A Prayer for a Font of Water by: Grant H. Taylor

Brother Schmidt had met with many of the best elders ever to serve in the Danish Mission and had received the discussions several times over a three-year period. His wife was a member but not a strong influence either for or against the Church.  He had read all of the standard works and more Church-related books than most of the missionaries even knew existed. He loved his wife and infant son and wanted something eternal for his family.  But at the last minute, something always seemed to keep him from the baptismal commitment.

We had met with Brother Schmidt several times when he admitted to us and to himself that he had known for over a year that the restored gospel was true.  We were elated when he told us that he knew it was time to act on that knowledge and set a baptismal date.  We made arrangements for the following Saturday afternoon.

Saturday morning we rode our bikes to the Aalborg chapel and met our district leader and his companion.  The baptism wouldn't take place until 3:00p.m., but since it took several hours to fill the font, they would turn the water on at 10:00 a.m. to have it ready in time. Not needed there, my companion and I decided to take an early train to the Schmidt  home in Hjorring (thirty miles north of Aalborg) to help Sister Schmidt with any final preparation as she waited for her husband to return from work.

When we arrived Sister Schmidt was very cool towards us.  She said that Brother Schmidt wasn't ready for baptism and that we had pressured him into making a commitment.  She further announced that he would be working late and could not meet the baptismal appointment.

Heartsick, we left the home but decided to wait across the street for Brother Schmidt to return so that we could talk with him about his decision.  As we waited, we prayed with all our might for a solution to his problem.

When Brother Schmidt returned, nearly two hours after the time of his scheduled baptism, we crossed the street and knocked on the door.  He let us in, but the Spirit had left him.  He began apologizing but made it clear that his wife had convinced him that he was not yet ready to be baptized.

With a prayer in our hearts, we reviewed the simple truths of the gospel that we had taught him.  We spoke of the importance of temple blessings for  his family, which could come only after baptism.  After bearing our testimonies, we persuaded him to kneel and pray with us.  I prayed first and then asked him to pray.  He was reluctant, but he bowed his head and said nothing for several minutes.  When he finally spoke, he asked the Lord to let him know if he was ready for baptism.  As he asked the Lord to let him know if he was ready for baptism.  As he prayed, we felt the warm tingle of the Spirit, and we knew he and his wife had felt it.

When he finished, we all stood and nobody spoke for several moments.  I told Brother Schmidt that there was no need to wait any longer.

He looked at me and smiled.  "Let's go," he said.

In minutes we were on the way to Aalborg, all packed tightly into the Schmidts' little car.  It was then the terrible realization hit me-he could not possibly be baptized that night.

To protect against the change of children's falling into the water, there was a strict policy in the Aalborg District that the water not be left in the font overnight after a Saturday baptism.  It was now 9:00p.m.. six hours after the scheduled time for the baptism.  In all our worries, we had not though to contact the district leader to let him know of the change in plans.  And because there was no phone in the chapel, there was no way to stop and call him.  Surely, the font was now empty, and Brother Schmidt would not be baptized that night.

I looked at my companion and saw that he was not aware of the problem.  I thought of telling him and the Schmidts, but I didn't want to damage the enthusiasm that Brother Schmidt was finally feeling for Baptism.  I silently prayed that a miracle would happen-that somehow this baptism might take place.

As we rounded the last corner before the driveway to the Aalborg chapel, I saw that the outside light was still on.  To my surprise, sitting on the cement steps in front of the chapel was the district leader and his companion.  We got out of the car and I raced to the district leader, not daring to ask about the water.

He simply said,  "I knew you were coming.  The font is still full."

Brother Schmidt's baptism was late, but it was a marvelous experience for all of us.  Though this experience I came to know the power of prayer, a power I cannot deny.

***The End***

If you like this stories, please share. . .

"Welcome and Welcome'' by. Rendell N. Mabey and Gordon T. Allred

Hang on!" someone warned.  For an instant we were airborne as the taxi careened over a tooth-jarring strip of washboard and descended into the swale ahead.  It was a hot day as usual, sweltering inside the cab even with the windows open, and the road was murderous. . .

"If only we had a little rain to cool things off," Rachel said.  "Anything to get some relief from this heat."

"Rainy season's coming up," Ted reminded her.  "Once that happens we'll be getting more water than we bargained for.''

Sitting there in front next to the window, I laughed a bit wearily, leaned forward to free the shirt from my sweating back, and grabbed for the dash as we jolted over another chuckhole.

. . .Rachel, my wife of forty-five years, was in the back with our companions,  Edwin Q. (Ted) Cannon, Jr., and his wife, Janath.  To guide, interpreter, devoted friend, and investigator.  His skin, like the driver's, was very dark, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration.  As usual, however, despite the growing discomfort, he was smiling and full of cheer. . .

That morning. . .we had embarked from Calabar in a fast open boat with an outboard motor, traversing the mighty Cross River near its mouth in one-hour journey to Oron.  There we had hired the taxi and continued our quest, often with only the vaguest sense of direction.  Addresses in that locale were nonexistent-merely the primitive-sounding names of tiny knowledge that they were somewhere out there, people who were patiently waiting, who had been waiting throughout the years and praying for a miracle.

It was difficult at the moment to comprehend that were a part of that miracles even though our efforts of the day had already met with gratifying success.  for now, it was simply a matter of point, we narrowly escaped head-on collision with a truck.  The road was hardly designed for two-way traffic, and driver's education was clearly not top priority in Nigeria, facts well attested to by the number of demolished vehicles along the wayside.

By now, however, we were encountering a few more natives, either cycling of a foot, and another small settlement had materialized.  "Village Isighe," Daniel said.  He smiled, displaying a set of prominent white teeth.  "This is it-the one we've been looking for!"

All of us craned our necks, peering and exclaiming with surprised and relief.  Just off the road was rectangular white sign with neat block letters spelling:  "Church of Jesus Christ of latter-day Saints, Inc."  The name of the village was beneath.  "And there, if I'm not mistaken," I agreed, "Practically in our laps."  Only fifty or sixty feet away was a primitive little meetinghouse plastered with dried mud: hardly likely to win any prizes in architecture or to insure cool and comfort in such weather, but a literal delight to behold even so.

It was now one o'clock Saturday afternoon, but a good many people were leaving the premises, filing from the doorway and wandering down the little lanes much as though they had just completed a sacrament meeting.  Men, women, and children all dressed in their Sunday best, some in white, others in exotic colors, were passing by as we left the taxi.  A number had stopped, in fact, to stare.  Their dark, lustrous eyes were full of wonderment, and some of them seemed too astonished to return our words of greeting.

"I wonder what's going on," Janath said.  "Church meetings on Saturday?" Daniel smiled and shrugged, sharking his head, but it soon appeared that he was not a total  stranger there.

"Some kind of meeting, obviously," I said. Even more obviously, we had just discovered another of those self-styled branches of the Church, growing independently for now like slips from the wild olive.  More people who had learned about the gospel from an article in the Reader's Digest, letters to Salt Lake City, tracts, occasional copies of the Book of Mormon, or a passing visitor.  Such congregations understood certain important principles of the restored gospel in most cases, enough to hunger and thirst for more, but their knowledge was meager and primitive. . .

Moments after leaving our taxi, we were greeted by several men in colorful native robes, clearly religious leaders of some kind.  Foremost among them was a wiry little man who introduced himself as Evangelist B. J. Ekong, head of the so-called LDS churches in Isighe and several other villages of that general area.  His eyes were alert, full of intense expectation, and he smiled radiantly as though the purposed of our visit had already been revealed.  "How truly wonderful!" he exclaimed, and he began seizing our hands.  "Praise be to the Lord! Welcome! Welcome!". . .

. . ."Well, we're very happy to be here," Ted said. "Looks as though you've just been holding a meeting of some kind."

"Yes, yes indeed," came the reply.  Those with him nodded, beaming as though they shared some marvelous secret. "We must go ring the bell and summon our people to return immediately!"

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary for the moment,"  I began, but the Evangelist was irrepressible; all of them were filled with the same explosive spirit.

"Ah, but you don't quite understand," he persisted. "We really must ring the bell! The members of this congregation have been waiting for years.  They have just completed a twenty-four-hour fast, praying to the Lord that his missionaries would come."

It is impossible to articulate the feelings of that moment, but the bell itself seemed full of rejoicing, and within minutes of our arrival we were seated in positions of honor before a congregation of approximately seventy-five people.  All of them, even the smallest infants,  seemed to observe our every movement and expression with fascination the Evangelist B. J. Ekong arose to offer his welcome in English.

"We have awaited this glad day for may years,' he said, speaking in tones of great humility and dignity.  "Now, very suddenly and without notice. . ." He hesitated, eyes glistening.  "now, very suddenly, you re here among us.  You are here to bring that light and knowledge we so greatly desire and to show us the path we must follow."  He then turned to us more fully, making a slight bow and sweeping gesture with one hand. "For such a blessing we must thank our Father in Heaven everlastingly. Welcome, beloved and honored friends-welcome and welcome!"

I then arose as our senior representative and, with Daniel UKwat to interpret, thanked all those present for their great devotion to the Lord, their interest and hospitality. . . ."We bring you greetings from our prophet Spencer W. Kimball in Salt Lake City.  We bring you word of his great love and prayers and are here today  in that same spirit, convinced that we are all children of God and therefore literal brothers and sisters,"  I testified as well to the divinity of our Savior, explained briefly the mission of Joseph Smith, and bore witness of the fact that we were duly authorized representatives of the only true church upon this earth, an organization constantly sustained by the lifeblood of prophetic revelation.

. . . Despite the necessity of an interpreter, we were "coming through." The Spirit of God, which in times of faith may transcend all other barriers, was bearing record.  I could see it in their testimonies with my own.  Last of all, Daniel himself attested to this mission.

At the conclusion of our remarks, various leaders from among the gathering arose to add their welcome and to ask questions. . . .Above all else, they desired assurance that we had not come as mere birds of passage, that never again would they be left in the wilderness, comfortless and alone.  "In time past," an old man said, "a member or two of your religion have appeared among us, but only for a fleeting moment,  They brought us greetings in one truth only said farewell with the next.  We were tempted with the truth only to have it snatched away again.  No one returned, and our letters to Salt lake City received little reply."  His eyes smoldered, but the fire was quenched with tears.  "Will it also be the same with you?"

I shook my head, finding it difficult to respond.  "we can appreciate your feelings," I said, "and greatly regret that you have been kept waiting so long.  It must have been a terrible frustration, but God has many ways of testing the faithful, and perhaps this has been one of them. . .But your prayers have been answered."

"Yes," Ted agrees.  "This is the beginning.  The restored gospel has come to Black Africa."

***The End***

If you like this story please share...

"He Is Breathing His Last!" ELIZA R. SNOW

At the close of his mission, [Lorenzo Snow] was appointed to take charge of a company of Saints, consiisting of about two hundred and fifty souls, en route for Nauvoo; and in January, 1843, embarked on the ship "Swanton." The commander,  captain Davenport, and officers of the crew were kind and courteous, which contributed much to ameliorate the discomfort incident to life on the ocean.

The steward, a German by birt, was a young man, very affable in manner, and gentlemanly in deportment-a general favorite and highly respected by all.  During the latter part of the voyage he took sick, and continued growing worse and worse, until death seemed inevitable.  all means proved unavailing, and the captain, by whom he was much beloved, gave up all hope of his recovery, and requested the officers and crew to go all hope of his recovery, and requested the officers and crew to go in, one by one, and take a farewell look of their dying friend, which they did silently and solemnly, as he lay unconscious and almost breathless on his dying couch.

Immediately after this sad ceremony closed, one of our sisters, by the name of Martin, without my brother's knowledge, went to the captain and requested him to allow my brother to lay hands on the steward, according to our faith and practice under such circumstances, saying that she believed that the steward would be restored. the captain shook his head, and told her that the steward was now breathing his last, and it would be useless to trouble Mr. Snow.  But Sister Martin was not be defeated; she not only importuned, but earnestly declared her faith in the result of the proposed administration, and he finally yielded and gave consent.

As soon as the foregoing circumstances was communicated to my brother, he started toward the cabin where the steward lay, and in passing through the door met the captain, who was in tears.  He said, "Mr. Snow, it is too late; he is expiring, he is breathing his last!"  My brother made no reply, but took seat beside the dying man.  After devoting a few moments to secret prayer, he laid his hands on the head of the young man, prayed, and in the name of Jesus Christ rebuked the disease and commanded him to be made whole. very soon after, to the joy and astonishment of all, he was seen walking the deck, praising and glorifying God for his restoration.  The officers and sailors acknowledge the miraculous power of God, and on landing at New Orleans several of them were baptized, also the first mate, February 26, 1843.

First prayer by: Dean Hughes and Tom Hughes

  In 1963, Mary Ellen Edmunds and Carol Smithen became the first missioanries to work in Quezon City in the Philippines.  Later the city would become the headqurters of an entire mission, but at the time it was part of the Philippines Zone of the Southern far East Mission.  Eventually Sister Smithen recieved a new comapnion, and Mary Jane Davidson was assigned to work with Sister Edmunds.

Early the next year, Sister Edmunds and Sister Davidson were going door to door "tracting,'' and they were not doing well.  They really weren't in the mood to work that morning, and they stopped on the street, each said a silent prayer, and then they approached the next house.  When they rag the doorbell, an eye soon appeared in a little peephole.  The sister told the man on the other side of the  peephole that they were missionaries and would like to visit with him for a few minutes.

"I am cat-o-leek," the man said.  At that time, the missionaries did not learn the Filipino languages as they do now.  Most people did speak at least some English, but the sisters could tell that this man did not speak a great deal.  They both felt strongly prompted, however, to keep trying, and finally he agreed to let them come in.

The man told the isiters that his name was Felixberto S. Ocampo.  He was somewhat older man with an impressive appearance and dark, graying hair.  that hair, along with his kindly manner, reminded the sisters of  President David O. Mckay.

As the sisters sat down to talk with Mr. Ocampo, the Spirit was telling both of them not to present a lesson but to tell about Joseph Smith's first vision.  And so sister Edmunds told the story, using simple English words so that he could understand.  As she spoke, however, she was stuck by the way he listened with full attention and great interest.

When sister Edmunds finished the story, Mr. Ocampo's response was unlike any she had experience before.  "That is a beutiful story," he said.  "Can you tell me again?"

This time Sister Davidson gave  the account, and again the missionaries were moved by the great concentration and the conviction in Mr. Ocampo's eyes.  This time his reply was even more surprising: "This is a very beautiful story. Can you tell me one more time?"

The Missionaries had to take turns this time.  they were so moved by the spirit of this good man, the obvious joy he was receiving in hearing about Joseph Smith, that neither could talk very long without crying.  When they made it through  the story the third time, Mr. Ocampo asked, "Where is he now?"

The sisters told him that Joseph Smith was dead, and they were amazed to see how saddened Mr. Ocampo appeared.  He  had just heard the wonderful news that God had spoken to a man on earth, and now he was disappointed and sorrowful to learn that this prophet was already gone.  He  then asked, "How did he die?" The sisters were deeply hurt to have to tell him that Joesph Smith had been murdered.

"Why? Why did they do this?" Mr. Ocampo asked, with pain in his voice and his eyes. . . .

"If I have been alive," Mr  Ocampo said, in his halting English, "I will protect his life with my life."

Sister Edmunds and Sister Davidson reassured Mr. ocampo that a prophet was, in fact, still upon the earth, and they promised to return and continue to teach him.  When they arrived for their second visit, Mr. Ocampo told them, "Oh, Sisters, I have a beautiful story to tell you."  What he told them was the account he had read in a pamphlet that they had given him during their first visit.  It was the story of Joseph Smith's vision along with other events in his life rehearsed the story in such detail that they could tell he had read it many times. . . .

During one visit, the sisters asked Mr. Ocampo  whether he prayed.  "Oh, yes, sisters," he said (pronouncing the word "seesters'). "I pray  every day," So they taught him the principles of prayer and, from that time on, asked him to pray at the beginning or end of their meetings. He asked each time if it would be all right if he prayed in Tagalog, his own language.  They said that was fine.  They didn't understand much of what he said in these prayers, but they felt his good spirit.

Mr. Ocampo received all the missionary lessons with the same spirit, and he accepted baptism.  One Sunday soon after he was baptized, the branch president asked him to pray in Church, but Brother Ocampo said he couldn't.  The sisters were surprised.  When they visited him the next time, he explained.  "I want to pray the way you pray," he said, and it was only then that they discovered he had been saying memorized prayers, not speaking wrong, you can tell me."

They knelt together, and then he paused for a very long time as he considered what he wanted to say.  This was no ordinary event, the sisters realized; this man of faith was about to converse with the Lord for the first time.  He wanted to choose to right words.  Both sisters were weeping before brother Ocampo even began to pray.

He worked hard for the right English words as he began, but the sisters felt no need to correct anything he said.  Now and again he would stop and say,  "Sisters, this is very beautiful, no?"

They would nod, tears streaming down their faces. This was clearly the most beautiful prayer either had ever heard.

"If i am slow, will He wait for me?" he asked at one point.
"Yes, the sisters told him.  "Take all the time you want."

And finally he asked, "Sisters, does Heavenly Father know Tagalog?"

They assured him that the Lord knew every language, and in response Brother Ocampo asked whether he could finish in his own language.  They said he could, and then they heard him pour out his feelings fluently, in his native tongue, and they understood the spirit of what he said.

Brother Ocampo was a steadfast member of the Church until he died.  His faith was a power to all who knew him.

***The End***

Please share this message if you like it through the following social media sites below...thank you