Gospel Story Finder

“Pass the ketchup, will you, Mom?”
“How do you ask, Jacob?” replied his mother, holding the ketchup for ransom.
“Come on, Mom! I’m in a hurry. Just pass me the ketchup!”
“Not until you ask for it properly, young man!”
For an instant, Jake thought of eating his hamburger and fries without ketchup, but the thought vanished as he looked at the near masterpiece he had created on the plate before him. All that was missing was the ketchup. With just a hint of exaggeration, he gave in and said, “Please, mother dearest, if it’s not too much to ask, would you mind passing the sweetened tomato sauce my direction?”
“That’s better.” His mom smiled and handed him the ketchup before continuing. “Oh, I almost forgot. Brian called to remind you to bring the name of one of your ancestors to activity night tonight. He said something about going to the Family History Center. Anyway, I got out some books so you can pick a name.”
Jake took a big bite out of his burger and began to respond. In unison, his mom, dad, two little sisters, and little brother reminded him not to talk with his mouth full. As soon as he was able, he continued, “Don’t worry about the name, Mom. I’ve been to the Family History Center before, so I’m going to the gym with Brett tonight.”
Jake’s dad cleared his throat, and the chatter around the table stopped like a switch had been flipped. “Son, I’m not going to tell you what you have to do, but the right place to be tonight is at activity night with the rest of your quorum. You can make your own decision, but you know where you should be.”
“Aw, Dad!” Jake dragged out the words with his best whining tone. “We go every year, and it’s always the same. A little old lady tells us how exciting genealogy is and if we listen real close we will have the ‘opportunity’ to use one of the fish machines.”
“Fiche, Jake, microfiche machines,” his mother corrected.
“Fish … fiche … whatever. Last year the most exciting thing that happened was when Doug Brown started rewinding his microfilm and then walked off. When it got to the end of the tape, it was flipping around making all kinds of noise. People came running from everywhere to see what had happened.”
Jake’s little brother and sisters laughed, and his parents smiled, but his dad didn’t give in. “Lots of information is on computers now, Jake. They don’t use those ‘fish’ machines as much anymore. You need to go.”
Jake started to respond, but his dad held up his hand. “You make your own decision, son. You know what I think you should do.”
As the quorum arrived at the Family History Center, Jake dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper his mom had given him. Unfolding it, he read the name: Annie Hicks. A girl! His mom had given him a girl’s name! Brian had bragged all the way to the center about his ancestor the Civil War hero. Most of the rest of the guys claimed to be related to one king or another. Doug even claimed he was related to Elvis. And here was Jake with the name of some unknown girl.
“This is going to be even worse than I thought,” he grumbled as he walked in the door.
Jake’s dad was right about one thing. Where the microfiche machines used to be, there were now several computers with bright screens. Racks of shiny compact discs sat next to them on the tables. The microfiche machines remaining were all huddled in a small back room. The door to the room was roped off with a sign that read “Please Ask for Assistance.”
As the family history consultant welcomed the quorum and began to talk about the new software, Jake drifted toward the back of the group. He didn’t want to be the one who had to use his ancestor’s name as a demonstration. Finding a comfortable spot against the doorway to the back room with the microfiche machines, he settled down for the wait. He tried to listen for a few minutes, but from the back he could barely hear, and his attention soon turned to the ‘fish’ machines in the room behind him.
Poor machines, he thought, all those years they did just what they were supposed to and now their only reward is to be quarantined like they have some rare disease. Without thinking, he stepped over the rope and began to wander among the machines.
In the darkest corner, Jake discovered a monster of a fiche reader. It wasn’t a table-top model like the others but stood by itself on the floor—like a picture-taking booth. It even had a little black curtain across its door to keep out the light. Curious, Jake began to walk around the machine. His inspection, however, was cut short as he tripped over its power cord. Bending to plug it back in, he realized that he hadn’t just unplugged it; he had ripped the wires right out of the machine.
Jake groused under his breath. “I should have just gone to the gym.” He quickly shoved the bare wires back into the hole in the machine and headed for the safety of the crowd. As he passed the little doorway of the huge fiche reader, he came to a dead stop. Something was flickering inside. Hoping he hadn’t started an electrical fire with the bare wires, Jake slipped inside the machine to investigate. As he sat down, the little black curtain quietly closed behind him.
Jake would have jumped up and run, but the screen of the microfiche reader flickered on. “Well, at least it still works!” he said out loud. Almost as if in response to his voice, a computerized voice said, “Please state the name of the person you wish to find.”
Wow! Pretty high-tech, Jake thought.
“Please state the name of the person you wish to find.” The machine repeated.
“Okay, okay! I’ll state it!”
“Please state the name of the person you wish to find.”
Jake rolled his eyes and said nothing as he dug the folded piece of paper from his pocket and read the name out loud: “Annie Hicks.”
The next thing Jake knew, he was cold, so very, very cold. Snow was blowing in his face, and an ice cold wind cut through the thin, coarse jacket he was now wearing. His legs were covered by very thin, gray wool pants with patches on both knees. He couldn’t feel his feet and had to lift them out of the snow to see if they were still there. His high-top, cross trainers had been replaced by old-fashioned boots. But the toes of the boots were completely worn through, revealing the red wool socks that now covered his frozen toes.
Taking in his surroundings, Jake became aware that he was standing on the bank of a wide river. There were people on both sides of the river pulling and pushing handcarts and shivering in the cold. Those on the opposite side of the river appeared to be waiting for their turn to walk down into the water and cross to Jake’s side. Jake shivered involuntarily as he looked at the sheets of ice floating on the cold, gray water.
“What is this?” was all he could say before he heard a cry for help.
“My boy, my boy! Somebody save my boy!” The cry came from the far side of the river, and Jake focused on a woman with several children gathered around her. She was screaming and pointing at a boy, no more than 10 or 12, being carried downstream with their handcart by the force of the current. For an instant, Jake was frozen in terror as he watched the tragedy unfold before him. It seemed hopeless. Then he noticed someone from his side of the river racing down the bank toward the boy. The rescuer jumped into the water, splashed out to the boy, and pulled him and his handcart toward the safety of the shore.
Something finally clicked within Jake, and he ran down to the bank of the river. He reached the water just in time to help pull the boy and his rescuer up onto the bank. With chattering teeth, the boy thanked the rescuer over and over again, “Thank you, Annie! Thank you, Annie!”
For the first time, Jake realized that the rescuer was a young girl not much older than himself. As he reached out his hand and pulled her out of the water, he asked, “Annie? Annie Hicks?”
She looked at him for a moment with a quizzical look on her face and then replied in an English accent, “Why of course it is. Have you had a bump on your head today? Now quit looking at me that way, and let’s get this poor chap back to his family and into camp.” Jake smiled sheepishly, took hold of the handcart, and pulled it up the hill toward the rest of the company.
As he walked into the camp, Jake realized it was like none other he had ever seen. There were four to five hundred men, women, and children, all in wet and frozen clothes. From what Jake could see, few, if any, had dry clothes to change into. Some were trying to clear away snow and set up tents, but the ground was too frozen to drive the tent pegs. One or two small fires burned, but there wasn’t any additional firewood in sight. There were a few people eating, but what they ate looked like nothing more than a flour paste. Jake thought about the masterpiece burger and fries he had eaten for dinner. It probably would have fed half the camp.
“How are these people going to survive the night?” he wondered aloud as he helped Annie pull her cart into camp. Annie looked at him but didn’t respond. As they passed cart after cart, he began to wonder if they would ever find Annie’s family. “Where’s your family’s camp?” he finally asked.
Annie stopped pulling and studied him closely before responding. “My family is in England. They disowned me the day I was baptized. I don’t expect that I will ever hear from them again.” As she spoke she laid down the handcart handle and turned to unpack her few belongings.
“You, you’re here by yourself?” Jake’s disbelief and shivering caused him to stammer. After all, here was a girl, no older than himself, pulling a handcart across the country in the middle of winter without her family.
“No, I’m not by myself,” Annie responded matter-of-factly. “I’m surrounded by my brothers and sisters, and God is with us.”
“But how, Annie? How can you keep going without your family and with so much suffering?”
Now Annie stopped working and looked directly across the handcart at Jake. “From the moment I heard the gospel, I knew it was true. The day after I was baptized, my family heard of my baptism and told me some of the vilest stories about the Mormons. They said if I joined the Mormons I would be ruined for life. That night I prayed with all my heart to know the truth. I prayed, ‘Dear Lord, do not let me do wrong. Let me know tonight, dear Father; let me know tonight.’ I immediately was comforted by a wonderful dream. A book was opened to me, and the leaves were turned in rapid succession until the page with my record was found. On the page was my name without a mar or blemish against it. A loud clear voice spoke to me saying, ‘This is the way. Walk ye in it.’ When I woke the next morning, I laughed for joy to think that I had been heard and answered. I told my folks that it had been made known to me that Mormonism was right, and I would follow it.”
She hesitated for a moment and Jake looked down. A warmth burned within him that even the most severe cold couldn’t stop. Annie stepped around the corner of the cart and touched him on the sleeve. “This is the right way, Jake. Walk in it.”
In an instant, Jake was back in the Family History Center. He was sitting on the floor where the huge machine had been. There was no sign of the machine. He had his own clothes on, but his toes tingled like they did whenever they were thawing out. Jake shook his head a few times to clear his thoughts. He could hear the family history consultant continuing his presentation. “Now, does anyone have the name of an ancestor we can use as an example?”
Jake jumped up and ran toward the group, “Right here! I have one right here!”

Born on June 6, 1954, in St. George, Utah, USA, to Richard and Miriam Schmutz, Elder Schmutz learned early about the power of prayer. As a Cub Scout he sold U.S. $17 worth of tickets to a jamboree but couldn’t find the money when it was time to turn it in. His mother encouraged him to pray, and the Lord revealed to him exactly where the money was. It was a strong confirmation of God’s love for and awareness of him.

Born in January 1951 in Murray, Utah, USA, to Milo Fredrick and Mary Katherine Dyches, he was the second of seven children. When he was a young deacon, his family moved to Elko, Nevada, where he spent time after school working at his father’s pharmacy. As they worked side by side, his father taught him the importance of hard work—something that would serve him well as a young missionary in the Germany South Mission from 1970 to 1972.
“It was a tough mission, but it was a great mission for me,” he said. “I learned the value of hard work and obedience and not giving up.”

In 1988, we were attending a mission presidents' seminar in Singapore. While checking in at the hotel counter, out of nowhere someone called out "Bishop Goo!" We looked up and there was Sunny, who had attended BYU-Hawaii. He happened to be one of the managers of this big hotel. Then a young lady came running up to greet us and it was Diana Lim. They both worked at the hotel. Well, within 10 minutes we got a key to the penthouse suite of the hotel instead of a regular room. I told my husband I am sure glad he worked at BYU-Hawaii.

Recently in South America, a lady missionary, who impressed me greatly, told me the story of her conversion to the LDS Church and her missionary call. Before coming on her mission she was a nurse. Her roommate was a Mormon girl. The nurse liked the girl’s habits, was very pleased with her character and personality, and so she decided to study the LDS religion. The Mormon girl got two missionaries to teach the nurse the gospel.

When the nurse’s parents heard that she was favorably inclined toward the Mormon religion, they thoroughly opposed her actions. They forbade her to join the Church, telling her that if she did she would be disinherited.

The Holy Ghost had borne witness to her so strongly that the Church of Jesus Christ was the true church that she asked the missionaries to baptize her even against the wishes of her parents, whom she loved dearly. It grieved her when her father and mother told her not to return home.

After joining the Church, she had a very strong desire to go on a mission and so she decided to work and save the money. It took her three or four years’ time to save approximately $3,000. She was called to labor in South America, where she is doing an outstanding job in taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the people of that land. When she returns home, she hopes to regain the love and favor of her parents.

In 1952, Elder Benson was astonished to receive a telephone call informing him that U.S. President-elect Dwight D. Eisenhower, a man he had never met, wanted to talk to him about becoming U.S. Secretary of Agriculture. Farm leaders had recommended Ezra Taft Benson as the best man for the job. With Church President David O. McKay’s blessing and President Eisenhower’s assurance that he need never endorse a policy that he did not agree with, Elder Benson became Secretary Benson. The Benson family returned to Washington, D.C., for the eight years of the Eisenhower administration.

In that period, controversy was raging about how to stabilize supply and demand in an uncertain farm economy, and Ezra Taft Benson’s face appeared on the covers of national magazines as he dealt with the problem. He spoke forthrightly, without regard for how popular his opinion might be. Speaking to farmers and politicians, he dared to suggest that the solutions to economic and political problems are based on spiritual and moral principles, without which no nation can have prosperity or peace. In Washington, Elder Benson instigated the practice of opening Cabinet meetings with prayer, and the Bensons presented a family home evening program to the Eisenhowers.

There is an old story of a waiter who asked a customer if he had enjoyed the meal. The man said that everything was fine, but it would have been better if they had given him more than two slices of bread.
The next day, when the man came to eat again, the waiter gave him four pieces of bread. The man said he still wished he had more. So the next day, the waiter gave him eight pieces! But the man still wasn’t satisfied.
Finally, on the fourth day, the waiter was really determined to make the man happy. So he took a nine-foot-long (3-m) loaf of bread, cut it in half, and with a smile, served it to the customer. Instead of being grateful, the man looked up and said, “The food was good, as always. But I see you’re back to giving me only two slices of bread.”

I recently met an archive director from another church in Austria. This church has centuries of birth, death, and marriage records that we have never been able to access. After some discussion, he agreed to a “pilot” where we would send volunteers to digitize some of their records. We sent a lovely senior missionary couple to the archives and the Austrians fell in love with them. A second couple is now slated to join them, and we are already planning additional projects with the archive.

We’re really tested with this concept as parents. Our oldest daughter has borne the brunt of much of our learning. (Come to think about it, though, our other three children didn’t fare much better.) But as an active teenager, she would ask if she could go do this or that with her friends. Her requests were always reasonable, and she reminds us often that we were lucky that she even asked. But I remember once telling her no. She, of course, wanted to know why. I said, “Because I’m your father, and I figure every once in awhile I should exercise that right and just say no.” Well, how silly that was! Heavenly Father doesn’t do that because He doesn’t exercise such capricious constraints. She and I talked for quite awhile that night because she justifiably called me on my section 121 violation (see verses 39–46). So I let her go and demonstrated my love and trust for her.

President Joe J. Christensen presided over Ricks College from 1985 to 1989. He was a wise person who came to Ricks with years of experience in the Church Education System. While in Rexburg, he planned and carried out a successful centennial celebration of the founding of Ricks College. Like his predecessor, President Christensen was a deeply spiritual person who thought very carefully about how his decisions would impact individual members of the campus community. He must have also been an early riser because I received a couple of unexpected phone calls from his office at 6 a.m. in the morning! I tried to sound awake and alert, but I doubt he was fooled. But, what impressed me the most about President Christensen was his sense of fairness and good judgement. It seemed like every time we discussed a particularly knotty problem he would remark “it’s a mighty thin pancake that doesn’t have two sides” and then would, in a very even-handed manner, carefully analyze the situation from a number of different perspectives. Once, after a particularly long and challenging day, we were alone in his office and I asked him what he thought would be his most significant contribution to the school. Without hesitation, he said that he had the final say in the hiring of faculty and that his most enduring contribution would be the hiring of faculty who were both excellent teachers and role models for students in the living of the restored gospel. In my experience with talking to people throughout the Church, this institution has a very enviable reputation in both areas.

I wonder how many of you young men and men who are a little older have heard the story of the man in the brown leather jacket. A famous surgeon received a phone call one night from a doctor friend who said he had a young child on the operating table and needed the surgeon’s help in order to save the child. It was a long drive across town to the hospital and the surgeon drove as fast as he could with safety. As he pulled up to a stop sign, a man wearing a brown leather jacket opened the door and slid in beside him with his hand in his pocket as though he had a gun. The man was excited, demanded the surgeon’s car, and obviously was in no mood to discuss it. The surgeon stood helplessly on the highway as the man in the brown leather jacket sped away in his car.
By the time the surgeon finally arrived at the hospital, it was too late. The child had died only moments before. The other doctor asked the surgeon to come with him to meet the child’s father in the hope that together they might offer him words of comfort. As they entered the waiting room, the father came forward—he was the man in the brown leather jacket.

Sister Holland spoke of another very memorable experience that became “a real turning point in my life.” She said, “My parents had allowed me to come to Salt Lake City and live with a group of girls for the summer while I worked. They were all about my age. We had many happy times together, but in our apartment at one time we felt despondency and discouragement, and I remember feeling it so strongly one day that I decided to fast and pray about how to be happy, how to find the peace and security and confidence that a person needs. That evening my roommates and I decided to go to a movie. We first went to a grocery store to get some treats to take with us. At the store we pulled our car in right next to Elder ElRay L. Christiansen, then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He walked right over to our car. He chatted with each one of us. He seemed very interested and asked us our names. I was so excited, I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.”
As if she were reliving that experience and sensing again the impact of that memorable occasion, she bore testimony: “Just before Elder Christiansen got ready to leave, he paused, looked right at me, and said, ‘Pat, the only way to be happy is to be obedient.’”
There was silence for a moment, each pondering the magnitude of this simple counsel and the direct answer to fervent prayer. She recalled her feelings on that occasion, “First of all, just to see a General Authority was a highlight in my life. It was the first time I had ever had any personal contact with Church leaders like that.”
This young girl, anxious to find the right answers and inspired by the counsel of a General Authority, had no way of knowing then that later, as the wife of Jeffrey Holland, former Church Commissioner of Education and now President of Brigham Young University, she would find herself in close and frequent association with many of the General Authorities. “To have my prayers answered so directly was another turning point in my life,” she said. “I realized right then and there that truly the greatest thing that I could cling to, the only way to be confident and happy, is to be obedient and live by the Spirit.”
While yet a teenager she discovered “there is just no substitute for obedience.” While obedience had not been a struggle for Pat, still the impact of receiving such an immediate and direct answer to her earnest supplication, and to receive it from one of the Lord’s chosen servants, a General Authority in person, was just more than she had ever hoped for.

Four new missionaries had just arrived from the MTC with all their luggage, hair cuts, anticipation, and enthusiasm. They were seated in the study of the Canada Calgary Mission Home, waiting anxiously for their first assignments. How could I, as their mission president, know where to send them and who to assign them to? Of course I prayed diligently and prepared spiritually to receive inspiration, and inspiration came.
But I also knew that as I talked individually with these missionaries, I would discover that some were better prepared for the mission field than others, that some brought certain traits with them that would help them succeed as a missionary, while others brought with them challenges they would have to overcome in order to be effective.
Let me give you several examples. I’ve used made-up names, but the stories are all true.
When I asked Elder Werker to tell me about himself, I found out he had worked for his father.
“What business?”
“Construction.”
“Was it hard work?”
“Dad expected us to go to work as soon as it was light enough to see, and to work until the job was finished or until it was too dark to see.”
“Do you think you’ll have to work that hard here?”
“I don’t think I should work any less for the Lord than I do for my father. Do you?”
The answer was obvious.
Four or five weeks later at a zone conference, Elder Werker’s companion, who was a hard worker too, said, “President, how long do I have to train Elder Werker? The pace is killing me!”
By the end of his mission, Elder Werker had helped bring 56 people into the Church.
Elder Werker had something in common with a lot of successful missionaries. He came into the mission field with a knowledge of work. He knew what it meant to keep going even when he was tired or discouraged. He would stick with a job until it was completed.
President Benson has stated, “I have often said one of the greatest secrets of missionary work is work! If a missionary works, he will get the Spirit; if he gets the Spirit, he will teach by the Spirit; and if he teaches by the Spirit, he will touch the hearts of the people and he will be happy. There will be no homesickness, no worrying about families, for all time and talents and interests are centered on the work of the ministry. Work, work, work—there is no satisfactory substitute, especially in missionary work” (Texas San Antonio Mission, Mar. 2, 1986, in TheTeachings of Ezra Taft Benson, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988, p. 200).
Elder Strong was six feet, two inches tall and weighed 220 pounds. He looked like he should be a linebacker for an American football team. But he seemed very unsure of himself when I asked what his strengths as a missionary would be.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, do you have some goals, something you’d like to accomplish while you’re here?”
“Uhm, well, I haven’t really … I don’t know.”
That night, after the missionaries were in bed, I went to my office. I always did this, in case someone felt a need to talk with me. The office was just down the stairs and two doors away from the room where the elders were sleeping.
In a few minutes, I heard someone tap on the door.
It was Elder Strong.
“I have to go home, president.”
“Tell me about it.”
After tears and a tender moment or two, he said at first that he didn’t have a testimony, that he was unsure of himself, that he couldn’t learn the scriptures, and a number of other excuses. But after we talked a little longer, it became evident that the real problem was that Elder Strong was homesick.
Until he entered the MTC, he had never been away from home overnight. He was so attached to his mother that even though he had just seen her at the airport a few hours ago, he felt he had to phone her and tell her that everything was all right. She had insisted that he call when he arrived, and he hadn’t.
So I talked to his mother for him.
Elder Strong had a problem that a lot of missionaries have to deal with—homesickness. It isn’t wrong to love your family. And it’s all right to miss them when you’re apart. But until you can stop constantly thinking about home and get on with your work, you’re not going to be fully involved as a missionary.
I think parents can do a lot in this area to help their sons (or daughters) be better prepared. Chaperoned and supervised Church programs offer young people the opportunity to learn what it’s like to be out on their own at youth conference, summer camp, or Scout camp.
A young person would benefit from visiting aunts and uncles or grandparents, staying overnight or over a weekend, gradually adjusting to the experience of being apart from the immediate family. If it’s feasible, attending college for a semester or two before entering the mission field may help a prospective missionary get used to living away from home.
Another tip: learn to write letters. This is the approved method for missionaries and parents to keep in touch. Missionaries and their parents should exchange letters, but only once a week.
In addition to questions about his goals and strengths, I asked Elder Handsome about his social life.
“Tell me about your girlfriends.”
He virtually leaped out of his chair.
“Girlfriend, not friends. There is a one and only. She’s the greatest. I can’t live without her.”
“What will it do to your mission when she marries someone else?”
“If I hear of her even dating anybody else, I am gone, I am history, I am out of here. I’ll go straight home.”
For months Elder Handsome struggled to become involved in his mission. He was continually figuring out clever things to write to his “one and only.” He spent much of his time thinking about her instead of the work.
When the “Dear John” came, Elder Handsome struggled even more. But he did not go home. He eventually became an outstanding missionary and a dedicated district and zone leader. He learned to love his mission, his area, the prospective members, and the local members.
A lot of elders have trouble leaving a girlfriend behind. And in this area, I think young women can help a lot. Recall the words of President Benson: “You can have a positive influence in motivating young men to serve full-time missions. Let the young men of your acquaintance know that you expect them to assume their missionary responsibilities, that you personally want them to serve in mission field, because you know that’s where the Lord wants them.
“Avoid steady dating with a young man prior to the time of his mission call. If your relationship with him is more casual, then he can make that decision to serve more easily and also can concentrate his full energies on his missionary work instead of the girlfriend back home” (Ensign, Nov. 1986, pp. 82–83).
And you young men may want to remember this example: Some years ago in our ward, the priests quorum adviser and his wife would go on double dates with the priests. They urged the young men to enjoy dating a number of young women, and cautioned them not to become involved with just one person at a time when such involvement could preclude a mission.
The adviser often reminded the young men before their mission, they weren’t ready to compete for jobs and success. “Neighbors look after you when you’re the neighbor’s kid,” he said. “But you become a married adult, you enter a business and professional world that’s highly competitive—you need the growth, activities, and training that come from a mission, school, and apprenticeships or other training before you’re ready for the awesome responsibilities of earning a living, raising a family, and competing in an adult world.”
Elder Newcome was a little bit nervous when he entered the office for his personal interview. Earlier, when all of us met together, I had noticed that he had trouble reading the scriptures.
“I’m a new convert. I’ve only been a member of the Church for a little over a year.”
“And you feel like you’ll never catch up with the others?”
“I’ve always had a hard time learning. I don’t know a lot about the details of the Church.”
“How do you feel about the Book of Mormon and the gospel?”
“The Spirit has born witness to me. I know they’re true.”
When I heard that, I knew he’d do well.
Elder Newcome was assigned to an area where a counselor in the stake presidency lived. That counselor came to me as the mission president and said, “I have a very well educated 29-year-old friend who has had a lot of problems in his life. He’s finally searching for some answers, and he’s anxious to be taught the gospel. Do you have some good elders who can teach him?”
At first I thought about sending my assistants. But the Spirit whispered to me that this was the assigned area for Elder Newcome and his companion, and this was a job for them.
Two weeks later, I had the opportunity of meeting with this member of the stake presidency and the investigator as well. They were both very complimentary of the missionaries and their ability to teach. A short time later, the investigator was baptized, and I spoke with him and the counselor again.
“Did you know that Elder Newcome cannot read?” the counselor asked me.
“Yes, I know,” I said with emotion. “But he knows our Father in Heaven and his Son.”
“And he teaches with the Spirit,” said our newly baptized friend.
Most missionaries have more time to prepare than Elder Newcome did. Yet some of them fail to use their preparation time wisely. Missionaries should learn what it means to have faith, to repent, to feel the Holy Ghost, and to search the scriptures. Even those who have not known the gospel for a long time can begin now to learn and grow, so that they have some background in these areas when they arrive in the mission field.
I can think of a lot of other missionaries who sat in my office during the three years I served in Canada. Some struggled with shyness or fear of meeting people, and eventually overcame it. Some were unprepared financially and wished they had saved more money, while others had saved for years and paid for their entire mission themselves. Some spent their whole mission reliving high school successes. Some looked for excuses to stay in their apartment if it was raining, snowing, or cold. Some had a natural ability to understand others. And some had a deep knowledge of doctrine and principles.
Eventually, most of them grew to understand the real reason they were on a mission—to bring souls to Christ, to ensure that those baptized were truly converted, to love and serve others.
“And now, behold, I say unto you, that the thing which will be of the most worth unto you will be to declare repentance unto this people, that you may bring souls unto me, that you may rest with them in the kingdom of my Father” (D&C 15:6 and D&C 16:6).
Over the three years I observed another common trait that I think distinguished those who gave the best service. They had participated in things that require consistent doing—music, competitive sports, farming, academics, scripture study (especially the Book of Mormon), seminary—and as a result had embedded in their lives the understanding that work is worthwhile. They had learned that dedication pays, that self-discipline is not a dirty word.
I also learned that most of those who came to mission field were surprised that their preparation time passed so rapidly. They seemed to be saying “Get ready, get set … wait a minute, I’m already here!”
Don’t let yourself get caught in that situation. You can begin preparing today.

They say everybody loves a party, and I guess that is generally true, if it’s the right kind and with the right friends. You do have to choose carefully though, for a wrong choice can be embarrassing. I know I’m a lot more careful about the kinds of parties I go to now, especially since the accident. I’m a police officer and do have some type of professional image to maintain. But, nevertheless, awhile back my wife talked me into attending a Police Association Halloween party.
She had planned what was sure to be a prizewinning costume for us, and as reluctant as I was to wear it, she won the day and I agreed that we would go as “The Tortoise and the Hare.” Our costumes were quite simple, consisting of two pair of long thermal underwear, dyed to fit our characters—a gray pair for Nancy and a bright green pair for me. A cardboard shell and a funny cap completed my rig while a cute cotton tail and a pair of ears rounded out hers. It was a little distressful but fun, and we did win a prize.
Not long after the party, on Thanksgiving Day, I was riding my police motorcycle on traffic patrol duty. It was a beautiful day, but the weather was cold and I was dressed warmly with high motorcycle boots and breeches, a leather jacket, and earmuffs in my helmet. I would be glad when my shift ended at 2:00 P.M. that afternoon and I would be free to join my family for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I decided to check traffic on 9th East and had just stopped my motor on a side street to watch, when—Zipppppp—a nearly new car went zooming by at a very high rate of speed.
My foot punched the gear lever into low as my fingers released the clutch and cranked the throttle open. The bike jumped forward and I was in pursuit. “Get a clock first on his speed,” I thought, as I rapidly accelerated and stabilized my speed with that of the car. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. We were steady, and I punched my speedometer lock, which would keep it set at the clocked speed. Noting the distance we had traveled at that rate, I prepared to make the stop. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and simultaneously pushed the red-light switch with my thumb, screwed the throttle full on, and pushed down the siren pedal with my heel. The powerful cycle leaped forward, siren screaming. The cold fall air bit deeper into my cheeks, and my eyes began to water as my speed reached 55, then 60 miles per hour.
I was still perhaps a quarter of a block behind the speeder and gaining rapidly, when suddenly I saw a movement from the side of the road. A dark small car, having stopped at the side street stop sign, had let my violator pass and was pulling into the street right in front of me. The driver had failed to see my speeding police motorcycle in spite of my lights and siren and had pulled right into my path.
Instant reflexes took over. Throttle off, brakes on hard, weight shift smooth to the left and front wheel turned hard to the right to put the motor into a broad slide. Training I’d been through many times before on a dirt field and at much slower speed could now perhaps save my life—if I remembered it and did it correctly. The idea in such an emergency was to lay the motorcycle down so that it was sliding toward the object, wheels first on its crash bars. If the rider can stay on and hold the bike down, the wheels and engine will protect him from death and reduce his injuries.
So far, so good. I was in the broad slide, and my speed was down to probably about 45 miles per hour. The driver of the car had seen me at last and had stopped abruptly in the center of the lane. My skidding cycle shot past the front of his car, missing him by inches. I was going to make it. I relaxed. What a mistake. When I did so, my heel released slight pressure from the brake, allowing the wheel to turn. It caught the pavement and flipped the motorcycle hard to its opposite side. The effect of this acted upon me like a giant catapult, and I was thrown into the air head first, arms outstretched, still moving probably 40 miles per hour. I must have looked like a great ungainly bird sailing along for a moment, and then the pavement was slamming into my chest and arms and I was sliding and skidding along the road.
Still sliding, I realized that I was now on the wrong side of the roadway and that other traffic was coming at me. A car was very close, and I could see the driver. His eyes were wide with surprise and indecision. I could see his white hair, and I just knew he was old and probably had reflexes which would let him run right over me before his foot got to the brake.
“I must get turned around and hit him feet first,” I thought. “At least I won’t be killed, just seriously injured.” Somehow I did it. In the few seconds left before impact I turned on the roadway and the crash ended as my posterior hit the oil pan of the old gentleman’s car and my motorcycle came to rest between a tree and fire hydrant nearby.
All was very quiet for a moment and I lay very still, afraid to move, feeling great waves of nausea and pain come over me. Then people came from everywhere to help. There were sirens in the distance, and soon helpful persons had pulled me from beneath the car and were trying to determine the extent of my injuries. My uniform was torn and my leather coat had holes worn in its sleeves and, oh, did my bottom hurt.
Then it happened. Right there on that public street the ambulance crew began stripping away my uniform to check my injuries and, in front of everyone, exposed to view the brightest green thermal underwear you have ever seen. I was mortified and embarrassed. A police officer is supposed to be manly and maintain an image of strength and decorum at all times, and suddenly my secret was exposed to the world. I couldn’t explain about the costume party and the fact that I only had one pair of thermals to wear on a cold November day. My secret was exposed to the world, and when I got to the hospital, those nurses didn’t help my ego any with their snickers and whispers either.

We once had two beautiful long-haired kittens at our house. They lived in a Garden of Eden because of the way we pampered and spoiled them. They loved it—all that food and warmth and tender loving care. About the worst opposition they had to endure was being dressed up in doll clothes, which they didn’t seem to mind very much.
One Saturday morning the kittens, along with our children, were relaxing sleepily in front of the television, enjoying their nice life. As we turned off the television and began giving out assignments for Saturday morning housework, our eight-year-old daughter looked longingly at the still-purring pets. “I don’t want to do my work,” she declared. “I would rather be a kitten.”
There are days when we would “rather be a kitten,” but our first parents left the innocence and “nice life” of the Garden of Eden for one glorious reason—that they might find joy. (See 2 Ne. 2:25.) Not days of constant leisure. Not yawning and stretching and lounging in front of a television throughout eternity.
Opposition is a central part of mortal life. It may be the primary difference between what life would have been in the Garden and what it is in mortality. It is the difference between being green, untested, and inexperienced and becoming ripe, seasoned, tested, and having a mature understanding. How different from innocence, for if there is only innocence, there is little meaning.
When Father Lehi said there “must needs be … opposition in all things” (2 Ne. 2:11), he spoke not merely of the need for choice and agency, but of the way opposing forces combine to give meaning to righteous choices. Without the taste of bitter in our experience, we do not appreciate the taste of sweet. We are without context, without a frame of reference, and even the sweet things of life are without meaning and purpose. Mortality presents us with a “compound in one,” a deliberate mixing of righteousness and temptation, holiness and misery, without which there could be “no purpose in the end of [life’s] creation” (2 Ne. 2:11–12).
Some of life’s most difficult challenges can come when opposition appears in places where we don’t expect it—such as when we think we just finished with it. For example, frequently we must overcome great opposition as the price of admission to a promising opportunity: going on a mission or being married in the temple. Many Latter-day Saints are caught off guard when they discover opposition in what they thought would be a trouble-free environment. “Christianity without tears,” in the words of one writer, is the state that some of us hope for.
Eliza R. Snow addressed the lines of a provocative pioneer hymn to those who were coming to Zion in the belief that they were leaving the afflictions of the world behind. Her words are also appropriate for all of us who embark on new experiences in which we expect to find “a nice life.”
Think not when you gather to Zion,
Your troubles and trials are through,
That nothing but comfort and pleasure
Are waiting in Zion for you: …
Think not when you gather to Zion,
That all will be holy and pure;
That fraud and deception are banished,
And confidence wholly secure: …
Think not when you gather to Zion,
The prize and the victory won.
Think not that the warfare is ended,
The work of salvation is done.
No, no; for the great prince of darkness
A tenfold exertion will make, When he sees you go to the fountain,
Where freely the truth you may take.
(Hymns, 1948, number 21.)
There is opposition in Zion, because there is opposition in all things, even those experiences that seem to promise better times ahead. Consider the example of marriage. Many people assume that if they can just get married, all their problems will be solved. One new bride reportedly said to her mother on her wedding day, “Oh, Mom, I’m so happy! I’m at the end of my troubles.”
“Yes, dear,” replied the wise mother, “but which end?”
We vividly remember our own experience in marrying each other and having our first baby. After we became parents, we began to discover what Lehi had been talking about when he said that if Adam and Eve had remained in the Garden and had had no children, “they would have remained in a state of innocence, having no joy, for they knew no misery” (2 Ne. 2:23).
That scripture seems to say that if they had had no children, they would have known no misery. Only the parents of two-year-olds and teenagers can understand that! But it also says that without children and misery, they would have had no joy. How important is joy? Within two verses, Lehi tells us that “men are, that they might have [that very] joy” (2 Ne. 2:25; emphasis added).
In our case, here is what all that meant in a very down-to-earth sense. During her first pregnancy, Marie was sick—an odd way to be showered with joy. For part of each day for several months, she felt just terrible. It was morning sickness ad nauseum.
Then about four weeks before delivery she threatened to miscarry, which sent her to bed for several days, causing serious complications in the classes she was taking and those she was teaching. But when the big day finally came, even the hours of labor were worth it as she lay there in the hospital bed holding that beautiful baby boy.
Nothing could be more wonderful than this, she thought. Surely the world stops for such a beautiful baby.
The day after the baby was born, she was cuddling him happily in her hospital room when her doctor came in. A plain-spoken man, he looked at them and said cheerily, “How does it feel to have the easiest part over with?”
“Easiest part?”
“Why sure,” he replied. “It’s the next twenty years that are going to be tough.”
Now, more than twenty years later, we have discovered, right there among mortality’s thorns, the sweet fruit of having joy in our posterity. After all the diapers, the bruises, the washing, the cheering, the cleaning up, the pleading, the nail biting, the crying, the laughing, the pacing, and the praying, we understand. We feel about raising children the way Ammon felt about missionary work:
“And this is the account of Ammon and his brethren, their journeyings in the land of Nephi, their sufferings in the land, their sorrows, and their afflictions, and their incomprehensible joy” (Alma 28:8; emphasis added).
There, in Alma’s words, is Lehi’s paradoxical compound in one. There is a link between sorrow, affliction, and incomprehensible joy. Without opposition, “they would have remained in a state of innocence, having no joy, for they knew no misery” (2 Ne. 2:23).
Another area in which we sometimes experience opposition after “gathering to Zion” is in the development of our testimonies. Actually, most of the questions we face as our testimonies grow are signs that we are learning more, not less, about the truth.
I learned from the late Elder Theodore M. Burton of the Seventy a valuable insight about the growth of a testimony. He said that often when we first realize the gospel is true, the amount of spiritual truth we know could be symbolized by drawing and coloring in a tiny circle about the size of a pinhead.
As our understanding of the gospel progresses, the circle grows. When our knowledge develops to a certain point of maturity, the circle may be the size of a coin, many times bigger than our first little pinhead of knowledge. When we compare those two circles on a piece of paper, the tiny testimony and the larger testimony are surrounded by large areas of white, representing the unknown.
As our knowledge grows in relation to the unknown, something unexpected happens. The larger circle has a much broader circumference around the edge, which is in greater contact with the unknown. Thus, there are many more points at which questions can arise. But it is by the “growing pains” of dealing with that opposition that our knowledge and understanding increase geometrically, especially in the first few years of our experience in the Church.
One young member began having some questions about the gospel, questions that he encountered in his extended study of a particular subject. The more he studied, the more he found new questions to which there were inadequate answers. He became frustrated because he was determined to find a complete answer to every question that came up, but he was unable to do that.
He began thinking that if he couldn’t solve every puzzle he found, perhaps he was violating his integrity to remain active in the Church. At the same time, he loved the Church and had a deep and enduring faith in the reality of Jesus Christ.
After months of struggling, he decided to put aside his unresolved questions and exercise his faith. He would simply have a believing heart. His faith began to grow again, not so much from new information, but rather from new experiences with other people. He shared the gospel with a friend or two at work and accepted a teaching assignment in his ward. He found that his attempts to help others understand the gospel increased his own understanding. His renewed appreciation for the many knowns in his testimony soon outweighed his frustrations about the unknowns, and the joy he had earlier felt began coming back to him. Fortunately, he refused to give up when he met opposition. He learned through his struggles and grew stronger. The turning point for him came when he stopped being so concerned about his own troubles and began trying to help others with theirs.
We find in the life of President Spencer W. Kimball a further poignant illustration of that specialized kind of opposition that haunts us even when by all believable odds we should be beyond it.
President Kimball endured a lifelong struggle with opposition of many kinds. He experienced so many serious medical problems that he once wrote a poem to his “friend, pain.”
At one point, Brother Russell M. Nelson, then a practicing heart surgeon, was asked to examine President Kimball, who was then serving as President of the Quorum of the Twelve. President Kimball desperately needed open heart surgery, but because of President Kimball’s advanced age, Dr. Nelson told the First Presidency he could give no assurance that the surgery would be successful.
When the First Presidency told President Kimball they felt he should have the operation despite the risks, he told them his greatest fear was that he might emerge from the surgery in some partially incapacitated state, unable to do his work.
But he followed their counsel and submitted to the risky surgery. The Brethren gave Dr. Nelson a special blessing. During the surgery, which went flawlessly, Dr. Nelson received a strong spiritual impression that President Kimball would one day be President of the Church.
After that miraculously successful operation, President Kimball continued on, against the odds, raising his cancer-stricken voice like a beacon in the night. How we all loved him! How we prayed in gratitude that his life was spared so many times!
But he did not live happily ever after. For several years before his death, he was physically unable to speak to the Church or to go about his regular duties. That which he most had feared indeed came to pass—his failing health prevented him from carrying his full share of the load. How his heart must have ached! If someone as faithful as President Kimball continued to experience opposition at this stage of his life, it is not surprising that the rest of us must as well.
During President Kimball’s waning years, there was a special quality of love in the tender feelings of Church members for their modern prophet. There was an appreciative remembering of the days when the piercing quality of that unique voice sounded such a clear call at general conference, a kind of loving admiration for his courage, almost of that intimate kind felt only among members of the same family.
In all this, there was more than a trace of joy and insight for the members of the Church—we discovered the rich meaning that comes from having been together in combat, the kind of joy born of sheer gratitude for a friend who touched and changed one’s life. In such a personal and compassionate context, we found deeper meaning in reflecting on his counsel over the years about missions, cleanliness, repentance, the miracle of forgiveness, and universal access to the priesthood. We were happy and sad at the same time, full of hope yet full of sorrow. It was the compound in one, as God consecrated his sorrows for our gain.
In joining the Church, marrying, having children, serving a mission, or developing our testimonies, we must often overcome tremendous odds even to embark upon the experience. For that reason, it is only natural to believe that once we have won the right to the experience, we should live happily ever after. But such is not to be the case.
New experiences may surely lead toward living joyfully; but joy, like grace, comes only “after all we can do” (2 Ne. 25:23). Indeed, joy, like grace, usually comes in the midst of contrary experience, for it is a real part of life’s complex fabric. Joy is not an alternative to opposition, it is part of a compound that comes out of our coping with the challenges and conditions of mortality.

The fictional character Mary Poppins is a typical English nanny—who happens to be magical.1 She blows in on the east wind to help the troubled Banks family of Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane, in Edwardian London. She is given charge of the children, Jane and Michael. In a firm but kind manner, she begins to teach them valuable lessons with an enchanting touch.
Jane and Michael make considerable progress, but Mary decides that it is time for her to move on. In the stage production, Mary’s chimney sweep friend, Bert, tries to dissuade her from leaving. He argues, “But they’re good kids, Mary.”
Mary replies, “Would I be bothering with them if they weren’t? But I can’t help them if they won’t let me, and there’s no one so hard to teach as the child who knows everything.”
Bert asks, “So?”
Mary answers, “So they’ve got to do the next bit on their own.”2

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

The last experiences and testimony I would like to share with you today is of a friend of mine that I met while taking accounting classes here at BYU–Hawaii. He and I continued our educational journey at the University of Utah, both of us receiving our master's degrees in accounting. One of the greatest gifts and blessings while you are in school here will be the people you meet and the influence you can have on one another for good.

Desterney Newton, also known as Mana, came from Reporoa, which is a small rural town in New Zealand. When I met Mana, one of the first things I heard about him was that he had been a competitive boxer in New Zealand. I later found out that he had won three national titles in boxing for his weight and age class. As part of the NZ boxing team, he had a scholarship to continue boxing and attend Waikato University in New Zealand. However, it was at this crossroads of life that Mana chose to join the Church and go on a full-time mission, despite his potential as a boxer. As the only member of the Church in his family, this decision was against their wishes. At a very young age Mana was committed to the gospel and his faith and testimony in Jesus Christ. While on his mission Mana met Brother Arapata Meha from the BYU–Hawaii recruiting team. Although he had never met him before, Brother Meha’s first words to him were, “When you finish your mission you're coming to BYUH.”

Thanks to the IWORK program, Mana was able to take the giant leap of faith to leave his home, family, and dreams of professional boxing to attend BYU–Hawaii. Mana faced the challenge of being the first to attend university, and to do so, he was leaving home without any family support. IWORK and the BYUH recruiting team supported Mana, and in his own words, he otherwise would not have made it.

It was here that Mana met his eternal companion, Kulia Walk. The two of them together graduated from BYU–Hawaii and started their family. Mana graduated magna cum laude both in his undergraduate and graduate studies. He later worked for Deloitte & Touche in Hawaii and New Zealand, eventually making partner. After 10 years, Mana left Deloitte and became CEO of one of New Zealand’s largest M?ori organizations with a focus on providing social and educational support for the M?ori people. He has also served several governance roles on boards across New Zealand with a focus on growing financial returns for social based outcomes.

Mana and Kulia now have six children, ranging from ages 17 to 3, that they are raising in New Zealand. Kulia is serving as first counselor in their ward Relief Society and Mana is serving as first counselor in their ward bishopric. In these capacities they are able to work with the youth, even helping connect their youth to BYU–Hawaii. They hope one day their children too will attend BYU–Hawaii to experience and gain the education which blessed their family so richly.

Mana shared his testimony that his experience here has shaped his entire life and career. He said, “It is humbling to think of the Lord's specific vision for BYU–Hawaii students, and specifically me, to become, ‘lifelong disciples of Jesus Christ and leaders in their families, communities, chosen fields, and in building the kingdom of God.’ It’s hard to look at my experiences at BYU–Hawaii and not see the Lord’s hand in every detail.”

Mojca Zeleznikar joined the Church before the Book of Mormon was available in her native language of Slovenian. Her testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel came by listening to the missionaries and studying the Book of Mormon in Croatian and English.

A few years after Sister Zeleznikar was baptized, the Book of Mormon was translated into Slovenian. When she read the translated text, she felt the full power of the words. “I felt the truth expand before me in clear simplicity and profound purity,” she recalled. “The voice of my Creator [spoke] to me in my own language—the language that my mother spoke to me.”

We attend a lot of meetings in the Church, and one meeting I attended a few years ago had a powerful effect on me. It was a testimony meeting in a ward in Barcelona, Spain.
To my surprise, around 10 youth shared their testimonies following an FSY conference they had participated in. What impressed me most was that they all bore pure, powerful testimonies of the Savior, Jesus Christ, His atoning sacrifice, and His love for all of us. I was amazed that after five days of fun activities with other youth, food, games, and dances, it was the joy they had in the Savior that really stuck with them. It left me wondering why.
Later I moved to Brazil. I learned the leaders in the area were preparing for an FSY conference. As an Area Seventy, I was invited to help organize the conference and to participate in all five days with the youth.
Before I left, the Area Presidency asked me to be prepared to give a report on my experience at FSY when I returned. My wife and I attended the conference, and for the first three days we enjoyed the planned activities, including morning scripture study, devotionals, classes, outside activities, good food, family home evening, and dances. Everything moved forward as planned, and I felt that I had seen enough to complete my report.
The next evening, we held a beautiful and touching musical program. The Spirit was so special that the owner of the conference site, not a member of the Church, told me that he would love to have our group attend FSY at his place every year.
After the musical program, the youth gathered in their groups for a testimony meeting. My wife and I went from group to group and heard touching testimonies. We could tell that the participants in the conference had been having strong spiritual experiences. We loved hearing the youth freely express their feelings of happiness. We felt like a part of a big spiritual family. We felt the love of the Savior for each one of us.
I looked to my wife and asked, “What is going on here?” She could not say a word. But we knew so many had experienced a spiritual moment and received an unforgettable testimony of the Lord, Jesus Christ.
I went to my room that night and wrote a totally different report! The following year, my wife and I went to FSY again and enjoyed the same experience. Now I understand why the youth in that testimony meeting in Spain shared such meaningful feelings for the Savior instead of relating the fun activities they had.
My desire is that you will have many similar experiences in your life, whether it is at FSY, by your bedside as you pray, when you read the scriptures, or when you share your testimony with your friends.
I testify that we are sons and daughters of a loving Heavenly Father. We came here to earth from His presence, and we are all members of His great spiritual family. Our eldest Brother is the Lord, Jesus Christ. He is our Master, and from Him we can learn and grow “in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man” (Luke 2:52), as He did.
Detail from Christ and the Rich Young Ruler by Heinrich Hofmann
Jesus Christ is our Savior. His power is infinite, and He stands ready to rescue us from any afflicting situation we may find ourselves in. He is our friend—a friend who loves us, knows us, and has offered His life to save us. His atoning sacrifice for us made it possible for Him to know how to succor us, to strengthen us, and to perfect us. Let us all accept His invitation: “Come, follow me” (Luke 18:22).