Gospel Story Finder

Twenty years ago, a beloved family member stepped away from the Church. He had many unanswered questions. His wife, a convert, stayed true to her faith. They worked hard to preserve their marriage in the differences that arose.

Last year he wrote down three questions about the Church that were difficult for him to reconcile and sent them to two couples who had been his friends for several years. He invited them to reflect on those questions and come to dinner to share their thoughts.

Following this visit with friends, he went to his room and started working on a project. The evening conversation and the love shown to him by his friends came to the forefront of his mind. He later wrote that he was compelled to stop his work. He said: “A bright light filled my soul. … I was familiar with this deep feeling of enlightenment, but in this case it continued to grow stronger than ever before and lasted for several minutes. I sat quietly with the feeling, which I came to understand as a manifestation of the love of God for me. … I felt a spiritual impression that told me I could return to church and express this love of God in what I do there.”

He then wondered about his questions. The feeling he received was that God honored his questions and that not having clear answers should not stop him from moving forward. He should share God’s love with all while he continued to contemplate. As he acted on that impression, he felt a kinship with Joseph Smith, who remarked after his First Vision, “My soul was filled with love, and for many days I could rejoice with great joy.”

Remarkably, a few short months later, this family member received the same calling he had held 20 years before. The first time he held the calling, he performed his responsibilities as a dutiful member of the Church. Now the question for him became not “How can I fulfill this calling?” but “How can I show God’s love through my service?” With this new approach, he felt joy, meaning, and purpose in all aspects of his calling.

There are many today who harbor in the deep recesses of their hearts a canker, a hurt, a feeling of resentment, a dislike, or in some cases even a hate because of unpleasant experiences with past and present associations. Some have been taken advantage of in a business sense. Others have had their feelings hurt by neighbors, or relatives, or friends. A few have been lied to or had a trust of long standing betrayed. Some children, young and now grown, have been offended by harsh or dictatorial parents. Husbands and wives may have deep schisms between them caused by criticism and a resulting resentment. The list of sad experiences goes on and on—yes, it is too long. To those of you who have been nursing the wounds of hurt feelings from the past, even from the little things, I would like to tell an experience which happened some time ago.
For much of our lives, we lived in central Arizona. Some years ago a group of teenagers from the local high school went on an all-day picnic into the desert on the outskirts of Phoenix. As some of you know, the desert foliage is rather sparse—mostly mesquite, catclaw, and palo verde trees, with a few cactus scattered here and there. In the heat of the summer, where there are thickets of this desert growth, you may also find rattlesnakes as unwelcome residents. These young people were picnicking and playing, and during their frolicking, one of the girls was bitten on the ankle by a rattlesnake. As is the case with such a bite, the rattler’s fangs released venom almost immediately into her bloodstream.
This very moment was a time of critical decision. They could immediately begin to extract the poison from her leg, or they could search out the snake and destroy it. Their decision made, the girl and her young friends pursued the snake. It slipped quickly into the undergrowth and avoided them for fifteen or twenty minutes. Finally, they found it, and rocks and stones soon avenged the infliction.
Then they remembered: their companion had been bitten! They became aware of her discomfort, as by now the venom had had time to move from the surface of the skin deep into the tissues of her foot and leg. Within another thirty minutes they were at the emergency room of the hospital. By then, the venom was well into its work of destruction.
A couple of days later I was informed of the incident and was asked by some young members of the Church to visit their friend in the hospital. As I entered her room, I saw a pathetic sight. Her foot and leg were elevated—swollen almost beyond recognition. The tissue in her limb had been destroyed by the poison, and a few days later it was found her leg would have to be amputated below the knee.
It was a senseless sacrifice, this price of revenge. How much better it would have been if, after the young woman had been bitten, there had been an extraction of the venom from the leg in a process known to all desert dwellers.

Patrick’s older brother, Tom, returned from the California Ventura Mission in August 2009. He feels that Preach My Gospel is one of the best tools for missionary work. Although Tom appreciated what the book helped him do as a missionary, he notes that nearly all of the prophetic statements on missionary work appearing on pages 12–13 of Preach My Gospel talk about the role of members in sharing the gospel. He says that’s indicative of how much missionary work should be done by members and not just by full-time missionaries.
“As I was closing in on the end of my mission,” he recalls, “I was studying about the responsibilities of missionaries and why we—missionaries and members—are given this work to do. I read Moses 1:39 and thought about missionary work from Heavenly Father’s point of view. All He wants is for His children to return to Him. What we’ve been charged with doing, I realized, is helping our Father accomplish His work.
“Now as a member missionary, I know that with regular scripture study (including study of Preach My Gospel), prayer, and seeking the Spirit, we can succeed in any endeavor. And if we let the gospel be at the center of our lives and work to better our understanding of it, it will become easier to share and testify.”

I was so angry when I left school, I could hardly see straight! I couldn’t get out of that place fast enough. I stormed down the street toward Aunt Lydia’s house simply raging inside with every step.
Aunt Lydia saw me coming and was holding the door open for me as I fumed past her into the house. I flopped down in her big easy chair with a thud, dropping books everywhere.
Aunt Lydia is a comfortable, elderly lady with gray, wispy hair pulled straight back and pinned into a little, twisted bun. She has more wrinkles than I’ve ever seen on any other real person.
Discovering that I liked her was quite a surprise to me because I didn’t know you could be good friends and share so many ideas and feelings with a person that old.
I’ve often wondered what makes her so fascinating. It might have something to do with her china-blue eyes that you just can’t stop looking at, or maybe it’s her fun, easy laugh that makes you trust her.
Maybe I like her because she always lets me express whatever feelings I have and doesn’t tell me not to feel that way.
The story just poured out of me, while she pulled her chair up close to mine and listened. I was draped across the big chair with my legs dangling over one arm as I told her how much I hated Doreen!
Doreen had told Scott all sorts of lies about me and was trying to get him to like her instead of me. He was actually going to take her out! (Katy had told me all about it.)
How I hated Doreen! I’d never forgive her—ever! My gravestone will say, “Here lies the girl that hates Doreen!” She had turned on me for the last time, and I’d see to it that she never betrayed me again. I’d get even with her if it was the last thing I ever did. A plan was already starting to form in my mind on how to fix her so she’d never forget it. I wouldn’t rest until I saw to it that she got hers!
Aunt Lydia said she understood exactly how I felt, and then she went to the other room and returned carrying a box.
I sat up curiously as she reached into the box and handed me a big hunk of clay. I hadn’t handled a blob like that since kindergarten, and I asked her what I was supposed to do with it. She said she wanted me to make something that would express how I was feeling inside. (I felt like a pile of rotten garbage had exploded all over me!)
I dug into that mass and demolished it with a vengeance. I squeezed it, pounded it, and pinched it with all the fury inside of me. Boy, it’s a good thing you can’t kill clay because I was in the mood!
I didn’t know what I would end up with, and I didn’t much care, as long as it was ugly.
Later, when I had finished, Aunt Lydia told me to look at my thing and tell her what I was holding.
I described it as a ghastly mutation that had suction cup tentacles for arms and a vacuum-hose mouth that slurped up guys when they weren’t looking. It had a whooping doozy of a beak, big hairy feet, bulbous toes, and ears so long that they were tied up in knots. A couple of the bulgy eyes were a lot lower than the others (so it could cover more territory in looking for victims, I’m sure). The enormous body was covered with shaggy gorilla-hair except for the bald head, which sprouted only three, kinky hairs. Finishing off the masterpiece was a fine juicy wart right on the end of its crooked beak. “There,” I said, “let’s see how Scott likes that!”
I was really getting into this thing and feeling a little better. (In fact, I was enjoying it immensely!) I heaved a great sigh of relief and then sat silently reveling in my creation.
I had forgotten all about Aunt Lydia until she broke the silence by saying, “My dear, you described it perfectly, and what you’re holding is a ‘Grudge.’”
I snapped to attention, listening hard to get her meaning.
She warned me to beware of grudges for they can be the most vicious and destructive forces in life. She explained that this one, in my hand, was the only safe grudge that I would ever hold. She knew that I’d be tempted many times during my lifetime to pick up other grudges and hold them, but she cautioned me against it.
“Other grudges will eventually destroy you if you hold them very long,” she continued. “They begin by ruining your peace of mind and then your relationship with both God and man.
“They have voracious appetites and will consume the whole of your thought and being if you let them stay around,” she said. “They keep you so busy being miserable and thinking up ways to get revenge that you can’t get on with making your own happiness.”
She didn’t say any more. She just looked at me lovingly as I stared at my “Grudge” and pondered her words.
It all made so much sense, and I understood exactly what she was trying to tell me. I felt a sudden burst of peace and contentment take over the whole of me. No wonder I love Aunt Lydia and our visits so much.
She’s so smart. I jumped up and bounced over to hug her good-bye.
Jogging home, holding my new little clay friend, I knew that I could solve the whole mess, and I laughed right out loud.
I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my mom about my visit with Aunt Lydia. I couldn’t wait to share the whole story with her and tell her that if she ever wants to “hold a grudge” I have one she can hold—a safe one!
Then I wanted to call Doreen and see what really happened at school today!

Quinn has seen firsthand how trusting the Lord leads to success. His first big roping win came during the National Finals Rodeo in December 2005. Going into the competition, Quinn, then 12, decided that if he won, he would donate all of his winnings to the Church’s general missionary and perpetual education funds.
The day of the event arrived, and conditions were poor. It was windy, making it challenging to throw a lariat with accuracy. But Quinn remembered his decision and trusted that he’d be blessed. He roped well, and though he was by the far the youngest one there, he placed first and third against tough competition.
Even though there were a few things that Quinn might have wanted to buy, such as a new saddle, he put his money where his mouth was and donated the money.
“It opened my eyes—if you’re going to do something good for the Lord, He is sure to help you,” Quinn says.

One day last summer, Spencer J. was riding home from a summer vacation with his parents and family when he decided that the time in the car was perfect for planning some of his goals for the upcoming year. He and his family came up with a great list of goals that would help him plan for school, work on getting in better shape, and fulfill his duty to God.
His goals for school included working hard to get straight A’s, befriending people at school who seem lonely, and tutoring a student who is struggling in classes. He also wanted to run for an Arizona State President of Student Government, which he was later elected to. That goal could have been intimidating because he had to give a speech in front of 2,000 people. But, as Spencer says, “It would be an awesome experience to talk to other states about what they are doing with their student governments.”
Spencer wanted to get in better physical shape. He decided to make a goal to ride his bike at least four miles about three days a week to prepare for a mission. Then he listed that he would like to run two miles at least once a week. He also would participate with the track and tennis teams.
As a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, Spencer worked with his quorum leaders to set a goal to help make the sacrament more meaningful by being prepared to bless the sacrament, saying the prayers with more feeling, and inviting others who don’t often participate in the blessing of the sacrament to bless it with him.
Carrying out these personal goals has made Spencer happier, healthier, and more prepared for the challenges and opportunities he will face in the future.

Anthony sat on the narrow ledge of a rice terrace. He looked gloomily down on the thatched roofs of the huts in the tiny Asian village below. This was supposed to be the happiest vacation of his life, but it was turning out to be one of the saddest.
That was over thirty years ago. The soldier had managed to get Father to the United States, where he had gained his citizenship and a good education. But he longed to return to his homeland to visit Grandfather. On Anthony’s twelfth birthday, Father gave him a watch of his own and the exciting news that they would make the long-awaited journey to his homeland to spend a month with Grandfather.
Two days ago Anthony’s dream of meeting Grandfather had finally come true. But now it seemed that Grandfather wasn’t the man Anthony had been dreaming about at all. How could an old man with only one, blackish tooth be a hero? Why, if Grandfather could stand up straight, he still wouldn’t be as tall as Anthony!
Grandfather’s bones stuck out. His skin was as tough and wrinkled as an elephant’s. His bare feet were so wide that they looked almost like a duck’s. His pants were tied about his waist with a piece of twine, and the pockets had been torn off to patch holes.
How Anthony wanted to be back home! He didn’t like the hut he had to climb up to, to go to sleep. It was more like a playhouse than a real one. He didn’t like having to sleep on the hard wood floor, sandwiched between people who knew only a few words of English. He didn’t like eating rice for breakfast. He didn’t like eating from dishes “washed” with grass “rags.” He didn’t like everyone in the village pointing at Father and calling him “U.S. boy.” Most of all, he felt uncomfortable around the old man who was Grandfather.
“Anthony.” Father’s voice came from the direction of the village. “Grandfather and I are going to the cave where he hid the Americans. Do you want to come too?”
At last! Thought Anthony. Maybe there’ll be a little excitement.
It was a long walk to the cave. His feet were beginning to ache from following Grandfather and Father over the hundreds of terraces. Anthony’s sneakers didn’t curl around the terrace ledges as Grandfather’s bare feet did. Looking at his birthday watch, Anthony noticed that nearly two hours had passed since they had set off for the cave. Would they ever get there? Grandfather is probably lost, Anthony thought.
Suddenly pain shot through Anthony’s leg like lightning. He turned, screaming, and saw a snake slithering into a rice paddie. In the same instant, Grandfather’s knife whizzed past, slicing the snake’s head off.
Anthony’s leg was already throbbing, and dizziness sent him stumbling from the sturdy ledge to the oozy ground nearby. He heard Father and Grandfather jabbering to each other in that strange language. Then Father started to run—away from Anthony.
Anthony wailed in pain and terror as he twisted in the mud of the soggy terrace. “Father! Don’t leave me! Please! It hurts! Oh, it hurts! Don’t leave me!” But Father kept running.
Grandfather quickly retrieved his knife and wiped off the snake’s blood on a clump of grass. Opening a small bottle that had been attached to the twine around his waist, he poured a smelly liquid on the knife. Then he knelt and looked into Anthony’s eyes. “U.S. boy—stop cry!” he ordered. But Anthony continued to scream for Father as if he hadn’t heard.
Grandfather gripped Anthony’s shoulders tightly. “U.S. boy—stop cry!”
This time something in Grandfather’s tone pierced Anthony’s fear. He knew that Grandfather was right. He must stop crying and lie still so that Grandfather could help him. Clenching his teeth and fists against the pain, he choked back his tears and held very still.
Grandfather took off Anthony’s T-shirt and tied it firmly above the bite. Then he cut Anthony’s swollen leg with the knife and sucked out as much of the poison as he could, spitting blood and poison onto the ground. The pain made large tears spurt down Anthony’s face, but he bravely allowed Grandfather to do what had to be done.
When Grandfather finished, he carried Anthony to a dry spot and gathered grass and dirt clods to prop under his head. With another firm look, Grandfather commanded, “U.S. boy, stay! I get medicine.”
Anthony nodded feebly. He awoke as Grandfather patted a mixture of leaves and mud onto the wound. The mixture seemed to relieve the pain a little, and Anthony dozed off again. When he next awoke, Father and two other men were moving him onto a stretcher. As they traveled toward the village, Grandfather jabbered with the men. Several times Anthony heard him say, “U.S. boy” with tones of both concern and pride.
Over the next few days, all the villagers came to help Anthony recover. Several boys near his age showed him the games of their village and taught him a few words in their language. The girls brought him bananas and special mixtures of rice and vegetables. The women showed him how they wove beautiful pieces of cloth.
Grandfather bragged to the villagers about Anthony’s bravery and called him a hero. But Anthony knew who the real hero was.
Each day, Grandfather brought a small present that he had made and wrapped in a banana leaf. After the present was unwrapped, Grandfather gave Anthony a lesson on weaving small baskets or carving wood trinkets.
The day that Anthony no longer needed to rest, Grandfather gave him a knife in a beautiful, carved holder.
Anthony had a surprise of his own. “Close your eyes Grandfather.” Then he buckled his birthday watch onto Grandfather’s wrist. When Grandfather opened his eyes and Anthony saw the look of joy and pride on his face, Anthony knew that he had the best grandfather in the world.

I was 18 when I received my national service call-up papers. They instructed me to report for my medical. At the time, I was working as an apprentice cooper, had a great group of friends and was surrounded by a close-knit, loving family.
Although I had known that it was only a matter of time before I was called up, when it came, I was very apprehensive, being concerned about the expectations of army life, and sad about leaving my family and friends. However, it gave way to excitement at the thought of going abroad, making new friends, and learning new skills.
After being found medically fit, I was immediately required to report to the Royal Fusiliers barracks at the Tower of London, where their training unit was based. A four-month military training course followed, with about 80 other recruits, to prepare us for active service, anywhere in the world. We were then transferred to a transit camp in Kent to await our orders to be shipped to the battalion located in Khartoum, Sudan. This was subsequently changed and instead a group of us were transferred to the Queen’s Royal Regiment. They were serving in Malaya (now Malaysia) assisting the Malayan Police in combatting raids by insurgent groups. These groups were carrying out attacks on the local civilian population, including farmers, rubber plantation workers, and others.
At the end of World War II several British colonies were seeking for independence. In the case of Malaya, the Communist-influenced Malayan National Liberation Army initiated armed guerrilla insurgencies. As a result, Britain, along with other Western allies, sent military personnel to Malaya to act as an anti-insurgency force. Hence our deployment to Malaya. On 13 December 1954 we set sail aboard HMTS Asturias, heading for Singapore. We arrived on 1 January 1955 after a wonderful three-week journey, though military training continued throughout.
During this period, I gained a greater realisation of what it meant to be on active service, namely carrying a rifle and possibly being engaged in gun battles. That made it a little scary, but I was mindful that my personal safety and that of my comrades was paramount. Overnight we travelled by military train from Singapore to an area called Negri Sembilan in the west of Malaya. We were required to take anti-malarial medication daily, failing to do so being a disciplinary offence. Carrying our rifles was also compulsory.
At base we commenced the next part of our intensive training. This included four weeks of acclimatisation to the Malayan weather and jungle training, where the heat averaged 90-95F at midday. This was essential given the hostile environment in which we would be working. I was also detailed to begin training as a signaller, responsible for military communications, which meant carrying a military 68T radio wireless set on all operations.
During the remainder of my service in Malaya, approximately 18 months, I worked as part of a 200/300-man ambush unit. Our role was to protect the civilian population from insurgents who got into their kampongs (traditional villages), often to steal food. On other occasions, for about ten days each time, our duties involved patrolling specified areas deep in the jungle. In hot, humid, and wet conditions, while carrying our rifles, ammunition and ration packs of food, a path had to be cleared by chopping down trees and bushes as we walked. My load was heavier due to the 68T wireless set, to send situation reports back to headquarters.
There were many highs and lows, especially when two members of our unit were killed, but we had to remain strong and focussed. These activities continued until I was demobbed in 1956. I returned home with mixed emotions, sorry to be leaving fellow soldiers behind, but very elated to be reunited with my family and friends.
Within a week of my return, my mother organised a party. It was wonderful. I eventually settled back into civilian life. I worked as a labourer until I was employed as a wood worker; I continued doing this for the next 46 years, until I retired. Undoubtedly, the dedication, loyalty, and discipline I had learnt in the army influenced my work ethic.

It was Christmas Eve. Alone in his car, Dan Lytle had driven four and a half hours through the thick California fog. For the same four and a half hours he had followed the same white car with the same green and white license plates through the same unending fog.
Dan hadn’t been this tired since his mission. But he had a diamond ring in his pocket, and there was a girl in San Leandro waiting up for him. Dan reckoned there would be at least another three hours of driving before he could put the ring on Callie’s finger.
Looks like a long night, he said to himself as he and a thousand other drivers rushed through the fog.
Dan turned the car’s radio dial, looking for Christmas music to help pass the hours. Isn’t it unusual, he thought, how sometimes at night the car radio can bring in radio stations from across the country—and how at other times the same radio brings in only static. He turned the radio off.
For perhaps another hour Dan passed through a foggy world where literally all he could see was the back end of a white car with green and white license plates. It was tense, tedious driving, requiring full attention. And then into his mind came a still, small, prompting thought: “Dan, pull over into the far right lane and slow down.”
Slow down? Why? Weren’t all the other cars and trucks doing just fine hurtling through the thick mist as if there were no such thing as three-meter visibility? Besides—it was late. Even if he kept to his present speed, Dan couldn’t hope to open the ring box until well after this foggy Christmas Eve had turned into a foggy Christmas day.
Dan wondered. Had the Spirit really warned him? Or had it been just the normal workings of a cautious mind? Couldn’t he just continue at the same speed as everyone else? Was it really important that he pull over to the right and slow down?
Again came the prompting: “Dan, if there were a wreck on the freeway, there is no way you could stop in time: You’d slam right into the wreckage. You really should pull over to the right and slow down.”
Dan Lytle had been taught that he should never ignore the promptings of the Spirit. Reluctantly, he signaled, then pulled his car over and cut his speed. The white car with the green and white license plates sped on, and instantly was swallowed up in the impenetrable fog.
Better late than not at all, I guess, he thought ruefully. He calculated that at his new speed, he likely would be on the road for quite some time.
Dan Lytle peered intently through the fog.
And then, suddenly, out of the fog came the red glare of tail lights. Flares appeared on the roadway, along with police cars with flashing lights. A policeman, walking between lanes of now halted cars, passed the word: “Terrible accident up ahead—lots of cars and trucks in a big accident. Be patient, folks—we’re trying to clear out one lane so you can get by.”
It took a long time for the four lanes of northbound cars to merge into one lane. Dan’s concern for the accident victims grew to disbelief and then near nausea as he was waved past the massive crash.
He saw crumpled cars, jack-knifed trucks, ambulances, patrol cars, paramedics—and motionless human forms under blankets at the side of the road.
As his car crept past the wreckage, Dan counted the demolished vehicles—10 … 20 … 30. How many more people on Christmas Eve, delayed at best, dead on the highway at worst?
And there: number 41. A horrified Dan Lytle recognized what had been a white car with green and white license plates—now jammed between the wreckage of number 40 and number 42.
For hours and hours I followed that car, thought Dan. For hours and hours—until the Spirit told me to move over and slow down.
What if I hadn’t been in tune to receive the warning? Or, what if I had received the warning and then had ignored it? He shuddered at the thought. Dan understood now as never before the principle his bishop had learned those many years ago.
With the massive accident scene finally behind him, Dan resumed his previous slow speed. He turned on the car radio, and from a station many kilometers away came Christmas music, clear and sweet and reassuring.
There was not the slightest trace of static.

My angel mother, Jasmine Bennion Arnold, clearly understood her role to help in the rescue of our Heavenly Father’s wounded or lost sheep, including her own children and grandchildren. What a marvelous role grandparents can play in the lives of their grandchildren.

Mom was usually assigned to visit teach those struggling with their faith, the less-active and part-member families; however, her flock included several others that no one had assigned her to visit. Generally her visits were not just once a month, as she quietly listened, ministered to the sick, and gave loving encouragement. The last several months of Mom’s life, she was homebound, so she spent hours writing them letters, expressing her love, bearing her testimony, and lifting those who came to visit.

In our search for families, this story is typical. For several months we had been searching and praying to find a Latter-day Saint family we had heard lived somewhere in our town. One morning my husband had a sudden inspiration to ask a man who worked for the town water supply department if he knew anyone by that name. “Sure, I know him,” the man said, and told us where the “missing” member worked. Ben found the man and learned that he had joined the Church several years before but had been inactive for the past four years. His wife and three children were attending another church. When we invited him to come to church, he was reluctant because he smoked and liked to drink. But Ben did not give up. He contacted him several times at his work and assured him that we would love him even if he did smoke and drink. We visited his family and got the eight-year-old and the thirteen-year-old to join us at church. Soon this man stopped smoking and drinking, and his family attended all our meetings faithfully. His two children were baptized. Several months later he was ordained an elder and became the teacher of the investigator class.

When our daughter Adrian was four years old, we were working in the backyard. I had asked her to do something three or four times without result. I lost my patience, raised my voice, and sternly repeated my instructions to her. With her head down, she sadly started in the direction of the house. Suddenly, she stopped, ran back, hugged my leg tightly, and said, “Even though you are being mean to me, I still love you.”
I suddenly understood with great clarity what the Savior meant when he said,
“Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”1

His mother did not have the means to go with the first group that left Nauvoo. She went later, and her son told of the time when she and her brother, also named Joseph Fielding, and the little boy Joseph, then a mere child, drove their wagons down to St. Joseph, Missouri, to buy provisions for the long journey ahead. On their return to Winter Quarters they camped for the night. During the night two of their oxen disappeared. Men with a herd of cattle were about three-quarters of a mile away. Joseph and his uncle searched all through the morning looking for their lost oxen. Exhausted and wet to the skin, they returned to their wagons to report their inability to find the oxen.

Joseph F. Smith recorded:
As I approached I saw my mother kneeling down in prayer. I halted for a moment and then drew gently near enough to hear her pleading with the Lord not to suffer us to be left in this helpless condition, but to lead us to recover our lost team, that we might continue our travels in safety. When she arose from her knees I was standing near by. The first expression I caught upon her precious face was a lovely smile, which, discouraged as I was, gave me renewed hope and assurance that I had not felt before. [In Preston Nibley, The Presidents of the Church (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1974), 185]

His uncle told her that the oxen were lost and that there was no way to find them. They had searched everywhere. She replied that he and Joseph should eat their breakfast that she had prepared. She then began to walk in a new direction. Seeing her, the chief herdsman of the cattle rode up to her and said:

“Madam, I saw your oxen over yonder in that direction this morning about daybreak,” pointing in the opposite direction from that in which [she] was going. [In Nibley, Presidents, 186]

She totally disregarded him and continued to walk in the opposite direction from which he had directed her. She came directly to what she was looking for. There were her oxen down by a little stream fastened to a clump of willows.

That example of his mother’s tremendous faith became the rootstock of his own faith.

Sometimes, though, we won’t have or notice angels around us when we feel we need them. A number of years ago I was having a particularly tough day. I prayed, asking for help, and I had a thought: to invite a new friend to a movie. I doubted myself: How can I be a friend to someone when I feel like this? But I did invite her—and you know what happened? She came to the movie with me. I did feel a little better, and I assumed that this was why I felt that prompting. But that is not the reason I remember this day. The reason I remember this day is because I found out later how important my call and calls from others were to my friend. Those calls let her know that she was not alone during a time when she felt hopeless. We served as angels to each other.

Having fled Vietnam just three days before the takeover of Saigon in 1975, five members of my large family and I found ourselves living in a small trailer home in Provo, Utah. We had been allowed to bring only a small bag in our flight, and as refugees we were just learning English. Some of my sisters had joined the Church in Vietnam, and I was a recent convert. Now ward members saw to many of our needs, and a close-knit community pooled its resources to make life comfortable for us newcomers.
As a member of the priests quorum, I was assigned to home teach with Brother Johnson, who lived nearby with his large family. One day Brother Johnson noticed that our family had no kitchen table. He appeared the next day with an odd-looking but very functional table that fit nicely against the trailer wall across from the kitchen sink and counters. I say odd-looking because two of the table legs matched the tabletop and two did not. Also, several small wooden pegs stuck out along one edge of the worn surface.
Soon we used this unique table daily for food preparation and for eating some quick meals. We still ate our family meals while we sat on the floor—with food, bowls, and chopsticks spread on a cloth in true Vietnamese fashion.
One evening I stood inside Brother Johnson’s front door as I waited for him before a home teaching appointment. There in the nearby kitchen—I was surprised to see it—was a table practically identical to the one they had given to my family. The only difference was that where our table had pegs, the Johnsons’ table had holes! I then realized that, seeing our need, this charitable man had cut his kitchen table in half and had built two new legs for each half.
It was obvious that the Johnson family could not fit around this small piece of furniture—they probably didn’t fit comfortably around it when it was whole. I like to imagine that the Johnsons learned to eat their family meals on the floor, just as we did, in true Vietnamese fashion.
Throughout my life this kind act has been a powerful reminder of true giving.

For generations it has inspired those who read it. Herbert Schreiter had read his German translation of the Book of Mormon. In it he read:
“When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
Herbert Schreiter tested the promise and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In 1946, released as a prisoner of war, Herbert returned to his wife and three little daughters in Leipzig, Germany. Soon thereafter, he went as a missionary to Bernburg, Germany. Alone, without a companion, he sat cold and hungry in a room, wondering how he should begin.
He thought of what he had to offer the war-devastated people. He printed by hand a placard which read, “Will there be a further life after death?” and posted it on a wall.
About that same time, a family from a small village in Poland came to Bernburg.
Manfred Schütze was four years old. His father had been killed in the war. His mother, with his grandparents, and his mother’s sister, also a widow, and her two little girls, were forced to evacuate their village with only 30 minutes’ notice. They grabbed what they could and headed west. Manfred and his mother pulled and pushed a small cart. At times, the ailing grandfather rode in the cart. One Polish officer looked at the pathetic little Manfred and began to weep.
At the border, soldiers ransacked their belongings and threw their bedding into the river. Manfred and his mother were then separated from the family. His mother wondered if they might have gone to Bernburg, where her grandmother was born, perhaps to relatives there. After weeks of unbelievable suffering, they arrived in Bernburg and found the family.
The seven of them lived together in one small room. But their troubles were not over. The mother of the two little girls died. The grieving grandmother cried out for a preacher, and asked, “Will I see my family again?”
The preacher answered, “My dear lady, there is no such thing as the Resurrection. They who are dead are dead!”
They wrapped the body in a paper bag for burial.
On the way from the grave, the grandfather talked of taking their own lives, as many others had done. Just then they saw the placard that Elder Schreiter had posted on the building—“Is there further life after death?”—with an invitation from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a meeting, they learned of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
They joined the Church. Soon their lives changed. The grandfather found work as a baker and could provide bread for his family and also for Elder Schreiter, who had given them “the bread of life.”
Then help came from the Church in the United States. Manfred grew up eating grain out of little sacks with a picture of a beehive on them and peaches from California. He wore clothes from the welfare supplies of the Church.
Manfred Schütze is now a member of the Third Quorum of Seventy and supervises our seminaries in Eastern Europe. His mother, now 88, still attends the temple at Freiberg where Herbert Schreiter once served as a counselor to the president.

My classmates and I were stationed near Hannover. Every month or so our unit of about 300 people would get together. Usually there was a unit party, and everyone would be drinking and smoking—except me. I didn’t know it at first, but our commander-in-chief watched me during these parties.

One day he called me in and asked me why I didn’t smoke or drink. I was a little shy, and I told him that I just didn’t believe in it. I think I was the only one who didn’t smoke or drink in the whole outfit, and I was the only Latter-day Saint.

“There must be a specific reason why you don’t do that,” he continued questioning me. I told him it was better for the body to abstain from those things, and I tried to evade the question a little bit. When you’re 15, it’s not so easy when people laugh at you and say you’re not a man if you don’t smoke and drink. My fellow soldiers had made fun of me quite often, and my commander had heard that.

“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” he asked.

“I’m a little shy,” I explained. “You’ve seen what kind of reaction the others have.”
“Well, that might change if you just tell them,” he replied.

One night we were all sitting at a big table at a party, and everyone was drinking, except me. I think I had a pop that I had bought downtown. My commanding officer was watching me again.
He stood and said, “Rahde, get up.” Then he said to the whole group, “I would like to inform you that Rahde is a Mormon. He doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t smoke. And I would like you to respect that. If I see anybody making fun of him because of that, I will put you in jail.”
I was shocked. I turned red because everyone was looking at me. Then he said, “From now on, Rahde, it is your job to take care of these men and see that when they go downtown and have too much to drink they find their way home.”

From that minute on, I had a lot of groups that wanted me to go with them. They took me to their beer joints, and said, “No drinks for Heinz. He doesn’t drink, and he has to take us home.

I didn’t have to mention anything anymore. I had more friends that way than I would have had any other way. Nothing could have done more good for me than this frankness, as my wise commanding officer had sensed. It was a testimony to me that the others trusted me so much that whenever something came up, they always asked me to go with them, and they protected me.

When Gerald Lund returned from his missionary service, he had determined that he would rather work than go to college.
“I went to work in the construction business,” he explains. “After spending one week cleaning cement forms with a power brush, I realized this was not how I wanted to spend my life.”
He promptly enrolled in Brigham Young University, where he completed his bachelor’s and master’s degrees. His decision to go to college not only changed his life but also resulted in many years of teaching the gospel.
Gerald Lund started teaching seminary in Salt Lake City in 1965, beginning a 34-year career with the Church Educational System. In addition to his early years teaching seminary, he taught institute, served as an institute director, worked as a curriculum writer, and fulfilled a number of administrative assignments. He is also the author of many popular books and articles.

“It’s not easy getting to the church by 6:00 a.m. every school day, but it sure seems to make the day go smoother,” says Blake N. of Illinois, who recently graduated from early-morning seminary with a record of four years of perfect attendance.
Smoother days are nice, but the real motivation for Blake was that he wanted to follow the example of his older brother Conner, who graduated from early-morning seminary in 2008 without missing a day. Conner received his motivation from Derek, who graduated in 2005. Derek followed Jacob, a 2003 seminary graduate. Jacob took after Aryn, who graduated in 2001. Aryn followed Michael, who started the string of perfect attendance when he graduated in 2000. All six brothers combined for a total of 24 years of perfect attendance at early-morning seminary.
“We’ve always tried to support each other, but we also all have somewhat of a competitive streak. Nobody wants to be outdone,” says the oldest brother, Michael. The camaraderie has paid off in other areas. All six brothers are Eagle Scouts. The oldest five have served missions, and Blake has submitted his papers and is waiting for his call.

Several years ago, I was selected to be honored as the Father of the Year in Utah. Each of our children was asked to say something special about their relationship with their father in a short video presentation.

However, one of my young sons approached me privately and confessed: “Dad, you know I love you, but I don’t think I really have anything I can say. Honestly, you spend so much time working and also serving in the Church, and the time that you do have seems to be spent more on my brothers than on me. I just don’t feel comfortable speaking on the video.”

To say the least, I was crushed by his comment. More than that, I was heartbroken that he felt less valued and loved by me, his father. My relationship with him meant more to me than any silly award. But somehow, in pursuit of my own dreams and aspirations, I was failing to focus on his needs. I vowed in that moment to change and to work harder to make him—and all of my children—a priority in my life.

My young friends, my wife and family are the abundance in my life. They mean more to me than any earthly possession. We certainly are not perfect, and we have had our share of adversity and heartache, but if we have done anything right in our lives, it has been to place the Savior and our sacred covenants at the center of our lives and to raise our family in the gospel of Jesus Christ. That has made all the difference!