Gospel Story Finder

“Hey, Matt, where’d he come from?” Aldo asked as he jerked his head in the direction of the pale figure leaning against the cultural hall stage.
Unfortunately, the reverberating thud of five basketballs bouncing in the gym had forced Aldo to speak a little louder than usual, and the figure obviously overheard. Without expression, he stared straight at Aldo and Matt, lazily extricated one black-gloved hand from his folded arms, extended two fingers, and flashed a peace sign.
The gesture, the figure, gave them both the creeps. He was about their age, but he was thin and blond, his hair slicked completely back from his face and tied in a small ponytail. He wore little, round dark glasses which he hadn’t taken off when he entered the meetinghouse. He also wore an earring, a large silver dagger dangling from his left earlobe. He had on a long, bulky, army overcoat that covered the remaining threads of torn black jeans, and a dirty T-shirt with the neck and sleeves ripped out. He also wore huge, black, lace-up leather boots. He didn’t look like the type who would enjoy socializing with the kids in the ward.
“That’s Courtney Pennington’s brother, Selwyn,” Matt explained as he dribbled a ball to the opposite side of the court. “You know Courtney. She’s new—blond hair—been coming to the ward for a couple of months.”
Aldo followed Matt. He knew exactly who Courtney was. Her dad was a big movie producer from New York.
“Her mom and dad never come to church,” Matt continued. “Neither does her brother. We would’ve noticed him. He kind of sticks out.”
So did Courtney, Aldo thought as he waited for Matt to take a practice shot. But not because she dressed strangely. “You guys were talking when I came in,” he said. “How do you know him?”
“Oh, Courtney and my sister have been hanging around together lately. Courtney says he needs some fellowshipping and asked if I’d do it,” Matt replied as he arched the ball toward the basket.
“You should have told him to bring shoes he could play in,” said Aldo rebounding Matt’s shot. “I don’t think they’ll let him on the court in Doc Martens. We could use his help, too. The guys from fourth ward are really psyched up for this game.” Aldo shot and missed.
“Don’t count on getting any help from Selwyn,” Matt replied, running to retrieve the ball. “He says he doesn’t ‘do the basketball deed.’”
“Oh yeah? Well, what deeds does he do?” Aldo called after Matt.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Matt said as he put the ball under his arm and started to walk toward Selwyn. “He might be a little weird looking, but he’s not blind. He knows we’re talking about him.”
Aldo caught himself. He usually wasn’t so thoughtless. It was just that this was an important game, and he’d been thinking more about that than anything else. He decided to make it up to Selwyn by being extra friendly.
“Hey—welcome to the ward,” Aldo said as they approached Selwyn. His best, broad smile lit up his dark features.
“Thanks, dudes!” Selwyn said, sounding like he’d just stepped off the set of a bad teen movie. Matt and Aldo were surprised at his friendliness and exchanged a relieved look. “I’m, like, totally sorry I can’t play, but believe me buckaroos, you wouldn’t want me on the court. I’m, like, a real dweeb when it comes to sports, ya know?”
“That’s okay,” Matt assured him. He was surprised to find himself wanting to help Selwyn fit in. “Your sister says you never go anywhere without your video camera. Maybe you could film a game for us sometime?”
“I was going to bring it tonight, but my dad, like, grounded me from it for a few weeks. So for now I guess I’ll just sit over here and chill.”
“Well, make yourself at home, man,” Aldo said. “We’ll go out and get something to eat afterwards, win or lose, so why don’t you come with us? Everybody’s good at eating.”
“For sure,” Selwyn said as Matt and Aldo ran off to finish warming up.
“Seems like an okay guy,” Aldo said to Matt as they began shooting again.
“Yeah—he’s probably pretty cool. But why is he sitting like that?”
Both boys looked over to see Selwyn, perched, with his legs folded in a lotus position, atop a folding chair that he’d turned upside down. It wasn’t your basic spectator stance. It didn’t look very comfortable, either, but Selwyn was smiling—and he flashed the peace sign again.
As soon as the game started, Matt and Aldo didn’t have much time to think about Selwyn. The team from the fourth ward was their biggest rival and they were playing rougher than usual. So rough, in fact, that tempers started to flare and angry words flew.
“What did you say, young man?” shouted an angry ref, two inches from Aldo’s nose.
“Whadaya think I said?” Aldo yelled back, with enough control not to repeat the word he’d used, but without enough control to cool down and apologize.
“I can’t believe a bishop’s son would say something like that—ever,” the ref continued. “So I’ll let it slide. But just watch your mouth, or you’ll be off the court and into your father’s office so fast it’ll make your head spin!”
“Lighten up, Aldo,” Matt said as they took their positions around the key while a fourth ward player aimed his free shot. “You are supposed to set an example.”
That did it. Aldo hated references to his being the bishop’s son and this was coming from his best friend. The ball bounced off the backboard, and as Aldo lunged for the rebound, he used the most colorful language he knew to verbally demolish everyone around him.
“You’re out! You’re done! You’re through!” the ref shouted, angrily motioning Aldo off the court. “The bishop’s son. The bishop’s son! I can’t believe it.”
Aldo stomped off the court and into the foyer. He flung the glass door open and was about to leave when he heard someone behind him.
“Hey, dude—I thought we were gonna, like, get something to eat after the game,” Selwyn said, loping up to him.
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m not very hungry,” Aldo answered, a little of the fire going out of him. He flopped down on the couch.
“So, like, you’re the bishop’s son,” Selwyn said, taking a seat in the chair next to the couch. “You look it, man, but you sure don’t talk it.”
“Oh yeah? Well you probably aren’t exactly like your dad either,” said Aldo, his temper heating up again. It always did when people told him he didn’t live up to the image of a bishop’s son.
“No lie! My dad hates the stuff I wear,” Selwyn responded, gesturing at his clothes. “Mr. Immaculate Diction hates it when I talk like a skater, too.”
“Right,” Aldo replied, slowly gaining control of his temper. He bent over to unlace his basketball shoes. “You dress and talk like you do just to get on your dad’s nerves?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Selwyn said, dropping the affected accent. “I’ve sort of developed my own style.”
“It’s definitely your own.”
“Yep—nothing like my dad would wear, and that’s just the way I want it. Take my ‘fashion footwear,’” Selwyn said sarcastically, hiking his big, black boot up on the corner of the couch. “I could wear Cole Haan loafers like my father’s, but he’d complain because I didn’t keep them perfectly polished.”
“And I bet if you had short hair, he’d say it wasn’t styled right,” Aldo said, almost beginning to enjoy the conversation. There was something familiar about it.
“You must know my dad.”
“No, but I know exactly what you mean,” Aldo said, nodding his head. He paused for a minute. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a problem with my mouth.”
“No lie!” Selwyn said again, but this time it was more agreeable. It made Aldo feel like talking.
“I kind of do it for the same reasons. I won’t ever be as perfect as everybody says the bishop’s son should be, and nobody even compares me when I swear.
“We’re not so different, then, are we? We both want to have control of ourselves,” Selwyn said.
“Some control,” Aldo responded slowly, taking his right shoe off and touching the beginning of a blister on his foot. “My mouth got me thrown out of the game.”
“Yeah, and my clothes just about get me thrown out of the house,” Selwyn replied thoughtfully, running his hand back over his slick hair and grasping his ponytail for a second.
“And you call that control?” Aldo asked, putting the question to himself as much as to Selwyn. “I mean, I know people think the wrong things about me when I swear …”
“… And you are supposed to be setting an example for ‘wayward’ types like me.”
“I’ve heard that before. But think about it for a second. The way you look might keep people from thinking you’re a copy of your dad. But what kind of an idea does it give people about you? Now that I’m talking to you, I think you’re all right, but at first I thought you were one scary guy.”
“That’s everyone else’s problem, not mine,” Selwyn said. “Church people should know that you judge by what’s on the inside, not by what’s on the outside.”
“Yeah, but some people aren’t ever going to find out what’s on the inside because they’re afraid to talk to a guy with a knife in his ear.”
Selwyn just sat there, touching his earring for several minutes. Aldo was afraid he might have been a little too honest with someone he’d just met.
“Okay, you could be right,” Selwyn conceded slowly. “My looks and your language might not be helping either one of us. But if I change, I worry about turning into a clone of my dad.”
“Actually,” Aldo responded, “I feel better when I do something that makes my dad happy than I feel when I do something that gets me thrown out of a game. One of the greatest feelings I ever have is when my dad smiles because of something I’ve done.”
Selwyn paused for a minute, trying to remember what it was like to have his father smile at him. It had been a long time. “I don’t know if it would make my father smile to know that I’ve come to church tonight,” Selwyn said quietly. “But at least I came. Hey, that’s definitely something different from what he’s doing. Nobody could accuse me of being his clone when I’m here.”
“Wait a minute,” Aldo said. Something was coming to him. “Coming to church on your own is not a bad way to be different from your dad. Who knows? If you set a good enough example, maybe he’ll end up trying to be like you.
“My dad wanting to be like me?” Selwyn asked, brightening. “Wow—what a concept!” He stopped for a second, thinking about the prospects, then went on. “Okay, now here’s one for you. You control your mouth, and maybe you’ll see more of those smiles on your dad’s face. We can even work together. Here. Watch this.”
Selwyn reached up to his earlobe and pulled the dagger off. “I just stuck it on with surgical glue, anyway. I didn’t have the guts to really pierce my ear.”
“Okay,” Aldo said. “Then watch this.” He stood up. “I’m going in there to apologize to my team, to the refs, and even to those guys from the fourth ward.”
“Totally bodacious, dude!” said Selwyn as he followed Aldo into the gym. “I mean—good idea, Aldo. Then can we go get something to eat?”

A few years ago, when I was in the navy during World War II, I received orders to report to the fleet headquarters at Pearl Harbor. My family took me to Treasure Island in the San Francisco Bay, where I boarded the plane there, an old sea plane called a Pan-American clipper. On board that plane were some high-ranking medical officers going out to prepare and build up the hospital support because the battle of Tarawa would be taking place within a few weeks. Because of my rank, I was assigned to sleep in a sleeping bag out in the tail of that plane, where I could see the starboard engines as we were flying over San Francisco, which was under military blackout. It was black as we were flying out over the Pacific, and I thought the starboard engine on that old Pan-American plane was on fire. I couldn’t sleep as I watched it throughout the entire flight.
During that sleepless night I wondered about my own life and whether I had been living up to the opportunities that would be mine and the responsibility that would be mine as a holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood—the responsibility to be an example and to live the way I should so that I would be able to fulfill the calls that might come to me. In that sleepless night I took an inventory of myself, of my attitudes, wondering if I was doing all that I might. Even though I had always accepted my Church assignments, I wondered if I was fulfilling them with all of my heart, might, mind, and soul and living up to the responsibility, the blessing, that I received as a holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood and what would be expected of any of us who received this blessing.
Looking back on that sleepless night, I thank the Lord for His blessings today and for all that I have had the opportunity to be involved in. I try always to live the gospel to the fullest, to do everything I am called on to do with all of my heart, might, mind, and strength, to fulfill any call that might come to me so I may be qualified to do whatever I might be asked to do someday.

Upon his arrival in the mission field, a new missionary sat with me as we discussed his duties and responsibilities and the discipline they would require of him. As I outlined what was expected of him, he stopped me: “Just a minute, President Backman. There’s something you ought to know. I’m stupid.”
Being determined to demonstrate to him the great capacity for service he possessed as a son of God, and to awaken in him a realization of his unique mission on earth, I assigned him to a senior companion who worked him to the bone, pressing him to learn, grow, and serve, despite his professed weakness. In addition, I kept after him to the point that his district leader wrote me in a report that the new missionary intended to punch me in the nose the next time I toured the mission.
Within weeks my wife and I made a final tour of the mission before we were released. I took the opportunity to sit down privately with each missionary so I could express my love and confidence in him. The new missionary’s turn came. I closed the door of the room behind him, removed the glasses I was wearing, and said, “If it will make you feel any better, elder, go right ahead.” For a moment, I thought he was going to follow through with his threat. Instead, he fell into my arms crying. I then had one of those precious moments when I shared with him my knowledge and understanding of his divine potential and his capacity to love and serve his fellow beings. As we concluded our discussion, I remarked that if he wanted to make me happy, he would come to my office in Salt Lake City in about two years and tell me he had finished his mission.
We had been home from our mission about two years when I looked up from my office desk one morning to see a grinning face peering through the door. It was my missionary. Without any word of greeting, he declared, “President, I finished my mission!”
I was so proud of him!

Sometimes helping those in need requires reaching beyond political boundaries. Holland enjoys a relatively comfortable standard of living. But just several hundred kilometers miles away in Poland, many do not enjoy the same life-style or have the same blessings.
Brother and Sister C. R. Kirschbaum of the Haarlem Ward, The Hague Netherlands Stake, realized that alone they could do little to relieve the suffering of a whole nation—unless they joined together with others. So the Kirschbaums helped form a foundation called Holland Helps Poland. The foundation crossed religious boundaries, with members of nineteen different religious denominations.
Members of the Haarlem Ward worked with members from the other religious groups to collect food, clothing, shoes, blankets, vitamins, soap, and medical supplies. With plastic bags and lists of needed supplies in hand, volunteers collected door-to-door. Money donated was used to buy oil, butter, baby food, and vitamins at low prices. Hospitals offered expensive surgical equipment. A truck and a van were made available free of charge, along with two drivers. “Help came from all directions, in truly miraculous ways,” says Sister Kirschbaum.
Volunteers sorted, packed, and loaded the supplies. After a short religious service, the $83,000 shipment was on its way. The aid went to Methodists and Baptists, a home for the elderly, a children’s home, and a children’s hospital.
Sister Kirschbaum notes that reaching out together has created and strengthened friendships between people of many faiths in Haarlem. “It was as if all the walls that usually divide people had disappeared,” she said. In a religious service held after the vehicles had safely returned, a Baptist minister quoted from the New Testament: “For [the Lord] hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us.” (Eph. 2:14.)

In the following years, fellowshipping helped Gary return to Church activity. Jennifer would invite ward members or the missionaries over for dinner, knowing that would give them a chance to talk with Gary. He is grateful to those members and missionaries for being a good influence on him.
Dale Price, for example, home taught Jennifer’s mother and got to know Gary and Jennifer that way. When Brother Price visited with Brother Tucker, they didn’t talk about the gospel at first. They talked about a common interest: hunting. The Prices also sat with the Tuckers at ward activities, brought them food from their food storage when Brother Tucker was out of work, and gave them honey produced by their own honeybees. Honey is the Tuckers’ favorite topping on toast. That little gift, as Brother Price describes it, was “to sweeten the relationship.”

Ryan threw open the front door. “Mom,” he shouted, racing down the hall to the study, “I struck out three men at practice today, and one of the guys walked home with me.”
Mother looked up and smiled into the brown eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to make a friend,” she said. “And if you keep on pitching like that, you’ll soon be the star of the team.”
Ryan grinned, tugging at a strand of hair that had escaped his cap.
“By the way, I made some friends today, too,” Mother continued. “Go wash up. You can help me put a pizza together for dinner while I tell you about them.”
Ryan joined his mother in the kitchen a few moments later and started rolling out a ball of dough.
“While you were at practice, a neighbor, Sister Krein, and her eleven-year-old son, Joey, came to visit me,” Mother said. “They brought us some honey wheat rolls fresh out of the oven.”
“All right!”
“You see—there are advantages to being the new family in town.” Mother paused to enjoy Ryan’s smile before she went on. “After visiting with them, I agreed to let Joey stay with us during the day this summer when Sister Krein can’t be home with him.”
“But you said that he’s eleven! Can’t he stay by himself?”
“No—you see, he was born with Down’s syndrome.”
“You mean he has a mental handicap?”
“Yes. He does some things quite well, but he has to have help doing other things, and he can’t be left alone for very long. He needs more supervision than other children his age.”
“Well, I guess it will be OK,” agreed Ryan, “as long as I don’t have to miss playing baseball with the guys.”
Mother popped the pizza into the oven and set the timer. “I’m sure Joey won’t keep you from ball practice. He loves sports, too, and plays on one of the city teams himself.”
When Ryan answered the door the next morning, Joey was standing on the porch with a baseball cap on his head, a glove on his hand, and a big smile on his face. “Hi,” he said enthusiastically. “I’m Joey.”
“Hi, I’m Ryan. Come on in.”
“Do you want to play ball?” Joey asked, smacking his fist into his glove.
Ryan laughed. “You love baseball as much as I do, don’t you?” he said, picking up a bat and glove. He and Joey headed for the backyard.
“Can I bat?” asked Joey.
“Sure,” said Ryan, “but I think you’ll do better if you hold it a little higher.” He shifted the bat in Joey’s hands, then positioned himself near the back fence. “Swing straight into it,” he called, and made a gentle pitch.
“I can’t believe how patient Joey is,” Ryan told his mother a few days later. “I’ve never seen anyone who keeps trying the way he does.”
Mother smiled. “Joey never seems to want to quit playing, once you two get started. It’s a good thing you both like baseball.”
The boys played together every minute they could spare from practicing with their own teams. Then one afternoon they both realized that Joey was hitting the ball almost every time. “I hit it again!” he shouted, jumping up and down with glee as Ryan thumped him on the back.
He was even more excited the next day. “My team is going to play your team,” he announced.
Ryan pulled his schedule out of his desk drawer, and both boys bent over it.
“See,” said Joey, pointing. “Thursday. Pitch slow, Ryan. I want to get a hit. Please, Ryan, pitch slow—like when we practice.”
What should I do? Ryan wondered to himself after Joey had gone home. I want Joey to get a hit, but I want to help my team win the game too. What will they think of me if I don’t do my best pitching?
Ryan’s anxiety increased as the day of the game approached, but Joey grew more and more excited. “Pitch slow so I can get a hit,” he told Ryan over and over again.
Thursday arrived. Ryan had already struck out two boys and gotten six others on easy ground balls or pop flies, when Joey picked up the bat and ran over to home plate. Ryan glanced at his teammates. He knew they expected Joey to be an easy out.
Ryan was suddenly very hot, and not just from the blistering sun overhead. Pulling off his cap, he took his time wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then he smiled at Joey, wound up, and pitched a slow ball with great care over the plate. Crack! Joey’s bat connected solidly, but Joey was just standing there, exulting.
“Run, Joey, run!” Ryan looked around in wonder as he heard his own teammates take up the cry.
By the time Joey’s foot landed on first base, the whole ballpark was alive with cheering. Joey’s freckled face beamed as players from both teams pelted his back with pats of approval. Ryan thought he had never seen a bigger smile than Joey’s.
Ryan smiled, too, as he thought, There’s more than one way to win!

Brigit stared out the car window as her family drove through the narrow streets of Caracas, Venezuela. There were brightly colored homes and big green mountains. It was a beautiful place. Mom and Dad said living here would be a new adventure.
But Brigit still felt worried. Today was their first time going to church in their new country.
Mom turned to Brigit. “Are you OK, sweetie?” she asked. “You don’t look like you feel very good.”
Brigit twisted her hands. “I’m scared. I can’t speak Spanish. How can I make friends?”
Mom reached over to hold Brigit’s hand. “I know you’re worried. But it’s going to be OK. Take some deep breaths.”
Brigit looked down at her hands. They felt cold, even though it was hot outside. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach felt funny as the car pulled into the church parking lot. What would church be like? Would she understand anything?
Walking into the chapel, Brigit felt like a stranger. She looked around at the other families, all speaking Spanish. Then she saw two girls who looked about her age.
As soon as the girls saw Brigit, they rushed over to her. They spoke quickly in happy voices, with big smiles.
But she couldn’t understand anything they said. Will they go away when they find out I don’t speak Spanish? she wondered.
Brigit took a deep breath. “No hablo español,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t speak Spanish.” Tears started to fill her eyes.
The girls just shrugged their shoulders and smiled even brighter. One girl pointed to herself and said, “Dayana.” Then she pointed to the other girl and said, “Andrea.”
Brigit’s worries began to melt away. She smiled at the girls and pointed to herself. “Brigit.”
Dayana and Andrea sat down next to Brigit. They taught her how to say “scriptures” in Spanish and a few other words. When sacrament meeting started, Brigit’s heart felt warm and peaceful.
After Primary, Brigit and her new friends sat in the grass outside the church while their parents talked. Dayana and Andrea taught Brigit some more Spanish words. Then Dayana pointed to a tree and asked, “¿Inglés?”
Brigit smiled and pointed too. “Tree,” she said. She beamed and pointed at other things, saying the words in English. Dayana and Andrea repeated the English words. Then they taught Brigit how to say them in Spanish. Brigit learned all kinds of helpful words, like libro (book), casa (house), and coche (car). Best of all, they taught her how to say amigos (friends).
Soon it was time to go home. Brigit waved goodbye to Dayana and Andrea.
“How was your first day at church in Venezuela?” Dad asked.
Brigit smiled. “It was great! I made some friends. And they’re teaching me Spanish!”
“That’s wonderful! I’m so glad you had a good day.”
Brigit thought about how Dayana and Andrea had welcomed her. She didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. She knew that Heavenly Father was helping her make friends. And she couldn’t wait to see what the rest of her time in Caracas would bring!

Take me for example. I’d had LDS friends since I was 13, and I eventually joined the Church when I was 19. But despite learning a lot about Church culture over those years, I had a hard transition. To me, the Church culture and practices were so different that they seemed kind of weird.
I grew up in a church that in many ways is quite unlike the one you know or are coming to know. At church the ministers and choir wore robes similar to high school graduation robes. During worship service—their equivalent of sacrament meeting—the ministers gave sermons and did all the talking. Every Sunday we all repeated the Lord’s Prayer in unison and always sang the hymn “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.” Babies were baptized by having water sprinkled on their heads, but confirmation happened at around 14 years old.
We used grape juice instead of water for the sacrament, and high school kids attended Sunday School with the adults in a class that talked about current issues in society.
Even our building was different from the LDS buildings I had visited. We had a large chapel modeled after Christian churches in Europe, with a high peaked roof and tall, stained-glass windows. There was a cross in the choir loft. A beautiful, tall bell tower stood out front. I loved ringing that bell after church services. It was heavy enough that it could lift a small child off the ground as the rope went up and down.
Our customs and social beliefs were different too. We were taught that it was OK to drink alcohol or smoke. Having a boyfriend or girlfriend as a teenager was OK. In fact, we were taught that you could even have sexual relations before marriage as long as you believed you were in love. We never talked about having a testimony. The first time I saw a fast and testimony meeting—wow! I couldn’t believe how odd that seemed. No one ever stood to share their beliefs like that in my church.
Coming to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wasn’t just about learning new doctrines, such as the premortal life and baptism for the dead; it was a change in culture and lifestyle and expectations. Resolving those differences was a hard road to walk.
The first six months after my baptism were really hard. I almost didn’t make it. Everything was so different, especially because I was attending church without my family. I still struggled with certain doctrinal points, as well as feelings of being estranged from my past.
Fortunately, my friends in the Church were patient, kind, and constant. They took me to activities, invited me to their homes for dinner and family home evening, and prayed with me. That made a huge difference not just in my joining the Church but also in my staying active and finding strength when my testimony wavered. I owe a lot to them for helping me figure things out.

From our youth many of us may remember the story of a very young boy who was abducted from his parents and home and taken to a village situated far away. Under these conditions the small boy grew to young manhood without a knowledge of his actual parents or earthly home. Within his heart there came a yearning to return to that village called home.

But where was home to be found? Where were his mother and father to be discovered? Oh, if only he could remember even their names, his task would be less hopeless. Desperately he sought to recall even a glimpse of his childhood.

Like a flash of inspiration, he remembered the sound of a bell which, from the tower atop the village church, pealed its welcome each Sabbath morning. From village to village the young man wandered, ever listening for that familiar bell to chime. Some bells were similar, others far different from the sound he remembered.

At length the weary young man stood one Sunday morning before a church of a typical town. He listened carefully as the bell began to peal. The sound was familiar. It was unlike any other he had heard, save that bell which pealed in the memory of his childhood days. Yes, it was the same bell. Its ring was true. His eyes filled with tears. His heart rejoiced in gladness. His soul overflowed with gratitude. The young man dropped to his knees, looked upward beyond the bell tower—even toward heaven—and in a prayer of gratitude whispered, “Thanks be to God. I’m home.”

After 11 exciting years of working at that job, I was in a meeting one night with those developing an essential part of the nuclear power plant. My secretary came in and said, “There’s a man on the phone who says if I tell you his name you’ll come to the phone.”

I said, “What’s his name?”

She said, “Harold B. Lee.”

I said, “He’s right.” I took the phone call. Elder Lee, who later became President of the Church, asked if he could see me that very night. He was in New York City, and I was in Washington, D.C. I flew up to meet him, and we had an interview that led to my call to be a mission president.

The head of the program I was working for was Admiral Hyman Rickover, a hard-working, demanding individual. I knew him well enough that I felt I needed to tell him as soon as possible that I was being called. As I explained the mission call to him and that it would mean I would have to quit my job, he became rather upset. He said some unrepeatable things, broke the paper tray on his desk, and in the comments that followed clearly established two points:
“Scott, what you are doing in this defense program is so vital that it will take a year to replace you, so you can’t go. Second, if you do go, you are a traitor to your country.”

I said, “I can train my replacement in the two remaining months, and there won’t be any risk to the country.”

There was more conversation, and he finally said, “I never will talk to you again. I don’t want to see you again. You are finished, not only here, but don’t ever plan to work in the nuclear field again.”

I responded, “Admiral, you can bar me from the office, but unless you prevent me, I am going to turn this assignment over to another individual.”

True to his word, the admiral ceased to speak to me. When critical decisions had to be made, he would send a messenger, or I would communicate through a third party. He assigned an individual to take my responsibility, and I trained him.

It wasn’t going to be hard for me to leave; I knew I had been called as a mission president by the Lord. But I knew that my decision would affect others. In the Idaho Falls, Idaho, area were many members of the Church whose jobs depended upon working in the nuclear program. I didn’t want to cause them harm. I didn’t know what to do. My heart kept saying, “Is this going to turn out all right, or will somebody be innocently hurt who depends on our program for livelihood?”

As I prayed and pondered about it, I had a feeling about the hymn “Do What Is Right.” A line from the hymn would come to mind: “Do what is right; let the consequence follow.” Other words from the hymn were reinforcing such as “God will protect you; then do what is right!” (Hymns, no. 237).

My last day in the office I asked for an appointment with the admiral. His secretary gasped. I went with a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hand. He looked at me and said, “Sit down, Scott, what do you have? I have tried every way I can to force you to change. What is it you have?” There followed a very interesting, quiet conversation. There was more listening this time.

He said he would read the Book of Mormon. Then something happened I never thought would occur. He added, “When you come back from the mission, I want you to call me. There will be a job for you.”

The nurse called to let me know that based on the results of my ultrasound, it was time to meet with the doctor to discuss a hysterectomy. My dream of raising a child of my own in this life was dissipating, and I wasn’t ready.
It seems like in the Church, we often talk about infertility inside of marriage. We talk about couples who are unable to conceive, who struggle to carry a baby to term, or who decide to adopt. But infertility also happens to single members, whose plans for a family can be disrupted before they have even begun.
I found that I didn’t know how to talk about how devastated I was to be facing this reality. I felt very alone.
All I wanted as a little girl was to be a mom. When I received my patriarchal blessing, the only thing I wanted to hear was that I would marry and have children. I waited for it with eager anticipation and listened intently. When the patriarch pronounced the promise, I was relieved and excited!
I graduated from high school and assumed I’d meet my husband when I went to college. And while I met and dated several worthy and kind men, none of them were to be my eternal companion.
My life went on. Over the years, I had several loving bishops who looked beyond my single status and offered me the chance to serve in varied ways in the Church. I developed relationships with many stalwart members who quietly went about serving their fellow Saints. Some of these relationships taught me more about myself, what I wanted to be as a wife, and what I wanted in a husband.
I held on tightly to the promises in my patriarchal blessing of a temple marriage and children born in the covenant and watched for the ways the Lord would fulfill them in my life.
Then my health started to decline. I sought medical help, and it was then that I got the call from the nurse. I found myself at a crossroads: I had to decide whether I would take the doctor’s recommendation and go through with the hysterectomy. The problems in my body were crippling my life in a way I couldn’t ignore. But the surgery would be irreversible. The door to my dream of bearing a child wasn’t just closing—it was closing and locking, never to be opened again in this life.
I suppose adopting a child could have been a future possibility, but because of my circumstances at the time (being unmarried and relying solely on myself financially), adoption didn’t feel like a real or comforting option.
I shed many tears and immediately went to two trusted priesthood holders for a blessing. They gave me a beautiful blessing promising me that my opportunities for a family stretched long into the next life and that those promises were still in place.
I spent hours on my knees, asking my Father in Heaven what to do. But I knew. I knew that medically my current situation could not continue. Even though I was scared, I also knew that I was in my Heavenly Father’s hands and that ultimately I was safe in His care. As it says in Helaman 12:1, I knew “that the Lord in his great infinite goodness doth bless and prosper those who put their trust in him.”
The Sunday before my surgery, my brother gave me a blessing. I was surrounded by my wonderfully supportive family. He opened the blessing with the Lord’s confirmation that I had made the right decision. It was the final witness that I needed to step into an unknown future of His design.
While there are still sometimes tears, I have learned more about what it means to have faith.
Faith for me doesn’t mean that I don’t ache at times for the opportunity to hold my own child in my arms or long for an eternal relationship. Faith for me doesn’t take away the hiccup in my heart when a sister bears her testimony about how Heavenly Father has trusted her with His children.
Faith for me does mean holding on to the promise in Doctrine and Covenants 138:52, that as we continue in righteousness, we will “be partakers of all blessings which were held in reserve for them that love him.” Faith for me does mean striving to be the daughter, sister, aunt, friend, and Church member that my Heavenly Father and Savior need me to be.
My Savior knows the heartache of being alone. He will walk with me until the end. As Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once said, “Some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don’t come until heaven; but for those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ, they come.”1
Although this part of my life has not turned out as I had once dreamed, I have never ceased to be in Heavenly Father’s care. I am in His arms.
I trust that the promise in Doctrine and Covenants 98:1–3 is true—not just for me, but for everyone:
“Fear not, let your hearts be comforted; yea, rejoice evermore, and in everything give thanks;
“Waiting patiently on the Lord, for your prayers have entered into the ears of the Lord. …
“… He giveth this promise unto you, … and all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory.”

A knowing smile touched his lips. “I bet you’re a Latter-day Saint, aren’t you?” His question sounded like a compliment! “You’re just like Andy Frazier!” He glanced across the parking lot with a far-off look in his eyes. “Andy and I were in the Marines together. The first time I met him was a Sunday morning. We talked and hit it right off. I asked him if he wanted to drive into town and catch a movie. He turned me down. He said that he was headed for church. That’s when I found out that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Mr. Santos turned back to me. “We became good friends. He didn’t drink anything stronger than orange soda. He didn’t cuss. He didn’t smoke.” Mr. Santos smiled at me. “But there were a lot of things he did do. Nobody worked harder than Andy Frazier. And he could shoot!” Mr. Santos wagged his head. “Nobody in the whole battalion could shoot like him. I don’t think there was a better member of the entire Marine Corp. At first some of the guys kidded him about his religion, but he didn’t let it get to him.
“One day we were on parade, marching around the parade field. When we marched, we sang out different cadences. Some of them are pretty funny. Some of them are …” He paused and shook his head. “Well, some of them have some pretty bad words in them. They aren’t the approved cadences, but at times we used them. Well, Andy had complained to the sergeant a number of times, but he just said that Andy needed to toughen up a bit.
“One day we were using a cadence that was downright dirty. Andy broke ranks and headed right to the major, who was off to the side of the field. When I saw him go, I thought, Andy, you’re one dead duck. You’re going to get booted right out of the Marines.”
Mr. Santos smiled at the memory. “He didn’t get thrown out. He saluted the Major and told him that he was a Marine and proud of it but that he had been taught not to use filthy language and didn’t expect to have to use it or listen to it to be a good Marine.” Mr. Santos smiled again. “The major told the sergeant that from then on Andy was to choose the marching cadence. Now that took courage! I’ll never forget Andy Frazier. I think you’re like him.”

My friend Wendy is a fantastic cook. From the day she moved in down the street from our family, she has been sharing food with us. She always has an excuse: “This won’t fit in my fridge,” or “I made too much!” No matter what she says when she brings her offerings, what I always hear is, “I love you.”
I felt her love for our family particularly after one very difficult day. One of my children had recently been diagnosed with an eating disorder, and everything about food was getting complicated and stressful at our home.
One night my daughter and I were meeting with her therapy team. At this meeting she was given a meal plan, and I was tasked with making and planning three meals and three snacks for her every day. These meals and snacks had to meet certain dietary guidelines that would help restore her weight.
For me, this task was overwhelming. I’m not much of a cook, so receiving such specific guidelines and anticipating trying to get my reluctant child to eat so much food nearly brought me to tears. As we drove home, my mind fixated despondently on one thought: “I don’t have anything that’s right for her evening snack tonight.”
Arriving home, I trudged through the door and immediately smelled something delicious. There, sitting on the kitchen counter, was a loaf of banana bread Wendy had delivered while we were gone. It contained a grain, a fruit, and a fat—perfect for the evening snack we needed! Even better, my daughter ate it willingly.
When I called Wendy later to thank her for the bread, I didn’t share the backstory. She probably wondered why I was a bit emotional over her gift. Wendy didn’t know we were struggling. She had simply made “too much” banana bread and didn’t want it to go stale.
A few months later, as I listened to a podcast about being covenant keepers, I wondered what being a covenant keeper really means. Then Wendy’s gift of banana bread popped into my mind.
When Wendy followed her heart and brought us bread that day, she had mourned with those who mourned and comforted those who stood in need of comfort (see Mosiah 18:9), even without knowing the whole story. And it made such a difference.

A lovely lady of more than 90 years visited with me one day and unexpectedly recounted several regrets. She mentioned that many years earlier a neighboring farmer, with whom she and her husband had occasionally disagreed, asked if he could take a shortcut across her property to reach his own acreage. She paused in her narrative and, with a tremor in her voice, said, “Tommy, I didn’t let him cross our property but required him to take the long way around—even on foot—to reach his property. I was wrong and I regret it. He’s gone now, but oh, I wish I could say to him, ‘I’m so sorry.’ How I wish I had a second chance.”

As I listened to her, words written by John Greenleaf Whittier came to my mind: “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, / The saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”

Lenae Crandall and her family didn’t realize how much the temple blessed their lives until their mom died.
“You don’t really think about being sealed until someone you love is gone,” says Lenae, 17. “But it’s okay my mom died, because we’ll be together again, thanks to the temple.”
Now Lenae, Brandallyn, Bethany, and Seth go to the Jordan River Utah Temple with their father almost every Friday—just like their mother did.
“After my mom died, we started doing baptisms for the dead,” says Lenae. “It’s nice. My mom taught us by example how going to the temple can bless your life.”

The day was almost over. Only fifteen minutes more, I thought as I drove cross the bridge on my way back to the police station. The water on the river looked so peaceful as I looked out over the railing toward the setting sun. Then I saw a man standing outside the railing, his head barely visible above the road’s surface. I stopped my car, radioed my observation to the police station, and walked over to the railing.

“Don’t come any closer,” warned the young man, who was holding on to the bridge framework. Our eyes met, and I knew what he was thinking about doing—and he knew that I knew. I sensed that it wouldn’t take much for him to let go.

What could I say to prevent this man from ending his life? Memories of my police training raced through my mind: Take your time. Keep him talking. Don’t get him excited. I was afraid that if I did anything wrong, this man might actually kill himself. What should I do?

I began as simply as I could—to stall for time. “Hi. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I said in as calm and matter-of-fact a voice as I could command.

I felt some relief when he answered calmly, “I don’t think so.”

Maybe time would be on my side, I thought. “My name is Gary. What’s yours?” I said.

“Steve,” he answered. “Why do you want to know?

In those few seconds, I thought of every success and failure I had ever experienced in human communication, and I also thought about how precious life was. Only a few seconds passed, but they seemed like an eternity. In my mind, I asked Heavenly Father for strength and guidance. I immediately felt a sweet, calming reassurance. Why can’t Steve feel that same reassurance? I thought. I know of no better way to convince a person of the value of life than to testify of the divine truths that give us a reason to live. So I began. “I’d like to be your friend, Steve. I’d like to help.”

“You can’t help. No one can,” he replied.

“I don’t believe that, Steve. Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you mean?” he asked timidly.

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?” I continued.

Steve began telling me about his five-year-old daughter, but stopped as soon as some other police officers arrived. “Who are they?” Steve asked, his voice again tense.

I motioned for the officers to stay back. “They’re some of my friends,” I told Steve. “They’re concerned about you, too.”

“Don’t let them come any closer,” he said.

“Don’t worry—I won’t,” I answered.

Steve and I continued to talk. He still hung on to the outside of the bridge. I sat on the roadside curb about two meters away. We talked about his family and his career as a technician with a successful computer firm. It sounded to me as if he had all the elements of a good life. I searched for things to say, hoping to discover the root of the problem and yet praying that, in doing so, I would not make him panic and try to jump.

I knew the other officers were trying to get into a position to help, yet I had the feeling that Steve and I would be standing together shaking hands before too long—as long as I could keep him talking. I hoped that it was the Spirit making me feel that way. So, with renewed vigor, I ventured on more bravely. “Steve, from what I’ve been hearing, I just don’t understand why you’re standing on that side of the bridge.”

“There are some things I don’t understand, either,” replied Steve. “I don’t understand why you seem to care so much.” He paused, then stammered, “I-I-I feel like I’m talking to a minister. I feel like I want to tell you things I can’t even talk to my wife about. Why?”

I prayed as I listened, and the Spirit guided me as I talked. I felt such joy as I felt the guidance of the Holy Ghost in such an important matter. “Do you believe in God?” I asked.

“I think so. I’d like to believe there’s a God,” he replied.

“There is, Steve. I know with every part of my being. God lives, and he loves you and me. He has a grand and glorious purpose for us in this life.”

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

I stood up and reached toward him. Steve reached out, took my hand, and climbed back over the railing. We shook hands.

“It’s not hard to know,” I said. “Would you like to know more about God?”

“Yes, I really would,” he said, then hesitated and added, “Gary.”

With the Lord’s guidance, I had helped save Steve’s life. But even more important, I had begun to share my testimony with him that life has a purpose and that God loves and cares about each one of us. It was this knowledge that gave him something to live for.

My message is to those who are converts to the Church. More than half the members of the Church today chose to be baptized after the age of eight. So you are not the exception in the Church. To you I wish to say how much the Lord loves you and trusts you. And even more, I wish to tell you how much He depends on you.
You felt His love at least to some degree when you were baptized. Years ago I took a young man, 20 years of age, into the waters of baptism. My companion and I had taught him the gospel. He was the first in his family to hear the message of the restored gospel. He asked to be baptized. The testimony of the Spirit made him want to follow the example of the Savior, who was baptized by John the Baptist even though He was without sin.
As I brought that young man up out of the waters of baptism, he surprised me by throwing his arms around my neck and whispering in my ear, tears streaming down his face, “I’m clean; I’m clean.” That same young man, after we laid our hands on his head with the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood and conferred on him the Holy Ghost, said to me, “When you spoke those words, I felt something like fire go down from the top of my head through my body, all the way to my feet.”
Your experience will have been unique to you, but to some degree you felt the magnitude of the blessing which came to you. Since then, you have felt the reality of the promises made to you and the promises you made. You have felt the cleansing that came from your baptism, because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. And you have felt the change in your heart as the Holy Ghost has become your companion. Your desires have begun to change.
When someone tells me that he or she is a convert to the Church, I ask, “Has anyone else in your family accepted the gospel?” When the answer is “Yes,” there follows an excited description of the happy miracle in the life of a parent or a brother or sister or a grandparent. There is joy in knowing that someone in his or her family is sharing the blessing and the happiness. When the answer is “No, so far I am the only member,” he or she will almost always speak of parents, saying something like this, “No, not yet. But I am still trying.” And you can tell from the sound in the voice that the convert will never stop trying, not ever.
The Lord knew you would have those feelings when He allowed you to receive the covenants which are blessing your life. He knew you would feel a desire for your family to share the blessings you felt coming into the Church. Even more, He knew how that desire would increase when you came to know the joy of the promises He makes to us in sacred temples. There, for those who qualify, He lets us make covenants with Him. We promise to obey His commandments. And He promises us, if we are faithful, that we may live with Him in glory in families forever in the world to come.
In His loving-kindness, He knew you would have a desire to be bound forever to your parents and their parents. You may have had a grandfather like mine, who always seemed to treasure my visits. I thought I was his favorite grandchild until my cousins told me they felt the same way. He is gone now. All my grandparents and their ancestors have died. Many of your ancestors died never having the chance to accept the gospel and to receive the blessings and promises you have received. The Lord is fair, and He is loving. And so He prepared for you and me a way for us to have the desire of our hearts to offer to our ancestors all the blessings He has offered us.
The plan to make that possible has been in place from the beginning. The Lord gave promises to His children long ago. The very last book of the Old Testament is the book of the prophet Malachi. And the last words are a sweet promise and a stern warning:
“Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord:
“And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.”
Some of those words are crucial to understand. The great and dreadful day of the Lord is the end of the world. Jehovah, the Messiah, will come in glory. The wicked will all be destroyed. We live in the last days. Time could be running out for us to do what we have promised to do.
It is important to know why the Lord promised to send Elijah. Elijah was a great prophet with great power given him by God. He held the greatest power God gives to His children: he held the sealing power, the power to bind on earth and have it bound in heaven. God gave it to the Apostle Peter. And the Lord kept His promise to send Elijah. Elijah came to the Prophet Joseph Smith on April 3, 1836, just after the dedication of the Kirtland Temple, the first temple built after the Restoration of the gospel. Joseph described the sacred moment:
“Another great and glorious vision burst upon us; for Elijah the prophet, who was taken to heaven without tasting death, stood before us, and said:
“Behold, the time has fully come, which was spoken of by the mouth of Malachi—testifying that he [Elijah] should be sent, before the great and dreadful day of the Lord come—
“To turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the children to the fathers, lest the whole earth be smitten with a curse—
“Therefore, the keys of this dispensation are committed into your hands; and by this ye may know that the great and dreadful day of the Lord is near, even at the doors.”
As you came into the Church, you have felt your heart being turned toward family, both those who are living and those who are in the spirit world. The Lord provided another vision to help you know what to do with those feelings.
After Joseph Smith, the Lord called other prophets to lead His Church. One was Joseph F. Smith. He saw in vision what happened in the spirit world when the Savior appeared there between the time of His death and His Resurrection. President Smith saw the joy of the spirits when they learned that the Savior had broken the bands of death and because of His Atonement they could be resurrected. And he saw the Savior organize His servants among the spirits to preach His gospel to every spirit and offer the chance to choose the covenants and the blessings which are offered to you and which you want for your ancestors. All are to have that chance.
President Smith also saw the leaders the Savior called to take the gospel to Heavenly Father’s children in the spirit world. He named some of them: Father Adam, Mother Eve, Noah, Abraham, Ezekiel, Elijah, prophets we know from the Book of Mormon, and some from the last days, including Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, John Taylor, and Wilford Woodruff. Think of the power of those missionaries to teach the gospel and to touch the hearts of your ancestors. It is not surprising that Wilford Woodruff said while he lived that he believed few, if any, of the ancestors of the Latter-day Saints in the spirit world would choose to reject the message of salvation when they heard it.
Many of your deceased ancestors will have received a testimony that the message of the missionaries is true. When you received that testimony, you could ask the missionaries for baptism. But those who are in the spirit world cannot. The ordinances you so cherish are offered only in this world. Someone in this world must go to a holy temple and accept the covenants on behalf of the person in the spirit world. That is why we are under obligation to find the names of our ancestors and ensure that they are offered by us what they cannot receive there without our help.
For me, knowing that turns my heart not only to my ancestors who wait but to the missionaries who teach them. I will see those missionaries in the spirit world, and so will you. Think of a faithful missionary standing there with those he has loved and taught who are your ancestors. Picture as I do the smile on the face of that missionary as you walk up to him and your ancestors whom he converted but could not baptize or have sealed to family until you came to the rescue. I do not know what the protocol will be in such a place, but I imagine arms thrown around your neck and tears of gratitude.
If you can imagine the smile of the missionary and your ancestor, think of the Savior when you meet Him. You will have that interview. He paid the price of the sins of you and all of Heavenly Father’s spirit children. He is Jehovah. He sent Elijah. He conferred the powers of the priesthood to seal and to bless out of perfect love. And He has trusted you by letting you hear the gospel in your lifetime, giving you the chance to accept the obligation to offer it to those of your ancestors who did not have your priceless opportunity. Think of the gratitude He has for those who pay the price in work and faith to find the names of their ancestors and who love them and Him enough to offer them eternal life in families, the greatest of all the gifts of God. He offered them an infinite sacrifice. He will love and appreciate those who paid whatever price they could to allow their ancestors to choose His offer of eternal life.
Because your heart has already been turned, the price may not seem high. You begin by doing simple things. Write down what you already know about your family. You will need to write down the names of parents and their parents with the dates of birth or death or marriage. When you can, you will want to record the places. Some of that you will know from memory. But you can also ask relatives. They may even have some certificates of births, marriages, or deaths. Make copies and organize them. If you learn stories about their lives, write them down and keep them. You are not just gathering names. Those you never met in life will become friends you love. Your heart will be bound to theirs forever.
You can start searching in the first few generations going back in time. From that you will identify many of your ancestors who need your help. Someone in your own ward or branch of the Church has been called to help you prepare those names for the temple. There they can be offered the covenants which will free them from their spirit prisons and bind them in families—your family—forever.
Your opportunities and the obligations they create are remarkable in the whole history of the world. There are more temples across the earth than there have ever been. More people in all the world have felt the Spirit of Elijah move them to record the identities of their ancestors and facts of their ancestors’ lives. There are more resources to search out your ancestors than there have ever been in the history of the world. The Lord has poured out knowledge about how to make that information available worldwide through technology that a few years ago would have seemed a miracle.
With those opportunities there comes greater obligation to keep our trust with the Lord. Where much is given, much is required. After you find the first few generations, the road will become more difficult. The price will become greater. As you go back in time, the records become less complete. As others of your family search out ancestors, you will discover that the ancestor you find has already been offered the full blessings of the temple. Then you will have a difficult and important choice to make. You will be tempted to stop and leave the hard work of finding to others who are more expert or to another time in your life. But you will also feel a tug on your heart to go on in the work, hard as it will be.
As you decide, remember that the names which will be so difficult to find are of real people to whom you owe your existence in this world and whom you will meet again in the spirit world. When you were baptized, your ancestors looked down on you with hope. Perhaps after centuries, they rejoiced to see one of their descendants make a covenant to find them and to offer them freedom. In your reunion, you will see in their eyes either gratitude or terrible disappointment. Their hearts are bound to you. Their hope is in your hands. You will have more than your own strength as you choose to labor on to find them.
A few nights ago I had a dream. I saw a piece of white paper with a name on it I did not know and a date I could only partially read. I got up and went to the records of my family. The last name on the slip of paper is from a line which came into my mother’s ancestry 300 years ago in a place called Eaton Bray. Someone is anxious for a long wait to end. I have not yet found that person. But I have found again the assurance that a loving God sends help in answer to prayer in this sacred work of redeeming our families, which is His work and His glory and to which we have pledged our hearts. I so testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Her father chuckled. “He’d have to, to convince a constable sent to arrest him, and a hardhead like you. I’d like to hear him speak. My family and I will join you next Sunday.”
At noon on Sunday the Weston family began the long walk to the Benbow farm. Charity didn’t mind walking. She’d waited all week for this. Maybe something exciting would happen!
The meeting hall was almost filled when they arrived. She sat high on her father’s knee so that she could see over the heads of the people.
Suddenly a wave of whispering rolled through the people. Charity turned and saw two men dressed in dark suits sit down behind them.
Charity heard Father whisper to Mother, “Those are the rector’s clerks. He must have sent them to find out what is so all-fired appealing about this new preacher. I hope that they won’t cause any trouble. I have my heart set on hearing a good old-fashioned sermon.”
The audience quieted as Mr. Woodruff stood to speak. In a short time another wave flowed over the audience. This time it was the power of the Holy Ghost. Everyone sitting there could feel the truth of Mr. Woodruff’s words. They knew that he’d been sent to teach them about the Savior.
Tears rolled unchecked down her mother’s cheeks, and her father’s arm tightened around Charity as he grew more absorbed in the sermon.
When Mr. Woodruff finished speaking, he invited everyone to join the true church. Her father and mother stood up, ready to join those seeking to be baptized. Before they could move, the two clerks shouldered their way toward the pulpit.
The crowd parted as the two black-garbed men made their way to the front. Their faces were solemn, and Charity began to shiver. What would they do?
Mr. Woodruff greeted them pleasantly and waited for them to speak. With heads high, they humbly asked to join Christ’s church.
Another wave of noise filled the hall. Everyone wanted to talk about the clerks, the constable, Elder Woodruff—and their own baptisms! This was unheard of! It was an exciting time.
Father’s chuckle soothed her like the sound of water flowing over smooth rocks. “That does it for the rector,” he said and chuckled again. “He’s lost a constable and two clerks. I don’t think he’ll dare send anyone else to hear this preacher. Any good man will recognize the truth of his words. Any good person would feel the Spirit. I believe him. I’m going to be baptized into Christ’s church by someone with the authority to do so.”
Charity held onto his hand as he cleared a path to the front for his family. She felt a feeling of peace and security, and she knew that her father and mother would guide her along the right path until she, too, was old enough to be baptized.

From his early teens, Wilford Woodruff searched for the true church. Once he gained a testimony that Joseph Smith truly was a prophet of God, Wilford tried to do everything the Prophet asked. When Joseph counseled the Apostles to keep a history of their lives, Wilford wrote daily in his journal. “Whenever I heard Joseph Smith preach, teach, or prophesy,” Wilford said, “I always felt it my duty to write it.” In the Church Historian’s office are stored seven thousand pages of Wilford Woodruff’s journals. The record he kept was invaluable for himself, his family, and the Church.

Hermann Mössner was nervous as he walked into the chapel. He and his friends from camp were still in their uniforms, marked with the letters “P.O.W.” Everyone knew those letters stood for “prisoner of war.” What would the members of the branch think? Would they see him as their enemy?
The chapel was near Leeds, England. But Hermann wasn’t from England. He was from Germany. After being forced to fight in World War II, Hermann had been captured by British soldiers and sent to an English prison camp. This was his first time at church in a long time.
Hermann took a deep breath as he sat down on one of the benches. He could see the branch president, George Camm, sitting at the front. President Camm was Hermann’s friend. Seeing him smile made Hermann feel better.
After that, President Camm visited Hermann every Saturday. During the rest of the week, Hermann did his best to live the gospel. He shared his testimony with the other prisoners while they worked in the fields. He answered their questions while they carved wood after a long day’s work. Sometimes he prayed with them.
“Hey, Hermann,” one of the prisoners had said one night. “Could I join in with you and Mr. Camm on Saturday?”
Hermann looked up from the block of wood he was carving. He smiled. “Of course!”
“May I too?” another prisoner asked.
Hermann and President Camm were very excited to teach more of the prisoners. Soon some of them even wanted to be baptized!
And now, as Hermann looked around the chapel at the families waiting for church to start, he felt peace. Some members were nervous around Hermann at first. But soon everyone came to trust him. The other prisoners who wanted to learn about the gospel got permission to leave camp to go to church with Hermann on Sundays. Later, Hermann was even called to be the branch Sunday School president.