined coordinating councils. We have had the pleasure of meeting with individual missionaries and their families, as we shared the good news about service missions.
Bishop Dann from the Nottingham 4th Ward wrote to us after one such meeting and said, “Thank you very much for joining us for our ward council meeting last night. Speaking personally, I felt the Spirit very strongly reinforce to me that service missions are a fantastic opportunity for those that are unable to serve teaching missions. I hope that the number of service missionaries can grow in the coming years. I can see it is good for those that serve, good for those that are served, and good for the Church in general.”

Evan and I created a great “hut” down in the rocks and sand of Ash Creek. That was a small tributary to the Virgin River in southern Utah. It was the perfect place for catching little blue-bellied racing lizards. When it came to catching those, Evan and I had no peers. That was one thing we could do better than even my two older brothers.
I did not know until we were about ten years old that Evan had been born with a heart defect. He had asthma and often coughed and wheezed from that, but it did not interfere with our play. One reason I did not know that his health problems were serious was that he never once complained.
All along, his parents had been waiting for him to reach an age when he was strong enough to survive surgery. Finally, the doctors felt that they could wait no longer, so off to Salt Lake went Evan and his parents.
He wrote to me saying that he had taken an advance tour of the hospital to see everything, including the operating and recovery rooms. The doctors wanted him to see them in detail, so that when he awoke, he would not be frightened. To me, it seemed that he took that all in stride.
Several days later Evan underwent eight or ten hours of major surgery. Unbelievably to me, he died on the operating table.
I was crushed. I had prayed faithfully and fervently that he would survive. I thought my prayers had gone unanswered. Brokenhearted, I went back to our river hut one last time after the funeral. I stayed only long enough to push some of the rocks aside and destroy the fort that we had built. I guess I thought if I could destroy what represented Evan, I could destroy the horrible feelings of grief that I was experiencing.
Later I would learn that those feelings were normal. I loved Evan. I would miss him. That is a natural instinct, and there is nothing wrong with it.
I thought about Evan every day for a month or so. Then I began to get busy with other friends, and soon I was just thinking about him every now and then. After about ten years, I found that I would go months at a time and never think of the closeness that we had shared. I noticed, however, that when I started thinking about him, all of the good feelings that I had felt with him so many times would come rushing back into my mind and heart.

The fulfillment of the Prophet’s statement came some months later when Dan Jones was called to go to Wales. His wife, Jane, accompanied him. They traveled with Wilford Woodruff and others to the British Isles. Elder Jones was assigned to labor in northern Wales. Though he had the great asset of speaking both Welsh and English, he accomplished relatively little in touching the hearts of the people of that area. On the other hand, William Henshaw, who did not speak the Welsh language, enjoyed considerable success in the south.

When Brother Henshaw was released a year later, Elder Jones was called to preside over all the work in Wales. He made his headquarters in Merthyr Tydfil in southeastern Wales. Working with a handful of missionaries, he witnessed a remarkable harvest. From 1845 to 1848, approximately 3,600 were baptized. It is estimated that in terms of population, one out of every 278 people in Wales at that time was baptized into the LDS Church.

Opponents of the Church had access to newspapers and other publications to attack the Mormon missionaries. But the press would not open its columns to Elder Jones. He therefore determined that he would answer with publications of his own. He enlisted the help of his brother, John Jones, a Protestant minister who owned a printing press. It is said that John printed Dan’s literature during the week and denounced him from the pulpit on Sunday.

Dan Jones’s publication was the first Mormon periodical published in a language other than English.2 Issued in 1846, it carried the title Prophwyd y Jubili (“Prophet of the Jubilee”).

We catch the spirit of his sometimes feisty manner in his opening article:
“Dear Reader,—Behold the beginning of a new era in our age, yea, the most remarkable which has ever been, the most wondrous in its preparations, the most goodly in its deeds, and the most glorious in its effects of every previous age. Once more the golden keys of heaven have been entrusted to men for them to open all treasures, to unlock all mysteries and for the clarification of all errors in the midst of mankind. Already the doors of eternity can be seen opening on their rusty hinges, its hidden pearls and the treasures old and new are once again starting to shine before the eyes of men as in the days of God! Let the inhabitants of the earth rejoice, and let every Welshman give a hearkening ear to the good news of great joy which is sounded through this last trumpet.”3

He had an interesting missionary technique. It was essentially one of controversy, a technique not fit for our time but used well by him then. He feared no one. He moved with great boldness. Of his method it has been written: “He would often advertise in a town for several weeks that he was coming to ‘convert’ the whole town. He would inform the mayor, the city council, the ministers, and the police force of his intentions. He would have the local members of the church distribute thousands of tracts to all the city. When he arrived at the railroad station he was often met by all of the officials of the city and many excited citizens.”4

Ministers of other churches lashed out against him. They used their pulpits and the public press. Of their antagonism, Dan Jones wrote, “Most of the stories that were told on poor Brother Joseph in America, are here fathered on Captain Jones, and I often hear those who don’t know that little man [himself], unhesitatingly denounce him as ‘a curse upon this nation.’”5

Public opinions raged this way and that. But instead of shrinking, Dan Jones capitalized on controversies. He drew such public attention that people had to decide whether the gospel of the Mormons was true or false. An increasing number of converts came into the Church while a veritable storm arose against the Mormons in general and Elder Jones in particular. He was vilified in the press. He was shouted at in the streets. His life was threatened.

In those circumstances he wrote, “I delight in the trophies of war. I came here to fight for the spiritual freedom of my brethren, and I thank heaven … that He is knocking off their shackles by hundreds! Who that has tasted of the sweets of liberty would say, ‘hold!’”6

A few years ago my older sister passed away. She had a challenging life. She struggled with the gospel and was never really active. Her husband abandoned their marriage and left her with four young children to raise. On the evening of her passing, in a room with her children present, I gave her a blessing to peacefully return home. At that moment I realized I had too often defined my sister’s life in terms of her trials and inactivity. As I placed my hands on her head that evening, I received a severe rebuke from the Spirit. I was made acutely aware of her goodness and allowed to see her as God saw her—not as someone who struggled with the gospel and life but as someone who had to deal with difficult issues I did not have. I saw her as a magnificent mother who, despite great obstacles, had raised four beautiful, amazing children. I saw her as the friend to our mother who took time to watch over and be a companion to her after our father passed away.

During that final evening with my sister, I believe God was asking me, “Can’t you see that everyone around you is a sacred being?”

At a recent encampment planned and directed by stake and ward priesthood leaders, I asked a young man how he felt about his leaders. He responded: “I’ve always been scared around stake presidents and bishops. For some reason I always feel like I’m getting interviewed. But living in camp with them has helped me make friends with them. Next time I have an interview we’ll have memories to talk about.”

Allison is a very popular track star and communications major. One night she and her friend Becky were heading for a group date. Allison stopped at the bottom of the stairs, asked Becky to wait a moment, and then ran back to the apartment. She returned with a blanket, which she quietly slipped around a homeless man standing on the street corner. What a nice example of following the Lord’s direction that we freely give.

When I was a teenager, one of my favorite things to do was to explore caves. There weren’t a lot of caves near where I grew up, but there were a few. One of these caves is named Little Brush Creek Cave. It is in the Uinta Mountains of Utah. I made multiple trips to this cave, both with friends and with youth groups. The cave has a large entrance and fairly large passages, but there are many passages, and often between these passages there are tight places that require crawling. These passages branch off in a variety of directions. Once a person enters the cave, the light from the entrance is quickly cut off so that without flashlights or headlamps it is impossible to see.

One time, on a trip with other young men from my home ward, we entered the cave as a large group. As I recall, a close friend and I were the oldest of the boys, and had been in the cave several times before. Because of this, the adult leaders gave us a lot of freedom to explore on our own. After a fun time exploring, the leaders decided to take the younger boys out, but allowed my friend and me to remain in the cave. We were confident in our abilities and confident that we knew where we were, where we wanted to go and, most crucially, how to find our way back out of the cave.

After a time, we decided that we were done and we headed back to the entrance. I will never forget the feeling I had as we entered what I thought was the passage leading out of the cave only to find a dead end of ice-covered rock in a large open space. I did not recognize anything in that space. The only passage was the one we entered through.

I didn’t panic, but my confidence was weakened, and I tried to figure out where we were and where we needed to go. I was confused, where seconds before I had been completely confident. Leaving the room and reentering the passage that we had been in, which had many branching passages, I suddenly felt like I didn’t know where to go. I started to worry. We wandered tentatively into various passages, but always came back to where we were because suddenly nothing looked familiar anymore. I began to pray in my heart for help. It felt like I must have checked various routes multiple times. I don’t remember how long we were apparently lost or how many additional passages I checked. To be honest, I don’t think that it was an especially long time. But it was long enough that I became very nervous and worried.

There came a point, however, where, as we were checking different passages, that I happened to look up to a small, projecting piece of rock near my head. It was not very big, maybe only the size of a baseball, but tied around it was a broken piece of string, left by some previous person who had used string to guide them back to the entrance. My heart filled with hope at that moment because I recognized that rock and that string. I had seen it earlier in the day when we had first entered the cave and because of that, I suddenly knew exactly which direction to go in order to find the exit. My friend and I made our way out of the cave – and none of our leaders ever found out how close we had been to being lost – we kept that to ourselves.

That small rock and piece of string, as simple as they were, served as a firm and clear reference point so that I knew exactly where I was. They gave me clear direction and provided the guidance I needed to get where I wanted to go.

Elder Sorensen loved sports and excelled in football, basketball, and baseball in high school in Salt Lake City. As a younger boy, however, he played baseball with the neighborhood boys in an open field, with a black friction-taped ball, a few gloves, and one old bat. “My mother wanted me to learn to play the piano,” Elder Sorensen said, “and she persevered for about six months, but she had a hard time getting me to practice, especially when I wanted to be out playing baseball. However, I had enough musical training so that when I was in the mission field, I could play about fourteen or fifteen hymns. I wish I had practiced more!
“I remember the excitement of being chosen as a crossing guard in sixth grade and how cold it was walking in the snow all the way to the school on the hill when I was in seventh grade. My biggest challenge was applying myself in school. I was more interested in sports and other things. Then, in junior high school, I was stimulated to learn so that I gained a balance in my life. I was able to pull up my grades and earn a scholarship.
“Serving a mission in Brazil was a great turning point in my life,” declared Elder Sorensen. “When I was twenty and had just completed two years of college at the University of Chicago on an academic/athletic scholarship, I had doubts about my going on a mission. When I returned home that summer, Mom said to me, ‘Well, now you can prepare for your mission.’
“Elder Sorensen told his mother that he had changed his mind and didn’t think that he would serve a mission. “I’ll never forget the hurt look on Mom’s face,” he recalled, “after I told her my decision. She didn’t scold me, but afterward she privately cried and prayed.
“I didn’t go back to school in Chicago that fall. With the help of Mom and Dad and a wise and understanding bishop, I accepted a mission call to Brazil and left for South America in 1940.
“It wasn’t very long after I arrived in the mission field and began studying the scriptures regularly that my testimony really began to grow. Since then it has never wavered but has grown stronger. I’m grateful to the Lord and my parents for guiding me at that very important crossroad.
“Children, listen to your parents. They love you more than anyone else does, except your Father in Heaven, who has an even greater capacity to love. If you follow their good teachings and example, you will always be happy that you did. And remember to follow the counsel and guidance of Church leaders, particularly your bishop.”

Elder David Rawls and his companion, Elder Rahrick, stood at the door of the small LDS meetinghouse in Tokyo, Japan, and waited.
“What if he doesn’t come?” Elder Rahrick asked.
“He’ll come.”
“But what if he doesn’t?”
“Then he won’t.”
“You’re not much help, you know.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll come,” David said.
“I already wrote my folks and told them we were going to have a baptism, so if he doesn’t come, what’ll I do?”
“Tell them he didn’t come.”
“You don’t know my dad. He wants results.”
“Go see how close to being full the font is, okay? That’ll give you something to do.”
Elder Rahrick started off and then stopped and turned around. “He’d better come, that’s all I can say. I wrote my girlfriend about the baptism too.”
“Go check the font, will you?”
“All right, but if he doesn’t come, it won’t matter if the font is full or not, will it?”
David watched as Elder Rahrick went down the hall of the church to the baptismal font. They were about as different as two people could be. David couldn’t understand how some guy just off the plane thought he knew more about missionary work than he did.
It was a tough mission with long hours, a difficult language to learn, and few converts, and no California beach boy was going to change it in a day. Don’t let him get to you, he thought. This is a day of celebration, because today the hurt will go away.
Ever since he was a little boy, he had in his mind the image of being on his mission, standing in the water, baptizing someone. But somehow the reality had been that, even though he’d worked hard, he’d had no baptisms. Of course there had been people he’d taught who eventually were baptized, but always just after he was transferred.
His parents had always told him not to worry, that he should just do his best. And he had. He worked hard and lived mission rules and prayed, but still no baptisms came.
As time slipped by, he thought about what it would be like, after his mission, talking with his friends from high school, guys he’d played basketball with, guys who thrived on competition. He knew they’d ask how many baptisms he’d had on his mission. From letters they’d written, he already knew one of his friends had 30 baptisms.
And he had none.
“Don’t let it get you down,” his father had written. “The important thing is that you are serving with all your heart, mind, and strength. We couldn’t be more proud of you than we are.”
David knew his father was right, but still, he wanted at least once on his mission, to stand in the baptismal font with someone he’d taught, and raise his right arm to the square, and actually perform the baptismal ordinance. If for no other reason, just to make his boyhood dream come true.
Just when it seemed that it would never happen, four weeks before his release from the mission field, they met Katsutoshi Tanaka, a white-haired retired gardener, a gentle man, a widower, who lived in a small apartment in the city. He seemed to have been waiting for them. Each time they came to give him a missionary lesson, he was there, well prepared, having read the pamphlets they’d given him. When he attended church, the members seemed drawn to him and they welcomed him openly.
Of course Elder Rahrick, David’s companion, with the confidence that comes from not knowing very much, had attributed their success to his having come into the mission field. “You see what happens when you plan your work and work your plan?” he told David once after an especially good discussion with Brother Tanaka. That really grated on David’s nerves. You have so much to learn, Elder, he thought.
When it became apparent that Brother Tanaka was actually going to be baptized, Elder Rahrick asked, “How about if I baptize him?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” he had said. In David’s mind though there wasn’t much to talk about. He was the senior companion, about to go home, having gone his mission never having fulfilled his dream of baptizing someone in the mission field. Elder Rahrick would have plenty of chances later on.
Elder Rahrick returned from down the hall. “The font’s almost full, but I don’t know where to turn off the water, and the custodian’s gone. Would you do it for me?”
David nodded his head and went back to the baptismal font. He looked at the font now full of water. It looked so beautiful. He was so grateful that Brother Tanaka had accepted the gospel. It had been so hard to go on without any apparent success, with mission newsletters telling of the baptisms of others when he was always two weeks too late or one week too early.
At first he had thought it was punishment from God, that for some reason he wasn’t good enough to have baptisms. He talked to his mission president about it, who said, “Elder, you’re one of the best missionaries I’ve got. We’re not out here to have a contest with numbers. I’m sorry that transfers have caused you to miss out on some baptisms, but wherever you’ve served, people’s lives have been blessed. Do you know how many converts sing your praises for having contacted them?”
Even so, it had been difficult to take. Sometimes at night, when he couldn’t sleep, he knelt beside his bed and poured out his heart in prayer, and from those silent vigils strength and commitment had come—but no baptisms.
David knew he was stronger than he would have been if it had been easy. He had learned not to give up and had mastered the ability to work hard even when he was discouraged.
Eventually there came a time in his mission, when he knew he could take whatever happened and it wouldn’t affect how hard he worked, or how committed he was, or how much faith he had in Father in Heaven.
Shortly after that, they found Brother Tanaka.
He sat down to gaze at the now nearly full font. It was beautiful to see. My mission is just about over, he thought with a rush of sadness. I’ve come to the end of things.
He’d been reading the book of John in the New Testament, and this morning he’d read the words of the Savior to his Apostles given his last few days upon the earth. David sensed a reluctance on the part of the Savior to leave these men to themselves, a concern that they may have not learned enough to carry on, and a genuine affection for those who had stood by him during those past three years of his ministry.
The Savior knew their weaknesses, David thought, and yet he still loved them. And he encouraged them to have love for each other. “By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another” (John 13:35).
And now I go and leave Elder Rahrick here to carry on. Have I shown him the same kind of love the Savior did his Apostles? It hasn’t been easy for me with Elder Rahrick. Maybe because I’m about to leave and he’s just come. We seem worlds apart at times. He’s so caught up with himself; whatever good he does, he does it with the idea in mind of how impressed the people back home will be when they hear about it.
If I can show love to Elder Rahrick, he thought, I can show love to anybody. Getting along with a wife will be a breeze compared to this.
David got up and turned off the water, and suddenly it struck him that in one week he would be back home in Arizona, getting ready to start college again, concerned mainly about himself again. For an instant, more than anything in the world, he wanted to stay where he was and not go home. It had taken so long to get where he was now, willing and able to devote his entire self to the work, and now they were going to tell him they didn’t need him anymore. It didn’t make sense.
Oh, Father in Heaven, he thought, please help me get through these changes in my life.
Elder Rahrick came back to see him. “No sign of Brother Tanaka yet. He’d better come, that’s all I can say.”
David stared at Elder Rahrick, who looked to be about 17 years old. “Elder,” David said, “we haven’t always gotten along, have we?”
“Oh, it hasn’t been that bad.”
“I just want you to know I love you.”
Elder Rahrick got red in the face. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“I know we’re supposed to say that, but still, it really seems weird to me.”
“I know, but you’ll get used to it. Jesus loved the men who served with him. We should do the same.”
“I suppose. I’ll go back and see if Brother Tanaka is coming.”
David watched him go. He’s so young, David thought, so inexperienced. What if he goes his mission without any baptisms? Will he be able to stand it?
David suddenly realized he really did love Elder Rahrick. Beyond his bluster was a scared young man, as he himself had once been, in a strange country with a strange language and customs. Have I taught him enough? Is he ready to carry on as a senior companion after I leave?
What was it like for the Savior, he thought, to leave the men he loved, his beloved Apostles? Impetuous Peter, always quick to act. John, gentle, sensitive. Each one with their flaws and strengths.
My gift to this mission is Elder Rahrick, he thought. I’ve got to do all I can to help him.
Elder Rahrick, he thought, you’ve complained about the way we live as if it’s my fault we sleep on floor mats and eat raw fish. You’ve told me that if I were only closer to the Spirit, people would come to us and ask to be baptized. But none of that matters. I think I thought the same things too.
I love you, Elder Rahrick. Carry on the work when I’m gone. You will carry a part of me with you always, like it or not. I am a part of you, and you of me. And after our missions we will someday meet and shake hands and introduce our families and talk about the good times.
David returned to where Elder Rahrick was waiting at the door. “Elder Rahrick, I’ve been thinking. How would you like to baptize Brother Tanaka?”
Elder Rahrick got a big grin on his face. “That’d be great! Do you suppose we could get some pictures of me and Brother Tanaka in our baptismal clothes? I want to send them back home to my parents and my girlfriend.”
“We can take pictures before, but not during the service itself.”
“Great. This is going to be terrific! How about if I go find some baptismal clothes that’ll fit me?”
“Sure, fine.”
David watched him go. He was a little disappointed in Elder Rahrick for not realizing what a sacrifice it was for him to give up his last chance to fulfill his boyhood dream of performing a baptism in the mission field. Sometime, Elder, he thought, when you come to the end of your mission, you’ll understand how much I cared for you.
Just then the thought flashed into his mind, as if the Savior were saying that perhaps someday David would understand how much the Savior loved him.
This is a gospel of love, David thought.
Just then Brother Tanaka turned up the walk to the chapel.
Thank you, Father in Heaven, David thought. This will be a day I will always remember.
And it was.

I scooted across an old twin mattress and braced my back against the Toyota Land Cruiser’s cab. Jean jumped in at the same time, almost knocking off her gray Akubra hat. Jean was 15, one year older than I am. I’d met her here a week ago, on the first day at my new school in Alice Springs. Even though she was LDS, and there aren’t many Mormons here, her khaki shirt, olive neckerchief, and camouflage pants made her seem so tough to me that I didn’t think we’d ever be close friends.
“Ouch!” said another Aussie, this one seated near the rear of the truck. Her name was Cherie. She looked up at me like I was guilty of something. But it was Jean who spoke.
“Liz,” she said, “you’ve got prickles.”
Prickles, I thought, what are prickles?
Her comment sent my mind into a whirl. So here I am in Alice Springs, Northern Territory, Australia. When your dad’s in need of work, you go where you have to go, even if it’s all the way from Massachusetts to Australia. There are other Americans here, mostly with the military. I can get along with them. But what I really want is to be friends with the Australians. I’ve been here a week and it seems like a year. How will I ever fit in?
I looked at Cherie again. She was so pretty. I wanted to exchange my straggly brown hair for her luscious strawberry blonde. I felt my pale face, knowing it was smeared with sunscreen. I compared it to her tan complexion. She was certainly no stranger to the sun.
You’re the one with prickles, I thought, almost maliciously.
But as quick as I thought it, Jean was speaking to me again, pointing at my feet.
“Prickles,” she said. “In your stockings, mate.”
I looked down at my white cotton stockings. They bristled with burrs. But what was worse, I’d infested the entire mattress with the clinging black barbs, and Cherie, climbing in after us, had been stabbed by one in the palm of her hand.
Prickles, I thought. Australian for stickers.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, and started pulling the stickers out of my socks.
This time it was Cherie who spoke. “Make room for me, mate,” she said, indicating a place between us. Now I was surrounded—Jean on one side, Cherie on the other, off the highway on a dirt road, on the edge of the outback headed to the sandy, silty, dry bed of the Hugh River. A couple of youth leaders were driving this truck; another Cruiser with more young men and women followed behind. Using four-wheel drive, the utes (short for utility vehicles), lurched forward through the soft earth.
To maintain balance, I grabbed a metal rod that supported the bed’s steel roof. I held on tight. Wheels ground over gravel. Dust flew. I coughed. Cherie bounced on the mattress.
“Yahoo!” Jean squealed. My knuckles were white from hanging on. My stomach threatened to foam over like a warm Pepsi (caffeine-free, of course). Just as I prayed for the truck to quit this nonsense and take us back to Alice, we stopped.
“So, howdja like bush bashing?” Jean asked.
“Um, I …” I never got a chance to finish the sentence.
“Bet you’ve never done this either, Yank,” she continued, pointing to a metal sled the young men were attaching to the rear bumper. “Here, let Liz go first.”
I got a quick explanation of how to ride the sled. I also got a quick impression that now Jean was out to get me, too. I felt like some sort of alien, at the mercy of my captors.
Then Cherie rescued me. Sort of. At least she came and sat on a second sled opposite to mine. She had a neckerchief knotted over her mouth, handed me one, and indicated I should tie it the same way.
“Scrunch up to the front of the sled,” she said. I obeyed.
Everyone checked to make sure the path was clear, and that we were in an area of smooth, soft silt. Cherie signaled the driver.
“Let ’er rip,” she said.
Jean let out a whoop and the sleds started skidding over the sand. My heart galloped, but I hung on. Surprisingly, it reminded me of water skiing on Chesapeake Bay back in the States. Look at me, I thought, I’m doing this!
That’s when the sled tipped sideways. I lost my water skis! Flumpf! I hit the dirt and was surprised how soft it felt, how instantly I was no longer moving, how much of the riverbed silt was now packed inside my T-shirt and my jeans.
I heard someone yelling, “Stop the ute! The Yank got dumped!” Cherie, Jean, and all the others were laughing. I’d had all I could take.
“You did that on purpose!” I yelled at Jean when she walked up. “You made me go first so you could all laugh at me!” I could see my whole existence turning into misery. But when I looked in Jean’s face, I knew I was wrong.
“No, Yank,” she smiled. “We let you go first because it’s an honor. You did great for your first ride. Everybody gets dumped—that’s part of the fun!”
And you know, it was. We kept sand sledding through the rest of the morning, and we only stopped when it was nearly noon and we knew we had to eat and drink or we’d wilt from the heat. All of us got dumped. All of us were covered with dirt. But all of us were laughing and talking and joking together. People kept telling me how well I’d done for my first time sand sledding.
I deliberately backed away from the group and looked around me for a while. We were in a beautiful location. Gum trees all around. Beautiful red rock country. A blazing blue sky. Hot, yes. Dry, yes. A lot different than my humid, green home in Massachusetts. But these were good kids here, Mormon kids just like me, having fun, trying to help each other live the gospel. How would I fit in in Alice Springs? Just fine, thank you.
I made my way back to the campfire.
“Make room for me, mate!” I said, wiggling my way between Jean and Cherie. One of the boys, Ian, was using a long-handled metal gadget to squish two pieces of bread and some sort of filling together and toast sandwiches over the flames.
“They’re called jaffles,” he said. “And the first one is for Liz.”
I picked it up and took a big bite. My jaffle was filled with spaghetti.

Consider the example of this young deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood as shared in his talk in the Benin Ikpopan Stake conference, where I recently presided. The young deacon, Nelson Wonodi, had always admired how young men dressed and served at the sacrament table every Sunday. I share his first day experience with approval from his parents in his words:
“Ever since I was a little boy, I watched the young men in my ward pass the sacrament, and I longed for the day when I could do the same. I would sit in my seat, staring at them thinking, ‘One day, that’s going to be me.’ I even practiced at home, carefully pretending to pass an imaginary tray to my family members, just to make sure I got it right! Then, finally, my day came. I had received the Aaronic Priesthood and was asked to pass the sacrament for the first time. I was so excited … but then something strange happened. As I stood there, holding the tray, looking out at the congregation, my legs started shaking, and my hands felt sweaty. I thought to myself, ‘Wow, is this me? Or am I dreaming?’ It felt surreal. Here I was, finally doing what I had dreamed of for years, but suddenly, I realized just how sacred this responsibility was. This wasn’t just a routine or something I had seen others do. It was real, it was sacred, and it was my privilege to help others remember the Savior”.
Fortunately, a caring congregant, noticing the predicament of the anxious young man, stretched forth her hand, took the tray, and passed it on, thus emboldening young Nelson to continue and successfully accomplish that assignment. Nelson testified that his life of service is preparing him to serve a mission at a later day.

After the gospel was restored, 12 Apostles were called to be special witnesses of Jesus Christ to the world. Two Apostles, Heber C. Kimball and Brigham Young, were called to England. They had very little money, but every time Elder Young opened his trunk, he always found enough for their journey. After they got to England, a local minister sent a constable to arrest Elder Woodruff for preaching. Elder Woodruff explained that he had a license to preach and invited the constable to stay. The constable ended up getting baptized! The minister sent two clerks to spy on Elder Woodruff. They got baptized too!

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.”

While still a BYU student himself, my father—like almost every graduate in this auditorium—was profoundly touched by the mentoring and friendship of remarkable professors at this university. He particularly recalls a conversation with Dr. Robert K. Thomas, who served as the university’s provost.

“The problem,” said Dr. Thomas, “is that so many of our students leave with the idea that they should seek material prosperity, worldly influence, and prestige—that this is what the Lord meant when He said, ‘Let your light so shine before men.’”

Then, lifting his hand and tracing a rising arc, he said, “But all too often, by the time their star is up—the light is out.”

Looking my father squarely in the eye, he said, “Don’t let that happen to you.”

by Shayla Chatterton
“Last year we had cable TV; this year we don’t even have TV!” wailed one member of the Dallas Texas East Stake. Their youth conference was to consist of winterizing Camp Grady Spruce on Possum Kingdom Lake, and at first many participants were not excited at the prospect of working outside in the 103-degree Texas heat. But they changed their tune.
They found that hard-working service was actually fun, as they cleaned, scraped, and repainted ski boats; hauled away 15 truckloads of brush; washed and cleaned tent and office areas; repaired windows and screens; and built a wood and steel fence and gate at the entrance.
Of course there was some fun included. Campfire songs, rapping, speakers, and a dance were some of the highlights. And the testimony meeting at the end capped it all off.
The results?
“Everyone worked so hard and quickly that the work was done much sooner than we expected,” said camp director Jan Beaty.

Ever wish you could escape into a book and live there instead of in your own life? That was me in high school. My sister used to joke that if I was in the middle of a good read, the house could burn down and I wouldn’t notice.
What’s more, I was horribly shy. I felt awkward and unsure of myself and frequently had little or nothing to say. So to avoid socializing, I preferred to find a quiet spot where I could sit and read.
My family had moved several times during my middle school years. Changing schools so often added to my barrier of shyness. Why try to break through when it was easier to just get lost in the pages of a book?
But then one day, while I was reading, I kept thinking about what had happened the previous weekend. Nels, one of the young men in my circle of Church friends, noticed that I kept to myself most of the time. He decided to help me change that.
Nels’s sister and my sister were friends, and one night I went with my dad to pick up my sister at Nels’s house. While we were waiting, Nels came out and asked if I was going to the school dance that night. Just as I was about to say no, my dad said, “There’s a dance? Of course she’ll be there.” On the way home, Dad talked to me about the importance of participating.
Scared to death, I went to the dance. Nels saw me, asked me to dance, and after a few awkward moments, he said, “You don’t like to dance, do you? Let’s just talk instead.” We spent the rest of the evening discussing the challenges we each faced, including the fact that I was painfully shy, liked to read, and refused to spend the lunch hour with our mutual friends.
“It’s good that you love to read,” he said. “But it’s not good to isolate yourself. Why don’t you come sit at our table at lunch? Everyone will be happy to see you.” I hesitantly agreed to try it—sometime. Then I changed the subject.
Thinking back on the weekend made it difficult to focus on what I was reading, so I thought about taking Nels up on his offer to sit with the others. Since the lunch hour was half over, however, I decided that I would be brave tomorrow. Maybe. With that tentative plan in place, I went back to my book.
Then, without warning, I heard someone calling, “There you are! I’ve been looking for you!” It was Nels. He appeared out of nowhere. He ignored my excuses about how it was too late to join our friends for lunch.
“Right now,” he said, “you need to socialize more than you need to read.” And with that, he gathered up my books and nearly dragged me to the lunchroom, encouraging me all the way.
From then on—not all at once, but a little at a time—my life became fuller. I learned how to talk to others. I found that I enjoyed becoming acquainted with people I otherwise would not have met. I broke through the shyness barrier!
A few years later Nels and I talked about that day. When I thanked him for helping me to overcome my shyness, he said, “Oh, it wasn’t much. You just needed a little encouragement.” And that’s the point: Sometimes a listening ear and a little encouragement can make all the difference.

Zach had never felt more worried in his whole life. His dog, Ace, had swallowed something he shouldn’t have eaten, and it was stuck inside him. If Ace didn’t have surgery right away, he would die!
Dad was at the vetinarian’s office now with Ace. Zach wished he could be there too, instead of stuck getting ready for school. With a sigh, he knelt by his bed to say a prayer. “Heavenly Father, I’m really worried about Ace. Please help the surgery to go all right. Please bless Ace to live, and please help me not feel so worried.”
Zach knew Heavenly Father loved him and heard his prayer. The worried feeling in his stomach melted away a little bit, and he felt more calm inside. Zach zipped up his backpack and ran to catch the bus. Everything was going to be OK.
At school, Zach kept thinking about Ace. Ace was such a healthy dog. But he got sick so quickly! What if Ace dies before I can say goodbye? All of Zach’s worried feelings rushed back. Zach took a deep breath and remembered the peace he felt after he prayed that morning. Heavenly Father would answer his prayer, wouldn’t He?
When Zach came home from school, he ran straight inside to ask Mom how the surgery went. “Mom! How’s Ace?”
“He’s OK,” said Mom. “He’ll be home soon, but he’s going to be pretty sore. We’ll need to be gentle with him.”
Zach let out a big sigh as Mom gave him a hug. He was so relieved. And he couldn’t wait to see Ace!
When Ace came home, Zach’s family gave him extra care. They brought him his favorite toys. They talked to him and told him how much they loved him. They gently rubbed the fur on his back. Zach took time to scratch Ace’s ears. Ace loved the attention. He seemed to be getting better and better.
But the next week, Ace got sick again. He stopped eating and drinking and seemed very tired. Zach’s stomach sank as he watched his parents drive away to take Ace back to the vet.
When Mom and Dad walked through the door a few hours later, they were alone. They gathered the family together and explained that Ace had died. Zach felt numb. He could hear his brothers and sisters crying and felt tears on his own cheeks.
Zach thought about his prayer before Ace’s surgery—the prayer that brought him so much comfort and peace. He had asked Heavenly Father to bless Ace to live, but now Ace had died. This wasn’t what he prayed for at all!
Mom came over and sat next to Zach on the couch. “Ace was such a good dog,” she said. “We had so many happy times with him.”
Zach smiled a little as he remembered scratching Ace’s ears in just the right spot. Then he thought about the past week. Ace had lived for 10 more days after the surgery. Zach got to spend time with him and show Ace how much he loved him.
Maybe Heavenly Father really did answer my prayer, Zach thought. A warm feeling came over him like another hug. He still missed Ace, and he still felt sad. But he also felt peace. Zach knew that Heavenly Father had heard his prayer, even if the answer wasn’t exactly what he wanted. He knew Heavenly Father loved him. And because of that, everything really would be OK.

“I had been inactive for at least six years when my husband and I moved to a new town. My new Relief Society president visited me, asking if she could send a sister to visit me. With some trepidation, I agreed. This sister visited me every month, despite her allergy to dogs—and I have a very affectionate dog! Her ministering continued for two years, and it had an enormous impact on me.
“Though her visits were usually purely social, occasionally she asked me questions that led us to spiritual conversations. These made me a little uncomfortable, but they prompted me to decide whether to go forward in the gospel or stay where I was. This decision was a struggle for me, but I chose to visit with the sister missionaries.
“On the day I went to attend sacrament meeting for the first time in six years, I was scared to go inside. When I walked into the church, my ministering sister was waiting for me, and she walked with me into the chapel. Afterward, she walked me back to my car, asking me what she could do to help me best as I grew closer to the Savior.
“My ministering sister’s time and love helped guide me back to activity, and I hold her efforts as one of the greatest gifts ever given to me. I’m so grateful she was there at my side on my journey back to the Savior’s Church.”
Name withheld, British Columbia, Canada