Gospel Story Finder

The day I received my mission call, I drove up to Gus’s gas station. I saw him standing by the cash register counting a wad of money. He scratched his beard and pulled back his long hair as he puffed a cigarette. He looked perturbed, as if he hadn’t made quite enough cash that day. I read his lips as he recounted the money and watched his mouth form numbers and then a four-letter word.
When the wheels of the Martian Mobile (my olive green, ’64 Ford Falcon) rolled over a black hose by the gas pumps, the customer bell rang. It startled poor Gus and caused him to swear again. He jumped when he realized it was me, spit the cigarette out, stamped on it, and crammed the money into the cash register. The entire reaction spanned a time lapse of two seconds.
I watched in amazement. I wasn’t supposed to know he smoked, swore, or worshipped money. What? Did he think I was born yesterday?
He walked out of the station office with his hands reaching into his pockets. He pulled out a tiny can of breath spray and sprayed it into his mouth.
“Hi Paul!” he greeted smiling innocently.
“Okay, ten bucks regular.” I pretended to be gruff. “And make it quick.”
His response came in the character of a southern hillbilly.
“We ain’t serving yer kind here, mister. Only transients, hippies, motorcycle gangs—if they ride Harley-Davidsons, that is—and other general public nuisances.”
I watched as he pumped 12 dollars worth of gasoline into my dilapidated car.
I handed him a ten and two one-dollar bills. He kept the ten and tossed the ones into my back seat. From the time I had started talking about a mission, he’d been giving me two extra dollars worth each time I got gas.
“I sho ’nuff ’preciate it,” he drawled, “but I ain’t receivin’ no charitee’ from some short-haired, prospective missionaree.”
I raised my eyebrow, then asked, “Even if that ‘missionaree’ received his call today?”
I held up the unopened envelope. It had just arrived in the mail from Church headquarters, and I had rushed over to tell Gus.
“You got it?” he squealed, forgetting the drawl. Then embarrassed by his own excitement, he calmly added, “So where are you going, Paul?”
“I haven’t opened it yet. That’s why I came.”
“Well hurry up!” he insisted.
We sat in two greasy chairs in the gas station’s office. He was honestly more anxious and nervous than I was. I patiently held the envelope up to the light, then obnoxiously passed it from hand to hand.
“Are you ready, Gus?” I teased.
“Just open the thing!” he snapped.
He reached for the drawer where he kept his cigarettes, but remembering I didn’t know he smoked, sat on his trembling hands. He crossed his legs, and the dangling foot began dancing anxiously.
My missionary papers had been submitted a month before. I thought Gus was going to have a nervous breakdown as we had waited out the month to see where I’d be going.
Gus’s mysterious excitement about my mission call was something else I wasn’t supposed to know about. One day I had overheard him yelling at the poor mailman about how slow the U.S. mail system was.
He’d lock up his gas station and come home every day at noon, when the mail came, to see if it had arrived yet. I really couldn’t understand why he cared so much.
I opened the envelope and slowly began reading. I stopped cold when I read the place.
“I’m staying in the States!”
“Well, at least it ain’t one of those Communist countries,” he sighed, speaking with the drawl again. “Ya won’t be thrown in jail or come back with some weird disease.”
“You are so strange,” I told him.
He just looked at me for a moment. He took a big breath, uncrossed his legs, settled his nervous feet on the floor, grasped the arms of the chair with his trembling hands, and spoke seriously, no drawl, his voice shaking a little.
“So you’re staying in the good old U.S. of A? Well that’s neat, little brother, that’s really neat.”
He stood and put forth his greasy, dirty hand. I went to shake it, then hesitated when I realized how grimy it was.
“Oh shake it, ya pansy,” he barked. “Don’t ya know missionaries have to shake hands all day?”
I hugged him. I just reached right up and put my arms around his thick neck and hugged him. I didn’t worry that his greasy overalls would stain my clean shirt. I was holding back tears, and I knew he was too.
“I’m gonna miss ya, Gus.”
He didn’t say anything.
Right then a beautiful blonde in a Corvette convertible drove over the black hose, and the customer bell rang again. He pushed me away. Macho men don’t hug their little brothers. When the girl asked who I was, Gus was embarrassed. I had to chuckle. He’s never been as tough as he thinks he is.
I left him romancing his customer. His charisma is what had made his gas station the “hang out” for most of the gorgeous blondes in town. He does indeed charm the ladies. I hope I have some of it when I’m ready to look for a wife.
I went straight home to tell my parents. They were pleased I had shared the experience first with Gus.
“You’ll reach him yet,” my Dad told me, and that made me feel really good.

“This is the Lord’s house, so we need to show respect and be at peace,” says Vincent Maiete, 17, of the Ridgeway Ward. Vincent came to the temple early in the morning along with other youth from his ward, including Roxanne Cockrell, Jimmy Plaatjies, and Kyle Zeeman.
Roxanne, 14, says, “It was my choice to come to the temple instead of sleeping.” But getting up early was worth it. She’s glad she chose to perform baptisms for the dead along with her friends. “I helped people. It was a good experience.”

Here at Church headquarters we hold many committee meetings, and early this year in one of those meetings, Elder Neal A. Maxwell was listening attentively to a presentation concerning the development of local leaders. Near the end of the meeting, Elder Maxwell asked, “Is there more that we can do to help bishops bring peace and healing to the Saints?” I was interested in knowing more of his concern, so just prior to his passing and in the privacy of his office, Elder Maxwell expanded on the doctrines associated with obtaining peace and healing. He gave encouragement to my sharing these remarks with Church members.
Elder Maxwell was and remains a wonderful example of selfless love. His concerns for others were bone deep, especially for those with physical and emotional pains. Walking out of his office, one could not help but be more committed to being Christlike. He set a standard for us all. He loved the Savior. He was indeed a true Apostle and disciple. We miss him.

God expresses His love for us by helping us to progress and reach our potential. Perhaps a simple story will illustrate this point. A young man could not get his computer to work properly. Soon he became discouraged. His temper grew short, and he threatened to destroy the computer. His wise father intervened and took his son to a local vendor to get an instruction manual. After all, who would know more about a computer than the person or company that created it? By working within the guidelines given in the instruction book, the boy soon enjoyed the full potential of his computer.

A few days ago I was looking through my money when I noticed a hole in my tithing envelope. I opened it to make sure all of what I owed was still there, and I found that I was missing a quarter. I had two choices: I could put another quarter in, or I could pretend there never was one in it. I chose to put another quarter in. I knew I had made the right choice because I had a happy feeling the rest of the day.

“Sister Olsen, we bless you with patience.” Those weren’t the words I wanted to hear. I had been praying all day to have enough faith to be healed. In the blessing, I was promised that I’d eventually get better, but I was assured that it would take time.
I sighed as the elders finished giving me a blessing. I had only three months left on my mission, and I wanted to be out with the people—not sick in bed. I wanted to accept the Lord’s will, but I honestly didn’t understand why He would make me wait.
It took me several days to come to terms with my situation. I had resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to get better right away, but in the meantime I was miserable—until one day I turned to the scriptures. Eventually, I found the peace I needed in James 1. Joseph Smith found his answer in verse 5—mine was in verses 2–4:
“My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations [the Joseph Smith Translation changes “divers temptations” to “many afflictions”];
“Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
“But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.”
As I read those verses, I can’t say that I was suddenly able to “count it all joy” that I was sick, but I did learn some things that helped me feel less miserable about my situation.
The fact that I hadn’t been immediately healed didn’t mean that I didn’t have faith, and it didn’t mean the Lord didn’t care about my situation—quite the opposite, actually. The Lord cared enough to test my faith by not healing me right away so that I could develop patience.
I realized that the Lord wanted me to develop patience because it’s a vital characteristic. Patience refines us. Patience helps us become more like the Savior. I did have important responsibilities as a full-time missionary, but I realized that when it comes to serving the Lord, He cares just as much about the instrument as He does the task at hand. The Lord was teaching me patience so that I could be a better and more effective missionary in those final months of my mission.
My promised blessing of healing did eventually come, but my lesson in patience didn’t end there. Many blessings in our lives—marriage, employment, children, physical or emotional health, answers to prayers—don’t come right when we expect them to. When you experience delayed answers to prayers, and you likely have or will, commit to patience by trusting in the Lord and His timing. It will bless your life.

My dad and I were unloading the soccer equipment from his pickup truck, when we heard the telephone ringing. “It’s probably for you,” Dad said.
“I don’t feel like talking,” I responded. Dad gave me “that look,” then went inside while I stored gear in the shed. Was I feeling down! Tomorrow would be our first game of the fall indoor soccer season, and we had just completed another disastrous practice.
My team, the Stingers, was short a goalie. My best friend, Isabel, had been practicing the position, but, well, she’s a much better forward than goalie. My dad, the Stingers’ coach, tried to cheer me up on the way home. “We can still win,” he told me. But I knew that without a good goalie, it wasn’t very likely.
As I stepped into the kitchen, my father replaced the telephone receiver. He turned toward me, wearing a grin the size of a mailbox. “That was the commissioner. Look!” He handed me the team roster.
I saw that my father had penciled in a new name: Jana. Beside her name was listed her position: goalie! “You’re kidding!” I cried out.
“The commissioner said she just moved into our neighborhood and has been playing goalie in another city for three years. He knew that the Stingers were short a player, so …”
“Yes!” I jumped high enough to slap the top of the doorway. “I’m calling the other Stingers right now!”
“Whoa,” Dad said. “How about if you start by calling the newest Stinger? Tell Jana our opener is tomorrow, and that we’ll bring her a uniform tonight.”
I talked to Jana for only a few moments—I didn’t really know her yet—then called all the other girls. They were as excited as I was. But later that night, when Dad and I drove to Jana’s house, no one answered the door. We left her uniform on the mat.
The next day, the Stingers huddled excitedly in our team box. Everyone was there—except Jana. When it was our turn to take the field for pregame drills, Jana still hadn’t shown up. We lined up to practice goal shots. Right after I slammed one past Isabel, I saw Dad trotting toward the stadium door.
At the door stood a girl I had never seen before, wearing a Stingers yellow and black jersey. “Jana’s here!” I called. Then I saw something that made my stomach turn. Jana, our new star goalie, had a cast on her wrist and bruises on her face. I groaned. So did the other girls.
Needless to say, with our new goalie in the bleachers beside her father, we lost our opener.
My dad bought the team consolation ice-cream bars, and we ate them in the bed of his pickup truck in the parking lot. Jana sat alone on the open tailgate. Her dad and mine were nearby, talking about the team’s schedule. Again, my dad gave me “that look.” I knew it was because I wasn’t including Jana. So I slipped beside her and said, “How did you break your arm?”
“It’s my wrist,” she said.
Jana’s father turned and, putting a hand on her shoulder, said, “She broke it on our trampoline.”
Isabel perked up, moving quickly to Jana’s other side. “You have a trampoline?”
Jana nodded.
“Why didn’t you say anything about a broken wrist when we talked on the phone?” I asked.
Jana shrugged. She never took her eyes off her ice-cream bar. Her father said, “It was broken last night after she talked to you. We were at the hospital when you came with the uniform. Luckily it’s only a hairline fracture. She’ll be able to play again in a few weeks.”
“In the meantime,” Isabel began, her dark eyes as wide as coat buttons, “if you need someone to keep that trampoline from rusting, I’m available!”
“Rusting!” I teased.
“It could happen,” Isabel laughed.
Jana’s father said, “We’ll see,” and led Jana away.
Monday was Jana’s first day at our school. Isabel and I sat by her at lunch, and she invited us to her house that afternoon. The three of us took the bus to Jana’s stop, then walked to her house. She led us to her trampoline in the backyard. Not seeing her parents anywhere, I asked if they both worked.
She nodded. But when I told her that she was welcome at my house after school any day, she shrugged and said, “Oh, there are worse things than being alone.”
Isabel was already on the “tramp.” The golden beads on her hair clips shimmered in the sunlight. I climbed on and, as we sailed upward, Jana made silly sound effects to match our jumps. Jana was turning out to be really cool. I couldn’t wait to see her play soccer!
After about twenty minutes, I sat down on the trampoline. Isabel nearly landed on me! “We should go,” I said. Isabel nodded, and together we rolled off the tramp onto the grass.
“Jana, I bet you’re an expert on the trampoline,” I said as we passed through her gate. “You probably practice every day and can do backflips.”
“No,” Jana said, “we just got the tramp Saturday morning before the game, so I really haven’t used it yet.”
Isabel and I stopped and stared at her, confused.
“What’s wrong?” Jana asked.
“Your dad said you broke your wrist Friday, after we talked on the phone, but you just said that you didn’t have the tramp until Saturday.”
The color drained from Jana’s face. “Did I say I got the tramp on Saturday?” she laughed nervously. “That was dumb of me. We got it Friday. I remember now.”
Isabel and I looked at each other. We knew Jana wasn’t telling us the truth. I had a creepy feeling about it. I was about to thank her for letting us jump, when she suddenly faced us, tears on her cheeks, and whispered, “If I tell you a secret about how my wrist was broken, will you promise not to tell anyone?”
The secret Jana told us scared me. Isabel and I hurried home, then sat silently on my front lawn until Isabel’s mother pulled into her driveway. As Isabel rose, I asked, “Do you think we should tell someone what Jana told us?”
Isabel shook her head. “We promised Jana we wouldn’t. It isn’t right to break a promise.”
I went straight upstairs. I told my mother I’d be studying my spelling, but I couldn’t pay attention to it. I kept thinking about Jana. Before I knew it, Mom was calling me downstairs for dinner.
At the dinner table, my brother offered the blessing; then everyone else started talking about their day. I didn’t talk at all. I cleared the table while everyone gathered in the living room for family home evening. Suddenly I heard my two-year-old sister crash into the wall and start crying. I rounded the corner just as my father scooped her up and tenderly rubbed her sore head. My dad is the best dad in the world. He would never, ever, in a million, zillion years hurt me or my brother or sister.
But today I’d learned that some kids aren’t that lucky. Tears jumped into my eyes, and I couldn’t keep them in. I ran up the stairs and slammed my door. I sat against it and cried.
Someone pushed on my door, but I didn’t move away. “Alecia,” Dad called, “please let me in.”
I scooted over so he could open the door. He sat beside me and hugged me. I buried my face against him. He waited, then said, “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
I sobbed. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.”
Dad nodded and stroked my hair. “It’s usually right to keep a promise. But if keeping a promise hurts you or someone else, it’s not a good promise to keep. It looks like keeping this promise is hurting you very much.”
“Oh, Daddy,” I cried, “it isn’t me.”
“Will someone else be hurt if you keep this promise?” I nodded. “Then,” Dad said, “telling me is the right thing to do.” He looked into my eyes. “You can trust me, Alecia.”
I told him exactly what Jana had told me about how her wrist had really been broken. My dad hugged me tight. When he let go, I saw tears in his own eyes. “You made the right choice,” he said. He spoke with Mom, then made a telephone call.
I thought Jana would be mad at me for telling her secret. I thought she’d quit the Stingers and never talk to me again. But that didn’t happen. The next time I saw her was four weeks later, at our match against the Shooting Stars. Her cast was off. At first, she didn’t say anything, then she hugged me—almost as hard as my dad had—and said that she finally felt safe! She was going to a different school now because she is living with her aunt while her parents get help. Soon Jana will be back with them. “But right now, I want to get back on that soccer field!”
The Stingers cheered as we ran onto the field with our new goalie. I had been worried that Jana and I would never be friends, but now, as I watched her make a diving save, I realized that real friends watch out for each other.

It is important for each deacon to be guided to a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling. In one ward, the lesson was effectively taught pertaining to the collection of fast offerings.

On fast day, the ward members were visited by deacons and teachers so that each family could make a contribution. The deacons were a bit disgruntled, having to arise earlier than usual to fulfill this assignment.
The inspiration came for the bishopric to take a busload of the deacons and teachers to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City. Here they saw needy children receiving new shoes and other items of clothing. Here they witnessed empty baskets being filled with groceries. There was no money exchanged. One brief comment was made: “Young men, this is what the money you collect on fast day provides—even food, clothing, and shelter for those who are in need.” The Aaronic Priesthood young men smiled more, stepped higher, and served more willingly in filling their assignments.

Bishop Prince Mensah graciously shared his remarkable journey with the young single adults in a Sunday meeting. He began by telling the classroom about his experiences as the first young high councilor in the Ashaiman Ghana Stake. This period, though undoubtedly challenging, became a transformative chapter in his life.
Reflecting on the early days of his marriage, he recounted the financial constraints they faced as a young couple. “I remember when my wife was pregnant with our first child; sometimes, she had to make do with banku paired with ground pepper, a few tomatoes, and occasionally, small fishes we affectionately called Keta school boys. Despite these hardships, she selflessly sacrificed to support me in fulfilling my calling.” Bishop Mensah recalled.
Eight months into their marriage, Bishop Mensah received the call to serve as a high councilor, which made it necessary to travel frequently from Adjei Kojo Kanewu to Kpone, (23 kilometers) for his assignments. With a monthly salary of GH390, he juggled the responsibilities of overseeing the young single adults, committee meetings, stake ushers, and various other duties. Traveling to Kpone and chartering a taxi to reach the meeting house added to the financial strain.
In recounting his service, he emphasized the invaluable lessons learned during this time. He proudly shared how he assisted President Alexandar Boateng in tasks such as packing seminary and institute books and marking attendance. Little did he know that these seemingly mundane responsibilities were preparing him for future opportunities.
As the interview for his current job position unfolded, Bishop Mensah found unexpected ease. Three out of the four panelists knew him personally. Despite lacking a formal degree, the panelists, having witnessed his unwavering dedication and hard work, recognized his potential. He secured the position, and this turning point marked a significant change in his and his family’s life.
What initially appeared as a sacrifice revealed itself as divine preparation for more promising opportunities. Through the assignments entrusted to him by his stake president, Isaac Morrison, (then stake president of the Ashaiman stake and currently a General Authority Seventy) and President Alexander Boateng (then first councilor and program administrator for Accra coordinating area seminary and institute, recently called as a mission leader to the Ghana Kumasi Mission), his service not only impacted his personal growth but also became a steppingstone to a brighter future. Bishop Mensah’s story serves as a testament to the transformative power of dedication, service, and divine guidance. It is good for the young single adults and for all of us to remember this.

Indulge me in one more thought regarding this holy and wonderful order of marriage. While I would always caution my own children who are considering marriage not to be careless in their selection of a companion, I have counseled them and now counsel you not to put off marriage with the right person until you can complete all of your education, save a good sum of money, or acquire many of the things of the world. This is a subtle means of relying on the arm of our own flesh. I will forever be grateful that sister Christensen and I were sealed in the Los Angeles temple after my sophomore year of college, completely broke, uncertain about my career direction, and what turned out to be four more years of school and three children before getting my first real job. How I loved those years of having to depend entirely upon the Lord and upon each other. How I appreciate the spiritual development that came to this naïve, simple couple as we learned to cast our faith and burdens unitedly upon the Lord, because we had nowhere else to turn. The arm of our flesh was inadequate to sustain us. We learned early that he knows us and loves us and will sustain those who demonstrate faith in him. Please do not forgo these faith molding experiences so that you can express your own strength and independence. After all, we really are not very strong and we really are quite dependent upon the Lord.

Gary and Jennifer Tucker had a dream. They both wanted an eternal family. But Jennifer had almost lost hope. The path to achieving that dream leads through the temple, something for which Gary wasn’t ready.
Then their bishop was inspired with an idea that would help the Tuckers—as well as many others in the Three Forks Ward, Bozeman Montana Stake—achieve the dream of an eternal family. A few years ago Bishop Aaron Baczuk was in a meeting for bishops and new converts in the stake. The Area Seventy who was presiding asked a new member, “Have you been to the temple to perform baptisms for the dead?” He had.
Bishop Baczuk had never considered taking unendowed adults to the temple. The following week he made an appointment with the Billings Montana Temple for adults in his ward to perform baptisms for the dead. The visit to the temple was a success, and in the months that followed, elders and high priests in the ward accompanied more unendowed adults to the temple. “It proved to be a very spiritual experience for them, compounding their desire and commitment to receive their endowments,” says Bishop Baczuk.
To prepare, adult members work with the bishop to become worthy to attend the temple. Then they take the temple-preparation class. Their interest in the class really peaks after they perform baptisms for the dead. They find that talking about the temple in class is one thing, but actually feeling the Lord’s Spirit in the temple is another.
“Having the option to take someone to the temple who may not be prepared for additional covenants but can still have an experience participating in ordinances is huge,” says Bishop Baczuk. “I think it fits with the sentiment the Church is trying to convey in its temple-preparation booklet: ‘Come to the temple!’”1
Three Forks Ward elders quorum president David Boyd says attending the temple to perform baptisms makes a goal tangible: “They begin to see the possibility that they can receive their own endowments. Many of them have not even stepped foot on temple grounds before, so these adult baptism trips give members that opportunity.”
Many recently activated members in the ward perform baptisms for the dead before receiving their own endowments. “It was never a question of worthiness,” says Bishop Baczuk. “It was a question of preparedness. Some were worthy and prepared to do baptisms but were not prepared mentally or spiritually to take on the covenants of the endowment.” For the men, it’s also a time to prepare to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood.
Family history also propels the temple work. Ward members, such as Larry and Carolyn Isom, work in the ward’s family history center to provide hundreds of family names. These three efforts—the temple-preparation class, family history, and worshipping in the temple—work together. Those doing family history get excited to provide names for those going to the temple. Members going to the temple are excited to do temple work for their own ancestors and for those of their fellow ward members. And being in the temple motivates the members to prepare to return to the temple.
In the past few years, 22 members of the Three Forks Ward have taken the temple-preparation class, and 14 of them began attending the temple regularly to perform baptisms for the dead. Then, upon finishing the class, 13 of those 14 received their own endowments. Some of them were single or widowed, but others, like Gary and Jennifer Tucker, were sealed as a family.
Gary joined the Church in 1992, a couple of months before he and Jennifer were married. She was already a member. But working long hours and associating with the wrong friends made it hard for Gary to stay active in the Church, even with his wife’s support. He says he spent many years “chewin’ and cussin.’”
When their daughter, Cody, was born, Sister Tucker tried to raise her in the gospel by taking her to church, even though Brother Tucker didn’t want any Church materials at home. Although he encouraged his family to attend church, he didn’t attend. When Cody turned eight, she was baptized by a missionary, not by her father. Brother Tucker says, “I’m very happy I was there, but that’s a huge regret—watching instead of participating in it.”
In the following years, fellowshipping helped Gary return to Church activity. Jennifer would invite ward members or the missionaries over for dinner, knowing that would give them a chance to talk with Gary. He is grateful to those members and missionaries for being a good influence on him.
Dale Price, for example, home taught Jennifer’s mother and got to know Gary and Jennifer that way. When Brother Price visited with Brother Tucker, they didn’t talk about the gospel at first. They talked about a common interest: hunting. The Prices also sat with the Tuckers at ward activities, brought them food from their food storage when Brother Tucker was out of work, and gave them honey produced by their own honeybees. Honey is the Tuckers’ favorite topping on toast. That little gift, as Brother Price describes it, was “to sweeten the relationship.”
Counsel from their stake president also helped the Tuckers. President David Heap asked stake members to do “seven small and simple things”: (1) Read the scriptures personally every day; (2) read the scriptures at least five days a week as a family; (3) have personal prayer every morning and night; (4) have family prayer every morning and night; (5) attend church every Sunday as a family; (6) hold family home evening every Monday night; and (7) attend the temple every month.
Gary could see that these things would help his family be closer—something he very much desired—so the Tuckers began having family prayer, scripture study, and home evening. These efforts helped prepare Gary to be receptive to his bishop’s invitation to prepare to go to the temple.
In January 2006 the Tuckers were attending a fireside at the bishop’s home. Bishop Baczuk pulled Gary aside and talked to him about the temple. Right there, Gary gave the bishop his can of chewing tobacco so it wouldn’t continue to be a temptation to him. He had many questions for the bishop then and in subsequent interviews. The bishop emphasized living the covenants that Gary had made at baptism so he could be worthy of the Spirit.
The Tuckers began taking the temple-preparation class, and Jennifer began attending the temple with her ward each month to perform baptisms for the dead. Gary was working on becoming worthy to go. Their daughter, Cody, who was 11 then, was excited to be able to go to the temple soon to perform baptisms. By the time she turned 12, Gary was able to go to the temple with her. It was the first time either of them had been in the temple.
Cody says, “It was wonderful. It’s very peaceful there. My dad went, so that was even a bigger deal.” Gary says he felt “unbelievable peace and joy that first time.”
The next Sunday in the temple-preparation class, Gary was a different person. “A light had gone on,” says Sister Elna Scoffield, who has taught the class for several years. Gary stayed after class to ask questions. He had felt the Spirit at the temple and wanted to return—not just to perform baptisms but to receive his endowment and to have his family sealed to him.
The next month the Tuckers again attended the temple with the bishop and other ward members.
In the weeks before Brother and Sister Tucker received their endowments and were sealed, they felt the adversary’s opposition. Gary was making progress, but he still had doubts about his worthiness to be in the temple. Their dream of an eternal family was close, but it felt just out of reach. The Tuckers knew they had to pray together more often, asking for strength. “We always received it in the form of calming peace and reassurance that all things are in the Lord’s hands,” says Sister Tucker. “Even up to the time we walked inside the temple, His calming Spirit was with our whole family.”
After Gary and Jennifer received their endowments, they knelt in the sealing room with their children, Cody and Garrett, dressed in white. When six-year-old Garrett saw his mom crying, he reached up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Gary and Cody were crying for joy too. Even the sealer was emotional.
The Tuckers say their family now enjoys stronger relationships and better communication. Gary says, “We are happier. My wife and I are closer, and our children see that.” Gary feels like he’s a better example to his family members who are not members of the Church, and he hopes that other families in his ward will want the same blessings that the Lord has given the Tuckers through the temple.

I am not the only one to take honoring the Sabbath day this far. I recall a story from the Ensign that struck me when I read it, and it has never left me. Two farmers were haying their fields. They were both in a hurry because they had to harvest the hay before the weather turned on them. It was late at night, and each farmer could see the lights from the other farmer’s tractor across the fields. One of the farmers was the bishop of the ward, the other a ward member. The ward member kept checking his watch, wondering if the bishop would stop haying at midnight when the Sabbath day began. As the time grew short, the bishop continued to hay. At exactly midnight, the ward member turned off his tractor and finished for the night to honor the Sabbath. As he looked across the fields he saw that his bishop powered down his tractor right afterwards. The next day at sacrament meeting, the ward member said that he was glad the bishop had his watch as well so he knew he had ended his work on time to honor the Sabbath day. The bishop replied to his ward member that he did not have a watch with him the night before, but he knew he wouldn’t need one. He told the ward member that he knew all he had to do was watch the ward member’s tractor across the fields, and when his lights went out, it would be exactly midnight. These farmers believed in precisely following the Lord’s command.

I had asked for things in prayers before and had not received the answers I wanted. When I was nine, I prayed to be able to walk on water like the Apostle Peter. I tried it in the bathtub. It hadn’t worked. When I was 10, I prayed that if God could move mountains, could He please move a perfume bottle on my dresser just to let me know He could. Didn’t happen. What if Heavenly Father really didn’t answer prayers? Maybe He just didn’t answer mine.
Yet somehow I couldn’t back away. The article said every person.
Pushing my fears aside, I finally started my prayer and explained the problem to Heavenly Father. I told Him about the article I’d read. I told Him I was pretty sure the Church was true anyway, but the article said every person should pray. Then I said, “Please help me know if the Church is true. I think it is, but would Thou help me know?” Then I ended my prayer.
I never made it to my feet before a warmth that was physical as well as spiritual filled my whole body, mind, and heart. There wasn’t a corner of me that wasn’t filled with confidence, the confidence of knowing—really knowing—the Church was true, Joseph Smith was a prophet, and the Book of Mormon was true.
“But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8).
It’s been at least 30 years since I offered that prayer and received my witness that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. I challenge every person in a new day, a new age, and in a brand new issue of the New Era to ask Heavenly Father for themselves if the Church is true.

Rubi Monzon, who recently returned from her mission, is the seminary teacher. “When I was 14, my mother died,” she says. “It was very hard on my family. Often I would be home alone, feeling lonely. One time, I was crying, and I heard a voice telling me that I wasn’t alone and that the Lord was with me and would help me. It was a soothing voice, and it made me feel good. Since then, I have felt at peace, knowing that the Lord loves me and will always be with me.”
Three years after her mother died, Rubi and her family were sealed in the Guatemala City Temple. “I feel grateful for the opportunity Heavenly Father has given us to become an eternal family. I know that through obedience I will always be with my mother, father, and brothers and sisters. Many times I think about my mother, and I know that in just a short while we can all be together again.”

Shannon from Utah, USA, shared how her neighbors helped her: “The day we buried our young son, we returned from the cemetery to find our neighborhood had come together in those hours while we were at his funeral to completely re-landscape our yard. They had planted beautiful shrubs, trees, and flowers, and even new sod. In the midst of our unimaginable sadness, their thoughtful demonstration of love and support began the healing process for us. We were reminded that love and life are eternal every year when our beautiful yard came back to life again. [It was] truly a sacred and symbolic experience that we will never forget.”

A personal story illustrates this council. Shortly after the flood, my family moved from Rexburg to Salmon, Idaho, which is 160 miles northwest of here. We farmed and raised beef cows, alfalfa and grain. One summer, when I was about 15, we had been experiencing a severe drought. I remember one particular day when my dad pulled up along the side of the tractor and waved for me to stop. With a concerned look on his face and a serious tone in his voice he said, "We need to pray and ask Heavenly Father for rain". Without any more discussion or hesitation my dad knelt down in the dirt next to the tractor, and I did the same.

My dad prayed.

My dad taught me, and more importantly showed me, the power of prayer. I don't remember exactly when the rain came, but I remember we received the moisture the crops needed, and I knew that my dad's prayer was answered.

It was still dark when Gray Cougar awoke. The Indian boy faced the red fingers of light in the eastern sky and prayed as he did each morning. Last night he had not expected to see another dawn! Despite the pain in his right shoulder and ribs, he was filled with gratitude.
Now if I can only find the strength to get back to my village and the medicine man, he thought. Or would it be better, perhaps, if I didn’t go back? he began to wonder.
He had failed his mission. How his older brothers would laugh! They had said he was too young to scale the buttes and bring back an eagle feather. Not that he had intended to pluck one from a living eagle, however. Just the thought of their strong talons made him shiver with dread, to say nothing of the powerful wings and formidable beak!
Gray Cougar had hoped to be lucky enough to find a shed tail feather among the rocks. He was weary of the good-natured gibes of Red Fox and Standing Bear, his brothers, who were almost braves. Eagle feathers were highly prized among his people, and owning such a trophy would bring respect.
The Indian boy clenched his jaw to keep from groaning aloud as he moved down the steep boulder-strewn slope. He crept like an old man and held his injured arm tightly against his chest to ease the pain. Last night he hadn’t expected the fierce wind on the high irregular hilltops, but he had fought it and almost reached a huge nest of sticks when his moccasin slipped. Gray Cougar had dangled helplessly by his hands for what seemed like hours, feeling for a foothold. Then a mighty gust blasted him loose and he had fallen onto the slope below, where he rolled down against a large rock. He had slept a deathlike sleep for a long time, and the sun was setting when he opened his eyes. And with darkness upon him, he had not yet reached the canyon floor. Gray Cougar slumped down between boulders as drowsiness overcame him.
A white youth would have died of thirst in the blistering desert heat as the sun rose higher, but even in his delirium Gray Cougar knew where to dig holes in the sand and how to be patient as the water seeped in. It was bitter, but safe to drink. There were cool springs and threads of waterfalls among the buttes, but he had no strength to climb them.
Because he was dazed and sick, Gray Cougar was not as cautious as he would normally have been. At a turn in the canyon, his eyes widened with fear when he saw oxen and a covered wagon! He could not run. The bronzed youth sagged against a boulder and stoically watched a white man snatch up a long gun and turn. Gray Cougar closed his eyes. Will I hear the lightning crack of the shot—or will the pain come first? he wondered matter-of-factly. He was too feverish and sick to worry about it. But it seemed ironic that he had struggled so hard to reach his death place!
The man could easily have slain him from beside the wagon. Consequently, Gray Cougar felt hope as he heard him approach. The boy opened his eyes and tried to understand the strange-sounding words, but all he could make out was a series of croaks. Then he noticed the man’s swollen tongue and cracked lips and the lowered heads and glazed eyes of the team of oxen. The stranger, who wore fancy clothing from the east, must be asking for water!
Gray Cougar looked around, trying to concentrate on where he was. His face lit up when he saw the towering needle rock far above them. There, he knew, was a cool spring with lush green grass growing all around it just south of the stone needle. But I cannot help him, he worried. I cannot climb to show the way, and we cannot speak to each other. Then Gray Cougar had an idea. I can draw a map in the sand!
The sick youth pointed to the high rock then moved his finger south. He pretended to scoop up water and drink. Then he knelt and made marks in the hot sand. “How far? How far?” the white man cried. But Gray Cougar only stared in puzzlement and pointed to his injured shoulder and side.
“I’m sorry. I am hurt. I cannot lead you there,” he said, thinking that was what the man asked.
The man took two canteens and a wooden bucket from the wagon. He copied the crude map on a paper then disappeared among the rocks. Gray Cougar crawled beneath the heavy wagon and dozed off in the shade.
Splashes of cold water from an overflowing barrel lashed to the back of the wagon shocked the boy awake. The man must have made many trips to fill it, Gray Cougar thought. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out when he tried to squirm from under the covered wagon. With every heartbeat the pain throbbed agonizingly.
The white man stooped to help prop the young Indian against one of the wagon wheels. He probed gently, watching the boy’s face. Then tearing a blanket into long pieces, he wrapped some strips tightly around the bruised ribs. Gray Cougar took a deep breath and smiled. There was no more knife-like pain. Next the man folded a square cloth into a triangle and made a sling that he knotted and slipped around Gray Cougar’s neck. The throbbing shoulder eased when his arm was supported. They smiled at each other. Each had helped the other. Words were not needed.
After they had eaten, they sat by the fire. The desert chilled quickly once the sun was gone. Gray Cougar wished he could talk to the man. Why is he here alone? Where is he going? What do the large black markings painted on the canvas mean? He stood and traced the letters with his finger then looked wonderingly at his companion, unaware that the letters spelled TAXIDERMIST.
The man chuckled, then began to pull boxes from the wagon. Gray Cougar stared in amazement when the man lifted out a stuffed red squirrel that was standing upright with a nut in its paws. It looked so alive he expected it to scurry away! There were birds, other small mammals, and even a coiled and deadly looking rattlesnake.
“They are for a new museum in San Francisco,” the man said proudly, as though Gray Cougar could understand. “I’m going to settle there and open a shop. Here, take a look at this one. A man found it dead beside the river and gave it to me.”
“Aiii!” Gray Cougar gasped, as a very large box yielded up an adult golden eagle, frozen in timeless splendor.
Eyes glowing with excitement, the youth pointed to the tail feathers, the bluffs, and then to his injured side. The man’s face cleared, and he made a motion as though sticking a feather in his long black hair. He knew eagle feathers were prized by the Indians. The boy was probably injured while searching for one, he decided. The taxidermist had collected many extra feathers to fill out the plumage of his specimens. Now he began to sort through a long, flat box. There were many bright feathers, but there were none from an eagle. He was sorry he could not give one to Gray Cougar.
The Indian youth examined the feathers, ignoring familiar ones. He gasped again as he lifted out an iridescent peacock feather. The end of it seemed to have an eye surrounded by rainbow colors! What manner of bird can be so richly dressed! he wondered. Gray Cougar could not even imagine what such a bird would look like. He was awed and delighted when the white man put the jewel-like plume in the boy’s hair and closed the box. His brothers and the other villagers would be astounded and impressed when the boy returned home wearing the exotic feather.
The man tried to describe a peacock. He strutted back and forth and swept his hands in a huge circle. Then he measured where the bird’s head would reach.
It was difficult to believe the man, yet he had no reason to lie. His feather came from a great bird that walked proudly but could not fly! And its tail feathers formed a huge warbonnet like a chief’s!
Gray Cougar grinned mischievously as he considered the flood of questions Red Fox and Standing Bear would ask. They would never believe such a bird existed. He decided he would just smile mysteriously and not answer. They would probably not tease him again. Instead, they and the other envious youths would rush off to the buttes to try to find feathers like his.
As though he could read Gray Cougar’s thoughts, the white man’s laughter boomed out at the thought of such scrambling.

And so I am interested in the spirit of the gospel. Now I think that this institution is the next contributing institution to that spirit. For instance, I was down in Glendale, California, some time ago, and I attended a Relief Society bazaar down there, and it was in part of the territory over which I presided as the stake president years ago. And a young lady, a daughter of one of the families that lived in our stake, told me this story:

She came up here to the Y. She started keeping company with a boy who had been raised in a Mormon community but didn’t know how to appreciate his membership in the Church and wasn’t active in the Church. And when he became serious and he proposed to this girl, she said, “I will never marry a man who does not do his duty in the Church and honor his priesthood.” She said, “I am going to be able to point to my children and say to them, ‘You follow your father.’” Well, he wasn’t willing to pay the price. So their courtship ended there. In a short time she started keeping company with another young man. Their engagement was announced in the newspaper, and a friend of the fist suitor sent a copy of that paper to him. He was then living in Chicago. When he read it, he called her up all the way to Los Angeles—that was before we had these cheap rates—and he said, “I cannot live without you. If you will call off that engagement and give me another chance I will do anything and everything you ever asked me to do in the Church.” That is what she got by coming here to this institution. And when we met them there, he was a counselor in the bishopric, and I have checked on him since and he has since been the bishop of the ward, and they told me down there that he was the best bishop in that stake. I met him in front of the Hotel Utah here about a year ago; he had just been appointed a member of the stake presidency. Now that is what this institution is planting in the hearts of our young people.

Thinking back to his mission experience, Peter can now see his Heavenly Father’s guidance and love. “I didn’t want to go at first,” explains Peter. “I had passed all my catering exams with distinctions, had an excellent job with good prospects, and was worried because the modern employment situation indicated I’d have nothing on return.

“But I had this niggling feeling that something special was expected of me. I took the problem to my Heavenly Father in prayer. It was two weeks before any answer came. Then one day in the kitchens I had the distinct mental message that I should go on a mission. I questioned this feeling three times. On the third occasion I actually heard a voice telling me if I did my part as a missionary, then I had a promise that a job would be mine when I came back. I would not lose out.”

That is exactly what happened. Peter says, “The very day I arrived home I received a call from Michelle’s, the top French restaurant in Birmingham. They wanted me to be Second Chef.”

In December 2020, Church services resumed, and the missionary force started growing, but so did political unrest, and President Russell M. Nelson ultimately decided the missionaries needed to move out of the country.
Miraculously, some of the missionaries serving in remote areas were able to fly to the nation’s capital before access to Addis Ababa was cut off. “On our mission, we learned that you’re never alone. The Lord is at the helm” recalled Darice. Missionaries who had been tested for COVID-19 were put on a plane to Kenya, where the Ethiopia mission was relocated.
They operated from Kenya, although most of their missionaries were reassigned temporarily to the Kenya Nairobi Mission. Those who remained in the Ethiopia mission used telephones and limited technology to connect with members and friends of the Church in Ethiopia, where local leaders took over the responsibility of missionary work.
Of the Kenya experience, senior missionaries, Elder and Sister Moyers said, “We experienced that unexpected and drastic change presses on our emotions, intellect, and especially our faith in our purpose . . . Being relocated is either a blessing or a challenge, and each missionary has the agency to choose which it will be for him or her.”
The Moyers served as member-leader support missionaries and helped to build the Church from within. President Dudfield said, “We learned the significant value of missionary service and the great value of senior couples. This is a call for those willing and able to serve. It changes your life.”