Gospel Story Finder

I had looked forward to Sunday afternoon all week. Resting on a bench in our backyard, I listened to some soft music. As I sat there, I felt impressed to write in my journal.
The thought came to me to bear my testimony. It seemed like a great idea for something to write. I began to scribble down the feelings in my heart.
I started with the common things most people believe in. I believe the Church is true. I believe that we have a living prophet. I honestly did believe these things were true, although I didn’t know if I had a real testimony.
Then something unusual happened. I decided to write that I believed that the Book of Mormon was true. I started to write, but something didn’t feel right. I had read the entire Book of Mormon, and I had developed a great belief that it was true. But at that moment, I had to think about that belief.
I continued writing my testimony onto the page. I again stopped to think when I was about to write that I believed Heavenly Father answers prayers. Several times in my life, a prayer had been answered immediately. I knew prayers were answered.
Reading over my testimony, my attitudes began to change about what a testimony is. I realized I had always had a testimony of the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was a quiet testimony that had always been there until at this moment it had become just strong enough for me to know it was there.
I used to think that a testimony came suddenly, like a brilliant burst of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost in the heart. I never realized that a testimony could develop quietly and gently.
My testimony had been growing, almost without my knowing it, until I took the time to discover it was there.

I don’t think I had ever even seen a homeless person until I moved to Puerto Rico with my family before my junior year of high school. Then the day after Christmas, the youth and leaders of my ward gathered at the church building to put together boxes of food to distribute to the homeless people who live on the streets of Old San Juan.
I had been to Old San Juan several times, but there weren’t any homeless people out during the day, or else I just hadn’t noticed them. When we arrived in the city, each of us set out with one box and the hope we would find someone who needed what we had to offer.
To my surprise, it wasn’t difficult. The first man we saw was selling little bags of tostones that his wife had made. When we asked him if he could use the food we had, he smiled and took it, thanking us until we were too far away to hear him. Before we left, he handed us a bag of his snacks to show his appreciation.
After giving away four of our boxes, we had only one box left. We got in the car and decided we would keep our eyes out for someone. It was getting late, and we needed to get back to the wardhouse.
As we were driving, one of the girls in the car told the driver to stop. “Do you see that guy over there?” she asked.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t look homeless.”
“I know, but I have seen him three times tonight, and he’s just been walking around.”
With that, she jumped out of the car and yelled, “Necesita comida?” or “Do you need food?”
The sweetest, most sincere smile I have ever seen came to his face as she handed him the box, covered with Christmas wrapping and filled with food.
A tear fell down his cheek as he said, “Feliz Navidad!” We could tell by his “Merry Christmas” greeting that one box filled with crackers, apples, and juice made a difference in his life.

“I had a chance for a job at the beginning of the summer,” said one of the girls sitting on the grass at the main camp. She paused as the squeals from the canoe races drifted up from the waterfront. “I told them that if I couldn’t come to camp, I didn’t want the job. That’s what it means to me.”
Had it been worth it, you might be tempted to ask, and the answer, not from one voice but from 620, is a resounding yes!

Speaking of Brigham Young has reminded me of the Perpetual Education Fund which we have established. It was only a year ago that I first spoke of this in our general conference. The contributions of generous Latter-day Saints have come in to assure us that this endeavor is now on a solid foundation. We will need more yet, but already it has been demonstrated that vast good will come of this undertaking. Young men and women in the underprivileged areas of the world, young men and women who for the most part are returned missionaries, will be enabled to get good educations that will lift them out of the slough of poverty in which their forebears for generations have struggled. They will marry and go forward with skills that will qualify them to earn well and take their places in society where they can make a substantial contribution. They will likewise grow in the Church, filling positions of responsibility and rearing families who will continue in the faith.

I have time to read only one testimonial. It comes from a young man who has been blessed by this program.

He says: “It is so wonderful that I do not have to just dream anymore about my education or my future. The Lord has cleared the way, and I am doing it!
“I am currently attending a great technical institute in our country, where I am studying to become a computer technician. … By going to school, I am discovering my abilities. The discipline I developed on my mission helps me to succeed. … Never before has any young man felt more blessed than I do. The PEF has strengthened my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Now, more than ever, I feel the responsibility the gospel places upon me to prepare myself to be a better member, a better leader, and a better father. …
“My dear mother, who has sacrificed so much, gets so emotional that she cries when she prays at night because of her gratitude to the Lord. …
“Now, I envision my town being blessed because of me. I envision the Church with leaders who have financial stability and who can support the Lord’s work with all their might, mind, and strength. I see the Church prospering. I am excited to start my own family and teach them that we can be self-sufficient. So I must finish my education. I will then repay the loan quickly to help my fellowmen. … I am grateful for the Savior’s mercy. He truly sustains us with His love.”

And so it goes, my brothers and sisters. As this great work moves across the earth, we are blessing now some 2,400 young people. Others will be blessed.

Basketball was just about everything to me when I was in high school. I ate, drank, slept basketball and relished being a starter and "star" on the varsity team. Knowing how much all this meant to me, my Mom and Dad gave me a most unique Christmas gift my senior year in high school--a gift that I will never forget and will always cherish. It probably didn't cost much money. I had received much more expensive gifts and all kinds of electronic gadgets that have long since been forgotten and are now moldering and rusting in some garbage dump. This gift was truly priceless, because it could never be replaced and it represented my parents' deep love for me.

My mother found a ceramic figurine of a basketball player in the dime store (for you youngsters not familiar with the term "dime store" just think of it as pre-Wal-Mart). She had it sandblasted and the paint stripped from it and then repainted it with my school colors, my jersey number on it, and my name on the back. The player even looked like me--same hair color and style--and extremely handsome and very buff--a real "hottie!" She even had our high school logo painted on the basketball the player was holding. Mom then placed the little figurine in a box and wrapped it in my school colors. It was really a cool gift! I kept it in my bedroom, took it to my dorm room when I went away to college, displayed in our apartment after we were married, moved it from house to house, and it finally landed permanently in my office when I started my teaching career. It meant so much to me. It was truly unique--because no one had one like it, but more than that, it was symbolic of the love my parents had for me.

While serving with me in South Africa, Sister Wood learned that through the generosity of a member of the Church in Salt Lake, a number of keyboards could be made available to members in our area. In the black township of Soweto, few members had any kind of musical training. When Ann learned of this, with the permission of the stake president, she began traveling to the Soweto ward to teach as many students as could be accommodated with the keyboards.

Every Tuesday, a missionary couple would drive her to the chapel where she would begin teaching them as a group, the rudiments and technical foundations of music, i.e. how to read music, metrical headings, meters, measures, time signatures and downbeats, and how to play hymns from the beginning book for the course. Then each student would retire to a different room for a period of personal practice on their own keyboard. She would then move from room to room, listening, correcting and helping each student. She gave similar instructions to those who wanted to lead and direct music.

Some students struggled. It was not easy for all of them. Gradually, the fruits of effort matured. Prelude music began to be played more frequently before meetings began. A very small repertoire of hymns could be sung to new accompaniments. There were more choristers who could count and lead with correct time signatures. Choristers and accompanists took turns, mistakes were forgiven, and growth and progress were so obvious that the whole congregation became a supporting and rooting section for their newborn musicians.

Other couple missionaries began doing the same thing in other mission locations, and recently, a couple has been called to carry on this musical training in Africa where students now number in the hundreds.

There is so much each one of us can do with the gifts with which the Lord has blessed us if we can catch the vision and open our hearts to those who have so much less or whose needs can so easily be met by our willingness to share.

He also served several missionary assignments, accompanying American missionaries to other areas for proselyting. On one of these journeys, Opapo, his long-time friend Elisala, and one of two American missionaries went to the island of Manu‘a. Upon arriving they found that the local king, Tuimanu‘a, had forbidden anyone from receiving or assisting the Latter-day Saints in any way—the punishment for disobedience was immediate stoning. However, the missionaries were determined to succeed and stayed for two months, eating fallen coconuts from the beaches and sleeping each night in holes. They covered their heads with leaves to protect themselves from the mosquitoes, each one taking a turn nightly to help the others arrange their leaves and then unassisted himself, suffering from bites the rest of the night.
After several weeks of this grueling ordeal, Opapo was awakened by the smell of some freshly baked food in a nearby basket. The missionaries did not know whether through a human or a divine source; but after weeks of coconuts, they were profoundly grateful. Near the end of their stay the incident was repeated when an elderly woman brought them some food, saying that if she had to die for her kindness, she would, but she did not fear Tuimanu‘a.
A few weeks later, after exhausting every possible avenue, the missionaries prepared to depart. Ceremonially, Opapo and Elisala spoke directly to Tuimanu‘a and his people, warning them that they would feel the wrath and power of God if they did not repent. As his last act before boarding the longboat, Opapo paused at the edge of the village and dusted off his feet as a witness against the island. A couple of weeks later a devastating hurricane struck the island, killing many, destroying all of the crops above ground, and leveling every house except one—the fale (hut) in which lived the elderly lady who had helped the missionaries.
It is true that miracles strengthen the faith of believers but do not necessarily give faith to the unbelieving. It was not until 1974 that a branch was actually organized in Manu’a. On the other hand, the Saints to whom Opapo returned heard of the incident and increased in faithfulness.

Richy Judd, who recently returned from serving in the Ohio Cleveland Mission, says one of his most memorable experiences in the temple happened when he was the one baptizing and confirming.
“I went to the temple with the youth one more time before my mission, when I had already received my endowment,” he explains. “I actually got to do the baptizing and confirming, and it just really got me excited to go out there and baptize and confirm people. I wanted to find the families I was supposed to teach and bring into the Church.” And every time he baptized someone on his mission, “I’d remember being at the temple as a teenager,” he adds.
Richy says going to the temple reminded him how important it was to stay worthy. It motivated him to make right choices. When his bishop and stake president interviewed him before ordaining him an elder, Richy could confidently say that he was living all of the standards. “It made the transition a lot easier,” he says.

In 1836 Parley P. Pratt went to Canada following a great prophecy uttered by Heber C. Kimball in which Brother Pratt was instructed to go to Toronto. He was told that he would there find people waiting for him who would receive the gospel, and that from there the gospel would spread into England, where a great work would be done. In Toronto he found President John Taylor, the Fieldings, and many others.

In August of the next year, 1837, the Prophet Joseph Smith, with Sidney Rigdon and Thomas B. Marsh, then President of the Twelve Apostles, visited Toronto. Riding in a carriage and holding evening meetings by candlelight, they visited the churches. Elder Taylor accompanied them. He said: “This was as great a treat to me as I ever enjoyed. I had daily opportunities of conversing with them, of listening to their instructions, and in participating in the rich stores of intelligence that flowed continually from the Prophet Joseph.”

When I was a mission president in Australia, I once said to those of my missionaries in Tasmania: “Tomorrow we shall climb Mt. Wellington and hold our missionary meeting on the top. We shall there seek to commune with the Lord and partake of his Spirit.”

We made the climb, and while on top of the peak we visited a television broadcasting station. A bright young man explained to us in words I had never heard, and using principles I could not and do not understand, how the sounds and scenes of television were broadcast into the valley below.

That night, back in the city of Hobart, my two young sons and I sat before a television set that was tuned to the proper wave band, and we saw and heard and experienced what had been described to us in words.

Now I think this illustrates perfectly what is involved in the receipt of revelation and the seeing of visions. We can read about visions and revelations in the records of the past, we can study the inspired writings of people who had the fullness of the gospel in their day, but we cannot comprehend what is involved until we see and hear and experience for ourselves.

You remember the little story President Grant used to tell about the Scandinavian brother who was converted and came over to America. He hadn’t been taught too much about the Church. So the bishop went to him to teach him the law of tithing. He finally agreed to pay his tithing. Then the bishop wanted some fast offerings. He agreed to the fast offering. Then they wanted to build a chapel. The man thought that ought to come out of the tithing, but before the bishop got through with him, he had paid his donation for the chapel. Then the bishop went to him to ask his son to go on a mission. He said, “You are finally asking more than I am willing to give.” Then this bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, whom do you love in this world more than anyone else, aside from your own family?” He thought a minute and said, “I guess I love that Mormon elder who came up to the Land of the Midnight Sun and taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Then the bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, how would you like somebody to love your boy just like you love that missionary?” He said, “Bishop, you win again. Take him.”

You just cannot get away from it.

Mother had been at the hospital late that night with Daddy. She told us that the doctors didn’t know for sure what was wrong with him. There was nothing to do but wait and see what tomorrow would bring.
Before we went to bed, Mother telephoned the hospital to check on Daddy one last time. A nurse told her that they would call her back in a few minutes since they had an emergency to take care of. We didn’t know it at the time, but the emergency was Daddy.
When the nurse called back, she asked Mother to come immediately. My brother, Lewis, and one of my sisters, Rebecca, said they would go with her. Tired and worried, I dressed for bed, but when I lay down, the Spirit said to me, “Get up—you’ve got to go.”
I ignored the voice, but it came again, stronger this time, and I didn’t argue. When we arrived at the hospital, Mother said, “I’ll go right into the intensive care unit and check on Daddy. I’ll be back in a minute.”
After a long time, she finally came out and said, “I can’t let you see your father in his condition. It would break his heart if he knew you saw him like that.”
We loudly protested, but she stood firm, saying, “No. Remember him the way he was.”
Surely Mother couldn’t mean that Daddy was dying! I was frantic with fear. Then my eyes fell on the Bible lying on the table. I took it and started reading. As I read, my attention was drawn to one verse in particular:
“For I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better” (Philip. 1:23).
When I finished reading, I knew Daddy must go. Lewis was now sobbing in the waiting room. My younger sister, Rebecca, was telling me how it hurt her to see Lewis cry, and how hard it would be to not see Daddy here in the hospital. My older sister, MaryAnn, and my two brothers, Karl and Michael, were still at home, anxiously awaiting news from Mother. Oh, what awful news to hear!
After shedding many tears, we all sat on a couch and drifted in and out of fitful, uneasy sleep. I remember thinking: It can’t end this way. Something has to happen to let us know he’ll miss us and to give us comfort in the years ahead.
When I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed that Daddy was standing in the doorway, dressed all in white. He was crying, but I knew he was happy. He raised his hand and whispered, “Bye-bye, kiddies.”
I didn’t want him to go, but I awoke suddenly and he was gone. He died later that night.
I woke up the next morning in my own bed, barely remembering that friends had taken us home from the hospital the night before. I sat up in my bed and looked around the room. I knew something was wrong, and then I remembered: Daddy died last night. I sank back down on my pillow, already damp with tears, and cried some more.
The days after the funeral were the hardest: setting the table with only seven plates, hearing my mother softly crying in the night, and seeing his chair—empty. Where was the father I loved so much? Then I remembered my dream of his tearful good bye, and the scripture, “Having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better.”
Yes, he would be with us in spirit whenever we needed him, memories of him bringing us great comfort. Knowing that he was with Christ made it easier for me to bear my sorrow.

In addition to appreciating similarities, we can welcome differences with curiosity instead of fear. When I was an undergraduate student at BYU, my best friend, Melody, was an international student from China with different religious beliefs. Our initial encounters involved laughter about language differences and getting through Economics 110, but our friendship grew because we had fun being together. What started with time as roommates and our first trip to New York turned into a lifetime of friendship and adventures in Asia and elsewhere.

As a young mother, I felt strongly that my husband and I should take our son to church. Although we had never discussed religion, we both believed in God. So I prayed, infrequently at first, that God would help me to know which church to attend.
When our first child was four years old, we had another son. I still didn’t know which church to join, but my prayers began to be more frequent and sincere.
Eighteen months later, my prayers became fervent. We were living in an apartment building in Davenport, Iowa. I loved to read, but I had read everything in our home. A new family from California had just moved in across the hall from us. I decided to get acquainted with my new neighbor: perhaps she had something good to read.
As soon as our son had left for school, I went visiting. After introductions and some casual conversation, I told her why I had come. She said they hadn’t had room in their rental truck to move their books, so they had had to leave them behind. However, she did have one book with her. It was the Book of Mormon.
My neighbor asked me if I had ever heard of the Mormons and I said, “Only what I learned in history class about Brigham Young leading pioneers to Utah.” Then she asked me if I liked history, and I replied yes. Then I would like the Book of Mormon, she said, because it was a history of some early Americans. I was excited since I had often wondered about the American Indians and where they had come from. She then began to tell me about Joseph Smith and how he had found golden plates and translated them. I was fascinated.
I was quite surprised to discover that my neighbor was not a member of the Church. Missionaries had taught her the gospel in California and she was sure it was true, but she felt unable to live the Word of Wisdom. “Be sure to read the Joseph Smith story first,” she told me. “You may borrow this Book of Mormon, but I want it back when you are finished.”
As I read Joseph Smith’s story, it was as though I were there with him, and I knew it was true. My neighbor checked in on me occasionally and was glad to hear that I believed what I was reading.
When I was about halfway through the book, I had to return it because we were moving. I didn’t want to give the book back, but my neighbor told me that I could call the missionaries and they would be glad to bring me a Book of Mormon of my own.
After we moved, I thought about calling the missionaries, but I kept delaying it. “Well, if this is really God’s true church,” I rationalized, “they will find me.”
One morning, as I was getting our son ready for school, I yelled at him, which was something I just never did. I immediately apologized, but I could see the hurt in his eyes. As he left, I watched him out the window, walking down the sidewalk with his head hanging down. He was usually so happy. I felt terrible, and in tears, I fell to my knees, begging Heavenly Father to forgive me. After praying for quite a while, I again asked God to please let me know in some way if the Book of Mormon was true and if this was his true church.
At ten o’clock that morning, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to see two young men dressed in suits. They told me that they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I invited them in. Before long, they told me that when they prayed that morning asking to be guided to those who were seeking the truth, they had felt inspired to come to this area. At first they thought they must be wrong since this area had been tracted several times, but they both felt inspired to return, so they did.
I was baptized about two weeks later. Eighteen years later, my husband was also baptized; he served in the branch presidency, and we were sealed in the temple.
I am thankful for the Book of Mormon and for missionaries who were in tune with the Spirit enough that they knew where to find the one who was praying for their visit.

by Gary Goodrich
My friend, Don Crowther, and I were double-dating together one evening last fall, and the Friday night star show we had intended to see at the planetarium was sold out. After a few minutes of discussing what we could do, the suggestion was made by my date, Carol, that we go to Temple Square. We were all in favor—it seemed right.
As we entered the temple block, Carol and I were so involved talking that when Don and his date stopped on the sidewalk in front of us, we almost walked right over them. He and his date, Marilyn, had stopped in front of the visitors’ center to talk with a family of three teenage girls and their parents. I wondered if they were friends of Don’s, but just then I heard him ask them if they would like a tour.
“How much will it cost?” they asked.
“Nothing; it’s free, and it’ll be our pleasure!”
My eyes met Don’s, and I silently laughed. He was always so good-humored, so friendly and open. He never hesitated to start conversations with people—even strangers. I always knew Don would make an excellent missionary. We led our new friends into the visitors’ center and looked around for one of the regular guides. They were all busy with other groups. Don looked at me.
“Ready to direct a tour?” he asked.
We walked over to a large, beautifully colored panel depicting six dispensations since Adam. Don explained the first pictures. Our tourists were interested. While they carefully listened to him, my friend lifted his voice in eloquent description. Don was a practiced speaker, and his voice carried a most appealing tone. He had the conviction of a true and heartfelt testimony of the reality of God the Father, his Son, Jesus Christ, and the restored gospel.
A few other tourists ambled by, paying only slight attention to our presentation. Then Don announced that I would explain the next scene of Noah and his ancient family. I assumed the front and center position of teacher, and as clearly as I could, expressed what I knew about Noah. I tried to emphasize the importance of strictly obeying all of God’s commandments, in our time as well as Noah’s.
We and our new friends moved on, and I noticed Marilyn who was Don’s date. I could see a gleam of warm pride shine in her eyes as Don pointed out the various pictures on the wall. She, too, decided to involve herself by chatting with the visiting girls. Suddenly Marilyn brought to our attention the fact that nobody had been introduced. After I learned all the Cromwells’ names, I shook Mr. Cromwell’s hand and asked where they were from.
“Kansas,” they replied simultaneously. Now a suspicion formed in my mind.
“You’re all LDS, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Cromwell, “we’re Baptists.” I looked at Carol, and she just smiled at me. Then Don suggested that we all go upstairs. At the top of the stairs we beheld the majestic Christus. The huge statue is posed in a loving stance that seems to shield all its admirers from earthly care.
Our little party maneuvered into a side room that contains a glass case exhibit of the Sacred Grove. Here Don related the story of Joseph Smith. He explained vividly the details of Joseph’s vision. Don expressed how significant this restoration of truth was to all of us. I was awed at the good memory and good spirit of my friend, and noticed he used many lines from the missionary discussions we had been learning.
“I know this is true,” he announced, “because I’ve received a personal witness that it is from God! You can know of the truthfulness of the restored gospel too …”
I slipped downstairs to the information desk so I could buy five copies of the Book of Mormon. When I returned, all the girls were in tears, and Mr. Cromwell was intently listening to every word Don uttered.
Marilyn suggested that we include the film Man’s Search for Happiness in our tour. The Cromwells seemed to identify with the questions the movie brought up. They willingly considered the answers, too. After the movie was over, I felt an overwhelming sense of brotherhood for our new friends. I felt prompted to stand, and there and then I bore my witness to the Cromwells of the truths we had just seen.
Carol and Marilyn were suggesting to the family that they skip their upcoming plane trip home and remain in Utah for a while, but the Cromwells were on a tight schedule. We finally said goodbye. The Cromwells didn’t go, however, until we had given them each a Book of Mormon and an expression of our love.
The evening was over. Expressing her gratitude and happiness, Carol thanked me for the best date she’d ever had, but I wasn’t to be thanked. It was Don’s generous missionary spirit, the gift of testimony, and the opportunity we didn’t let pass us by that had made it the best date ever.

It happened by accident—literally.
After his wife hit a car in the parking lot at Caesar Rodney High School in Delaware, where they are both teachers and coaches, basketball coach Jeff Savage offered to pay for the damage.
“I told the young man who owned the car to get two estimates for the work to be done and I would give him a check for it,” says Coach Savage. He pretty much forgot about the incident, until the boy returned and gave him a check for $100.
“He told me the work had cost $100 less than the estimate, and that I should have the difference back. I was so impressed with this act that I told my team.”
After practice, three LDS boys on the team, Frankie Victory, Mark Lee, and Jason Badell, told him the boy was a member of the LDS church and had returned the money because he knew it was the right thing to do.
That small incident aroused the coach’s curiosity, a curiosity the boys were prepared to satisfy with missionary work.
The boys never missed an opportunity to show the coach how much they loved their religion. One day, for example, during a difficult practice, priest Mark Lee seemed to be having trouble holding on to the ball.
“I said ‘Lee, hold on to that ball like it was the Book of Mormon.’ Mark caught the next five passes,” says Coach Savage.
At the end-of-the-year basketball banquet, Frankie, Mark, and Jason, seized another opportunity to share their religion. They presented their coach with a gift, a Book of Mormon.
“We hope you’ll hold on to this book like you would hold on to a basketball,” read the inscription from the three boys.
The coach did more than that. Not only did he hold on to the book; he read it and believed it. Not long after he received his gift, he and his family were baptized.
Whether serving the Lord full-time, as Frankie is now doing in Tempe, Arizona; awaiting a mission call like Mark; or simply setting an example for their friends and teachers at school like Jason, these boys know the meaning of the phrase “Every member a missionary.”

Anyone passing the cottage of Emrys Davis on that autumn evening would have stopped to smell the aroma that was coming from the chimney. It was different from the usual smell of coal smoke. If they could have looked inside they would have seen an incident almost beyond belief.
But first, let us get acquainted with Mr. Emrys Davis. He was born and still lived in a little Welsh village that has a name that only Welshmen can pronounce. His life was quite simple. He worked as a clerk at a nearby colliery (coal mine), and several evenings a week he would visit the local pub and indulge in a pint of beer and watch his fellow villagers play billiards or throw darts.
There were other evenings when he stayed home and read his Bible, for deep inside Emrys Davis was a religious man. He had been approached on one occasion by the minister of a local church and invited to become a member. He had refused and had embarrassed the minister by saying that his sermons were pure “posh” and did not agree with the scriptures. That was several years ago and there had been no further invitations.
A tragedy had come into his life when his beloved wife of just two years had died at childbirth. Somehow, he could not bring himself to believe that he and Gwyneth whom he loved so well were separated forever.
Then one evening, as he was sitting by his fireside reading his Bible, a knock came at his door. Upon answering he faced two young men. Before he could even ask what they wanted, one of them said, “We are missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We would like to tell you of our church and doctrines.”
Emrys Davis was about to close the door in their faces, thinking to himself that their teachings would probably be more “posh,” when he took a second look at these young men. There was something different about them that he could not quite understand. He saw in their faces truthfulness, sincerity and courage.
Going against his stubborn Welsh background, he heard himself say, “Come on in.” As the flames from the fire reflected on their faces, these two young men unfolded for him a story that made his Bible come to life. What he thought would be just more “posh” was something that touched the chords of his whole being. At midnight the young men left with a sincere invitation from Emrys to return.
A few evenings later they returned and continued the gospel discussions. Then came that magical evening when the prayer of his heart was answered. The missionaries explained to him the law of eternal marriage, that he and his departed wife could be reunited through accepting and following the teachings of the gospel and by being sealed in the temple of the Lord.
His very soul seemed to come alive, and he knew he had found the truth. However, there was one encumbrance before he could be baptized: he loved his tobacco. The beer at the pub would be no problem, but through the years he had collected a variety of pipes for smoking. There were briars, meerschaums, and pipes from many different lands. They were part of his life.
He had requested baptism, but now he wondered if he had the courage to overcome this part of his life. Over his mantle were those pipes in a glass case. They looked down on him like an idol seeking worship.
That night he kneeled by his bedside and prayed for an answer. When the morning light broke over the Welsh hills, his answer came. The Lord had said through his prophet that tobacco was not good for man and that the Spirit of God would not dwell in an unclean tabernacle.
The next Sunday after sacrament meeting, Emrys Davis invited the members of his branch to his cottage. He had made Welsh cakes and lemonade, and after the refreshments were served, he asked for the attention of his guests.
“For some time,” he said, “I have faced a difficult problem, but tonight as we sang the closing hymn, the solution came to me. We sang, ‘Sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven.’” He then explained the problem of the pipes.
When he was through, he reached above the mantle and took down the case of pipes. One by one he dropped them into the fire and watched them being devoured by the flames.
On each side of him stood the missionaries and in back were the branch members. Outside the air was scented with briar and meerschaum, but inside was the Spirit of God.

When I was 14 years old, I began my first job, earning 2 U.S. dollars per hour as a construction laborer. The paycheck for my first week totaled 80 dollars. I wanted to buy an eight-track tape stereo, which was the newest music technology at the time. The full-function model I wanted cost 320 dollars. I excitedly shared with Mom and Dad my intent to purchase the stereo after completing four weeks of work.
My parents wisely taught, “It will take more than four weeks to earn enough money to buy that music player. You should express gratitude to God for His many blessings by paying 10 percent of your income as tithing. You will need to pay the government about 10 percent in taxes. And you should learn while young to obey the counsel of prophets in preparing financially for the future, including your mission; we suggest you set aside 30 percent of your earnings in a savings account.”
My teenage mind quickly calculated that if I did as my parents taught, I would have only 40 dollars each week to spend, which meant I would have to work at least two months to purchase my desired stereo. I found myself at a critical decision point—would obtaining material possessions be my priority, or would I sacrifice to pay tithing and set aside savings?
For the Strength of Youth counsels: “Pay [tithing] first, even when you think you do not have enough money to meet your other needs. Doing so will help you develop greater faith, overcome selfishness, and be more receptive to the Spirit.”2
I decided at age 14 to pay an honest tithing for the remainder of my life. I determined to follow the prophet in saving money for my mission and future education. This experience also taught me to distinguish between wants and needs. I wanted the newest technology, but I did not need it. So I decided to buy a much less expensive model with fewer functions, and it was still performing well when I left on my mission.

While preaching at a public meeting in Philadelphia, Hyde declared that he was on a mission to Jerusalem so that he could dedicate that land for the gathering of the Jews. He also mentioned that Mormon missionaries travel without purse or scrip and that he was looking for financial assistance for his mission. Afterward, a stranger gave him a purse of gold and asked that when he delivered his prayer in the Holy Land, he pray for the donor.30
Since he did not know the name of the donor, Hyde supplicated God during his prayer in Jerusalem to
look with favor upon all those through whose liberality I have been enabled to come to this land. . . . Particularly do Thou bless the stranger in Philadelphia, whom I never saw, but who sent me gold, with a request that I should pray for him in Jerusalem.31

The identity of the anonymous giver was not made public until 1924. During a sermon given in the Salt Lake Tabernacle, Nephi L. Morris32 mentioned the offering given by the stranger to Orson Hyde when Hyde was in Philadelphia. Two months later Morris received a letter from John F. Beck, who had been in the audience when Morris had spoken at the Tabernacle. Beck told him that the stranger in Philadelphia whom he had spoken about was his father, Joseph Ellison Beck. John Beck wrote the following in his letter to Morris:
My father . . . was the man who sent the purse of gold to Elder Orson Hyde, with which to bear his expenses on his mission to Palestine. He did not have much to say about it, but all our family knew very well that he did that generous deed. . . . He did not become rich, but always had money laid aside for a time of need. I have heard the prayer Elder Hyde offered up in his behalf, and am a witness that every feature of it was wonderfully fulfilled.33

Let me add a personal connection about Elder Hyde and the stranger who gave him gold. This past summer I was on a field trip with a group of BYU students in the Old City of Jerusalem. After talking about Orson Hyde and his achievements, I asked the students if any of them happened to be a descendant of Orson Hyde. Bryson Ensign, one of the students on the trip, raised his hand and told me he was a direct descendant.
I asked Bryson if he had anything he wanted to add about Elder Hyde. He said that one of his favorite family stories growing up was about the stranger who gave Hyde the purse of gold that helped finance his mission to Jerusalem. I was thrilled to tell him that my son-in-law Joseph Paul Beck was a direct descendant of the person who gave the gold to Orson Hyde.
I took advantage of my speaking assignment today by requesting that Joseph P. Beck offer the invocation for today’s meeting. Joseph is the great-great-grandson of Joseph Ellison Beck. I also asked if Bryson Ensign, the great-great-great-great-grandson of Orson Hyde, would offer the closing prayer. It is a fortuitous ancestral meeting, of sorts, through their posterity.

One sister was confused when her bishop unexpectedly asked her to consider serving a mission. At age 24, she had graduated from college and had been offered a graduate scholarship at another university. She was beyond the age when sisters usually serve a full-time mission and was hoping to continue her education.

But as she considered her options, a feeling grew within her that the Lord wanted her to serve. She decided to add to the counsel of her bishop that of her stake president. Her interview with him removed any lingering doubts. Others might have received a different answer, but this, she felt, was hers. She expressed a desire to serve a full-time mission.

“At that moment,” she recalls, “I was nearly overwhelmed with the impression that, if I died at that moment, I could face my Savior sure of his approval. I was doing what he wanted me to do. I’ve never forgotten the peace and assurance that came from him like a benediction.”