Gospel Story Finder

Thomas Carlyle lived from 1795 until 1881. He was a Scot essayist and historian. During his lifetime he became one of the world's greatest writers. But he was a human, and humans make mistakes.

On October 17, 1826, Carlyle married his secretary Jane Welsh. She was an intelligent, attractive, and somewhat temperamental daughter of a well-to-do doctor. They had their quarrels and misunderstandings, but still loved each other dearly. After their marriage, Jane continued to serve as his secretary. After several years of marriage, Jane became ill. Being a hard worker, Carlyle became so absorbed in his writings that he let Jane continue working for several weeks after she became ill. She had cancer, and it was one of the slow growing kind. Finally, she became confined to her bed. Although Carlyle loved her dearly, he very seldom found time to stay with her long. He was busy with his work.

When Jane died they carried her to the cemetery for the service. The day was a miserable day. It was raining hard, and the mud was deep. Following the funeral Carlyle went back to his home. He was taking it pretty hard. He went up the stairs to Jane's room and sat down in the chair next to her bed. He sat there thinking about how little time he had spent with her and wishing so much he had a chance to do it differently. Noticing her diary on a table beside the bed, he picked it up and began to read in it.

Suddenly he seemed shocked. He saw it. There, on one page, she had written a single line. "Yesterday he spent an hour with me and it was like heaven; I love him so." Something dawned on him that he had not noticed before. He had been too busy to notice that he meant so much to her. He thought of all the times he had gone about his work without thinking about and noticing her.

Then Carlyle turned the page in the diary. There he noticed written some words that broke his heart. "I have listened all day to hear his steps in the hall, but now it is late and I guess he won't come today." Carlyle read a little more in the book. Then he threw it down and ran out of the house. Some of his friends found him at the grave, his face buried in the mud. His eyes were red from weeping. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks. He kept repeating over and over again, "If I had only known, if I had only known." But it was too late for Carlyle. She was dead. (11)

Perhaps it was this experience that motivated Thomas Carlyle to write the phrase, "The greatest of faults is to be conscious of none." We would, indeed, be foolish if we saw no need to improve ourselves to strengthen our marriages.

I was the healthy father of two beautiful children and the husband to a wonderful and hardworking wife. I had a good job with a stable income. Life seemed to be perfect, but my world started to fall apart when I was diagnosed with nasopharyngeal cancer, a rare type of head and neck cancer.
I was serving as a counselor to the bishop at the time, and we were holding our annual basketball tournament at the church when I began to feel very sick. I went to see the doctor, and after many lab tests, he announced that I had stage 4 nasopharyngeal cancer. I was worried and scared. I wondered if this was the end of my life and what would happen to my family if I died. The only thing I could really depend on for guidance and comfort was prayer to Heavenly Father.
After three days of constant prayer, I felt as if a soft voice whispered, “Fear not.”
From that moment on, the fear of death was no longer on my mind. Things were still difficult for me. There was a time I couldn’t swallow any food and I was too sick to sleep, but I never gave up or turned away from God—and He has helped me.
My cancer has been in remission for more than 18 years. I don’t know how long God will allow me to live, but I’m glad that I can still serve my brothers and sisters. I know that our Heavenly Father never leaves or abandons us. And if we want to receive blessings from God, we can’t leave or abandon Him.

My mind raced back to the days of my youth on the farm. In the summertime one of our responsibilities was to haul hay from the fields into the barn for winter storage. My dad would pitch the hay onto a flatbed wagon. I would then tromp down the hay to get as much as possible on the wagon. One day, in one of the loose bundles pitched onto the wagon was a rattlesnake! When I looked at it, I was concerned, excited, and afraid. The snake was lying in the nice, cool hay. The sun was glistening on its diamond back. After a few moments the snake stopped rattling, became still, and I became very curious. I started to get closer and leaned over for a better look, when suddenly I heard a call from my father: “David, my boy, you can’t pet a rattlesnake!”

Elder Kimball called on another occasion. “Bishop Monson,” he said, “I have learned that there are two Samoan boys living in a downtown hotel. They’re going to get in trouble. Will you make them members of your ward?”

I found these two boys at midnight sitting on the steps of the hotel playing ukuleles and singing. They became members of our ward. Eventually, each of them married in the temple and served valiantly. Their influence for good was widespread.

Gauntlet, a dog Scott and Luke raised, is presently going through guide dog training. Scott and Luke hope they don’t hear anything from the training center for a while; since a phone call now would only mean there was a problem with his training. Tiger, another dog that Scott raised, was rejected because of physical problems with his front legs. Scott was at the training center in California when he found out that Tiger would not be accepted as a guide dog. “That was a sad time when Tiger didn’t make it,” says Scott. “I had to call the family and tell them.”

Not only will your circle of friends greatly influence your thinking and behavior, but you will also influence theirs. Many nonmembers have come into the Church through friends who have involved them in Church activities. I share with you a treasured family experience which had its beginning back in 1959, when I was called to preside over the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto.

Our daughter, Ann, turned five shortly after we arrived in Canada. She saw the missionaries going about their work, and she, too, wanted to be a missionary. My wife demonstrated understanding by permitting Ann to take to class a few copies of the Children’s Friend. That wasn’t sufficient for Ann. She also wanted to take with her a copy of the Book of Mormon so that she might talk to her teacher, Miss Pepper, about the Church. I think it rather thrilling that just a few years ago, long years after our return from Toronto, we came home from a vacation and found in our mailbox a note from Miss Pepper which read:

“Dear Ann:

“Think back many years ago. I was your schoolteacher in Toronto, Canada. I was impressed by the copies of the Children’s Friend which you brought to school. I was impressed by your dedication to a book called the Book of Mormon.

“I made a commitment that one day I would come to Salt Lake City and see why you talked as you did and why you believed in the manner you believed. Today I had the privilege of going through your visitors’ center on Temple Square. Thanks to a five-year-old girl who had an understanding of that which she believed, I now have a better understanding of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Miss Pepper died not too long after that visit. How happy our daughter, Ann, was when she attended the Jordan River Utah Temple and performed the temple work for her beloved teacher whom she had friendshipped long ago.

When we came to Copenhagen, Denmark, we waited there until there were about 300 that were going to Utah. Anthon H. Lund, who just before he died was the counselor to President Heber J. Grant, had charge of the company to Utah. We left Copenhagen to go to Hull in England over the North Sea. When we started, the weather was fine and there were the same joyful songs of the Saints as when we left Norway. Some even danced. But soon the mountainous waves began to roll. It was not long before some began to make haste to the side of the ship. Oh, didn’t they feed the fish! I laughed at them and wondered what was the matter with them. I tell you I didn’t laugh long. My turn soon came. But we arrived in Hull safe and sound, and there we boarded the train for Liverpool. We got there in about eight hours’ ride, and there we boarded the steamer Nevada for New York, North America.
It took us 14 days to cross the Atlantic. Some of the way it was very stormy, and I was seasick all the way. But we landed in New York safe and sound. There we boarded the train for Utah. In about four days we arrived in Salt Lake City, July 17, 1872, late in the evening. Before coming to the station the president of our company, Anthon H. Lund, told us that when we arrived at the station, a good many of us would meet relatives and friends, and some of them would take us home with them. But he said, “Do not let any of them take you home with them just then, for you will all be taken to a banquet. Instead, take them with you to the banquet.”
It was then about ten o’clock in the evening. The name of the house I did not know, but it was large enough for all of us to sit down at the tables at once. As far as I can remember, there were about 300 of us. They had all gone in but myself, for I did not think I belonged. I knew I was not a Mormon, though all the rest of them were. As I have told before, I was rather bitter. But Brother Lund came out and saw me a ways off. He came over to me and asked me where my parents were. I said they had gone in but I didn’t belong. He then took me by the arm over to the door and said in Danish, “Please go in. You are welcome.” So, of course, I went in. I tell you it was the best supper I had ever seen, all kinds of good things. When we got through with the meal, it was about midnight, but the tables were still spread and plenty of all kinds of good things on the tables. We were to go and help ourselves. It was all for us.
There was no one who called for us, so we stayed around in that hall till morning. I don’t know just what the rest of them did, but I lay down on a bench by the table and fell asleep. When I awakened, the sun was up and the rest were awake and busy. I didn’t wait for breakfast, for there was still plenty of food on the tables, and we were told that we were welcome to all and to help ourselves. I did so, and I surely had a good breakfast that morning as well as supper the night before.

Mylea Moua’s cousins make fun of her for going to church. Some of her close family members discourage her church attendance. Her friends at school wonder why she would ever want to be a Latter-day Saint.
Mylea’s challenges are not unique in the Twin Cities Second (Hmong) Branch of the Anoka Minnesota Stake. Many of the youth have less-active parents and nonmember family members who mock their religion. It would be easy for Mylea, a Mia Maid, to just quit coming to church. “A lot of Hmong people ask ‘How can the Church help you?’ They reject it,” she says. “I don’t really care what people think, because how I feel makes me happy. But I feel bad for them because they don’t have the gospel.”
Unlike many of the older Hmong generation in Minnesota, Mylea and the other youth feel it’s possible to be both Hmong and LDS. “I do the best I can and try to be a good example,” she says.
Sandy Yang, the Beehive president, is also doing her best to be a good example, though she says it is more difficult to share the gospel with her family than with her friends. Her parents divorced when she was eight years old. “It was hard, but I felt the warmth of Jesus Christ, and I knew everything was going to be okay,” she says. “I started to come to church more, and I learned the divorce was not about me. It was about my parents.” Sandy’s father is no longer active in the Church, but her mother and some of her brothers and sisters are. She says it’s her testimony that takes her through the hard times and keeps her coming.
Sandy and the other Hmong youth agree that regular scripture study and attending Sunday School really help to strengthen their testimonies. “I guess I know a lot because of the gospel,” says Toua Yang, Sandy’s brother. “Without it I wouldn’t know why I’m here or what I would do after I died.” He credits going to seminary and trying to teach others about the gospel with helping his testimony grow. Toua, a priest, plans to tell more people about the gospel when he goes on a mission in two years.
“We’re kind of the first generation, you know,” Mylea says. Even though many of their parents or even grandparents are members of the Church, the non-Christian Hmong traditions are still a strong influence in their lives.
Most of the older generation of Hmong people in the Anoka Stake are from Laos and Cambodia. The Hmong tradition includes the practice of shamanism, which involves ancestor worship and belief in good and evil spirits that can be summoned by a priest, or shaman. The Hmong culture and shamanism are linked, but are not the same thing, so the Hmong youth try to preserve their heritage while living the gospel and leaving non-Christian traditions behind. But their task is difficult.
Pang Yang, Toua’s sister, says death is the end of existence in the Hmong tradition. She’s happy she knows a better way. “It’s easier because I know what’s wrong and what’s right. The gospel is safer than the Hmong way. I think it’s easy because I know where I’ll go when I die.”
The Hmong youth are looking to the future—trying to rise above the difficulties of the traditions in their homes. Mylea and the others try to bring their younger brothers and sisters to church regularly to establish a tradition of faith in their families. Establishing a gospel tradition is a real goal, says See Moua, Mylea’s sister. “It’s not far now. It makes you want to keep the commandments,” See says.
Pang is also excited about the future. “I really look forward to getting married in the temple. That’s the one thing I really want to do.”
Ultimately, it’s their individual testimonies that keep these Hmong youth active in the Church while they face so much opposition from friends and family. “Sometimes you doubt,” says Mylea. “And I had doubts.” But when she learned more about the life of Joseph Smith and about the gospel, her doubts left her. “Everything was taken away from Joseph Smith, even his own life. Now I know he wasn’t lying.”
The other Hmong youth know challenges to their faith will come, either through their families’ traditions or just from their own doubts. That’s why they keep coming to church—the more they learn and the more they rely on the Lord, the stronger they become in the gospel. They know who they are, why they’re here, and where they’re going. And their testimonies grow stronger with each Sunday School lesson, each seminary class, and each time they choose to keep the Lord’s commandments and standards.
Of all the traditions we should cultivate within ourselves and our families, a ‘tradition of righteousness’ should be preeminent. Hallmarks of this tradition are an unwavering love for God and His Only Begotten Son, respect for prophets and priesthood power, a constant seeking of the Holy Spirit, and the discipline of discipleship which transforms believing into doing. A tradition of righteousness sets a pattern for living which draws children closer to parents, and both closer to God, and elevates obedience from a burden to a blessing” (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 28).—Elder Donald L. Hallstrom of the Seventy

A businesswoman based in Salt Lake City called a company in Virginia. After completing the business transaction, the owner asked her where she was from. On learning that it was Utah, he said, “What part of Utah?” I quote her account of what happened next:

“Salt Lake City,” I responded.

“Salt Lake City? Well, you must be a Mormon,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“I have two girls who work for me who are Mormons,” he continued. “They’re the best employees I’ve ever had. Those two girls are only seniors in high school, but they keep my store cleaner than any of my other employees, and they treat my customers great. They’re really polite and pretty . . . you know, the ‘all-American’ type.”

He said, “Those two girls are amazing. Would you believe that they get up at 5:00 a.m. every morning and . . .”

“Go to seminary!” I inserted.

“Well, I don’t know what it’s called,” he continued. “But it’s some type of religious training. Then they go to school all day, and come work for me until 8:00 p.m. I don’t know how they do all of the things they do, but I’m sure impressed.”

“Would you believe that Mormon youth all over the world are going to early-morning seminary, five days a week?” I asked.

“Well, that’s one thing I have to say for your church,” he said. “You’re sure raising your children right. They’re the best.” [Annette Larsen Proulx, “I’m Impressed,” New Era, July 1998, p. 49]

Thirty-five years ago, I was called to serve as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and assigned to labor in the Norway Oslo Mission. While serving there I saw much of the beautiful landscape and architecture of that country. My Norwegian heritage made it even more exciting and meaningful to me. As missionaries we loved hiking and exploring Norway’s majestic fjords and forests. But there was one climb we weren’t allowed to make: the ascent to Preikestolen, or pulpit rock. It was deemed to be too dangerous by our mission president.

Preikestolen is one of Norway’s most famous natural landmarks. It features a flat-topped cliff 604 meters above the Lysefjord. The breathtaking location has appeared in several major Hollywood movies, including Mission Impossible.

Fast-forward 35 years. Last summer while traveling in Norway with our family, we decided to hike to the top of Preikestolen. We were traveling with my parents, who had been to Norway many times but had never visited Preikestolen. My almost 80-year-old mother was determined to make the trek with us to the top of “pulpit rock”.

Even though the trail was well marked, it included steep and rocky sections. The uneven, slippery paths demanded careful footing. If you wandered off the trail or got distracted, the results could be disastrous—possibly fatal. We were surprised to see so many cliffs without guardrails, with some people sitting dangerously close to the edge, feet dangling over the fjord below.

The hike pushed us to our physical and mental limits. At times, we doubted our ability to reach the summit.

As novices to hiking, we supported each other and enjoyed our time together as a family. We shared many laughs amid our struggles, often questioning why we found ourselves on such an adventure. Despite moments of exhaustion, we paused to appreciate the breathtaking beauty surrounding us. We discovered that there is pure joy in sharing the journey together.

This experience teaches us spiritual rule number one.

Spiritual Rule #1: The journey is meant to be enjoyed
God doesn’t just want us to survive life; He desires us to return to Him joyful, refined, and seasoned with experience. True joy is found through Jesus Christ. But does that mean we’re meant to be happy all the time? Certainly not.

Have you ever felt discouraged when things didn’t go as planned? Or felt you were obeying the Lord’s directions, yet faced disappointment? Life is full of unexpected turns.

In Daniel chapter 3 from the Old Testament, we learn about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who were commanded by King Nebuchadnezzar to worship a golden idol. Despite knowing they would be cast into a fiery furnace, they refused to worship it. Their faith was demonstrated not only through the miraculous deliverance from the flames but through their unwavering commitment to God, regardless of the outcome. In verse 18, they declare, “But if not…” [3] a phrase I love because it beautifully expresses trust: I know what I want, but if that is not what is best for me, I trust that God knows best. I am content with whatever path He chooses for my life. I can choose to be joyful in any circumstance.

President Russell M. Nelson said, “…the joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives. When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation, … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives.” [4]

On our Preikestolen hike, hills, slippery stones, mud, crowds, rain, narrow and scary bridges, all could have made us doubt our choice to climb. But having experienced all those things, we still found the vista at the top to be breathtaking.

So, what can we do to find joy on our journey? We can choose to walk with Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ is the perfect walking companion. Because of the Atonement, He understands us perfectly. The disciples that walked with Him on the road to Emmaus, after His resurrection, learned from Him by the spirit. Earlier, prior to His resurrection, the Savior taught, “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” [5] Invite Him to walk with you. It’s okay to move slowly. Just keep walking, one step at a time, with faith.

Most of you are probably familiar with the primary song… “I Will Walk with Jesus.” [6] I would sing it for you, but unfortunately, you might not recognize it! Stephen Schank, who wrote the lyrics and composition, said, “...choosing to walk with Jesus Christ is not something we do only once but every day of our lives. As we do, the Savior shares His power with us, changing our very hearts to become more loving, more holy, more like Him.” [7] The lyrics to the chorus are as follows:

“As I walk with Jesus to my home above,He will bless me with His Spirit and fill me with His love,Change my heart forever and help me clearly see.I will walk with Jesus... and He will walk with me.” [8]

When John Rainer was a young boy in Taos Pueblo, New Mexico, one of his favorite parts of the day was dusk. Like most young Indian children, John would run and play and do chores all day long, with an exuberance typical of those who grow up with space to roam and air to breathe. But at the end of the day, when golden fire filled the horizon, John would pause and listen. He would always hear the song of the flute.
“It was a peaceful, relaxed melody,” John recalls. “The old man would sit near the river half a mile from town and play his tunes. He believed the music would travel with the water. You couldn’t see him, but you could always hear his tunes.” It was a time for rest from the day’s labor, a time of repose and contemplation, a time during which a love for music was born in John’s heart.
John grew up and moved to the city. He lived in a comfortable brick home in a suburb of Orem, Utah, with his wife and children. And every evening, just at dusk, he would take his flute—one he made himself—and play a melody—one he wrote himself—to his family. His neighbors didn’t always see John, but they could usually hear his songs. When they did, the whole world seemed to pause, breathe deeply, then sigh in contentment.
“Playing the flute is my way of sharing something my ancestors shared with me,” John said.
Over the years, John taught a lot of students about Indian flute music. Tilda Suen, from Toadlena, New Mexico, remembers standing in front of a class of about 30 Brigham Young University students. Using simple fingering patterns, she played an original composition for her classmates. Then Brother Rainer led the entire group in a discussion about the melody.
“Trying to compose on the flute is fascinating,” Tilda recalls. “It’s hard to get your own expression and style into your song. But Brother Rainer taught us something that helped. He wanted us to convey strong feelings in our music, things like love, our feelings about the Church, our emotions.” Others also played their compositions for the class, then offered supportive comments.
“We learned about improvisations,” explained Lance Silverhorn of Anadarko, Oklahoma. “We arranged the notes we knew to come up with a song, practicing fingering and basic sounds. Later, we’d work out more complicated melodies on our own.”
For John Rainer, teaching a class was another means of sharing his love for the art of his ancestors—and also a means of preserving a skill that to them was interwoven in the fabric of everyday life.
“Native American flute playing was a dying art 15 years ago,” he said. “But now it’s regaining popularity throughout the country, as native performers like Commanche Doc Tate Nevaquaya of Norman, Oklahoma, record traditional songs and travel the country explaining them.” Brother Rainer invited Doc Tate to BYU several years ago and learned a lot from him about how to make flutes and play them. Through his own study, John also amassed a personal knowledge about the role of the flute in Indian society, a knowledge he continues passing on to others.
“I try to help people understand the function of the flute as it was and as it is today,” he said. It is a story of a rich heritage.
Some songs were most personal and were played only for sacred occasions. Some tribes treated songs as actual property—another person could not perform them without permission, payment, or proof they were given to him as a gift. In the Northern and Southern Plains, songs could be rented or leased.
Although many people think of the voice as the primary means of producing a melody in Indian society, the flute and whistle were also used.
Flutes were used in religious ceremonies, to mark events of importance to the community, as a means of self-expression, as a greeting to strangers, as a war signal, to announce the arrival of VIPs, and often in courting.
“Courting was not as overt as it is in modern society. A young man with feelings for a young lady could have a flute made or purchase a song and play it, hoping the young woman would respond. In some cultures, if she was impressed she would tie a feather in his pony’s tail. But they would not go walking around hand in hand.
“The Apaches had a very strict moral code. For them a melody was a prayer. They believed the flute player, to offer an effective prayer, had to be totally clean.
“The philosophy of the people was that there was life in everything, animate or inanimate. Taking that into consideration, they had respect for all life around them. So when the flute maker went out to select his wood, he did so in a religious context. He would try to understand the area from which his wood would come.
“If you have strong feelings and want to compose a song, it’s almost like putting clothes on a feeling. As Latter-day Saints we can use the flute to convey feelings about our Heavenly Father, our testimony, and our love for the gospel and our fellowman. At first your songs will be rough, but expect that. Practice each day and you will find it becomes part of your means of expression.”
One of the non-Lamanites who studied with Brother Rainer at BYU was Ingrid Jensen of Payson, Utah, who had exposure to European classical music in her home. One day in class she interrupted with a question, wondering how the trill so common in native American music is produced. Brother Rainer, whose favorite European composers include Bach, Berlioz, and Mozart, demonstrated the technique. Then he and Ingrid discussed diatonic scales and compared the baroque period’s augmented fourth interval with styles traditional in Navajo hymns.
Not everyone John talks to about flutes is so musically inclined. “Very few of the students in the flute-making class had any musical training when we started,” explained Katherine Kokenes of Mililani Town, Hawaii. “We came to the class because we wanted to build our own flutes and learn to play them. Once our first flute was made, he taught us simple tunes like ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ and we practiced them over and over until we got used to them.”
Katherine based the exterior decoration for her flute on a Hawaiian motif symbolizing the ocean waves surrounding her island. She rubbed the wood with kukui nut oil.
Others John has taught have also found ways to personalize their instruments. Freida Maize from Shiprock, New Mexico, carved an “S” on her flute to stand for her home town. Ray Delgarito of Crown Point, New Mexico, fashioned part of his in the shape of a quail. And Jackie Smith of Dustin, Oklahoma, carved a thunderbird and other tribal symbols of the Creeks and Seminoles on her flute.
“The thunderbird symbolizes power, and to me music is a powerful way to influence people. In my tribe and every tribe it plays a vital part because it is involved in everything—religion, everyday singing, powwows, war dances. Everything is tied in with some form of music or other.”
She explained that her mother, who is not a member of the Church, heard her playing the LDS hymn “I Need Thee Every Hour” on the flute and asked her about its meaning. “I was able to show her that she can kneel before God and meet him any time, every hour.”
John Rainer knows that the wood on a flute can be left natural, rubbed down with a piece of cedar to smooth the surface, or the wood can be finished with linseed oil, stain, or shellac. Designs can be painted on the surface. Each flute, like each song, should represent the person who made it.
“It’s more worthwhile than just making something,” Tilda said. “Something simple becomes something beautiful when you use it to play a song.” John agrees. “It’s an extremely satisfying experience to take wood, carve it out, and then make music from your own creation. And each flute has a timbre all its own—no two instruments, just like no two songs, are alike.”
A flute is made from two halves joined together. This allows the center to be rounded, hollowed, and sanded. When the halves are joined, the instrument must then be tuned. The process requires consideration of many variables: size of holes, their distance from each other and from other parts of the flute, the diameter of the center bore, and the distance from a sharp wooden edge inside the flute that produces the vibrations. Most tuning is accomplished by increasing or decreasing the size of holes.
John explains that his ancestors made their flutes by burning holes with wooden rods, or by hollowing out cane which, when hot, is almost like plastic. In some regions pine, cedar, and redwood were used.
Early flutes were simple, straight tubes. With time, the two-piece construction was perfected, using resin rather than epoxy or glue to join the wood together. Interior carving leaves a thin strip of wood designed as a resonator. A wooden block is usually cemented above the resonator to help redirect air toward the finger holes.
It’s easy to see that a person who wants to make a flute needs to learn something about woodworking as well. A novice learns quickly. Tilda had nearly completed her first flute when it cracked; she completed her second in four days working three hours a day.
“I worked on my flute outdoors,” said Eric Hatch, a Navajo from Fruitland, New Mexico. “It helped me get a feeling for the olden days. The old ways are not so dead after all. My grandparents would be surprised, but they would be proud to see I want to learn and understand things that were important to them. Brother Rainer’s gone back to a lot of things I never knew, things I used to ignore. But now I listen and it seems very real.”
“I learned not only how to make flutes, but I learned a lot about the flute makers’ way of thinking,” Lance said. “It’s quite invigorating culturally to think of them and then build a flute and play a song the same way they would have.”
“I didn’t even know Navajos used flutes,” Ray said. “I think flutes sound neat. When you’re alone, play your flute and it’s like someone else is there. At first I thought I’d learn and then quit. But I think I’ll keep making them. People keep asking me to play songs for them.”
Nelson Atine of Salt Lake City, Utah, said playing the flute helped him think of the future, “what I’ll do with my heritage and my family and my children.”
John has taught many people to share the song of the flute. Some have played Church hymns in meetings. Others have shared their talent with relatives. John often plays a beautiful song he composed for his wife. He smiles proudly when his son David plays his flute.
John’s expertise has opened new opportunities for him. He has moved to San Carlos, Arizona, back to the reservation so that he can spend more time carving ebony and ironwood into flutes. People come from all over the world to hear him play. He travels to universities to give lectures. His music is being recorded and distributed throughout the country.
John will explain that every Indian tribe used the flute in some way. He’ll talk about geographical distribution, varieties of flutes, and compositional techniques. He reminds you that in some native American societies, the flute was so revered that the instrument and the honor of being the flute player was handed down from one generation to the next.
In his own quiet way, that seems to be exactly what John Rainer is doing for the coming generation—he is passing on to them the tradition of the song of the flute.

Missionaries sacrifice a lot when they serve. Education and careers are put on hold, they miss their family and friends, and some even experience major trials and challenges. Some sacrifices are not as dramatic, but still very meaningful. Let me share the story of Sister Kyla Erin de Dios from Mintal, Davao.
Sister de Dios is 19 years old. I first met her back in February 2022, and since I am Korean, she shared that she was a hard-core BTS fan. She became a BTS army in 2017, because the words of their songs inspired, motivated, and comforted her. She even had a twitter account with over 2,000 followers dedicated just to support BTS.
When I met her again recently, I mentioned BTS but Sister Kyla reacted differently. She said she has been preparing for a mission and has joined the Lord’s battalion, she is no longer a BTS army, but will soon be in the Lord’s army. She has submitted her mission papers and is excitedly waiting for her mission call.
What caused her mighty change of heart? The catalyst that jumpstarted her preparation was her FSY experience. In her own words, “I have always wanted to become a Servant of the Lord, ever since I was in primary. I realized how turning away from worldly things truly blesses you spiritually. At FSY I learned to ‘Focus on what you are building, not what you are leaving behind.’ As we start to focus on building our relationship with the Lord, by reading the scriptures and keeping the commandments, we are becoming the Lord’s battalion. We will become well prepared for the Lord’s battle.”
Sister de Dios still loves BTS, but she loves the Lord more. My dear young brothers and sisters, is there anything in your life that you are prioritizing over your relationship with the Lord? I urge you to examine your priorities and make sure that you are focusing on the things that matter most, on the things that have eternal significance.

Moleni hurried to finish weaving his palm-leaf basket. He tucked the last end in and raced toward the water. When the tide was low, he and other boys collected fingota (shellfish) for supper. Their moms would steam them with vegetables from their gardens.
Hurrying home with his fingota, Moleni ran into the yard and picked breadfruit to eat with the shellfish. On the way to his house he had found several coconuts to add to his bounty.
His mother was preparing supper in the kitchen, a small room separate from the house.
“Here, Mother,” he said, giving her the food that he’d brought. “May I go now?”
“Yes, dear, but don’t be gone long. Supper’s almost ready.”
Moleni knew that his mother thought that he was going swimming, but today he had something more important to do!
Moleni needed money to buy a new white shirt. He was to be ordained a deacon on Sunday, and he wanted to honor his priesthood by dressing properly. His father, Tevita Finau, had been a missionary and had been known in the Tongan islands as a very faithful member of the Church. Moleni wanted to be just like him; he wanted to look like the missionary picture his mother had of his father.
Since his father’s death, his mother supported the family by selling crops from their garden. She also sold copra (dried coconut meat). For all her hard work, she earned only fourteen dollars for every ton of copra that she dried. There was never enough money.
Moleni had to earn the money for the shirt himself. He didn’t want his mother to even guess how important it was to him—she had enough to worry about. Only his Primary teacher and his best friend, Sione, knew about his plans.
Weeks ago he had planted talo (taro, a starchy root) in a place in their garden where his mother wouldn’t find it. Now it was ready to take to the market. Sister Fonua, his Primary teacher, had said that she would sell it there for him, and tomorrow was market day.
Swiftly Moleni dug up the roots. He washed off the dirt, wrapped the roots in wet leaves, and placed them in a basket. Gathering up the basketful of talo together with mats and baskets that he had woven to sell, he walked as fast as he could to Sister Fonua’s home.
She pulled back the leaves and looked at the roots. “That’s the best talo I’ve seen,” she said. “I’m sure that it will sell well.” She looked at the empty baskets. “These baskets are tight and well woven too. But, Moleni,” she added unhappily, “this still won’t bring enough money.”
The boy’s heart sank. He had worked so hard. “If I catch some fish to sell, too, will it be enough?” he asked anxiously.
“It wouldn’t be enough for a ready-made shirt,” she said after thinking for a minute, “but I could buy enough material to make you one myself.”
“Thank you, Sister Fonua,” Moleni told her gratefully as he hurried away. “I’ll bring the fish early in the morning.”
On his way home he stopped at Sione’s and asked if he wanted to go fishing too.
“What are you up to?” his mother asked as he gulped his supper. “You’ve been acting funny lately.”
“Sione is going fishing with me,” he answered. “I don’t want to be late.”
“We could use some fish for breakfast,” his mother said, smiling at him as he finished his supper. She was proud of Moleni. She knew that he worked hard to help feed the family.
“There will be fish for breakfast,” he promised her.
Sione was already at the beach when Moleni got there. Neither of the boys owned a fishing pole or a boat, so they speared fish in the shallow water of the tide pools.
Sione was sending fish to market too. He and his brothers helped provide for their family also. They laughed together as they worked, and they worked hard. But by sundown, they had just three kiokio (a kind of fish) each.
“You can have my fish,” Sione offered. “I can catch some more tomorrow.”
“No,” Moleni answered. “Your family needs money too.”
They sat on the sand to think. Suddenly Moleni jumped up. “There is enough fish,” he said.
“Huh? How do you figure that?” Sione asked.
“There’s enough kiokio to send to market if we have something else, too,” Moleni told his friend. “There’s one thing that my family would rather have than kiokio: ‘uo (lobster).”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Sione exclaimed. “Let’s go get my maama kasa (lantern). We’ll need it to find the ‘uo in the dark.”
The boys ran back to Sione’s home. They put their kiokio in water to stay fresh, then returned to the beach. It was very dark. The light from the maama kasa showed many scurrying ‘uo. Careful to not get pinched by the big claws, they grabbed the lobsters and put them into woven baskets.
“We’ll have a feast tomorrow!” Sione whooped. “These are the biggest ‘uo that I’ve ever seen.”
“There’s enough to give Sister Fonua a basketful, too,” Moleni said happily. “It can be a thank-you gift from me.”
“Sunday is just three days away,” Sione said with concern. “Will she have time to make your shirt?”
“I don’t know. But I know that she’ll do it if she can. And won’t mother be surprised if I show up for church in a white shirt?”
Early the next morning Sione and Moleni took their fish and lobsters to Sister Fonua. She was pleased with the fish and the ‘uo.
“This is enough,” she told Moleni. “And the shirt will be ready for Sunday.”
The next two days seemed to last forever. Moleni could hardly eat or sleep. His mother watched him anxiously, afraid that he was sick.
Finally Sunday came. Moleni slipped out early with his clean clothes and hurried to the meeting-house. There was a trough there where children could bathe—he wanted to be clean for the Sabbath!
Moleni bathed slowly and carefully. When he put on his new shirt, he felt truly special. He knew that his father would be proud of him.
He walked back home and went to the kitchen. His mother turned as he came in the door.
“Moleni! Where did you get that shirt?” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked at him. “You look just like your father.”
Moleni grinned. “I earned the money for the material, and Sister Fonua made it for me.”
It was a proud family that walked to church that day. Sister Fonua and Moleni’s mother both beamed when Moleni passed the sacrament. The Finau family had the priesthood in their home again!

There was a need in the early days of the flood cleanup for heavy equipment. A request was made for tractors and front-end loaders from stakes both near and far. We thought in terms of 5 or 6 outfits. Soon after the request was made, the area welfare leader from Soda Springs, approximately 165 miles away, called and said, “President, I understand that you need some tractors and front-end loaders. We are ready and prepared to bring 150.” I told him that 20 would be marvelous.
There was a need for electricians to restore power to the homes that lost it because of the flood. We estimated that 150 would be a great response. The call went out. We didn’t get just 150. More than 450 licensed electricians and helpers responded to that call. This same type of devotion and dedication was shown many, many times over as a variety of needs was fulfilled.

After my friend Buddy was in a car accident, I didn’t see him for a while. I guess he didn’t want to see his friends because he had some scars on his face.
One day I decided to call him on the phone. He said if I saw him I wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore. “I’m ugly,” he said, and I could tell he was crying.
Before the car accident, Buddy had always been happy and fun to be around. Now he was sad and wanted to be alone.
Buddy’s birthday was coming up. He didn’t want a party. He didn’t want anybody to see him or stare at him. Mom told me that Buddy and his family prayed that Heavenly Father would help him to feel different about himself. He knew he was a child of God and that his family loved him, but he still didn’t want to see his friends.
Before I went to visit Buddy, I asked Heavenly Father how I could help my friend. On my way out of my bedroom I saw my rock collection on the shelf. Something told me to give Buddy the big quartz rock. The rock didn’t look like much on the outside, but it had bright crystals inside.
I wrapped the rock in blue paper and headed to Buddy’s house. He didn’t want to see me at first, but he finally told his mom it was OK. When I went in his room, he was wearing a bandana to cover part of his face. I handed Buddy his birthday gift. When he opened it, he just stared at the rock.
“Uh, thanks,” he said.
“It’s better than it looks,” I said. “Grab your dad’s hammer, and come outside with me.”
We went into Buddy’s backyard. I put the rock on the ground and hit it with the hammer. It broke open, and Buddy’s eyes widened with surprise. “Wow, cool!” he exclaimed as he saw the crystals inside glinting in the sun.
Then I realized why I had been prompted to give Buddy the rock. “It’s just like you,” I said. “People who know you don’t care what you look like on the outside. What’s important is your heart.”
Buddy didn’t say anything as he gazed at the quartz, but I could tell he was smiling under the bandana.
Buddy decided to have a birthday party with his friends, and he didn’t wear the bandana over his face. He was his old self again. He still had scars, but he didn’t mind and neither did we. We knew what was inside, and that’s what was important.

The value of service in the Church was of equal worth to me as the years I spent in getting an education. I remember early in my business career I was given a great opportunity with a retail firm. It was a great opportunity. Of course, immediately following World War II, employment opportunities were easy to find. Businesses were starting to fill their executive ranks after years of personnel shortages as men and women who had been engaged in the war effort were returning home. After six months with the firm as an internal auditor, I was promoted to controller of one of their units. I was poorly prepared for such a promotion. I left my wife and two little children where we were then living to sell our home, and I set out on my new assignment.

The work was challenging and difficult. It was more than I could handle during the normal working day. I found myself often working through the night, catching an occasional nap at my desk, to keep going as the night progressed. In fact, it turned out to be almost every other night that I would remain in the office.

In a couple of weeks our home sold, and I arranged to drive back to pick up my family and bring them to our new residence. After getting my family settled, I let my wife know what my work schedule was. Needless to say, she wasn’t very happy with the arrangement and the burden she had at home with two small children. She wanted some assistance there. I tried to explain how burdened I was at the office and that it wouldn’t last forever.

After just a few days of having the family together again, I was home having dinner one evening expecting to go back to the office. A car pulled up in front of our apartment. A man came to the door and introduced himself as a member of our stake presidency. He invited me to come out and visit with him in his car. As we approached the car, I could see a counselor from our bishopric seated in the front seat. Inside the car, it was explained to me that they were reorganizing the bishopric of our ward on the next Sunday, and the counselor was to become the new bishop. He turned to me and called me to become his second counselor.

I paused for some time before responding, wondering how I could take on any more in my life. However, the example and training I had received in my home as I was growing up fortified and strengthened me, and I agreed to serve. It turned out to be one of the great blessings of my life. This new bishop taught me the art of delegation and how to organize my time much better. My life became almost normal once again, which, of course, pleased my wife and family.

This was followed by service in two bishoprics, two high councils, two stake presidencies, and finally as a stake president before being called to serve as a General Authority in Salt Lake. Church service is the best schoolmaster I know to teach human relations, a quality I believe is essential to all who want to succeed. It is difficult to stay even with the Lord. The more you give, the greater will be your blessings.

When our last grandchild was born, Sister Swain and I were invited in for the delivery. When our daughter-in-law's siblings came to the hospital to see their sister and first niece, they were all so quiet and reverent. Each one seemed to sense that something was different about that occasion, that it was sacred. They all spoke in hushed tones and no one had asked them to. Maybe the same hush and reverence occurred as the shepherds entered the stable where the Christ Child was born.

“I have received far too many blessings from just keeping my recommend current to not hold it dear to my heart. Twelve months after my baptism I went to my first and only young single adult convention. I was assigned to a service project at a farm, but at the last minute some spaces opened up on the temple service project. I had my recommend and appropriate clothing with me, so I went and while there I met a friend who introduced me to my future husband by the end of the week. For an assortment of reasons, we couldn’t initially be sealed in the temple, so I didn’t get endowed until later. In following a prompting to go to the temple for my endowment, I was blessed with my first child the very same week. Throughout my pregnancy, I continued to go to the temple every month until my son was born. From that, I was blessed with new friendships in a new ward and a stronger testimony and an understanding of God’s plan. Two months after the birth of my son, the temples closed and I went through some of the greatest trials of my life thus far, but because of what I’ve learned in staying worthy of my recommend and using it often, my faith never failed through my trials. I struggled, I felt weak, but my faith remained steadfast.” —Marie Cranston, Melbourne, Australia

The cold winter winds had blown drifts of snow into our tent that morning. We didn’t find out until later how lucky we were—the snow had piled up on the tops of several other tents that same night, causing their roofs to collapse on the people sleeping inside. But at the time, all Tamar and Maria, two of my sisters, and I knew was that we were terribly cold and hungry.
We were camped next to the Sweetwater River with our mother and other family members, on our way to the Salt Lake Valley. It had been snowing for four days straight, and until the blizzard let up, we were stuck. And what was worse, we were quickly running out of food. Everyone in our handcart company shared their supplies equally, which meant that everyone got equally small portions. We were only allowed a handful of flour each. The night before, Mama had taken a strip of rawhide off the frame of the cart and boiled it into a sort of broth. To my brother and sisters and me, it tasted wonderful, but it did little to fill our empty stomachs. And now here we were the next morning, lying buried under a layer of quilts and a layer of snow, knowing that there would be no more food today than there was yesterday. All that stood before us was another day of cold misery.
I shut my eyes and wished that I could go back to sleep. In my dreams, at least, I was comfortable and warm. I could pretend that I was back in our lovely England, in our beautiful little cottage. I remembered the day the missionaries had spoken at our town chapel, and how Mama’s and Papa’s eyes had begun to burn with a light I had never seen before.
That was why we were here. Ever since their baptisms a few years ago, Mama and Papa had dreamed of joining the Saints in America. We had skimped and saved and finally were able to afford the price of passage on a boat to the United States.
Not being able to afford a horse or wagon, we signed on with a handcart company led by Mr. Edward Martin. Papa passed away early in the journey, and Mama’s health was very delicate. We often had to let her rest in the handcart while we three older girls pulled and pushed. She was so determined to reach Salt Lake that there was never any thought of turning back. But now, after trudging across half the American continent, it didn’t look as if we were going to get much farther. I shuddered and tried pulling the quilt closer around me. I had never felt as weak or as miserable as I did that morning.
“Patience, are you awake?” Mama’s sleepy voice came from the other side of the tent.
I groaned.
“Come, Patience, get up and help me make a fire.” I could hear the rustlings as she climbed from beneath the quilt.
The thought of leaving the small warmth provided by the quilt and my slumbering sisters made me shiver even more. “Oh, Mama,” I said, “I can’t get up. It’s too cold. And I’m so hungry! I don’t think I have the strength.”
“Tamar? How about you, lass?”
Tamar barely stirred beside me as she mumbled, “I don’t feel well, Mama, not at all. I can’t possibly get out of bed.”
Mama came over and knelt next to our huddled bodies. She put a gloved hand on Maria’s shoulder and shook her gently, saying, “Come, Maria, you get up.”
Maria groaned. “I can’t, Mama.”
Mama stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Girls, this will not do!” She pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then her face brightened. “I believe I will have to dance for you. Will that make you feel better?”
And before we could react, Mama stood on her toes and began dancing a jig, a bright lively dance from home with lots of kicking and bouncing. She also began singing an old ballad we used to sing in our village on holidays. Mama jumped and spun around, her voice cheerful and bright in the muffled stillness of the winter morning. Tamar, Maria, and I all poked our noses out from beneath the quilt to watch her, too surprised to laugh.
Then all of a sudden, Mama’s foot slipped on the snow that had drifted in through the tent door. She let out a little yelp as her feet flew out beneath her and she landed on the cold ground with a thump.
“Mama!”
In seconds, all three of us girls were at her side. We were sure that she had twisted her ankle or broken her leg or worse. But as soon as we helped her sit up, we saw that she was shaking not with pain but with silent laughter.
“Mama!” I exclaimed. “What on earth did you think you were doing, dancing like that on the snow! You could have been hurt!”
Mama chuckled again as she held us all close. “Oh, girls, I knew I had to get you out of bed somehow! I couldn’t stand the thought that my girls were getting discouraged and were going to give up. I knew that that simply would not do. So I thought that I could make you all jump up if I danced for you—especially if I fell down!”
I looked at my sisters. They looked at me. I knew at that point that no matter how hard our journey got, Mama would never let us fail. We would make it to the Salt Lake Valley if she had to drag us all along behind her.
“That was a clever little trick, Mama,” Tamar said.
“Yes,” I said as I grabbed Maria’s hand, “and now that we’re out of bed, let’s get that fire going before we all freeze to death!”

It was at Dixie that Kalin was first introduced to the Church. He became friends with some Polynesian players who were returned missionaries. Kalin says, “They welcomed everybody. They were so friendly and nice. I felt comfortable around them.”
One of his new friends, Jack Damuni, tells what happened. “I was in my room doing some homework. A Catholic friend came in and started asking me questions about the Church. Kalin walked in, sat on my bed, and just listened. We were talking about the Godhead and how the Spirit lets you know if things are true, and about our purpose here on earth. Kalin wasn’t saying anything. I turned and looked at him, and he started crying. I knew what was happening.”
Of course, Kalin remembers everything about that day. “Religion had always interested me. I listened to what both of them were saying. I was really struck by a lot of things Jack said. It was a good feeling that I had.”
They were an hour late for a team meeting. The coach bawled them out for being late until they told him they had been talking about the Church and were too involved to think of anything else.
As they were walking back to the dorms, Kalin started asking more questions. “Hey, Jack, what was that I felt back there? I felt something that really touched me. It made me cry.”
Jack said, “Remember when we were talking about how the Holy Spirit lets you know when things are true? That’s what it was.”
Kalin said, “It’s a good feeling. I felt calm.”
As Kalin began taking the missionary discussions, some strange things started to happen. Jack had warned his friend that once he started reading the scriptures and became interested in the Church, people would try to convince him that the Church was wrong. It happened just as Jack said.
“People started being involved in my life who never had been before,” said Kalin. “They were telling me how racist the religion is. To me, the black and white thing has never been an issue—never has been and never will be. I can’t honestly see anyone entering the celestial kingdom if they are prejudiced. Christ said we are all his children.”
Jack Damuni baptized his friend and watched him grow and progress as he became more and more involved in the Church. Two years later, Jack was Kalin’s teammate on the Brigham Young University football team. They are still very close, like brothers. Jack has seen a big change in Kalin. “He’s focused. Everything he does is focused on the gospel.”