Gospel Story Finder

“Utah School for the Blind”—I turned my car into the school’s driveway and glanced at my watch. I had had trouble finding the address, and I was late for an appointment at 12:00 to meet with Scott Jeppson from American Fork, Utah. He had recently been awarded the Eagle badge, an outstanding achievement and an especially remarkable one for him. Scott was born with an eye disease called glaucoma, and by the time he was twelve, due to the glaucoma and a list of other medical complications, he was totally blind.
Scott was waiting at the edge of the parking lot when I drove in. The first thing I noticed about him was his smile. He had the biggest, brightest smile I’d ever seen. After shaking hands with him and introducing myself, I apologized for being late.
“I got lost,” I explained.
“Well, that’s okay,” he said. “That happens to me a lot, too. If we hurry we might still be able to get some lunch.”
Scott led me across the campus as fast as I could walk. I didn’t understand how he could go so quickly when he couldn’t see until I realized that he had every square foot of the place memorized. After lunch we followed Scott’s regular schedule: reading class, swimming, and history. Scott reads using the Braille system and by using a machine called an opticon. The opticon converts regular printed material into vibrations in the shape of letters that are read with a single finger.
After the classes were over, I got a chance to talk casually with Scott as we sat on the grass in the sun. There was a group of students playing softball below us. The game was the same as regular softball except the ball had an electronic beeper in it.
I asked about the problems he’d had adjusting to his handicap.
“It took a lot of adjustment,” he said. “I just do the things I need to do first—pray, study the scriptures, and attend church. I’ve also been blessed with a good family and friends. I can work out most of the problems, and if I can’t work them out, I can get a lot of help.
“I also believe that I’m the only person who can make me happy. I work out the problems, just like anyone else, and I try to smile through discouragement.”
Scott holds the office of a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. He helps prepare and bless the sacrament. He gives talks, using notes in braille, and goes home teaching. In Scouting, since he has earned his Eagle, he is now working toward Scouting’s next higher awards, the Palms.
Last summer Scott and 17 other members of his stake went on a three-day handcart trek. The first day they pushed their carts 26 miles. The second day turkeys were turned loose. The members of the companies were blindfolded and told to catch them. Scott caught the turkey for his group.
On the last day of his trip each one went out by himself.
“That gave me a chance to think,” Scott said. “I had a lot to think about—about reaching goals, about what kind of member of the Church I was. I needed to take everything further. I needed to take what I was further. I realized the only thing stopping me was myself.”
It was over a year ago when first met Scott. He’s 17 now. Scott has changed in a year. He’s grown. His goals for the future include a temple marriage, missionary work, college, and a career in teaching. “I’ll find a way to reach my goals,” he said, smiling. “After all, you’re the only person who can make you happy.”
Scott’s smile? It has changed too. It’s even bigger.

In March of 1976, my wife, my two children, and I were baptized. We were very happy, feeling that we were starting a whole new life. That summer for our holiday, we rented a log cabin in Jotunheimen, one of the most scenic areas of Norway.
In a little sod-roofed cabin, surrounded by Norway’s highest mountains, my family and I had some wonderful days together. Although we lived almost fourteen kilometers from our nearest neighbor, we never felt lonely. We felt very strongly the spirit of the Lord with us. That summer we had an experience that even today makes me tremble with humility and gratitude for the great love the Lord has for his children.
Early one beautiful, cloudless morning, we started on a long hike. We saw deep ravines and snowy mountain peaks reflected in blue mountain lakes. The hike was a little more difficult than we had anticipated, but we enjoyed the solitude and the magnificent scenery. Three or four kilometers from our destination, we needed to cross a steep, narrow ridge called Besseggen to get to a mountain called Veslefjeldet. I felt we could cross it safely, but a still, quiet voice within me seemed to whisper that we should not go that way. I had been baptized only four months before, and was still unfamiliar with the promptings of the Holy Ghost, so I took no notice of the warning.
As we got closer to the mountain, I again heard the voice warning me, so I stopped and studied the map. If we did not make the short climb over Besseggen and Veslefjeldet, we would have to walk around a mountain and a lake. It would take until midnight to reach our destination. I thought about our tired legs and empty food bag and decided that we should continue the way we were going.
When we reached the foot of the mountain, the small voice clearly repeated, “Hans, you must not go over the mountain.” Again we stopped and looked up toward the narrow mountain ridge. The sun was shining and the air was calm, and I still saw no reason to heed the warning. We began to climb.
I led the way while my wife, Lise, came last, keeping the children safely between us. We experienced little difficulty climbing, yet I still felt that I was doing something wrong. Halfway up, we stopped to admire the view. On our left was a sheer drop of 150 meters, while on our right, the mountainside dropped away abruptly for 500 meters.
Lise and the children were excited about the stillness and the wonderful view, but I continued to feel anxious. Suddenly I felt a gust of wind from the north, and I heard a rushing sound that grew louder. Within minutes we were in the middle of a howling storm. I cried out to my family to lie down and hold on tight. We each clung desperately to the mountain, trying to dig our fingers into the earth, but the gusts of wind were so violent we were slowly being blown toward the edge.
Suddenly I understood what I had done. The missionaries’ words about the Holy Ghost’s quiet whisperings came back to me, and I realized that during the last half hour I had ignored the Holy Ghost three times. I prayed that the Lord would save my wife and children. Full of remorse, I cried for forgiveness.
Then, through the storm’s howling, I heard a deep and powerful voice within me telling me to go back down the mountainside. The voice warned me that he who does not obey the voice of the Lord shall be cast out from His presence.
Suddenly a calm stillness replaced the storm. Amazed, I pushed myself to my knees to give thanks and to acknowledge the Lord’s power. My wife and children shouted for me to hurry so we could climb to the top of the mountain. But now I knew better. We must go down, I commanded, immediately! Without knowing why, my family obeyed. As we reached the foot of the mountain, we again heard a rushing noise, and in a few moments the storm was gusting even stronger than before. I told my family what had happened to me on the mountain ridge. Together we knelt to thank the Lord for preserving our lives.
To this day, more than ten years later, I cannot think about this experience without great emotion. On that summer day, while I clung to a Norwegian mountainside, the Lord taught me and my family the value of listening to the whisperings of the Holy Ghost.

Both before and since my marriage, I have had more help through prayer, in matters small and great, mundane and dramatic, than I can possibly list. And yet, when faced with the most important decision of my life, I could feel no help from him—no answer, no assistance, not even any sense of his spirit.
I met Bob when I was a sophomore at Brigham Young University. Without him, I found myself lonely in a crowd of my good friends; but with him, I recognized differences in our life-styles that could lead to problems in marriage.
When Bob asked me to marry him, not trusting my own decision, I asked God to confirm it for me. “With all my soul I asked Him to give me a “burning feeling” (see D&C 9:8) in my heart if marrying Bob were right, or a “stupor of thought” (see D&C 9:9) if it were wrong; I experienced neither the burning feeling nor the stupor of thought. Wondering if my faith had been insufficient, I rephrased the question, asking if it was right to break off the engagement; again, I experienced neither burning nor stupor.
Twenty-one months after we had met, I married Bob in the Alberta Temple without receiving any recognizable assurance that doing so was right or that not doing so would be better. I made my own decision. Committing myself to a relationship with risks and without any guarantees except the promises we made to each other before the most important witnesses. That commitment and those promises were mine, and I know now that I needed to make them without commandment to do so.
I know now that I wanted God to take all the risk out of my marriage, and hoped that he would guarantee a good relationship with my husband. Instead, God required that I solve problems and make the commitment on my own. In the process of growing closer together, Bob and I have found adventure and sorrow, growth, identity, and a great joy. Most people need a positive answer that their choice of partner is right; I needed an answer of silence so I would grow in the ways I have mentioned. My situation is probably very rare. In most instances I’m certain it would be very unwise to enter into an eternal marriage covenant without the sustaining testimony of the Holy Spirit.

God offers us counsel not just for our own safety, but for the safety of His other children. An example from Church history is that of Reddick Newton Allred. He was one of the rescue party sent out by Brigham Young to bring in the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies. When a terrible storm hit, Captain Grant, captain of the rescue party, decided to leave some of the wagons by the Sweetwater River as he pressed ahead to find the handcart companies. With the blizzards howling and the weather becoming life-threatening, two of the men left behind at the river decided that it was foolish to stay. They thought that the handcart companies had either wintered over somewhere or had perished. They decided to return to the Salt Lake Valley and tried to persuade everyone else to do the same.
Reddick Allred refused to budge. Brigham had sent them out, and his priesthood leader had told him to wait there. The others took several wagons, all filled with needed supplies, and started back. Even more tragic, each wagon they met coming out from Salt Lake they turned back as well. They turned back seventy-seven wagons, which returned all the way to Little Mountain, where President Young learned what was happening and turned them around again. When the Willie Company was finally found and made that heartrending pull up and over Rocky Ridge, it was Reddick Allred and his wagons that waited for them.
While the record does not prove it, I am confident that Brother Allred prayed while he waited. I am confident that his prayers were answered. He then knew that the counsel to stand fast was from God. We must pray to know that. I promise you answers to such prayers of faith.

The fact that President Kasue and other Chyulu Church leaders have hungered to learn more has contributed to the strength of the Church here. When President Brown invited all priesthood leaders to attend leadership meetings in Nairobi, he did not expect those from Chyulu to attend because of the distance and cost of travel. However, 11 brethren from Chyulu arrived early on the morning of the meeting. They had walked 20 kilometers to catch a train at midnight and traveled all night. They attended the leadership meeting that day, with some of them requiring translators. That night they stayed with Church members, and the following day they traveled back to Chyulu, expressing deep gratitude for the privilege of being at the meetings.

Many years ago, there lived an unusual man who chose to live underground. Some people even called him “the human mole,” because moles are small burrowing animals that spend most of their lives beneath the earth’s surface.

Although no one is small enough to crawl through the dark earthen tunnels inhabited by moles, thousands of people have visited the Fresno Underground Gardens, an estate created by Baldasare Forestiere. This unusual “house” is a short distance north of Fresno, California, and has been open to the public since 1954.

Mr. Forestiere was born in Messina, Sicily, in 1879. When he was 21, he came to America and worked in the underground subways of New York City.

Later, Mr. Forestiere used his savings to move to California. He bought 800 hectares of land near Fresno, which was like a desert in those days before an irrigation dam could be built. Temperatures there reached as high as 120 degrees, and Mr. Forestiere found such heat very uncomfortable. He also found that he was unable to plant fruit trees because the earth was parched and hard.

Remembering how cool it had been working down in the subways in New York, he decided to make tunnels to escape the heat. At first, he was going to dig only a few rooms to live in. But his digging lasted for 40 years and his underground rooms and passageways extended for three hectares. Most of the rooms were built three meters below the surface of the ground. In some places, he also dug a “second story” about seven meters down.

Although he was only 1.6 m, Mr. Forestiere hauled hundreds of tons of earth with his wheelbarrow. He had a natural talent for designing rooms and passageways with the strongest forms of construction known—the arch, the column, and the dome. He created an interesting variety of rooms, grottoes, and sunlit patios beneath the ground.

The underground architect’s first living quarters consisted of two rooms with some interesting features. He carved seats into the sides of the walls and made notches to hold shelves. Skylight openings above each room let in the natural light and air. In wintertime, they were covered with glass to keep out the rain.

Eventually, he constructed a more elaborate apartment that included two bedrooms and a living room, kitchen, chapel, library, and bathroom. He had a snugly recessed bed, a slide-away table to provide additional space, and two fireplaces. He built sliding windows in the kitchen and a half-wall picture window in one bedroom. He also made a “see through” or peephole so that if he heard someone coming, he could see in advance who it was.

After Mr. Forestiere had lived in his home for some time, he planted flowers, vegetables, shrubs, vines, and trees in certain sections of his underground maze where they could receive the proper sunlight and air. He experimented with various sizes and styles of skylights for this purpose. Many of the trees were grown in planters placed in the center of the rooms and gardens.

Some of the trees bear strange combinations of fruit, the result of Mr. Forestiere’s experimental grafting. His “Second Story Tree,” grown seven meters underground, produces seven different kinds of citrus fruit—navel and Valencia oranges, sweet and sour lemons, tangerines, grapefruits, and cheedro (a fruit native to Sicily). Other plants grown in the underground gardens include grape, wild mulberry, Chinese date, hibiscus, rose, date palm, avocado, almond, quince, strawberry bush, Bartlett pear, coronation pear, fig, Rose of Sharon, and loquat. There is also a carob tree, the beans from which flour and chocolate can be made.

To obtain nourishment for his plants, Mr. Forestiere made many trips in his Model T Ford pickup to bring back the rich loam of ancient lakebeds 20 km. away. Water at the necessary levels was provided by a well and pump. Mr. Forestiere even constructed an aquarium for keeping goldfish and tropical fish, with places for watching them above and under the ground.

In recent years, man has left the earth and walked on the moon. He has built submarines that became temporary homes beneath the surface of the seas. A number of science-fiction books have been written about people who have lived underground. However, it is truly remarkable that this talented man, more than 50 years ago, built a home so livable, so interesting, and so rare that thousands of visitors come each year to marvel at his accomplishment.

Claire was a sad hippopotamus, for today was the day of the jungle talent show. All of Claire’s jungle friends were going to be in it—but not Claire.

Claire had no special talent. She didn’t dance. She didn’t sing. She didn’t juggle fruits, do somersaults, or play the drums. And she didn’t know any funny stories to tell. She was just a plain, ordinary hippopotamus.

“Oh, coconuts,” Claire sighed. “There must be something I can do.”

Then Claire had an idea. She went to visit Madame Gazelle’s Dancing School. “Will you teach me to dance?” Claire asked.

“I’ll try,” replied Madame Gazelle.

Claire put on a pair of pink dancing shoes. She learned to turn and curtsey. She leaped gracefully into the air. But when Claire landed, the jungle shook. Monkeys and bananas rained from the trees, mice bounced high into the sky, and everyone complained about the shaking jungle.

Claire did not want to make her friends angry, so she gave up dancing. She went to see Hester Elephant, who was famous for her singing. “Can you teach me to sing?” Claire asked.

“Of course I can,” Hester answered. “Listen.” She raised her trunk and sang “Mary had a little elephant. …” She had a lovely voice. “Now it’s your turn,” said Hester.

Claire roared, “Mary had a little hippopotamus …” as loud as she could. Her jungle friends had to cover their ears. She scared Lonnie Python right out of his tree house.

“This will never do!” Hester cried.

So Claire went to see the Great Chimpanzees. They had the best trapeze act in the jungle. “Please teach me to swing from tree to tree,” begged Claire.

“Sure,” agreed Bimbo Chimpanzee. “But first you must climb a tree like this.” He scurried to the top of a tall tree and waved to Claire. Claire struggled up the tree after Bimbo. The tree began to bend.

“TIMBER!” shouted the Great Chimpanzees who were on the ground. The tree and Claire and Bimbo fell with a crash. The Great Chimpanzees were happy that Claire did not fall on them. But Claire was not happy at all.

“I’ll never be a part of the show,” she cried.

“I’ll teach you to catch rings on your nose,” offered Walter Rhinoceros.

“But I don’t have a horn like you do,” Claire protested.

“Oh,” said Walter, “I forgot.”

“I’ll teach you to juggle rocks,” suggested Randy Baboon.

“Wonderful!” said Claire. She tossed two rocks into the air.

“Ouch!” They hit Randy on top of his head. He went home to have it mended.

“I know a funny joke,” laughed Smiley Hyena, “but I need it for the show. I wish I had another one for you, Claire.”

Tara Tiger tried to teach Claire to play a harmonica. But Claire swallowed it by mistake.

“Who needs a talent show anyway?” she huffed. “I’m going swimming.” All afternoon Claire swam around the lake. When she was tired, she took a long, long nap in the water. Voices woke her up.

“Claire! Claire!” the voices called.

Claire opened her eyes. Her jungle friends stood on the shore. They were wearing their talent show costumes. “Claire!” called Madame Gazelle. “We need you.”

“Me?” said Claire. She swam to shore.

“We have a terrible problem,” said Hester. “You are the only one who can help.”

“What can I do?” sighed Claire.

“Because we’re all in the show,” Bimbo explained, “there’s no one to watch us. So we have no judge to choose the winner.”

“Oh, I can do that!” cried Claire. So Claire sat in the very first row. She clapped as loud as she could. She cheered. She whistled and stamped her feet. “Hooray! Bravo! Encore!” she shouted. “More! More! More!”

When the show was over, Claire clapped so long that everyone took ten bows. “You were all so good,” said Claire, “I can’t decide who the winner is—”

“The winner,” announced Tara Tiger, “is Claire Hippopotamus.”

“Me!” exclaimed Claire. “I wasn’t part of the show.”

“Yes, you were,” said Lonnie Python. “You were the best audience a talent show ever had.”

Everyone clapped for Claire. She made a curtsey. Then she took her basket-of-fruit prize and went home—a happy hippopotamus.

That was a lesson for Katelyn. She had had difficulty seeing this kind of potential in herself. As a Beehive, she looked up to the other young women, but she didn’t feel like she had anything to contribute to her Beehive class. At school she felt pressure to try to be popular and fit in. “It’s hard when other people try to tell me what I am supposed to look like, act like, and do well at.”

One night for Mutual each young woman received a piece of paper with a name on it. The paper was passed around the room and each young woman wrote talents, abilities, or admirable traits about the young woman whose name was on the paper. As Katelyn read the kind words that the other Beehives wrote about her, she realized that the other girls saw talents and gifts that she had never seen in herself. That experience, coupled with her efforts visiting the hospital, “have taught me a lot about my role here.”

Molly could never wait for something to happen. She did all she could to make something happen quickly.
Most of the time Molly’s impatience did not get her into serious trouble. She was just in the habit of hurrying with everything she did.
One day Molly’s teacher, Miss Raymond, said, “Class, your project this month concerns a member of this classroom. How many of you have noticed that Naryana isn’t at school today?”
Ten sixth-grade hands waved above Molly’s head. Molly hadn’t noticed, but, then, she hadn’t paid any special attention to Naryana.
“Naryana Ranjappa is Indian,” Miss Raymond said as she pulled down their geography map. “But she is not an American Indian. She is from India.” Molly watched Miss Raymond place her long pointer on a country across the Arabian Sea and to the east of Africa. “Naryana was born in India and for a short time lived in England. From there she moved to our city here in the United States.”
“Wow!” Howard Higgins said. “She’s come a long way!”
“And she is not happy here,” Miss Raymond continued. “You must have noticed how sad she is. That is a problem we might be able to help her solve. What can we do to make her smile and be happy?”
“Miss Raymond?” Molly wiggled at her desk until her teacher called on her.
“Yes, Molly?”
“Miss Raymond, I have an idea to make Naryana feel more at home. Why couldn’t we have an Indian festival with something about the customs of her country?”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Molly,” their teacher answered, and all the students agreed.
Looking at her class, Miss Raymond said thoughtfully, “If you like the festival idea, you’ll have to find out about Indian customs without telling Naryana. Perhaps if we surprise her it will bring a smile to her face.”
All the children liked the idea and began working right away. The different ways of this country on the other side of the world made them want to learn more and more about it.
Janice checked out from the library a large picture book about India with photographs of people and animals wandering through narrow, crowded streets. Howard brought a calendar picture of an Indian girl who had a red mark on her forehead. She was wearing a beautiful yellow silk dress called a sari. The whole class learned about India in small groups, at recess, or after school without Naryana discovering their surprise.
Naryana was tiny for her age when compared to her classmates. Most of the time she sat quietly staring down at her desk.
The night before the festival many of the children stayed after school and helped decorate the room. They swirled and curled brightly colored designs with poster paint. They hoped that the decorated elephant, the model of the Taj Mahal, and the traditional welcome of fresh fruit and flowers would all help to bring a smile to Naryana’s face. The children felt the excitement grow as the room took on a festive look.
The next morning everyone came to school early. The boys and girls stood silently around the room waiting for Naryana to come to class.
Within a few minutes Naryana walked into the room. Her eyes widened with surprise. She looked at the decorations and at the boys and girls and they looked at her. Would she smile? they wondered.
Molly carefully led Naryana to the center of the room. As she looked around at the colorful decorations from her native land, Naryana smiled. But Molly noticed that it was a sad kind of a smile. It pushed at her cheeks, but it did not change her face as they had hoped it would. The festival began as fruits, nuts, and flowers appeared as if by magic. One of the girls played “Song of India” on the piano and Miss Raymond read Kipling’s poem “Rikki Tikki Tavi” to them. They ate, sang, and laughed while sitting on the floor in traditional Indian fashion.
It was a wonderful festival, but Molly was not satisfied. She had hoped for a wide, happy smile from Naryana, but only a shy, little smile had lighted the face of the girl from India.
Later at home, Molly decided that the fruit and colorful designs at school had meant little to Naryana. She wanted to make her happy but would have to do it in another way. Molly tried to think of something really special that she could do for Naryana. She looked around her bedroom, wondering if she might give her a gift. Molly saw her brush and comb set, her stuffed giraffe, and her dolls, but nothing seemed to be suitable.
Molly finally decided to go over to Naryana’s house. Maybe I can cheer her up, she thought. As she ran up the walk Molly suddenly stopped. Naryana was sitting alone on her front steps with her eyes searching the ground.
“Hello, Naryana,” Molly said with a cheery voice.
Startled, Naryana looked up but she didn’t smile. “You’re Molly aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Molly answered, surprised that Naryana knew her name. Naryana invited Molly into her house. The rich-looking brass ornaments and brightly woven fabrics decorating the walls were beautiful. As the girls went back to Naryana’s bedroom, Molly caught the pleasant smell of spices and perfume that filled the hall.
Naryana had twin beds in her room and Molly immediately noticed two photographs hanging on the wall between them. They were pictures that looked like Naryana but not the girl Molly knew. Each of these pictures showed a face that was bright-eyed and happy.
“I’m the one on the right,” Naryana explained, “and the other one is Shani, my sister. We are identical twins.”
“But where is she?” Molly asked.
“In Devonshire, England. We left her there with relatives, because she was too ill to come here with us.”
Molly watched Naryana’s eyes fill with tears and her chin begin to quiver as she talked.
“Shani had a bad accident and can not be moved until she is better.”
“Naryana, we didn’t know you had a twin sister in England. Miss Raymond didn’t tell us.” Suddenly, Molly knew how she could make Naryana happy. It might take weeks, but it would be worth every bit of time and trouble.
It was hard for Molly to keep a secret, but she didn’t tell anybody about her plan for over a month. When she was sure she couldn’t keep the surprise any longer, a package arrived from her brother.
After lunch that day, Molly came flying breathlessly into the classroom, carrying a package and her family’s tape recorder. She went straight up to Miss Raymond’s desk and whispered something to her.
“Oh, Molly! Yes, of course,” she said. “Let’s play it right now.”
Miss Raymond called the class to order. They all felt the excitement of something about to happen.
“Molly has a wonderful surprise for us.” Miss Raymond announced.
Everyone sat quietly when Molly stood up proudly and said, “You may know that my brother is on a mission in southern England. Well, I wrote to him several weeks ago and asked him to do me a favor.”
Molly glanced back at Naryana and saw her raise her head and watch attentively as Molly continued, “He sent me this tape and I want to play it for you now.”
She turned on the recorder and a sweet voice began speaking, “Dear Naryana and Miss Raymond’s sixth-grade class: It is raining here in Devon, and the flowers and bushes outside my bedroom window seem to grow with each raindrop even though we are well into fall. I want to tell you that Doctor Hardwell says I am slowly getting better …”
From then on the tape from Shani was a treat for everyone. On previous occasions, Naryana’s rare smiles never quite filled her face, but now she was beaming when she heard her sister’s words filled with hope.
For Naryana and for them all this voice was a miraculous bridge over time and two continents.
For Molly, it was a lesson in friendship and patience. Sometimes, Molly decided, best things do come from waiting.

At age 14, young Ezra T. took over management of the family’s dairy herd while his father was away on a three-year mission. He remembers sitting around the kitchen table, listening to his mother read the letters his father sent home. Reminiscing about listening to those letters, he said, “There came into that home a spirit of missionary work that never left it, and later seven sons, all of them, went on missions, to their blessing and the blessing of their posterity” (Glasgow Scotland Area Conference, June 21, 1976).

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

I didn’t know yet if the gospel was true when I was about seven and a half years old. I thought that if it was good enough for my parents, then it was good enough for me. One night, as I was pondering my life, my mind focused on thoughts of religion. I wondered if I was in the right one. I remembered Joseph Smith and that he had had the same thoughts. Thinking about this, I decided to follow his example. I got out of bed and began to pray. At first, I had a hard time concentrating on praying because it was pretty cold that night and I wanted to get back into my warm bed. After I finished my prayer, I listened for the Holy Ghost to tell me what to do. Finally, just as I was about to give up, I felt an amazing feeling. It was as if my heart was about to explode with joy! When I am in doubt of the scriptures and am not sure if Heavenly Father is really there, I look back at this time and remember that wonderful night when I first felt the Spirit for myself.

Pa had always set great store in fasting and prayer. He never doubted that the Lord would answer a righteous prayer of faith. And my pa was a righteous man, so I never saw his faith go unanswered. But in the summer of 1876, during my twelfth year, his fasting and prayer brought about the most curious answer I’ve ever seen.
Whenever Pa was thinking hard about something, he would tug his left ear. He had been tugging that ear for three or four days, so I knew something important was on his mind.
He mentioned it to Ma that night at supper. “Emily, that upper five acres could mean the difference between meeting the payments at the bank and losing the farm.”
Ma stopped pouring the thick, frothy milk and looked at him. “What do you mean, Edward? You haven’t said anything before.”
“I can’t keep water on it, Em. No matter how I plot a course, the water either won’t flow across the field or it backs up and floods half the crop and leaves the other half dry. I don’t know what to do.”
Ma sat down heavily. “We could really lose the farm?”
“If we don’t get a good crop. And we won’t get a good crop unless I can figure out some way to irrigate that land.”
The next couple of days were really low ones for us. Pa would stand each morning, staring across those five acres, then tug his ear and walk off, glum-faced. Usually after supper he’d play with me and Baby Sam, read out loud from the big family Bible, or pick on his banjo. Now he just sat at the kitchen table, drawing figure after figure on pieces of paper—diagrams of an irrigation system.
It took me a minute to realize what was different that morning. There was no sound of sizzling bacon, no mouthwatering aroma almost lifting me out of bed. Then I remembered—we were going to fast today. I swallowed hard, wishing I had drunk one final glass of water before we had had prayer last night to start our fast.
The loft door lifted up, and Pa came in smiling and wrestled me out of bed. That kind of surprised me because Pa had been so quiet and preoccupied lately. I thought maybe he’d found a way to irrigate the cornfield, so I asked him.
“No,” he said, becoming serious again. “But we’re going to put it to Heavenly Father today during our fast. He knows how to get water to the crops. We just have to ask Him and have faith that He’ll give us the answer. I’ve done all I can.”
We knelt around the kitchen table for morning prayer, and I settled myself into a comfortable half-sleeping position, because Pa’s prayers can get pretty long sometimes. Suddenly my ears pricked up. Pa’s tone was different this morning, and his prayer was short and direct:
“Father, our crops are dying. I’ve tried everything I know to irrigate the land, but the water won’t flow on that hilly ground. We turn to Thee for help. We dedicate this fast to finding the answer we need. Please help us.”
After Pa finished, we knelt there quietly for a minute or two, then got up together. Pa looked relieved and ruffled my hair. I asked if he’d gotten an answer already. He smiled. “No, Son, not yet. But I will.” And much of that day he spent off by himself, praying.
The next morning Pa picked up a long stick as we walked out to the cornfield. Then he walked across the field, dragging that stick behind him! He didn’t turn to look until he was at the other end. And when he did turn to see that crazy wavy line, he stood a long time, tugging on his ear.
“Well, Son,” he said finally. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, and this has to be one of His most mysterious.”
I couldn’t believe he meant what I thought he was saying! “You’re not going to follow that line to make the irrigation channel are you?” I asked.
Pa grinned. “If that’s what He wants me to do, then yes, I guess I am.” And he pulled the hand plow to the edge of the field. I stood at the side, watching his muscles bulge against his shirt as he plowed a deep, crooked furrow that looked more like a sidewinder’s track than an irrigation ditch.
This is one time, I thought, when Heavenly Father just hasn’t come through.
When Pa had finished plowing the furrows, he removed the board that held back the branch of the creek next to the field. The water rushed along his newly dug furrow, then slowed and found natural furrows that flowed throughout the corn patch and carried the life-giving water to every stalk of corn.
We had a successful crop that year, and I never again doubted the power of fasting and prayer. If ever my faith began to waver, all I had to do was remember my pa and the day that he plowed the crooked furrow.

Before me sat a handsomely graying sixty-year-old man of slight yet dignified physique who had been making important editorial decisions for nearly forty years. Surely I was in the right place for an answer. As a twenty-one-year-old missionary, he had been associate editor of Great Britain’s respected mission publication, the Millennial Star. While walking down a Salt Lake City street after returning home, he decided on the moment to seek employment at KSL radio station. They hired him, and four years later he was named one of America’s best radio announcers.
At twenty-four years of age he began his great career as Tabernacle Choir commentator and author of his own “Spoken Word.” Six years later, the call came to be managing editor of the Improvement Era. Since that time he continued to grow in editorial stature. He authored numerous books, became a world-famous personality, was called at age thirty-two to the First Council of the Seventy and then at age forty-seven to the Council of the Twelve (in both quorums he was their youngest member when appointed). Wherever he went and whatever he did, his name only continued to rise higher and higher. Certainly this man could solve our little problem.
After he finished the letter he was dictating, he turned and said, “Please sit down and tell me what’s come up.” I did, and then as he leaned back in his chair he concurred about the seriousness of the problem. After talking about it for a few minutes, he came around from behind his desk, sat down beside me, and started to ask questions: “What do you think would happen if we did such-and-such?” I would respond, and then he’d ask, “What do you think if we did something else?” And so it went, until half a dozen possible courses were discussed.
Then he stood up and said, “I’m glad you came over because, no fooling, this is a serious matter, and it has some delicate overtones. The Lord bless you in your decision.”
Stunned by his decision to not make a decision, or was it confidence in a new staff member’s ability to handle the matter, I walked in silence to the door, his arm on my shoulder. He opened the door and took my hand to say good-bye and slowly said, “This is a very delicate and serious matter. You’ll make a good decision.”
As I left, thinking about what to do, I couldn’t help but recall the Prophet Joseph Smith’s great statement that he taught correct principles and then left the Saints to govern themselves.
It was so also with Elder Richard L. Evans. For forty-one years he taught the world correct principles through his beloved and widely quoted “Spoken Word.” Many great broadcasting executives and evangelical leaders of several nations have said that Elder Evans addressed the largest pulpit in the world. In fact, a statement issued by the Council of the Twelve at Elder Evans’ death said: “Numerous people, the world over, have happily boasted that ‘Richard Evans is my Church.’”
What kept listeners returning to hear his “message of depth and faith and freshness and inspiration” week after week? It was the correct principles that he so well articulated. He effused his great messages with hope—and confidence, as I discovered. Clothing the principles he discussed was his unmistakable spirit of optimism and conviction that mankind—every one of us—can really make the right decisions if we think seriously enough about what matters most in life. Then, like the Prophet Joseph Smith, Elder Evans left his listeners to govern themselves, to seek out alone the good in life and in religion.
No one need take space to say all the things that Elder Evans stood for—it would probably be an impossible task. Every listener and reader of the “Spoken Word” knows for himself the great themes of Richard L. Evans. Each of us has felt his own spirit move and revel in agreement as he read or heard the beautifully and succinctly phrased sentences. Each of us has sensed the remarkable breadth of this man’s outlook, his depth of understanding, his tolerance of others and their ways of life, his urbanity and cosmopolitanism (a term appropriately chosen by the First Presidency in a statement they issued about Elder Evans), his endless store of common-sense wisdom, and his probing perceptiveness.
But unknown to New Era readers is the great founding role that Elder Evans played in seeing that these same qualities were part of the New Era. About a year and a half ago when the First Presidency decided that there would be three new magazines, Elder Evans chairmaned the youth correlation committee, as one of his many assignments as a member of the Council of the Twelve. So, under the direction of the First Presidency, he was in charge of the new youth magazine.
His immediate concern was for a name. He asked for suggestions, wrote friends for lists of suggested titles, and composed a list himself. But that was not good enough: “The thing we must remember is that if this magazine is for youth then it must carry a name that they will respond to,” he said.
He whittled all proposed names down to about twenty-five and asked that a survey be taken at several large youth conferences. Their selection pleased him greatly—the New Era—because coincidentally, the First Presidency had also voiced their preference—the New Era.
After the name came the content. He called groups together in his search for ideas. The roster of those attending read like a Who’s Who in Church stature and contribution. He wrote letters far and wide asking for opinions, and he talked personally with many young people. It was so typical of him: calling in the experts, seeking the best wisdom available, not wanting to overlook any potential good idea from any source. When he was ready, he gave his counsel: “We must face up to the issues in the minds of our students. We must grapple with the anxious concerns of youth.” He personally directed the present “Q&A” format. “Take up the many interests and chief needs of youth—from dating to careers, and don’t neglect the arts.”
His counsel was far-ranging and varied. If you’re one of the many who have come to love the New Era, you should know that much of the basic direction was motivated by Elder Evans. He really did understand youth.
But more than understanding people, this greatly gifted man understood life, all facets of it. As a result, his sparkling intellect and endless interests carried him successfully into many fields. Can you imagine a man already enormously busy with heavy General Authority assignments and weekly conference trips, plus his weekly pressure for more than forty years to create a new and moving “Spoken Word,” also taking time to become so deeply involved in civic, educational, service, business, and other activities that he would achieve the following: (1) 1966–67 president of Rotary International (during that year he traveled worldwide speaking to service clubs); (2) president, University of Utah alumni, and three-term member of the University’s Board of Regents; (3) a member of the Utah State Board of Higher Education; (4) recipient at thirty-three of a Distinguished Service Award from the Salt Lake City Junior Chamber of Commerce, in 1961 of the George Washington Medal of the Freedom Foundation, and—in between and after—of literally dozens of honorary degrees and special honors; (5) two-term member of the Committee on Medicine and Religion for the American Medical Association; (6) member of the advisory council of the Civil War Centennial Commission; (7) weekly columnist for a New York newspaper syndicate, King Features; (8) at his death a director in about a dozen businesses, banks, and financial enterprises; and (9) of course, much more than space permits mentioning. His active and successful involvement in so many facets of life is staggering.
Elder Evans was not one to sit on the side and let life go by. In a day when people are being called to show their religious convictions by their actions, Elder Evans is a monument, an enduring example for all of us.
But now some remarkable facts. His father was killed in an accident when young Richard was only ten weeks old (he was born March 23, 1906 in Salt Lake City, the last of nine children). All his early life he missed a father’s counsel and arm. Then, even though he won scholastic, debating, and his high school’s distinguished service awards, and had been editor of the school paper, he put himself through college by “working all the time” in every job imaginable: raising and selling flowers, selling magazines and newspapers, having a paper route, dispensing sodas, driving trucks, surveying for the railroad, making syrup, collecting bad debts, selling woolens, working in printing shops, advertising, and writing! After his mission he received his degree in English, and a year later a masters degree in economics. At twenty-seven, after having established his course in life, he married Alice Thornley, and together they raised their four sons, whom he called “the joys of my life.”
But can you imagine a man so widely involved, so deeply committed—a writer, an editor, an announcer, a reader of countless thousands of pages of reports, compendiums, and books—denied the use of an eye? It was a handicap that he shouldered throughout his career. Few of us will know his extra difficulties in reading, in studying, in meeting all his deadlines—all the pressures were there! And still he accomplished, still he worked relentlessly onward, with knowledge that all of us have handicaps of one sort or another, all of us have difficulties. But it is not the excuses we give that count, but what we do that counts.
Long live the memory of Elder Richard L. Evans. May readers seek elsewhere the full and beautiful story of his life. But most of all, may we follow those same correct principles he lived and taught as a special witness and apostolic ambassador for the Lord Jesus Christ.
And then, “May peace be with you, this day and always.”

Laurie hung the little drum ornament on the Christmas tree. How many times had she heard her mother say that the drum was at least seventy-five years old and had hung on her great-grandparents’ tree!
She stepped back and studied the tree. It looked awful! The branches were loaded with mismatched ornaments, most of them older than she was. Aluminum foil stars that she had made in school and lace angels that her younger sister, Angie, had made were bent and tattered. As usual, Dad had strung homemade popcorn and looped it over the branches. Mom had even added some pinecones from last summer’s vacation.
Laurie felt ashamed of the tree. It wasn’t nearly as pretty as her friends’ trees. Tracy’s had matching red ornaments and twinkling white lights. Debbie’s looked very modern with candy-striped ribbons and bows and shiny gold balls.
Laurie dropped onto the sofa. “Mom, why don’t we throw out these junky old ornaments and buy new ones?”
“Honey, these old ornaments are very dear to us. Each of them is full of memories. Remember when you and I made this Santa out of dough the year of the bad snowstorm?”
Laurie did remember. The storm had raged outside as she and Mom sat at the kitchen table, carefully forming the little Santa. They had also baked gingerbread men with raisin buttons, and the warm kitchen had smelled deliciously of Christmas spice.
“But our tree looks so old-fashioned and cluttered.”
“I guess we’re just an old-fashioned family,” Dad said.
“Why don’t you like our tree, Laurie?” Angie asked. “I think it’s beautiful!”
“Oh, you just don’t understand!” Laurie shouted, pushing herself up from the sofa and stamping out of the room. Angie’s too young, she thought. I used to think our junky tree was beautiful too. Now I can see how ugly it is!
She went to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. “I can’t let my friends see our tree,” she murmured. “They’d laugh at it.”
“Laurie,” Angie said the next day when Laurie came home from the store with Mom, “Tracy’s waiting for you in the living room.”
“Tracy’s in by our tree? Oh, no!”
With a sinking feeling, Laurie entered the living room. Tracy was kneeling on the floor, looking at the tree, but she wasn’t laughing. “Where’s the little bluebird ornament?” she asked.
“Ah, over here.” Laurie pointed to a faded little bird among the branches.
“I just love that!” Tracy sighed. “And look, here’s the bell ornament you made in Miss Miller’s class. Wasn’t that fun! Mine got thrown out.”
Tracy eagerly searched the branches of the tree, delighting in the ornaments that hung thickly there. Soon Laurie was lying on the floor beside her, gazing up into the branches. When she told her friend about the drum, Tracy reacted enthusiastically. “Really? This little drum was on your great-grandmother’s tree? Wow! What a great Christmas tree!”
“But it isn’t as beautiful as your tree, Tracy.”
“Yes, our tree is pretty, but there’s more to your tree than can be seen with just the eyes. I don’t know. …” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “I guess your tree brings back lots of neat memories.”
After Tracy left, Laurie remained on the floor, chin propped on her hands, and stared at the Christmas tree. Funny, she thought, a few hours ago I thought this tree was ugly. I envied Tracy’s red and white Christmas tree. I was looking at it—and ours—with only my eyes.
“What are you doing, Laurie?” asked Angie, coming into the room.
Laurie smiled at her little sister. “I’m must lying here admiring our beautiful Christmas tree.”

The years 1998 and 1999 were a period of somber events in the Congo. I fled my village because of war and spent more than seven months traveling in the wilderness with a group from my village. We had no way to return home.
Every evening our group prayed and sang together, and each person took a turn suggesting a hymn. When it was my turn, I suggested “How Firm a Foundation” (Hymns, no. 85). Even though no one else knew this hymn, I felt that it answered our concerns exactly.
I sang “How Firm a Foundation” many times in those seven months. It comforted me in my moments of isolation and suffering when life was so difficult with sickness and famine in the wilderness. I sang it alone, but the words and music penetrated the ears and hearts of the others: “In ev’ry condition—in sickness, in health, / In poverty’s vale or abounding in wealth, / At home or abroad, on the land or the sea— / As thy days may demand, … so thy succor shall be.” Because of these words, others told me they wanted to learn more about the Church.
One of the men in our group was the leader of a church in our country. After we returned to our village, this brother told me he wanted to find out more about the gospel. I responded to him, following the example set by Alma in Mosiah 18 (see Mosiah 18:8–10). In the end he joined the Church.
The hymn “How Firm a Foundation” touched my soul and brought me great joy and comfort while I was in the wilderness, and it brings me joy today knowing that it helped a good brother to join the Church.
Thierry Alexis Toko, Republic of Congo

Nearly 28 years ago I desired to attend a general conference of the Church and drove 14 hours to be in Salt Lake City for the conference. I entered Temple Square at 8:00 a.m., where the line outside door number 10 was all the way across Temple Square and halfway down the south side of the Assembly Hall. I was nearly 300 feet from my goal. The usher called out that the Tabernacle was full. People dropped out of line, and I inched forward.

At five minutes before 10:00 I was the only person standing in front of my chosen door. The door opened, and the usher said, “Are you still here?” He closed the door, and my heart sank. As the choir began to sing the opening hymn at 10:00 sharp, the door opened one more time, and the usher beckoned me inside. He placed me on half a seat and behind a post, but a welcome seat it was! I was able to sustain the Lord’s chosen leaders and hear their counsel that special day, just as we have done here this afternoon.

“A friend shared that in sacrament meeting she had the idea to get her patriarchal blessing. The Sunday after, the same idea came to my mind, but I didn’t feel worthy. So I worked on my worthiness until I was able to receive my blessing. At a youth camp, I shared my testimony about patriarchal blessings, which inspired a friend to receive his blessing. Then this whole story inspired my brother to prepare to receive his!”
Theodor W., Switzerland, received blessing at 17

“Being adopted means having a family that loves you,” says nine-year-old Kimberly who was adopted and sealed to our family five years ago. Often adoptive parents think they will teach and guide the adopted child, but in our family Kimberly is the one who often does the teaching.
Kim recently entered two events in a track-and-field competition. She had never raced before but wanted to give it a try. She positioned herself on the track to compete with the 20 or so other girls her age in the 100-meter race. A shot rang out to begin the race and, with hundreds of spectators looking on, Kim started running. I was waiting near the finish line with camera poised to capture her coming down the lane, when I realized that she was in last place. I expected to see a disappointed little girl, but Kim had a huge smile on her face! When I retrieved her from the group of girls, she blurted out, “Mom, that was so much fun! When’s my next race?” She then rushed off to sit with her new friends.
Feeling shocked, but extremely proud of my daughter’s positive attitude, I took my place once again at the finish line to see her race in the 50-meter dash. The starter’s gun fired again, and I caught sight of Kim’s beaming smile as she ran with all her might toward me. As I watched my beautiful daughter cross the finish line, parents around me were jumping up and down, congratulating their own daughters. I stood calmly as a warm, peaceful feeling of gratitude filled my heart. Only I knew how far Kim had come in the years since she came to our home. She was once a frail, malnourished, and withdrawn child, and now her strength and confidence couldn’t be contained. She cried out, “I came in third, Mom!”
I gently replied, “No, Kimmie, you didn’t come in third. The winners are over there receiving their awards.”
“I meant I came in third to last, and I want to race again!” I hugged her tightly, and we both giggled out loud as we walked off the dusty track. I knew that Kim was the real winner and had been blessed with gifts and talents far greater than speed and agility. How blessed I felt at that moment to be her mother. I can only hope that I will face my challenges and trials in life with a smile on my face and the same positive outlook that Kim showed me that day. I thank Heavenly Father for bringing us together and pray that I can continue to learn from her example.

I have spoken on three or four occasions to the women of the Church during the past ten years. I have received in response to these various talks a substantial number of letters. I have kept some of them in a file marked “Unhappy Women.”
These letters have come from many areas. But they are all written in the same tone. I wish to read you a portion of one of them which was received only last week. The writer has granted me permission to do so. I will not disclose any names.
Said she: “I met my husband when he was a freshman. He was from a very active family with many years of service in the Church. He was so enthused about serving a mission. I thought we shared the gospel as our most important value in this life. We both enjoyed music and nature and had a high priority on gaining knowledge. We dated a few months, easily fell in love, and wrote to one another while he served an honorable mission. When he came back home, he got back into school and we were married in the Salt Lake Temple. We followed the counsel of Church leaders and began our family. I had been attending [the university] on an Honors at Entrance scholarship, but I became pregnant and sick and left school to devote my time and energy to my husband and infant son.
“For the next eighteen years I supported my husband while he finished school, got some work experience, and started his own business. We both served in leadership positions in the Church and community. We had five wonderful children. I taught the children the gospel, how to work, how to serve, how to communicate, and how to play the piano. I baked bread; canned peaches, apples, tomatoes; sewed dresses and quilts; cleaned house; and tended my flowers and vegetables. In many ways it seemed that we were an ideal family. Our relationship was sometimes sweet and sometimes difficult. Things were never perfect because I am not a perfect woman and he is not a perfect man, but many things were good. I did not expect perfection; I just kept trying.
“Then came the crash. About a year ago he decided that he never loved me and that our marriage was a mistake from the beginning. He was convinced that there was nothing in our relationship for him. He filed for divorce and moved out. ‘Wait,’ I kept saying. ‘Oh, no. Stop! Don’t do this. Why are you leaving? What is wrong? Please, talk to me. Look at our children. What of all our dreams? Remember our covenants. No, no! Divorce is not the answer.’ He would not hear me. I thought I would die.
“Now I am a single parent. What an enormous load of heartache, pain, and loneliness is behind that statement. It explains so much trauma and so much anger from my teenage sons. It explains so many tears from my little girls. It explains so many sleepless nights, so many family demands and needs. Why am I in this mess? What did I choose wrong? How will I ever get through school? How will I get through this week? Where is my husband? Where is the father of my children? I join the ranks of tired women whose husbands leave them. I have no money, no job. I have children to care for, bills to pay, and not much hope.”