Gospel Story Finder

Julius Tirazona, another member of the local security detail for Elder and Sister Bednar, found it refreshing to see a lighter and carefree side of Elder Bednar as he joked around with those traveling with him. “I remember fondly when Elder Bednar was speaking in Tarlac,” he recalled. “Sister Bednar suddenly joined him on the stand to react to what he said and before she sat back down, she kissed Elder Bednar on the lips.” The members of the congregation gushed and cheered, which prompted Sister Bednar to stand up again and apologize, to which Elder Bednar humorously replied: “‘You don’t apologize because you kissed your spouse,’ Elder Bednar told her with a smile.”

Note how carefully we have been instructed on how to confer priesthood authority. When I turned 12 years old, my father, Charles Oaks, and my bishop, George Collard, laid their hands on my head and conferred upon me the Aaronic Priesthood and ordained me a deacon.

Several years later, then Elder Gordon B. Hinckley used this same heavenly directed procedure to ordain me a Seventy. Each ordination reflects additional divine trust and a new opportunity to serve on the Lord’s side.

Fast-forward my life to when I married my sweetheart, Julia, and then even further to the moment that our first child, Daniel, was born. I was filled with a rush of emotions. I was happy, shocked, amazed, and a little scared. I felt totally inadequate to be a father and to have the responsibility of teaching and being an example to my son. But I quickly realized that I’d been preparing all my life to be a dad. When I held my son in my arms for the first time and looked down into his face, I felt the Spirit touch my heart, and I realized that I was ready to try to be a great dad just like my own dad was to me.

How blessed we are to have a living prophet in these last days. What a life-stirring compass is the First Presidency Message by President Gordon B. Hinckley in the May 1999 Liahona (English). This message, “Life’s Obligations,” is so rich and touching. It has strengthened my testimony of the living prophet of God. I spend time every day reading portions of this message.
On one occasion, I went to a restaurant and took this message with me. One of my clients asked to read it. After reading it, he asked for a copy of it. This man confessed that the message is “inspired and really applies to present-day life.”
Attah Frederick,Bauchi Branch, Jos Nigeria District

One such Elder was James Leaing McMurrin, who arrived on UK shores in the spring of 1884 and was assigned to Glasgow. He was delighted by this, as Scotland was the home of his ancestors. He eagerly endeavoured to find them, but sadly had no success.
Six months into his mission he was reassigned to Ireland. On learning of this, his aunt gave him the address of one Hugh McMurrin, who lived in Ireland. The Elder determined to visit him if possible. However, the address was not within his assigned area.
Sometime later, he and his companion went out to visit a family of Church members but got lost. It was getting late, and upon enquiring at a house the direction to the town they were seeking, the occupants offered the elders a meal and a bed for the night. After learning Elder McMurrin’s name, the couple told him of a neighbour they had by the name of Hugh McMurrin.
Astonished, but delighted, Elder McMurrin visited him and found he was the Hugh McMurrin his aunt had told him about. He had moved from the address his aunt had given him. From this gentleman he received the addresses of other McMurrins, whom he visited and who gave him nearly one hundred and fifty names of his ancestors.

For many years I’ve known a girl who has become a very good friend of mine. She isn’t a member of the Church, but she respects it and what it stands for. We had never talked much about religion. I assumed that she believed what she wanted to believe and wouldn’t change. However, I had prayed for a long time that the opportunity to teach her would come.
My prayer was answered at a sleepover for my 16th birthday. When most of the other girls had fallen asleep, my friend and I moved to an adjacent room so we wouldn’t wake them, since we planned on staying up a little longer talking. Eventually our discussion turned to who we are, what we are doing here on earth, and where we are going after this life. My friend was curious to know what our religion says about these questions. I was a little apprehensive, so I started out slowly telling her a basic version of the plan of salvation.
As I talked, I started shaking. I couldn’t help it. I felt the Spirit so strongly that I paused often to catch my breath. She seemed to sense something different and asked me what was wrong. I told her that this plan made me feel so happy inside. I then bore my testimony to her, and we were silent. All I could think about was how it felt to truly know for myself the truthfulness of the gospel. I had never borne my testimony like that before, and I will never forget the experience.

In 1951 and 1952 I attended the Frankfurt Branch, which was not as big as the one in Zwickau. The Frankfurt meetinghouse was small, and we had classes in the basement. I recall missionaries teaching us important gospel principles. One missionary, Elder Stringham, impressed me very much with his teaching about the Pearl of Great Price, especially where Moses is being taught he is a son of God. Another thing Elder Stringham taught me was the scripture that says, “If God be for us, who can be against us?” (Rom. 8:31). This gave me comfort and courage, because at that time the future looked bleak in Germany. The city of Frankfurt was in ruins with bombed-out buildings. That teaching has stayed with me throughout my life. It taught me I need to be on the Lord’s side. I cannot afford not to be on the Lord’s side.

Even with their common faith, the Saints had experienced much hardship and approached the evacuation of Nauvoo with very different expectations. Some looked forward with optimism, others with concern. Two excellent examples are presented by Helen Mar Whitney and Bathsheba Smith. Both have left compelling records of their feelings.
Sister Bathsheba Smith’s recorded feelings are also full of faith but evidence some trepidation. She had seen the mobs arrayed against the Saints in Missouri and was present at the death of the Apostle David W. Patten.
Recalling the evacuation of Nauvoo, she wrote: “My last act in that precious spot was to tidy the rooms, sweep up the floor and set the broom in its accustomed place behind the door. Then with emotions in my heart … I gently closed the door and faced an unknown future, … faced it with faith in God and with no less assurance of the ultimate establishment of the Gospel in the West and of its true enduring principles, than I had felt in those trying scenes in Missouri.”
Both of these LDS pioneer women remained strong in the gospel throughout their lives and provided wonderful service in building Zion, but they faced many additional trials and hardships, which they both faithfully endured.
Sister Smith recorded the poverty, sickness, and privation that the Saints suffered as they made their way west. In March of 1847 her mother passed away, and the next month her second son, John, was born. Her record of that is brief: “He was my last child, and [he] lived only four hours.” Later in her life she was the matron of the Salt Lake Temple and the fourth general president of the Relief Society.

A few years ago a Baptist minister friend and I were driving through Boston in an effort to get to the LDS Institute of Religion at Cambridge. As has been my custom most every time I have been to Boston, I was absolutely lost and had no idea where we were. We stopped several times for directions, and each helpful person would point to us the way and say with much assurance “You can’t miss it.” After having heard that phrase five or six times, I asked our seventh helper for directions and began my question with “Please don’t say you can’t miss it, because I assure you that we can, for we have done it again and again.” During our scavenger hunt of sorts, we chatted. My colleague commented on a matter that we had discussed several times, namely the idea that Latter-day Saints are more prone to rely upon feelings than tangible evidence for truth of religious claims. In response, I asked: “Do you believe in the literal bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ?” The look he gave me was similar to that which a sixteen-year-old would give to someone who had asked what the teenager felt to be an inane question. “Of course I believe in the resurrection, Bob; I’m an ordained minister.” I followed up: “Why do you believe in the resurrection? How do you know it really happened?” He answered: “Because the New Testament teaches of the resurrection of Jesus.” I shot right back “But how do you know that the New Testament accounts can be trusted? How do you know the Bible can be trusted? Maybe someone just made all of this up. Maybe the Bible is a giant hoax.”

“No,” he said, “There is strong evidence to support the truthfulness of the Bible.” “Like what?” I asked. “Well, there are archaeological, historical and cultural evidences that what is being described actually happened.” I then queried. “And so that’s how you know the resurrection is real?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he said. At this point my mind began to race. And I found myself saying something I hadn’t planned to say. “You know, I feel a great sense of sadness right now.” My Evangelical friend was surprised and asked “Sadness? Why are you sad?”

“I was just thinking of a good friend of mine, an older woman in Montgomery, Alabama.” My partner asked: “What about her?” I then said, “Well, I was thinking of how sad it is that this wonderful and devoted Christian, a person who has given her life to Jesus and studied and memorized her Bible like few people I know, a woman whose life manifests her complete commitment to the Savior, is not really entitled to have a witness of the truthfulness of the Bible.”

“Why is that?” he followed up. “Well, she knows precious little about archaeology or languages or culture or history or manuscripts, and so I suppose she can’t really know within her heart that the Bible really is the word of God.”

“Of course she can,” he said. “She can have her faith, her personal witness that the Bible is true.” I pulled off to the side of the road and stopped the car. I turned to him, smiled, and stated: “Do you mean that she can have the power of the Holy Spirit testify to her soul that her Bible is completely trustworthy and can be relied upon as God’s word?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.” My smile broadened as I added: “Then we’ve come full circle.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked. I said: “You’re telling me that this good woman, one who has none of the supposed requisite background or knowledge of external evidence, can have a witness of the Spirit, including deep personal feelings about the Bible and that those feelings are genuine and heaven-sent.” At that point my friend looked into my eyes and he smiled. “I see where you’re going with this.” We then engaged in one of the most productive conversations of our time together as friends. We agreed between us that it is so easy to yield to the temptation to categorize and pigeonhole and stereotype and even demonize persons whose faith is different than your own. It is so easy to overstate, to misrepresent, to create “straw men” in an effort to establish your own point.

We agreed that “traditional Christians” and Latter-day Saint Christians both base their faith upon evidence—both seen and unseen.

“Now let’s get started,” I said, a little bit worried at the thought of performing my first baptismal interview. Nevertheless, I was doing my best to feel confident so everyone would feel comfortable.
“Okay, teacher,” replied the middle-aged Cambodian woman seated across from me. The elders in my district had been holding a successful school to teach English to the Southeast Asian refugees who had settled in California’s San Joaquin Valley. Because of this school we were able to make a great deal of contacts, all of whom continued to address them and all other missionaries as “teacher.”
For the last several days I had been studying and practicing the questions, and I was confident that there would be no problem at all with the interview. The elders that had been teaching her assured me that she spoke English well enough so she would not need a translator. I said the prayer and began asking the questions.
“Have you prayed about the gospel of Jesus Christ, and have your prayers been answered?”
The smile on her face widened and she began to laugh. Her head shook back and forth and she said, “I don’t know, teacher.”
Remembering that English could be a difficult language, I asked the question in a simpler way: “Do you know that the Church is true?”
Once again, she looked at me as if she did not understand a thing I had said, began to laugh, and said “I … I don’t know.”
I was puzzled. As far as I knew, she had expressed the desire to be baptized, and she was attending the branch in the area that held services in Cambodian. What could I do? There was no way that I could allow her to be baptized without an interview, but she wasn’t understanding any of the questions, no matter how simple I tried to make them.
Not knowing what else to do, I reached for a missionary flip-chart that the elders had given me in case I ran into difficulty. I flipped through the gospel principles that were written out in four or five of the languages used by the Asian people who had come into the valley. Somewhere near what appeared to be the first discussion I found a picture of the Savior. In desperation, I showed her the picture and asked, “Do you know Jesus Christ?”
All of a sudden her face brightened and she began to nod her head back and forth excitedly. “Yes, teacher, yes, yes. I love Jesus Christ,” she cried in obvious recognition of the picture in front of her.
Finally we found something we both could understand. Not being very familiar with the English language, she had summed up all of the words and emotions that give a positive message into one word: love. Through the same process I was able to determine that she loved Joseph Smith, President Benson, the Ten Commandments, and the law of tithing.
In asking her about the Word of Wisdom, I was able to find in the flip-chart a picture of some bottles of beer, cigarette packages, and cups of coffee. When I showed her these things that violated the laws of Jesus Christ, she reacted violently, shaking her head and declaring, “No, no teacher, no.”
When the interview was over, she had satisfactorily answered all of the questions, usually by doing no more than sharing with me her love for a particular person or concept. That afternoon I received a witness of the Spirit stronger than I have ever had that told me that she was prepared in every way for baptism. I congratulated her and told her that she could be baptized, and her face brightened again as she said, “Thank you, teacher, I love you.”
When she said this, I thought of the answer that Jesus Christ gave when he was asked which was the greatest of all the laws: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
“This is the first and great commandment.
“And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself” (Matt. 22:37–39).
Although this woman humbly addressed me as “teacher,” her responses during the interview had taught me a wonderful lesson. She had learned the essence of the gospel: she loved Jesus Christ unconditionally, and she loved everyone around her. Nobody had to convince her to keep the commandments of the Savior; it came naturally for her. She loved Jesus Christ and wouldn’t think of knowingly breaking any of his laws.
Since that interview I have heard many powerful testimonies of the gospel. I have listened to people relate fantastic spiritual experiences and the Spirit has borne witness to each one. I have never, however, been affected by a testimony in quite the same way as I was during that interview in a humble apartment when a simple refugee housewife said to me, “Yes, teacher, I love Jesus Christ.”

Every bishop needs a sacred grove to which he can retire to meditate and to pray for guidance. Mine was our old ward chapel. I could not begin to count the occasions when on a dark night at a late hour I would make my way to the stand of this building where I was blessed, confirmed, ordained, taught, and eventually called to preside. The chapel was dimly lighted by the street light in front; not a sound would be heard, no intruder to disturb. With my hand on the pulpit I would kneel and share with Him above my thoughts, my concerns, my problems.
On one occasion, a year of drought, the commodities at the storehouse had not been their usual quality, nor had they been found in abundance. Many products were missing, especially fresh fruit. My prayer that night is sacred to me. I pleaded that these widows were the finest women I knew in mortality, that their needs were simple and conservative, that they had no resources on which they might rely. The next morning I received a call from a ward member, a proprietor of a produce business. “Bishop,” he said, “I would like to send a semitrailer filled with oranges, grapefruit, and bananas to the bishops’ storehouse to be given to those in need. Could you make arrangements?” Could I make arrangements! The storehouse was alerted. Then each bishop was telephoned and the entire shipment distributed. Bishop Jesse M. Drury, that beloved welfare pioneer and storekeeper, said he had never witnessed a day like it before. He described the occasion with one word—“Wonderful!”

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

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Matt: I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
Mom: It can be hard at your age. But if you listen carefully, you’ll understand something from each talk.
Dad: In every conference there seems to be at least one message just for me. Maybe there will be for you too.
Later—Matt: I did understand some things, but I don’t think any of it was just for me.
Mom: You know, when we listen to conference, the messages don’t come just from the speakers. The Spirit can speak to us too.
Dad: That’s right. It isn’t only what we understand that counts. It’s what we feel.
That evening—Matt: When I listened to President Hinckley, I didn’t understand everything he said. But I had a good feeling that he really is a prophet.
Dad: That was a conference message just for you—one you’ll remember your whole life.

President Henry B. Eyring, in his talk "O Remember, Remember" in the 2007 October General Conference, states:
"When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started. I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property. He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind-not in my own voice-these words: I'm not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down."
"I went inside. I didn't go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family. Grandpa didn't have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.
"I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?' As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done."

While living in Colorado, we were partners in a wilderness camp which had a 24-foot climbing wall as one of the adventures. Our sons always worked at the camp in the summer. One week on the first day of camp, our son Chris, who was 14-years old at the time, was part of the maintenance crew. Because he was so quick and nimble, the staff member at the climbing wall had sent him up the wall to hang the climbing rope. However, they had failed to give him safety gear to get back down. He quickly climbed the wall and hung the rope, but as he started back down, he slipped and fell about 20 feet to the ground. He landed hard on his right foot, and it began to swell. I had to go back to town to work, but Chris didn’t want to leave the camp, so I let him stay. Before I left, we gave him a blessing. On Friday evening, I returned to the camp and found Chris still limping and his foot still swollen.

Saturday morning, I took him to the doctor, and x-rays showed that the main bone in his foot had been shattered. There were only two large pieces left. Chris was scheduled for surgery, and the doctor hoped he could screw the two large pieces back together, but there wasn't a whole lot more that could be done with the many small broken pieces. The doctor feared that the bone was so shattered that it would die and never heal. A priesthood blessing was given, and Chris went in for surgery. When we returned to the doctor six weeks after the surgery, the doctor asked us to join him in the x-ray viewing room. He had the original and the new x-rays he had just taken posted side by side on the wall. The doctor shook his head as he pointed out the bone that had been broken. All the shattered pieces had moved back together and reformed the bone, and it was alive and well. He turned to me and said, "We had a little help with that one, didn't we?" He recognized the Lord’s hand in healing the foot of our son. We were grateful for the blessing we had received.

It’s November, but in Nevada it’s still hot. Hot enough that most teenage boys would rather be inside than sweating out a Saturday morning service project.
Why are these young men braving the burning desert sun? It’s not for the free can of soda pop. What began as a project to fill a Duty to God requirement, became a lesson in the joy of service.
For one of their activities, the young men in the Desert Breeze Ward, Las Vegas Nevada Lakes Stake, came to the aid of recent convert, Kyoko Fuller, an 82-year-old widow who speaks mostly Japanese.
The young men cut dried-out fronds from three neglected palm trees behind her house, stripped away the overgrown bark, and hauled off the piles of dead growth.
“How much I pay?” she asked when the young men told her they’d clean up her yard and take care of the palm trees. “Oh no,” she said when they told her it was free. “I pay how much?” They didn’t take any money, but they enjoyed the drinks she offered after they had worked under the desert sun for two hours.
“This was fun,” says Matt Erickson, a teacher. “Kyoko’s great, and it was fun to help her out. The work was kind of hard, but it went fast.”

My special interest in the words of the prophets came at a very impressionable age in my life. My father was the bishop of our ward. Each year he would plan a trip that would help impress on our minds the significance of the events that happened near our home in Logan, Utah.

When I was 12 years of age, he planned a trip to Clarkston, Utah, for the Aaronic Priesthood holders of our ward. Arriving in Clarkston, we were driven to the town cemetery, where we were asked to gather around a tall granite marker. The marker was engraved with the name of Martin Harris, one of the Three Witnesses to the authenticity of the Book of Mormon. Not only were we to see Martin Harris’s grave, but we would also hear Martin Harris’s testimony by one who knew him. I would like you to relive that event with me tonight. I have invited William Pilkington—alias Lael Woodbury—to tell his story. William, please come forth and give that witness.

We had been in our new home a few days. One dark night a knock came on the door. Our family was gathered at home and we were all singing the songs of Zion. We stopped singing and Father opened the door. A strange man walked in. He was given a chair and he sat down.

He said, “What is your name, sir?”

Father promptly told him our name was Pilkington.

He said, “Are you immigrants?”

He was told that we had just immigrated from England. He said he wanted to hire a boy to go and live with him for one year.

My brother Richard and I were sitting together on the right of the stranger. He looked at us and said, “I think this one will do.” That one was Willie—me.

He then asked if I would like to go and live with him for a year. He said he had just sold his property in Smithfield and was going to a place across the valley called Clarkston. Father asked him how much I would get if I went for a year. He thought a little while and then said, “I will give Willie a two-year-old heifer and his board and clothes if he will work for me.”

I asked Father what he thought about the proposition. He said it was all right—I could go and work for him a year, and for me to be a good boy.

I put on my coat and hat, kissed Mother, Father, and all the rest of the family, and went with him. It was a very dark night, and the country being strange to me, he took hold of my hand. We walked for about 10 minutes and entered a log house—the first log house I was ever in.

The rest of the family had all retired to bed. Or at least I thought so. I thought it very strange the man did not tell me what his name was. He gave me a chair and sat me down close by a little round table. He then asked me if I had had my supper.

I said, “Yes,” and he said, “Maybe you can eat a little more.” So he got a pan of milk, some bread, a bowl and spoon and told me to eat all I wanted. He told me the folks had all gone to bed and said, “Now I will go to bed, but before going I will show you where you will sleep on the floor,” and then he went to bed.

I was enjoying the bread and milk when my attention was attracted to an object over in the northwest corner of the room. As the oil lamp gives very little light, I was puzzled as to what it could be, so I ate a little faster so I could go to bed.

I was obliged to go between the table and this object, and in going round the table I discovered the form of a man. He made a motion with his hand as if he wanted me.

Rather timidly I went over to him, and he told me to pull up a chair and sit down close to him. I still felt a rather crawly sensation creeping over me, but I pulled up the chair alongside the chair he was sitting on and sat down.

He asked me what my name was, and I promptly told him my name was William Pilkington.

He asked me if we were immigrants.

I told him our family immigrated from England.

He then asked me if I was going to live with them.

I told him I thought I would live with them for about a year.

Up to this time neither one of them had told me what their name was, and it rather puzzled me. Then he asked me if I was a Mormon.

I told him our whole family were Mormons.

He told me he was going to call me Willie. I told him that Mother called me Willie too.

Then he said, “Willie, tomorrow night after the chores are done and we have had supper and all the folks have gone to bed, I want you to sit down in this chair, close to mine, for I have lots to tell you.”

I told him I would do that, and then I retired to bed on the floor. Between the floor being hard and what the old man had told me, I did not sleep very much and arose very early the next morning not feeling very much refreshed, as that was the first time I had ever slept on the floor, and that with only one quilt under and one over me.

When I arose the next morning, I looked for the man who talked to me last night. I knew that I could recognize him, as in the darkness of the room he resembled a picture I had once seen of Rip Van Winkle. When I found him, however, I found a very old man, and he walked with a cane. He greeted me with “Good morning, Willie” and shook my hand and told me not to forget tonight.

I told him I wouldn’t forget. I was wondering all day long what that old man wanted me for—an old decrepit man who wanted to talk to a boy he had found out was a Mormon boy.

At last night came. Supper was over, and after having family prayer they all retired to bed. The old gentleman then sat down in his armchair, put his elbow on the arm of the chair, and crooked his finger as he did scores of times afterward, and that was a signal for me to bring my chair alongside his.

He again asked me what my name was.

I told him.

“Oh, yes, I am to call you Willie.” He then said, “Willie, did you ever go to Sunday School?”

I promptly told him, “Yes, sir.”

“What class were you in?”

I promptly told him the Book of Mormon class.

His eyes sparkled and his whole body seemed to vibrate. He seemed like a changed being. He was very excited, trembling as I gazed into his eyes.

He said, “Did you ever read the Book of Mormon?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply.

“Well, if you have read the Book of Mormon, what is the first reading that we find in the preface of the book?”

After a little thinking, I said, “The first reading in the Book of Mormon is the testimony of the three men testifying to the whole world that they saw an angel come down from heaven, that they saw the gold plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated, and the angel told them that the translation was correct, and they bear record that Joseph Smith is a true prophet of God and that their names will go forever before the world testifying that the Book of Mormon is true.”

He then said, “I know now, Willie, that you have read that glorious book. Willie, I am going to ask you one more question. What were those three men’s names?”

I told him they were Oliver Cowdery, David Whitmer, and Martin Harris.

This little old man, then 92 years of age, of whom in my mind I had likened to Rip Van Winkle, whose whole being at this time was wonderful to behold, all lit up with the Spirit of God, whose eyes now were sparkling, whose whole being was transformed, stood up before me on that memorable occasion and, putting his walking cane in his left hand, he straightened up and striking his breast with his right hand exclaimed, “I am Martin Harris, one of the three witnesses to the authenticity of the Book of Mormon—a man who had the privilege of standing before angels, a man whose eyes beheld the golden plates, a man whose ears heard the voice of God declare that the book was translated correctly and then command him to testify to all the world that it was correct.”

From that time on until his death, he never tired of telling me of the beauties of the gospel, and especially about the early rise of the Church and the tribulations that beset the Prophet Joseph Smith and himself.

Thank you, William Pilkington, for that witness and testimony.

This experience electrified me. I realized that there stood a man who had actually heard the testimony of one of the Three Witnesses to the Book of Mormon. Now I was having the privilege of hearing his witness on that hillside in Clarkston, Utah.

Elder Kikuchi related how, as a young missionary called to serve in Japan for two years, he was first asked to extend for six months and then for an additional 12 months. He agreed without hesitation but each time asked his mission president to call the future Sister Kikuchi. “She was so happy that the Lord needed her future husband,” he recalled.

The young couple married soon after he returned, Elder Kikuchi continued. Then a Latter-day Saint American general who had been stationed in Japan offered to provide him with a complete scholarship and living expenses at Brigham Young University in Provo. “It was a wonderful, ideal situation,” he said, “but we felt we should stay in our country and serve the Church. We kindly turned down that great scholarship.”

Ten months after enrolling in the Asia University of Tokyo—where he eventually graduated in business psychology and management—“I was called as a branch president, and one year later our first daughter came,” Elder Kikuchi said, recalling he got by on four hours of sleep a night. “Those days were the most profound experiences of our lives.”

As summer was beginning, my family was getting ready for a short vacation to one of Utah’s beautiful canyons. For some reason, my 15-year-old brother and I got into a big argument. It began as a simple disagreement that led to name-calling, then almost punching each other. Both of us were thinking of the most insulting things we could say. It was an emotional competition in which the winner was the one who didn’t start crying. I was the winner, with my brother fleeing to his room in tears.
The looks I received from my parents and siblings after the argument had ended were intense. As I stood there enjoying my “victory,” my mother interrupted my celebration by telling me of her grave disappointment. She told me how sad it made her to see us argue. My father responded by telling us he didn’t know if there would be a vacation now.
Their words rekindled my anger. Now I was not only fuming at my brother, I was also angry with my parents for their inability to understand my feelings. I was looking for someone to say I had done the right thing and that my brother had deserved what he had received. But no one would. No one, it seemed, was on my side.
While I was getting the disappointed looks from my parents, my nine-year-old brother was sitting on the corner of the couch with his face hidden in a pillow. Suddenly, I heard the sound of him sobbing. I looked at him and asked what was wrong. He raised his head from the pillow, his eyes red and tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked directly into my eyes and said, with a voice shaking from his sobs, “What would Jesus do?”
I was stunned into silence. I watched my younger brother continue to cry, and I began to feel the implications of his words. Here I was, this supposedly mature young man, being taught a lesson by someone half my age. I felt ashamed. I immediately knew what to do. I went to the brother I had been arguing with and tried to apologize. Not surprisingly, he was not in the mood to listen. I left his room and went to mine. I fell on my bed and began to cry out of shame for what I had done. Our younger brother’s words kept ringing in my head: “What would Jesus do?”
I realized how un-Christlike I had been. As I lay on my bed, my recent antagonist walked into my room, ready to accept my apology. With our eyes red and puffy, we gave each other a hug. We continued to talk for a while, and I told him what our little brother had said. Just as it had touched me, it also touched him.
We walked up the stairs together to find the rest of our family waiting for us. We had obviously made peace with each other, so my parents did not say much about the incident. Instead, we again began to prepare for our vacation.
I now realize the importance of that short question my brother asked, and I will always be indebted to him and to whoever taught him that simple question: “What would Jesus do?”

The assignments given us may be difficult. Years ago I was on a mission in England. One day three or four of the London papers carried reviews of a reprint of an old book, snide and ugly in tone, indicating that the book was a history of the Mormons. [The mission president] said to me, “I want you to go down to the publisher and protest this.” I looked at him and was about to say, “Surely not me.” But I meekly said, “Yes, sir.”

I was frightened. I went to my room and felt something as I think Moses must have felt when the Lord asked him to go and see Pharaoh. I offered a prayer. My stomach was churning as I walked. I found the office of the president and presented my card to the receptionist. She took it and went into the inner office and soon returned to say that the president was too busy to see me. I replied that I had come five thousand miles and that I would wait. Finally he invited me in. He was smoking a long cigar with a look that seemed to say, “Don’t bother me.”

I do not recall what I said after that. Another power seemed to be speaking through me. At first he was defensive. Then he began to soften. He concluded by promising to do something. Within an hour word went out to every book dealer in England to return the books to the publisher. At great expense he printed and tipped in the front of each volume a statement to the effect that the book was not to be considered as history, but only as fiction, and that no offense was intended against the respected Mormon people.

I came to know that when we try in faith to walk in obedience to the requests of the priesthood, the Lord opens the way, even when there appears to be no way. May we place our trust in our Father in Heaven, to go forth with willing hearts, that we may be worthy of His blessings.