Gospel Story Finder

“My parents were both musical, though untrained. While we had no musical instruments at home except my father’s ukulele, the family enjoyed singing together. I was in my teens when my parents first acquired a record player. And I remember what a great experience that was and how much we all enjoyed it. When I was older, the family did acquire a piano, and some of the younger children took lessons. My wife was a music major, and that was one of the things I enjoyed about her when .we were dating. I loved to sit and listen to her play the Bach Inventions.
“The name Poelman is a Dutch name,” Elder Poelman explained. “My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of an apartment house with only cold running water in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.
“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as did all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”
I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.
“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

Brother Brigham then took his horse and sleigh to Canada after his brother Joseph, a circuit-riding Methodist preacher and missionary, and “told him what I had experienced of the power of God.”28 Joseph and Phineas and their father actually joined the Church a week before Brigham did, having traveled again to the little Mormon branch in Columbia. But then the same humble elder who had first touched Brigham with his testimony traveled from Columbia to Mendon and baptized Brigham on April 15, 1832—in his own little millstream behind his carpentry shop. Brigham’s record of the event helps us understand some of the reasons for the powerful changes that immediately began to take place in him:
“Before my clothes were dry on my back he laid his hands on me and ordained me an Elder, at which I marvelled. According to the words of the Savior I felt a humble, child-like spirit, witnessing unto me that my sins were forgiven.”29

I witnessed this union of generations one time when I was helping a woman in my ward. Her parents had been divorced when she was young, and she knew very little about her father’s side of her family. We found basic records that identified her father’s parents and grandparents. She had never known their names. She was overcome with love and joy. The Spirit of the Lord filled her heart, and she was eager to take their names to the temple so they too could make sacred covenants with God.

Several months ago I spoke at a Relief Society conference at which more than 300 women were in attendance. The Young Women had also been invited to this event, and I noticed a number of teenage girls in the audience. Early in my talk I heard the sound of whispering at my extreme left. Looking in that direction, I saw three attractive young women talking quietly to one another.
Immediately I felt a little resentful. I am used to audiences giving me their full attention, and I am not very tolerant of people working against what a speaker is trying to do. However, I have spoken to enough young groups to know the gigantic challenge it is to hold their attention, to keep their eyes riveted on the speaker, their hands out of their purses or away from combing each other’s hair, to keep them from trying on each other’s shoes or from poking each other and giggling.
Yet I believe strongly that audiences, even young ones, have an obligation to give complete courtesy to a speaker, to listen without causing distraction. My usual course of action, when a person in the audience continues to cause a disturbance, is to stop speaking, look at the offender and smile until I am noticed and the disturber is sheepishly brought back into line. Then I continue speaking. This generally works.
I glanced occasionally at the three girls on the front row as they continued to whisper to one another, but they did not notice my glances. My resentment built. Where were their mothers, anyway? Why did they come if they didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Why do the leaders force young people to go to things they don’t want to go to and aren’t prepared to appreciate? How dare they talk through my incredibly marvelous and moving presentation when everybody else in the hall was clearly spellbound?
I was reading “The Steward,” my favorite poem to read aloud, and the quiet buzz continued. Several times I looked at them and they looked back and then went on with their quiet conversation, the three of them leaning together. At the end of the poem I closed the book and looked directly at them. I smiled. They smiled back. And giggled. I smiled at them until they stopped giggling and looked at me without a sound. I then continued my talk.
Their conversation was not totally halted, however. It was quieter, but every once in a while I noticed them leaning toward one another and whispering. I gave up and finished out the talk, wishing that whoever had made them come had just let them be and wishing that young people these days placed a higher value on courtesy.
After the talk, as we were having refreshments in the cultural hall, a woman came up to me and shook my hand. “Sister Pearson,” she said, “I hope those girls didn’t disturb you too much. Let me tell you about them. They’ve only been in the country a week. They came from Lebanon, and they just missed the massacre [September 16–17, 1982] by eight hours. They probably would have been killed, but somehow they were taken out of the country and arrived here. Our ward has sort of adopted them. We wanted to have them come tonight in spite of the fact that they don’t speak English very well. They were sitting there trying to help one another figure out what you were saying.”
A tremor ran through my consciousness, shattering a perception and letting me see behind judgment into reality. I no longer wanted to take the girls and shake them by the shoulders. I wanted to take them in my arms and tell them how glad I was that they had come. Suddenly I knew their secret, and it changed everything.

For several months I didn’t attend seminary. It was hard for me to get up early, and I thought it was all right not to go because it didn’t help me much in school.
One day my friend told me that the teacher had taken my name off the attendance roll. I thought about the valuable things I had missed in seminary. So the next day at 5:45 a.m., I made myself get up to go to seminary.
For the next couple of mornings it was hard for me to get up, but I put the effort into making it there. After that, I noticed I felt rested and alert, had a better attention span, and was able to absorb more information at school and actually remember it when it counted.
Seminary has been a good experience for me because it has made my days at school go more smoothly. Seminary has also given me a better understanding of the gospel and the Church, which will help me when I serve a mission.

When Brooke Sattley heard her stake was going to build two houses in two days, she decided to do something more. “I heard about the youth conference at the same time I was looking for a Laurel project,” says Brooke.
One thought led to another, and before long Brooke had a project. If the people needed a house, she concluded, they might need some things to go inside it too.
“I went to the youth conference’s main coordinator and he gave me a list of things the families needed—mostly small stuff,” she says. “He also told me the people needed a washer and dryer, but not to worry about the big things.”
Well, she did worry. And before long, members of the Frederick Maryland Stake were notifying her they had a washer and dryer, a microwave, a dresser, a box spring and mattress, as well as smaller kitchen appliances and silverware they were willing to donate.
Initially, Brooke printed a list of items she needed to get the project rolling. She then included the list with a letter she wrote to each bishop in her stake explaining the project. The bishops read Brooke’s letter to their congregations, and before long, people were calling her to find out where they could drop off their stuff.
“I had no idea so many people would get involved. I think it’s so wonderful how the Saints of the Church can just pull together and totally give their all,” she says.
“It has been frustrating at times,” she adds, “but I’ve been so glad I could put forth my entire effort to help these families out. Nothing beats the feeling you get inside.”

This story happened in the USA.
You broke my truck!
Well, you started it!
Grant broke my truck!
Joey stole my football!
It sounds like you’re both having a problem sharing. Do you want me to solve the problem, or do you want to solve it yourselves?
Joey, wait. Remember what happened last time Dad solved our problem? We couldn’t do anything fun for a whole week.
Fine. We can try to solve it.
Great. I want you to politely talk things over and come up with some ideas for how you can get along better.
I’m sorry I took your football. I just wanted to look at it. I should have asked you first.
I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I’m really sorry I broke your truck. I know it’s your favorite.
Were you able to solve your problem?
I think so.
I’m going to ask for permission before taking things.
And I’m going to buy Joey a new truck. I’m going to be nicer too.
I’m proud of you both for being peacemakers.

I still remember sitting in the doctor’s office the first time I got an inhaler. I’d just taken a puff when the doctor warned, “Make sure you hold your breath to keep the medicine in longer.”
So I just sat there, mouth bloated like a puffer fish.
I looked at the inhaler. “I better get used to you,” I thought, “’cause you and I are gonna be together for a very long time.”
I was in elementary school when the doctor told me I had seasonal asthma. It meant that for eight months out of the year—the warmer months in Texas, USA—I could run just as much as any other kid. But the second it got cold, I would start to wheeze so bad that it became hard to breathe. And while my asthma could be managed, the doctor really didn’t have any good advice for how or if I could ever get rid of it. So as the years went by, I did the only thing I could do. I got used to it.
Once I started middle school, it came time to choose a sport. It seemed like everyone was a part of at least one team, but since I was so scrawny, it didn’t really feel like there was much to choose from. In the end, I settled on running track mostly because the meets were during the warmer months. And because it didn’t require any upper body strength.
We had to choose an event in track, so my first thoughts were short-distance events. Less pain, I thought. I was all about that.
First, I tried out the 100-meter. I was always last.
Then, I tried the 200. Last.
400. … Last.
Hurdles … well, that’s about when the coaches suggested long distance. Unfortunately for me, that was anything but easier—the very name made that pretty clear. But it was all that was left.
With the help and motivation of my team and our hard-core coach and with a lot of work, I actually started improving. I even started placing at track meets, getting third and even second in events like the mile and 1,800-meter run.
The more I ran and the harder I worked, the more I liked it. So I stuck with track. Then when I got to high school, I started cross-country.
The runs got longer and the competition got faster, so I had to step it up too. All the while, I began to notice a change. Running wasn’t just a chore to do because of school. It made me feel amazing!
I hardly ever got sick, and whenever I did, I was never down for long. Being a runner also made me more conscious of what I put in my body. Alcohol, tobacco, and other drugs were never remotely an option, because they would ruin years of hard work and because they were against the Word of Wisdom. I even cut back on soda because drinking it seemed to make it harder for me to push myself during workouts.
Long runs stopped being hard, and they became times to think and just enjoy exploring different neighborhoods. I especially loved long-distance runs during warm Texas rainstorms. Those runs made me feel like I could do anything.
During my junior year, I went to an allergist for a checkup. When I said I had asthma too, the allergist’s team asked if they could test me to see how bad it was. When I said they could, they administered the test and then looked at me in surprise.
“It doesn’t seem like you have asthma at all,” the doctor said.
“What are you talking about? I’ve always had seasonal asthma.”
“OK, when was the last time you used your inhaler?” he asked.
“Well … it was …” I pored over years of memories. “I don’t know,” I said.
I finally began to understand the power of the Word of Wisdom. Heavenly Father had been blessing me all along.
I can’t say that long-distance running is a cure-all for everything, and I know that not everyone with seasonal asthma will have my same experience. But I do know that as I exercised regularly and ate wisely, my body and my mind grew stronger. Heavenly Father even took away a weakness I thought I would have my whole life. Now I know that as we do our best to make healthy decisions, the Lord has the power to make us stronger, no matter the odds.

“My name is Rachel Zuehl and I’m from Two Rivers, Wisconsin, where my family and I are members of a small branch. Growing up, my brothers and sister and I were the only members of the Church in our high school.
“Everyone knew we wouldn’t smoke, drink, or do anything bad that was considered ‘fun.’ I was lucky to have a few really great friends who respected my standards. I tried to focus my time in high school on being involved in good things like softball, tennis, piano, forensics, and yearbook staff. Being busy helped me forget how unpopular I felt and how different I sometimes felt because I am a Mormon.
“At the spring sports banquet my senior year, I realized that someone did notice and did care that I was ’different.’ For the very first time in our school, the Wisconsin National Guard was presenting an award for ‘strong moral character and freedom from drugs and alcohol use.’ I was the recipient of the award. The whole gymnasium broke into applause as I made my way onto the stage. Through my tears of surprise and joy, I could see my classmates and their parents smiling at me as I received the award.
“I realized that day that being in the mission field has made my testimony strong and has helped me show others that it’s okay to choose the right.”

Nine times seven is sixty-three. Six times eight is … forty-two? No, that’s not right!
Luca furiously erased his answer.
“Time!” Luca’s teacher called. “Everyone pass in your tests.”
Oh no! Luca thought. But I’m not even done!
Luca sighed as he handed in his test. He had to get a 90 percent on his timed tests to pass his multiplication tables and become a class Multiplication Master. But he just didn’t know how he was going to do it!
That night during family scripture study, Dad read from the Doctrine and Covenants: “Therefore, if you will ask of me you shall receive; if you will knock it shall be opened unto you” (D&C 6:5).
Luca’s head popped up. That was the answer! Prayer!
Luca started praying every day to do well on his timed multiplication test. This would work. It had to work. He would finally become a Multiplication Master!
On Tuesday, Luca came home from school and grabbed his basketball.
“Do you need help studying?” Mom asked.
“Nope! I’ve got it taken care of!” Luca said as he ran out the door. He believed so much in prayer that he didn’t even take out his flash cards to practice his math.
On Friday, Luca knew he was going to pass the test. But when he sat down to take it, the answers just didn’t come, and he did even worse than before!
Luca walked home from the bus stop with his head down. He had prayed so hard to be a Multiplication Master. Why didn’t Heavenly Father answer his prayer?
When he got home, he shot baskets until Dad came home from work. Dad honked the car horn as he pulled up.
“How was school?” Dad asked, walking over.
“Not very good,” Luca said, looking down. “I can’t pass my multiplication test.”
“That sounds pretty discouraging,” said Dad. He held up his hands for a pass.
“I should have passed!” Luca said. “I prayed and everything. Dad, you said that Heavenly Father answers prayers. He definitely didn’t answer mine today!”
“Did you practice with your flash cards?” Dad asked.
“No.”
“Did you study?”
“No,” said Luca. “But I prayed all week!”
Dad dribbled the ball and looked at Luca. “Well, multiplication is kind of like basketball. How did you get so good at basketball?”
“I practiced,” said Luca.
“Yes, and so when we pray for Heavenly Father to help you before your games, we’re not praying for Him to magically make you a better basketball player. What do we pray for?”
“For me to remember what I practiced,” Luca said.
“Right. Prayer works best when we do our part and also ask Heavenly Father to help us.”
“So my part is studying my flash cards?” Luca asked.
“Exactly,” said Dad, passing the ball back to Luca.
Luca heaved a big sigh and took a shot. The ball bounced off the rim. “So … I should study hard and ask Heavenly Father to help me.”
“There you go!” said Dad. “Now, are you ready for a little one-on-one?”
Luca grinned and stole the ball from Dad. “Sure! As long as you help me study at the same time.”
“You’re on,” said Dad. “Six times five is?”
“Thirty!” Luca took another shot. This time it swished through the hoop.
Between practice and prayer, maybe he would become a Multiplication Master after all.

I never forgot Elder Lee’s advice. I came to Salt Lake City, Utah, on furlough and went to the Salt Lake Temple. After I left the military and went to college, I saved money for a mission. During my mission, I was able to open the Okinawa area, where my father was from, for missionary work. Later, serving as president of the Tokyo Temple, I had the wonderful blessing of seeing many of the Japanese Saints receive their temple endowments. Seeing the joy in the faces of those being sealed was a great blessing.

During that week the missionaries’ preaching brought success. On Wednesday they interviewed a Mr. Wilkeson, who was a leader in the Mount Pleasant Methodist group. “He could not stand our words,” the diary reads. “Whether he will receive the truth the Lord only knows. He seemed honest.” Thursday, a wet day, their preaching at Weathersford drew only a small congregation. But at Mount Pleasant that evening a fine meeting developed: “One man, [Eleazer] Nickerson declared his full belief in the truth of the work. Is with his wife who is also convinced to be baptized on Sunday. Great excitement prevails in every place where we have been. The result we leave in the hand of God.”

It was impossible to cheer up Aunt Mabel. I’d been with her all day, and she hadn’t even come close to smiling. I handed the mail to her and said, “A magazine and a letter from Cousin Ellen.”
“But no surprise package from anyone,” Aunt Mabel said. “What a bad day.” She set the mail on the table in the dark hall and turned to me. “Shall we go for a little walk, Judy?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, happy to get out of her gloomy house. When we stepped outside, I smiled up at the blue sky. “What a bright, sunny day,” I said.
Aunt Mabel glared at the sky. “It’s too bright. It makes me squint. Now I’ll get more wrinkles. What a bad day.”
I looked down and saw something shiny on the sidewalk. “Look! A penny,” I said, stooping to pick it up.
“Too bad it’s not a dime or a quarter,” Aunt Mabel said.
We walked to the park and Aunt Mabel sat on a bench under a big, leafy tree. “Isn’t it nice here in the shade?” I asked.
Aunt Mabel shook her head, gazing uneasily at the branches.
“Those leaves are probably full of caterpillars, and one might fall on me. What a bad day.”
I sighed and sat next to Aunt Mabel, but no caterpillars fell from the tree. After a few minutes, Aunt Mabel stood up. “Let’s be on our way,” she said.
We walked beside a garden that was filled with big yellow and orange flowers. “Mmmm,” I said. “Don’t those flowers smell sweet!”
Aunt Mabel rubbed her nose. “Makes my nose twitch,” she said, hurrying past the garden. “What a bad day.”
I slowed down and breathed in the sweet fragrance. My nose wasn’t twitching. I watched Aunt Mabel walk along the path and wondered how I could cheer her up. Skipping along, I caught up with her. “At least the sun’s not in our eyes, now,” I said, watching our shadows stretch before us.
Aunt Mabel buttoned her sweater. “Now the sun is hot on my back, but I’m cold in front. What a bad day.”
“We’re almost home,” I said as we turned the corner and Aunt Mabel’s house came into view. “You have a pretty house.”
Aunt Mabel looked up at her house. “It’s old,” she said. “The floor boards creak and groan.”
We climbed the steps and sat on the porch swing. “Shall I get us some lemonade?” I asked. Aunt Mabel nodded.
I carried two glasses of lemonade out to the porch. I knew what Aunt Mabel would say, and sure enough, after one sip she said it: “This lemonade is too sour. What a bad day.”
I was thirsty and drank mine right down. I thought it tasted pretty good. At last Mom’s car pulled up in front of the house, and I jumped up to leave.
“Did you have a nice visit?” she asked. I just shrugged. I didn’t want to lie and say I’d had a great time.
Aunt Mabel stood up and kissed Mom on the cheek. Then she gave me a hug. I hugged her, too, and she said, “Ouch! Watch out for these old bones!” I backed away.
“Did you have a good day visiting with your niece?” Mom asked her.
I waited for Aunt Mabel to tell Mom what a bad day she’d had.
“I had a very good day,” Aunt Mabel said. “It was nice to have someone to tell my troubles to.”
Mom and I got in the car, and before we drove away, I waved to Aunt Mabel. She waved back, and I was sure she actually smiled at me.
“You certainly cheered Aunt Mabel up,” Mom said.
“Yes,” I said. “What a bad-good day we had.”

When I was asked to lead a discussion in Relief Society on the Savior’s invitation to feed His sheep, I decided that if I wanted to motivate the sisters, I should do something for one of His sheep.
I gathered up my courage and invited a less-active sister to come to a Relief Society activity with me. She accepted my invitation and we had an enjoyable time. I felt that this was a good example, and I was eager to share my experience. But the Lord had more to teach me.
One morning while getting dressed, I realized that my silver bracelet was missing. This bracelet was given to me as a birthday present while I was visiting France, so it has special meaning to me. I began searching for it in the most likely places, but I couldn’t find it. I then told myself that if I just prayed, I would be able to find my bracelet quickly.
After I prayed, I looked everywhere. For two days I prayed intently and searched intensely. I pled with Heavenly Father to help me find it, but I still couldn’t find it. My heart was heavy because this bracelet was precious to me.
One evening my son prayed with me at my bedside. After our prayer, he picked something up and handed it to me. It was my bracelet! He had found it under the bed. I somehow must have missed it in my search. I cried for joy to have it back again.
Suddenly, an impression came to me: “Do you pray just as earnestly for your sisters in the Church? Are they as precious to you as your bracelet? What about your sisters outside the Church? Do you also pray for them?”
When I shared my experience with my missing bracelet in Relief Society, we had a beautiful discussion. I told the sisters that I had learned that when the Savior asks us to feed His sheep, we must remember that “the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 18:10). He wants us to be mindful of those around us and to love, care, and pray with all our energy for them. As we do so, we will find that everyone is far more precious than a silver bracelet.

Not long ago I learned of the passing of James Womack, the patriarch of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake. He had served long and had blessed ever so many lives. Years before, President Spencer W. Kimball shared with President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Bruce R. McConkie, and me an experience he had in the appointment of a patriarch for the Shreveport Louisiana Stake of the Church. President Kimball described how he interviewed, how he searched, and how he prayed, that he might learn the Lord’s will concerning the selection. For some reason, none of the suggested candidates was the man for this assignment at this particular time.
The day wore on; the evening meetings began. Suddenly President Kimball turned to the stake president and asked him to identify a particular man seated perhaps two-thirds of the way back from the front of the chapel. The stake president replied that the individual was James Womack, whereupon President Kimball said: “He is the man the Lord has selected to be your stake patriarch. Please have him meet with me in the high council room following the meeting.”
Stake president Charles Cagle was startled, for James Womack did not wear the label of a typical man. He had sustained terrible injuries while in combat during World War II. He lost both hands and part of an arm, as well as most of his eyesight and part of his hearing. Nobody had wanted to let him into law school when he returned, yet he finished third in his class at Louisiana State University.
That evening as President Kimball met with Brother Womack and informed him that the Lord had designated him to be the patriarch, there was a protracted silence in the room. Then Brother Womack said: “Brother Kimball, it is my understanding that a patriarch is to place his hands on the head of the person he blesses. As you can see, I have no hands to place on the head of anyone.”
Brother Kimball, in his kind and patient manner, invited Brother Womack to stand behind the chair on which Brother Kimball was seated. He then said, “Now, Brother Womack, lean forward and see if the stumps of your arms will reach the top of my head.” To Brother Womack’s joy, they touched Brother Kimball’s head, and the exclamation came forth, “I can reach you! I can reach you!”
“Of course you can reach me,” responded Brother Kimball. “And if you can reach me, you can reach any whom you bless. I will probably be the shortest person you will ever have seated before you.”
President Kimball reported to us that when the name of James Womack was presented to the stake conference, “the hands of the members shot heavenward in an enthusiastic vote of approval.”
Remembered were the words of the Lord to the prophet Samuel at the time David was designated to be a future king of Israel: “Man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”

Luck is a marvelous thing. I know. It kept me out of a number of scrapes when I was a beginning driver of a big car.
My greatest challenge was maneuvering in our two-car driveway, especially when the other car had been parked too close to the center. Then I was faced with the white Oldsmobile on one side and a one-foot concrete retaining wall on the other.
Usually luck was on my side of the driveway, but one Saturday morning it just didn’t hold out. As my sister and I drove up the sloping hill into the driveway, we heard a grinding noise not unlike that of a demolition crew at work.
“Stop, Michelle!” Anne screamed. “You’ve hit the wall!”
“I have not!” I insisted, but I put my foot on the brake. The grinding stopped.
“Okay, Anne, so maybe I nicked the wall, but all I need to do is pull forward and …”
The car didn’t move. The back left wheel scraped itself into a spin, but the car didn’t move.
“Stop! I’m going to get Dad.”
“Don’t you dare. If I can’t go forward, I can always go backward …”
Fortunately for Anne, me, and the wall, I didn’t have a chance to shift into reverse. With a sudden thrust, the back wheel spun free and the scraping stopped.
“I’m going to tell Dad.” She hopped out of the car and ran into the house.
Surveying the damage, I had to admit that a demolition crew could not have done a better job. The one-foot wall had been reduced to a half-foot mound of concrete Legos.
As I walked slowly up the stairs to the front door, I remembered what was now the second worst disaster of my life.
Anne was a baby then; Matt, Mike, and I were six, three, and five. We three older children were playing in the boys’ bedroom when we decided to go sailing.
Three empty dresser drawers made great boats, but the carpet around them looked like a still blue lake, and we wanted a stormy ocean. Soon the floor was covered with toy, clothing, and blanket waves.
We were deep-sea fishing when we noticed Dad standing in the doorway.
He didn’t say a word. It was our worst mess ever, and he didn’t say a word. He simply started to help us put our waves away.
That was 12 years ago, I reminded myself. But there Dad stood in the front doorway. He was holding a garbage can, a push broom, and a dustpan. “Uh, Dad …” I began.
He didn’t say a word. It was my worst mess ever, and he didn’t say a word. He must have understood that right then I needed acceptance more than condemnation; I had already condemned myself. He just handed me the broom, and together we went down to the driveway.

About 10 years before I joined the Church in 1976, I had a dream. In my dream I saw my father, who had been dead for some time. He called me by my nickname, “Mya, you will later do something in a foreign country that will be very important for your family.” It was a dream I could never forget—what did my father mean?
It was a remarkable day when the missionaries knocked on my door for the first time. I had always been very open and ready to listen to everyone who wanted to talk about religion, but I would often try to contradict and ask a lot of questions. But this time, it was like God was telling me: “Now listen! Don’t interrupt them, just listen!” I wanted to find the right place, the right church, so I listened.
After they left, I paced the floor and kept saying, “Truly, these are the servants of the Lord! I can feel it.” I listened to them and learned from them. Many things I hadn’t understood before started opening up for me, but nothing had as much effect on me as did their teaching about baptism for the dead.
I decided, after a few lessons, that I would be baptized. But it was not easy—I stayed awake many nights and prayed. Whenever I prayed I found peace and felt as if the arms of the Lord were holding me.
My five children were positive and supportive of my decision to be baptized, but my husband was very much against it. He gave his permission, but it became very obvious how much he was against it after I was baptized. Even my friends criticized me for turning against my husband, but somehow I always received the strength I needed.
When I had been a member of the Church for only six months, I was called to be the first Icelandic Relief Society president. It was a difficult time, but I knew I was serving the Lord. There was no one to teach me what to do—we were all so new. We had a manual and a handbook in English, but they were of no use to me because I could not speak or understand that language. Sister Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir translated the lessons each week for the teachers. That was the first Church material I had ever seen in Icelandic! I loved getting those lessons, and I read them over and over again. As I look back, I think that perhaps the best times were when it was most difficult—it was then that I had to get on my knees and seek the Lord.
Throughout my life, I had always been very interested in my family history. After I became a member of the Church, I had another dream. In this dream, I was receiving some guests—very distinguished people. I had prepared a salmon, but I needed to put some plates on the table for the guests. There was always some interruption when I tried to add more plates, but I knew there should be many more. I awoke for a time after the dream but still felt very sleepy. I went to sleep again—and the dream was repeated. I felt I was being told that I had the salmon (which I understood represented the gospel)—I just needed to make it ready for others. I knew that I needed to get names to the temple!
That was the beginning of many hours in the family history library, searching out family records. Time did not exist while I was working there. I had a distant goal of some day being able to take these records to the temple, but I was afraid I would never realize this goal because of the language barrier.
I was so excited when I heard that the temple ceremony had been translated into Icelandic! For 19 years I had worked on my genealogy but never dared to dream that I would be able to go to the temple. And now—somehow—I had the feeling that I was not worthy, and I was afraid my husband would never allow me to go. I watched as members of the branch planned for the trip and went for their temple recommend interviews.
When President Ólafur called me into his office one Sunday and asked why I hadn’t asked for a temple recommend, I told him of my fears and misgivings. He said, “Why do you judge yourself so harshly? Will you believe you are worthy if I, as a servant of the Lord, tell you that you can go?” President Ólafur also told me he would visit with my husband to ask him permission for me to go. I was so happy when I left his office, I embraced everyone I saw. I was still happy when I got home, but the fear came back. I told my husband what had happened, and he said, “Of course you will go!”
When I finally entered the temple in London, my father’s words in that dream 29 years earlier suddenly became clear to me. Here I was, in a foreign country, prepared to do temple ordinances for my ancestors. There are not words to describe the feeling I had at that time. When I came into the celestial room after my own endowment, I felt like Simeon of old when he saw the child Jesus in the temple (see Luke 2:29–30). I, too, felt that after this experience, I could die in peace.
Truly, this was a dream come true!

Second, a quorum is a fraternity. In the October general conference of 1982, Elder Robert L. Backman recounted the experience of a young man named Mark Peterson. Shortly after his ordination as a deacon, the deacons quorum presidency scheduled an appointment with Mark and his parents at their home.
“Promptly at the hour set, the doorbell rang. The members of the presidency stood on the porch, dressed in suits, white shirts, and ties, and each one carrying his scriptures.
“Sitting down with Mark and his parents, they began with prayer, then handed an agenda to everyone there.
“The president then opened the scriptures, having Mark and his father read those references which speak of the power of the Aaronic Priesthood, what it is, and the particular duties of a deacon.
“The president then spoke about Mark’s particular responsibilities and duties: how he should dress, how he should pass the sacrament, act as a messenger, collect fast offerings. And then they asked him if he had any questions.
“At the end of the visit they welcomed him to the quorum and offered help whenever he needed it. As they left, Mark … said to his Dad: ‘They were awesome!’”

One of the first people Rambo wanted to share the gospel with was her sister Agnes. She invited Agnes to church. “When I first went to church,” says Agnes, who is two years older than Rambo, “I was pretty bored. I liked to talk to the missionaries, but I didn’t like to talk about the Church. But Rambo would try to help me understand more about the gospel. Finally I decided to investigate the Church because Belle was so serious and made so many sacrifices for the Church, and I could see what the Church was beginning to mean to Rambo.”
And so the sharing went: Two missionaries talked to Belle. Belle joined the Church and began fellowshipping Rambo. Rambo was baptized and began talking about the gospel with Agnes and Simon. Agnes and Simon were baptized, and they were followed by Mandy, the Wongs’ oldest daughter, and May, Angela, and their parents.

As you trust in the Lord and His goodness, the Almighty God will bless His children through you. Elder Hollings from Nevada learned that early in his mission. The day after he arrived in India, he traveled with Sister Funk and me to Rajahmundry, his first area. That afternoon Elder Hollings and Elder Ganaparam went to visit a Church member and her mother. The mother wanted to learn about the Church because she had seen how the gospel blessed the life of her daughter. Sister Funk joined them to provide fellowship. Because the lesson would be taught in English and the mother spoke only Telugu, a brother in the branch was there to interpret what was taught.

Elder Hollings’s assignment in his very first teaching appointment was to teach the First Vision, using the words of the Prophet Joseph. At that point in the lesson, he turned to Sister Funk and asked, “Should I say it word for word?” knowing it would be interpreted.

She replied, “Say it word for word so the Spirit can testify of what you say.”

When this new missionary sincerely taught the First Vision, using the words of the Prophet, the countenance of that dear sister changed. Tears appeared. As Elder Hollings finished that glorious message and before what he said could be interpreted, she asked through her tears in her native language, “May I be baptized? And will you teach my son?”

My young fellow servants, doors and hearts open daily to the gospel message—a message that brings hope and peace and joy to the children of God throughout the world. If you are humble and obedient and hearken to the voice of the Spirit, you will find great happiness in your service as a missionary. What a wonderful season it is to be a missionary—a time when the Lord is hastening His work!