Gospel Story Finder

I conclude with two recent experiences. First, this summer I attended a religious liberty summit in Rome where President Dallin H. Oaks gave the keynote address. The summit was filled with inspiring speakers. But when President Oaks rose to speak, I experienced something distinctly different—that beautiful witness of the Spirit that reaffirmed, “Sheri, this is a prophet.” What a priceless truth that is!

On the evening on the 21st of September, A.D. 1823, while I was praying unto God, and endeavoring to exercise faith in the precious promises of Scripture, all of a sudden a light like that of day, only of a far purer and more glorious appearance and brightness, burst into the room, indeed the first sight was as though the house was filled with consuming fire; the appearance produced a shock that affected the whole body; in a moment, a personage stood before me surrounded with a glory yet greater than that with which I was already surrounded. This messenger proclaimed himself to be an angel of God, sent to bring the joyful tidings that the covenant which God made with ancient Israel was at hand to be fulfilled, that the preparatory work for the second coming of the Messiah was speedily to commence; that the time was at hand for the Gospel in all its fullness to be preached in power, unto all nations that a people might be prepared for the Millennial reign. I was informed that I was chosen to be an instrument in the hands of God to bring about some of His purposes in this glorious dispensation.
I was also informed concerning the aboriginal inhabitants of this country and shown who they were, and from whence they came; a brief sketch of their origin, progress, civilization, laws, governments, of their righteousness and iniquity, and the blessings of God being finally withdrawn from them as a people, was made known unto me; I was also told where were deposited some plates on which were engraven an abridgment of the records of the ancient Prophets that had existed on this continent. The angel appeared to me three times the same night and unfolded the same things. After having received many visits from the angels of God unfolding the majesty and glory of the events that should transpire in the last days, on the morning of the 22nd of September, A.D. 1827, the angel of the Lord delivered the records into my hands.
These records were engraven on plates which had the appearance of gold, each plate was six inches wide and eight inches long, and not quite so thick as common tin. They were filled with engravings, in Egyptian characters, and bound together in a volume as the leaves of a book, with three rings running through the whole. The volume was something near 15 cm. in thickness, a part of which was sealed. The characters on the unsealed part were small, and beautifully engraved. The whole book exhibited many marks of antiquity in its construction, and much skill in the art of engraving. With the records was found a curious instrument, which the ancients called “Urim and Thummim,” which consisted of two transparent stones set in the rim of a bow fastened to a breast plate. Through the medium of the Urim and Thummim, I translated the record by the gift and power of God.

Here is a quick backstory to, “The White Company.” It was written by the British novelist Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who is best remembered for creating the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. It is an account of a young orphan named Alleyne whose humble ambition is to someday return to the abbey where he was raised and become a monk. Before doing so, he is required to leave his sheltered upbringing and learn about the outside world.

The scene I wish to match with the mural is an encounter between Alleyne and Lady Maude. She is the young daughter of a famous knight, who has hired Alleyne to be her tutor. However, it is the graceful but outspoken Lady Maude who will be the teacher in this instance.

Lady Maude is teasing Alleyne and challenging his reasons to become a monk. This is not the first time she has provoked him, and he reacts with frustration:

“I am the weakest of the weak,” he [groans]. “I pray that I may have more strength.”

“And to what end?” she ask[s] sharply. “If you are, as I understand, to shut yourself forever in your [room] within the four walls of an abbey, then of what use would it be were your prayer to be answered?”

“The use of my own salvation.” [he replies].

“Your own, you own, ever your own!” “Why…should you, who are soldiers of the Spirit, be ever moping or hiding, …with minds full of your own concerns, while the world, which you should be mending, is going on its way, and neither sees nor hears you?”

At this point, Alleyne can only offer a weak defense:

“There is [truth] in what you say...and yet I scarce can see what you would have [us] to do.”

With “eloquence and conviction” Lady Maude concludes: “I would have them...preaching by their lives rather than their words...I have asked myself if the best which can be done with virtue is to shut it within high walls as though it were some savage creature. If the good will lock themselves up, and if the wicked will still wander free, then alas for the world." [5]

Lady Maude is disappointed with the example of the monks who are absentee “soldiers of the Spirit”. They are caught up in their own projects and interests while neglecting the critical needs of others. There is so much they could do to offer compassion and Godly influence. Alleyne is left to ponder this dilemma and demonstrate his true character. Lady Maude was not mocking Alleyne’s desire to live a life for God. Rather she wanted him to see more clearly God's desires for the life of Alleyne, to live in His service.

As a quick epilogue to the story, I should share that after spending more time with him, Lady Maude grew quite fond of the genuine and kind-hearted Alleyne. But he has gone off to war with her father. As time passes, she fears that he has been killed in battle. Ironically, she decides to turn her back on the world and take shelter from her grief by becoming a nun. She does not know that Alleyne has recovered from grave injuries and has distinguished himself through several noble deeds and rescues. He returns with honor and has been knighted, Sir Alleyne. He has also inherited wealth and property, which makes his conversion from fumbling tutor to brave hero complete. He arrives in time to rescue her at the convent's threshold with a marriage proposal.

Let me be clear this is not a romance novel. It is a serious action and adventure tale that happens to have a happy ending. Alleyne never becomes a monk nor Lady Maude a nun. Nevertheless, they both teach us through their devotion to God, their concern for others, and their hope for the future.

Illustrations by Mark Robison
My family and I went to visit my grandpa on an island called Tenerife. When we got there, I was thinking about all the things that I normally do back at home. Then I remembered church. So I asked my mom, “Will church here be the same as at home?”
“Yes, you’ll see how church is just about the same wherever you go. The chapel may look different, but everything else will be about the same!”
I thought about how the people on the island spoke Spanish. “Will people at church speak Spanish?”
“Yes.”
I couldn’t quite understand Spanish or speak it. I was very nervous about going to church. I told my mom. She suggested that we pray and ask God for help to feel peace and not be nervous. I said the prayer and asked God to help me understand what people said.
When we got to church, I felt a warm feeling inside. After sacrament meeting the Primary president came to meet me. She actually spoke English! I told my mom, “I’m going to go to Primary class with her.”
The Primary president was very smiley and kind. She even asked me to teach her how to pronounce the names of the Book of Mormon prophets in English.
During class, one of the teachers played a song on a tape that was in Spanish. I recognized the song from home. It was “If the Savior Stood beside Me.” I felt peaceful because it reminded me of home, and I was filled with a warm feeling inside. It reminded me that the church is the same everywhere.
I may not have learned Spanish overnight, but God answered my prayer by having someone else speak my language and help me. He gave me exactly what I needed that day to make it through church and not be scared.

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 know some of you worry about being misjudged, ridiculed, and even harassed if you stand up for Heavenly Father, the Lord Jesus Christ, and the Church. I understand your concerns.

I served in the British Mission after the end of World War II as a young missionary. At that time Mormons were “a hiss and a byword” (3 Nephi 16:9), and missionaries were laughed at and ridiculed. People even threw things at us, and some would spit at us. However, we did not retreat, but we continued to bear our testimonies and share the gospel. Like Abinadi, we did not shrink; like Paul, we did not shrink; and like the Savior, we did not shrink. At the time we could not have imagined the impact of our labors. We had 14 districts and no stakes. Today, 46 stakes of Zion are found in the British Isles.

She was a convert of three years—a recently returned missionary who was never as happy as when she was inspiring up others with the story of her conversion. When I read the neatly typed version of her story written at the request of her mission president’s wife, I was awed. And I also felt a little envious. Her testimony had developed intensively as she had studied the Book of Mormon, taught the gospel, and sought spiritual confirmation of truth. She hadn’t seen angels, but she had seen small miracles. The Lord had touched her life. She, in turn, had touched my life through sharing her story. I was raised in the Church; I admire the enthusiasm of converts.
Such experiences, I told her, ought to be reciprocal. “And so I ought to give you something of equal value in return,’” I said. “But I don’t know what.” She tactfully declined my offer to let her read my poetry. (“I never read poetry,” she said.) “Why don’t you write your conversion story?” she suggested.
“But I’m not a convert.”
“That is no excuse.
I sat down that night to start, feeling doubtful. I reread her story and felt hopeless about ever being able to compile a conversion story from my lifetime of attending meetings and teaching Sunday School lessons. The pattern of my conversion wasn’t obvious, but the material was certainly handy—I had written diaries and journals for years. But did I have a conversion story? A look back through the journals showed that I had always been aware of the Church in my life. My ancestors were baptized in England and New England in the early decades of the Restoration and later crossed the plains to Utah. I remembered always being a Mormon.
Which was how I decided to start my story: I remember always being a Mormon. I told of growing up in the Church, of going to corn eating parties and Primary, of singing solos and telling my school friends about the Church. I told how no one needed to tell me when my grandmother died because I knew in my eight-year-old heart that it had happened. I told how all the relatives and seemingly half the town gathered for her funeral in the Rexburg, Idaho, Fourth Ward chapel.
As I reminisced, a theme began to emerge: as a child, I had learned the gospel by living it. Family and teachers had taught me to look to the Lord for strength. I had prayed since I was a child. This seemed ironic, because during my adolescence I had wondered if my prayers were correct and effective. Other people told of dramatic answers to prayers and of lengthy sessions of pleading with the Lord. My prayers, in contrast, were simple, short, and sometimes quite demanding and to the point. Yet I saw, by looking back through journals and searching my memory, that I had always prayed, and that my prayers had always been sincere. When grandma died, I prayed. When I lost control of a horse I was riding, I prayed. When I was scared no one would dance with me, I prayed. When I was too terrified to play a piano solo in public, I prayed. Though not every prayer was answered immediately, all were answered.
I realized that looking to the Lord for strength was a pattern of my life, and had been a part of me since I was a small child. I recognized a strength I had questioned before, and I recognized the Lord’s influence in my life as I had never recognized it before.
As I wrote of my intense involvement in Church while I was in high school, I recalled that many of my friends had wanted to know what made my life different from theirs. Why did I spend so much time at church? Why did the Mormon kids have such close relationships? What was our 6:30 A.M. religion class about? I had told some friends about the gospel. One girl friend and her family were baptized a few weeks after I had timidly asked them, “What do you know about the Mormon church?” one night as we sat around their kitchen table after a trip with the school orchestra. Another friend gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon but did not have the faith at age 15 to be baptized. Other friends went to Young Women meetings and to Church dances with me. A young man I met at a high school journalism conference joined the Church after we corresponded philosophically for three years. I had not converted him, but I had introduced him to the truth, and he had recognized it.
Before reviewing these incidents in my journals and writing them out for my conversion story, I had wondered if I were capable of being an effective member-missionary. “Every member a missionary” had rung guilty notes in my ears for years. Now I realized that I was a missionary—in my own way, with my own friends. Now, that knowledge gives me confidence in continuing to share the gospel gladly and openly.
I wrote next of times I had sought help from the Lord through his servants. I wrote of my high regard for one bishop in particular, of the blessing of knowing worthy men who regarded themselves as “the servant of all” (D&C 50:26). I had forgotten those men and the impact of their leadership. I had forgotten that from them came my first motivation to study the scriptures until the Lord’s words became a pattern for my thoughts.
I wrote how one morning while I was attending Brigham Young University, in Provo, Utah, I awoke feeling a need to know that my life had purpose. I prayed that as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve spoke at a devotional assembly that morning, his words would give me direction and motivation. The prayer was undeniably answered only hours later. That incident, too, I had not thought of for some time.
Throughout those events, I know the Lord was involved in my life. But, curiously, I had underestimated my ability to successfully live my religion. Writing my conversion story out—all eight typed pages of it—made me more appreciative of me. By reading my journal and writing my story, 1 understood myself better, and I saw my growth more clearly, I saw that even when I did not yet understand or accept all the principles of the gospel, I accepted the Lord. I wrote: Because I learned to pray as a child—taught by my grandmother, my mother, and uncounted teachers at church—I had a faith in prayer that carried me through periods of doubt. It was my prayers as a young child that I recalled in my greatest need.
An even greater benefit has come since writing out my own Church history. “And when thou art converted,” Luke wrote, “strengthen thy brethren” (Luke 22:32.) I gave a copy of my story to the friend who first shared her conversion story with me. (“It was pretty good,” she said. “You didn’t know you could write it, did you?” I have judiciously given it to a few other friends since, as we have shared experiences and encouragement. I share it with nonmember friends who want to learn more about the gospel. I wouldn’t give it to just anybody—too much in it is too private. The friends I share it with are strengthened, and that strengthens me. And now, with my conversion story written, signed, and dated, I am more than strengthened; I am a convert.

Third, I will never forget my consternation as I watched the workmen using new nails as they built the walls back up and completed remodeling our home. The pile of nails that I had straightened and put in the green bucket grew and grew and was never used. I went to my father and said, “Wouldn’t it be better to save the new nails and use the ones I have straightened?” I was proud of the work I had accomplished.
My father showed me something very important. He took a new nail and, using an odd angle, drove it into a board. He was able to drive it straight and true. Then he took one of the nails I had straightened so carefully, and, using the same odd angle, hit it again and again. It soon bent and was impossible to drive into the board. So I learned that a used or bent nail is never as strong as a new one. But then why had my father asked me to straighten those nails?
As a boy, I never remembered receiving a satisfactory answer. It was not until I had a son of my own that I started to understand. When my son was about three years old, I took him out to the garden to help me weed. I assumed that he, being low to the ground at the time, would have a real advantage at weeding. Unfortunately for my garden, he had a difficult time distinguishing between the weeds and the young plants.
I then tried Lee at milking a cow we owned together with a neighbor. He quickly developed the hand action of a fine milker, but, sadly, his aim was not very good. Whenever I checked on him, he was always surrounded by a white puddle, and the milk bucket was nearly empty. He would look up at me and smile proudly, and my initial inclination to be angry would quickly dissipate—but I was frustrated. I expected him to help me, but he only seemed to create more work.
It was in such moments of frustration that I remembered straightening the nails for my father, and I began to understand. Work is something more than the final end result. It is a discipline. We must learn to do, and do well, before we can expect to receive tangible rewards for our labors. My father must have known that if he focused on the outcome of my labors, he would only become frustrated with how inadequately I did things then. So he found tasks that were difficult and would challenge me, to teach me the discipline of hard work. He was using the straightened nails not to rebuild our home but to build my character.

President Kasue immediately obtained a copy of the registration document and took it to the assistant chief of Chyulu Village to assure the rights of the Church to operate legally. The Saints could now meet without fear, and their membership soon increased to about 40. They needed a place to meet, but a mission had not yet been established and no meetinghouse was provided. The members built a small bower on President Kasue’s land.
In July 1991 the Kenya Nairobi Mission was organized with Larry Brown as president. Soon he and Sister Brown made a visit to Chyulu. “Although the trip was grueling, it was worth it!” says President Brown. “I remember that the sacrament meeting was held in the bower, but it was raining and the ground inside was wet. Before the priesthood holders knelt down to bless the sacrament, they threw an old sack on the mud. The next time we went, I happened to look in the sacrament trays, and there were only two small pieces of crackers. … They broke those crackers up. There were 63 people there, and I didn’t think those crackers would ever go around, but they did. It was like feeding the 5,000.”7

The Savior once asked His disciples the following question: “What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”
This is a question that my father taught me to carefully consider years ago. As I was growing up, my parents assigned me chores around the house and paid me an allowance for that work. I often used that money, a little over 50 cents a week, to go to the movies. Back then a movie ticket cost 25 cents for an 11-year-old. This left me with 25 cents to spend on candy bars, which cost 5 cents apiece. A movie with five candy bars! It couldn’t get much better than that.
All was well until I turned 12. Standing in line one afternoon, I realized that the ticket price for a 12-year-old was 35 cents, and that meant two less candy bars. Not quite prepared to make that sacrifice, I reasoned to myself, “You look the same as you did a week ago.” I then stepped up and asked for the 25-cent ticket. The cashier did not blink, and I bought my regular five candy bars instead of three.
Elated by my accomplishment, I later rushed home to tell my dad about my big coup. As I poured out the details, he said nothing. When I finished, he simply looked at me and said, “Son, would you sell your soul for a nickel?” His words pierced my 12-year-old heart. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.
Years later I found myself asking this same question to a less-active Melchizedek Priesthood holder. He was a wonderful man who loved his family. He, however, had not been to church for many years. He had a talented son who played on an elite travel sports team that practiced and played games on Sunday. That team had won multiple major championships. As we met, I reminded him that, as a priesthood holder, he was promised that if he magnified his oath and covenant, he would receive “all that [our] Father hath.” I then asked him, “Is a national championship worth more than all the Father has?” He gently said, “I see your point” and made an appointment to visit with his bishop.

There was no moon, and it seemed extra dark to Nellie Kunz as she sat by the fire. She stared into the darkness toward the trees that she knew were there. She wished she had never heard all the stories of mountain lions and wolves that her father and brothers had told.
Nellie was twelve years old, and this was the first time she had come to the sheep camp to cook for her father and brothers and the hired men. They were up in the mountains and over fifty miles from home.
Zina, Nellie’s younger sister, sat beside her and poked a stick at the burning embers. She had come to be Nellie’s assistant and companion while the men took care of the sheep. Besides being sisters, the girls were best friends.
“We’d better get to bed now,” their dad said. “The sheep are all settled down for the night, and we have a lot of work ahead of us in the morning.”
“I’m tired anyway,” said Zina. “And Nellie and I have made a comfortable bed in the wagon.”
“Good night, Daddy,” Nellie said as she gave him a hug. “Good night!” she called to the others.
Zina climbed into the wagon first and Nellie followed her. The wagon was covered with canvas and all their food supplies were stored inside. The girls had made a bed of straw topped with their favorite quilts and pillows from home.
The men slept under the stars near the campfire. Nellie didn’t envy them at all. She liked the idea of sleeping in something enclosed and comfortable. It seemed a little safer and more like being at home.
“It’s so quiet,” whispered Zina.
“Yes,” agreed Nellie. “It’s far more quiet than when Sister Jenkins dropped a pin for us to hear in Primary last week.”
“Don’t forget your prayers,” said Nellie. As she knelt on her soft down quilt, she thanked Heavenly Father for her family and for her many blessings. She asked him to watch over and protect all of them.
“Are you scared?” whispered Zina.
“Sure. Are you?” answered Nellie.
“Yes,” said Zina and they squeezed each other’s hand before they snuggled down into their quilts.
Zina became more and more quiet and Nellie knew she was falling asleep. But Nellie couldn’t sleep. She lay wide awake, staring at the darkness.
After a while she heard a noise. At first, Nellie thought it was the wind blowing the tree branches, but then she felt sure something was moving outside. The sound came closer and closer, and soon Nellie could hear another sound—a heavy breathing sound.
“Zina!” she whispered. “Zina!” She gently shook her sister’s arm.
“What’s the matter?” answered Zina.
“I don’t know,” whispered Nellie, “but when I count to three, scream as loud as you can. One … two … three!” Both girls screamed.
There was a crashing sound beside the wagon as something bounded away. Dad and all the men jumped up from their bedrolls, grabbed their guns, and raced for the wagon.
Everyone was shouting and talking at once for a few minutes as Nellie and Zina tried to tell what they had heard. The men started the fire up again and, holding their torches high, they looked around the wagon. “Looks like the tracks of a mighty big mountain lion,” said Nellie’s oldest brother when he came back from his search. “Took off through the woods.”
“There’s no use trying to track him down,” said Dad. “He’s clear over the mountain by now, with the scare these two girls gave him. I’ve never heard such a row.”
Nellie smiled at her dad, though she was still shaking. “Come on, Zina,” she said as they climbed back into the wagon. “Let’s kneel down again. We need two prayers tonight—another one to say thank you.”

I wonder if you have any idea how easy you are to love and how much I love you. Just before this session started, some of our grandchildren stopped by our hotel room. They had obviously been talking about Elder Marlin Jensen’s talk of this morning. One of them said, “Are you scared, Grandpa?” I lied and said, “Not very.” Another one said, “Don’t worry, Grandpa, if you mess up, we’ll still love you.” But then reality came back into the room when someone added, “But, Grandpa, it would be very embarrassing.” So I am going to try very hard not to mess up.
On June 26, 1858, what I believe to be the largest standing army in the history of the United States up to that date began its prearranged entry into Salt Lake Valley. They had come to quell a nonexistent rebellion. Almost anyone remotely familiar with the history of the Church can tell you that they marched in relative silence within a few yards of where this building now stands, through a city described by one writer as “deserted,” and encamped some distance to the west. What followed is far less well known. In due course the army moved approximately 40 miles south of Salt Lake City to the village of Fairfield, a small farming community in Cedar Valley, home to what is estimated to have been less than 200 people. Their local spiritual leader was John Carson, my great-grandfather.
Imagine how this small congregation must have felt. After all, how would you like to wake up some morning and find that several thousand soldiers, together with over 3,000 wagons, 10,000 oxen, and 12,000 mules, had moved into your ward? The challenges were immediate. From our oral family history, and subject to all of the romanticizing and inaccuracies of such histories, we learn that Bishop Carson was gravely concerned about the welfare of the people over whom he presided. All of the challenges that attended army encampments of that time descended upon Fairfield almost overnight.
To protect the members of the congregation as much as possible, Bishop Carson met with the commander of the fort, who often dined at his hotel and with whom he developed a good relationship based upon mutual respect. The two leaders surveyed the situation and then by agreement drew a line upon the ground. No army personnel would cross into the civilian community without specific approval of their superiors. And members of the congregation would not cross into the fort without specific approval from Bishop Carson. The line on the ground represented an unspoken command: “Over this line you may not cross.”
When we were children, a line on the ground had special significance. Whenever boyhood tempers caused disagreement, the time-honored solution called for a line on the ground. The antagonists stood on opposite sides of the line, attempting to act as intimidating as possible. Someone would say, “Step over the line and you’ll be sorry,” though they usually didn’t say it in those genteel words. In those moments I learned the great value of a line on the ground and the consequences of stepping over it. In the years that have followed, I have come to understand that figurative lines on the ground are placed there by a loving Heavenly Father who seeks to protect us from Lucifer’s army.
While each of us may have dozens of lines on the ground in our life today, I would like to discuss just one of them—the line that says, “Keep each person’s name safe in your home.”
During the early years of my service as a General Authority, I was privileged to be in company with Elder Marion D. Hanks on one occasion when he related the following story. I use it here with his permission:
Oscar Kirkham was one of the great men of the Church and among the Church’s most respected Scouters. He served in the First Council of the Seventy and was a significant presence wherever he went. Often in meetings he would rise to a “point of personal privilege” and then, when recognized, would proceed to say something good about someone. Near the end of his life, he spoke briefly at Brigham Young University on the theme “say the good word.” On the morning that Elder Kirkham died, Elder Hanks was invited to the Kirkham family home. There he was handed a small, inexpensive notebook in which Elder Kirkham had kept his notes. The last two entries were: “Say the good word” and “Your name is safe in our home” (see Marion D. Hanks, foreword to Say the Good Word, by Oscar A. Kirkham [1958], 4).
What a blessing it would be if all of us could follow that counsel, if each of our names truly could be safe in the home of others. Have you noticed how easy it is to cross over the line and find fault with other people? All too often we seek to be excused from the very behavior we condemn in others. Mercy for me, justice for everyone else is a much too common addiction. When we deal with the name and reputation of another, we deal with something sacred in the sight of the Lord.
There are those among us who would recoil in horror at the thought of stealing another person’s money or property but who don’t give a second thought to stealing another person’s good name or reputation.
The old adage “Never judge another man until you have walked a mile in his footsteps” is as good advice today as it was the day it was first uttered. Someone once said:
There is so much good in the worst of us,
And so much bad in the best of us,
That it ill behooves any of us
To find fault with the rest of us.
[In Hazel Felleman, sel., The Best Loved Poems of the American People (1936), 615]
The principle is not new, nor is it unique to our day and time. The book of Psalms from the Old Testament contains this urgent warning from the Lord: “Whoso privily slandereth his neighbour, him will I cut off” (Ps. 101:5).
James, a servant of the Lord in the meridian of time, repeated this eternal truth when he said: “Speak not evil one of another, brethren. He that speaketh evil of his brother, and judgeth his brother, speaketh evil of the law, and judgeth the law. …
“… Who art thou that judgest another?” (James 4:11–12).
And in this latter day, the Lord renewed His long-taught command in a revelation given through the prophet Brigham Young: “Cease to speak evil one of another” (D&C 136:23).
It is most significant to me that this simple commandment is set forth just a few verses from the Lord’s words on the penalty for disobedience: “Be diligent in keeping all my commandments, lest judgments come upon you, and your faith fail you, and your enemies triumph over you” (D&C 136:42).
To those who doubt the importance of the commandment, may I pose two simple questions: (1) How can you say you love your fellowman when behind his back you seek to diminish his good name and reputation? (2) How can you say you love your God when you cannot even love your neighbor?
Any feeble attempt to justify such conduct only brings more forcibly to mind those explosive words of the Savior found in the book of Matthew:
“O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? …
“But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.
“For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned” (Matt. 12:34, 36–37).
I would like to say a few words to the Primary children who may be listening. Children, I’ve been trying to teach your moms and dads something very important, but I need your help. I’ll make you a deal. If you will promise to listen very carefully, I promise not to talk very long.
Do you remember the story of Bambi, the little deer, and all of his friends in the forest? If you do, you will remember that one of Bambi’s good friends was a rabbit named Thumper. Thumper was about your age. He was a neat rabbit, but he had one problem. He kept saying bad things about people. One day Bambi was in the forest learning to walk, and he fell down. Thumper just couldn’t resist the temptation. “He doesn’t walk very good, does he?” Thumper blurted out. His mother felt very bad and said, “What did your father tell you this morning?” And then Thumper, looking down at his feet and kind of shifting his weight, said, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” That’s a good piece of advice that all of us need to follow. What I need you to do, young people, is this. If you hear anyone in your family start to say something bad about someone else, will you please just stamp your foot and say in a loud voice, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” Now, even though that isn’t correct English, everyone will understand exactly what you mean. Now, Moms and Dads, that ought to make it a little easier to live the commandment.
I pray that the Lord will bless each of us that we may never cross over the line on the ground and that we may live so that it can be said, “Your name is safe in our home.”
On this special Easter Day, I close with my solemn declaration, born of the Spirit, that Jesus Christ is indeed our Savior and our Redeemer and that salvation comes by and through His atoning sacrifice and in no other way. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

A couple of weeks later, our branch was visited by a beloved member of our stake presidency. He gave a talk in the sacrament meeting and invited everyone to remain faithful in their trials and to prepare for the temple. He asked all the members to pray for us to go to the temple again. His talk was comforting to our wounded hearts and gave us hope that one day we will be able to attend the temple.

The Saints continued to sacrifice in many ways in order that the work might continue. Around 1890, John Hafen and Lorus Pratt, two Utah landscape artists, approached George Q. Cannon, First Counselor in the First Presidency, about the possibility of the Church supporting their art study in Europe. In exchange, they agreed to labor in beautifying Church buildings upon their return. The First Presidency sent them, along with several others who had shown artistic promise, on “art missions” to Paris, France. The Brethren did not want them only to beautify Church buildings upon their return, but to paint murals in the temple endowment rooms to enhance the experience of the participants. Covenants and sacrifice were once again intertwined as the men left families and friends in the familiar valleys of Utah for the urbane life of an unknown France. Using sacred and increasingly limited funds, Church leaders sent these men to improve their talents to add to the special building in Salt Lake City.

One of those art missionaries who willingly left the comforts of home was John Fairbanks. He arose at 4:00 A.M., Monday, 24 June 1890, in preparation for the long journey to Europe. “At 6 o’clock I kissed our three youngest—Claud (the baby), Ortho, and Leroy while they slept. Then my wife, and bid her good bye.” Brother Fairbanks noted with some remorse: “She was very much affected by the parting, but part we must. The rest of our children beginning with the youngest Ervon, Vernon, Nettie, and Leo walked to the depot with me. When the train came I bid them good bye [and] got on the train leaving the darlings standing on the platform with sorrowful faces and tears standing in their eyes.”

The train sped south from Salt Lake Valley to Provo, where Brother Fairbanks met Lorus Pratt. At Springville, Utah, the next stop, the third missionary, John Hafen, was waiting “with tears in [his] eyes.”

I was visiting Yellowstone National Park with my daughter and her family, and we had spent the day sightseeing. It had been a rainy day, but we were not going to let it get us down. My daughter had been driving for much of that day, but at the end of the night I was prompted that I should be the one to drive back to our lodging.
It wasn’t clear to me why I needed to be the one driving, but I always try to follow promptings of the Holy Ghost when I feel this way. As Joseph Smith taught, “Be careful and not turn away the small still voice; it will teach [you] what to do and where to go.”1
It had become dark, and the rain was coming down hard. Out of nowhere, something appeared in front of my truck. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was close. I knew we were going to hit it. I realized a piece of the hillside had broken away and fallen in our path. As quickly as I could, I tried swerving around the large boulder, but it was too close and we hit it.
The momentum of the truck pushed us up onto the rock, causing the truck to tilt and go on two wheels. I tried to stop the truck, but the gas pedal was stuck. We continued to rapidly move forward, like a rocket flying down the road on two wheels. In that instance, I realized we were heading toward a guardrail by a cliff that led down into Yellowstone River. I had lost control of the vehicle, and I knew what was on the other side of the railing if we went over it.
In that moment, I said a silent prayer: “Father, please help me save my family!” All of a sudden, the Holy Ghost prompted me to turn off the engine. That would require me to remove one hand from the steering wheel, but it was taking both of my hands to control the truck. I thought, “I can’t let go.” I felt a comforting whisper from the Holy Ghost: “It’s OK. I will help you. Turn off the ignition.” I reached for the ignition switch and removed the key. When the truck started slowing down, I was able to once again steer it so we stayed on the road.
I know it was the prompting of the Holy Ghost that led me to turn off the engine. It was as if angels were holding tightly to the wheel so I could remove my hand to turn off the engine. I know Heavenly Father and the Holy Ghost helped me that night. I am so grateful for the gospel in my life that made it possible for me to be prepared to receive the promptings that guided us to safety.

I am an eyewitness of that truth. Over a lifetime, my wife has spoken for the Lord and served people for Him. As I’ve mentioned before, one of our bishops once said to me: “I’m amazed. Every time I hear of a person in the ward who is in trouble, I hurry to help. Yet by the time I arrive, it seems that your wife has always already been there.” That has been true in all the places we have lived for 56 years.
Now she can speak only a few words a day. She is visited by people she loved for the Lord. Every night and morning I sing hymns with her and we pray. I have to be voice in the prayers and in the songs. Sometimes I can see her mouthing the words of the hymns. She prefers children’s songs. The sentiment she seems to like best is summarized in the song “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”
The other day, after singing the words of the chorus: “Love one another as Jesus loves you. Try to show kindness in all that you do,” she said softly, but clearly, “Try, try, try.” I think that she will find, when she sees Him, that our Savior has put His name into her heart and that she has become like Him. He is carrying her through her troubles now, as He will carry you through yours.

With life somewhat back to normal, Peyton was eager to play sports again, especially basketball. “I really wanted to play, but I didn’t know if my back could handle it. I knew I had to take my question to God. I prayed a lot. Then I started having dreams about playing basketball and getting hit and becoming paralyzed during a high school game. At first I just brushed it off, but I kept having them. Then I started having dreams about me being a dad in a wheelchair.
“I decided I shouldn’t play basketball because one day I wanted to be able to play and do stuff with my kids. I felt like I was following a prompting.”

Like the time Grandpa got real sick and had to go to the hospital. Everyone fasted and prayed for him, including Eugene. He climbed up into his quiet place and prayed for a whole hour.
Two weeks later, Eugene’s father lay in the tree house and cried. Eugene heard him because he was there, too. Everyone was happy because although the doctor had said that Grandpa was going to die, he got better. Eugene climbed up into the tree and lay close to his father. Neither of them spoke. At least not out loud. They were busy thanking Heavenly Father in their hearts, warm tears trickling down their faces.
After a while, Eugene asked his father why he had come to the tree instead of staying at the house with everyone else. “Everyone needs a quiet place where they can go to be alone sometimes. Even grown-ups. I don’t have one,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I came up here for a few minutes.”
Eugene was happy that his father thought having a quiet place was important.
“Besides,” his father added with a wink, “with Aunt Althea at the house to greet your grandpa coming home from the hospital, it’s a bit noisy there. I needed a moment alone to thank the Lord for your granddad’s recovery.”
A few moments later, Eugene walked back to the house with his father. The back screen door whined as they joined the others. Eugene paused to look back over his shoulder at the old tree. It was like an old friend—warm, inviting, peaceful. And always there when he needed it. He smiled, went inside, gave Aunt Althea a big hug, then hurried over to Grandpa’s bed.

My grandparents didn’t have a lot of money. Grandpa and Grandma ate what they raised on their farm and worked hard to make ends meet. Grandma sewed temple burial clothes, and Grandpa sold subscriptions to a national magazine. Sometimes I went with Grandpa on his magazine-subscription visits.
Watching my grandparents and my mother, I learned to work very hard. From their example, I also learned the importance of paying tithing. Even though Grandpa and Grandma were very poor, they always paid a faithful ten percent tithing on everything they earned. During very difficult financial times, many neighbors lost their farms. Grandpa often said that he kept the farm because the Lord blessed him for being obedient and paying tithing.

When my class was studying architecture this year in school, each student was assigned to prepare both a report and a three-dimensional model of a famous building or other structure. Since my parents were married in the Salt Lake Temple, it is very special to my family. My dad had the great idea of using sugar cubes to make my model of it. We thought that sugar cubes were perfect because their white color symbolized the purity of the temple. I realized that the shape of the cubes was also appropriate because the Salt Lake Temple was built using huge granite boulders that were cut by hand into blocks.
My five-year-old brother, Rollins, decided to make a temple, too. We thought his turned out to look a lot like the Manti Utah Temple.
Presenting the report let me tell my class a little about the Church and the importance of temples. My model was even put on display in the school media center for a few weeks! Everyone who saw it could read the label we made for it: The Salt Lake Temple of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I look forward to my next chance to tell others about the Church.
Niles Wimber, age 8McDonough, Georgia