Gospel Story Finder

Five years ago, at the end of the summer of 2020, my family was eager to attend a niece’s wedding festivities. Because of the COVID-19 lockdown, it had been about five months since we’d seen our family members or done anything exciting outside of our home or yard!

On our way to the wedding reception, we stopped to see the home improvement projects some family members had been working on all summer. Most exciting to two of my sons (who were then ages thirteen and sixteen) was the giant zip line that had been installed in the yard. Now this is no small backyard zip line. It runs down the slope of the mountainside on which our family members live and stands about twenty feet off the ground!

My sister-in-law handed the boys helmets and a harness and gave them instructions at the launching platform. I could see that they weren’t really paying close attention to her—partly because they were so excited but also because they’d ridden zip lines at Scout camp before and didn’t think they needed to listen. However, on the first ride down the zip line, one of them sat in the harness backward, which led to an awkward and uncomfortable ride, if you get my drift.

As they raced back to the platform to ride a second time, the boys were arguing about when and how hard the other should pull the rope—one is cautious, the other is not. I was standing at the platform focused on trying to get them to quit squabbling and to pay attention to how they sat in the harness. With all of the commotion, none of us noticed that my younger son had failed to clip his harness to the zip line before his brother pulled the rope. It wasn’t until he neared the end of the line that he realized the only thing connecting him to the zip line was his own grip.

When you hit the end of a zip line, there can be a pretty violent impact and rebound effect because of the force and the speed at which you’re going. Though my son hung on as tightly as he could, his adolescent arm strength was no match for the impact. He slipped down the rope like Icarus falling from the sky6 and fell silently to the ground. All of the worst thoughts I could think of filled my head as I ran screaming over to where he lay motionless. Miraculously, he had landed on some pretty soft ground. Other than having a rope burn on his hands and having the wind knocked out of him, he was unhurt.

As I have reflected on this experience, I have thought about how the boys had everything they needed to have a safe and enjoyable time on the zip line. They had safety equipment, clear instructions, and supervision, yet distractions and a false sense of security prevented their safety and success.

I didn’t realize that everyone didn’t know that when I first left home. I was in Georgia and a girl asked me to tell her about the Mormon church and what I liked about it and what I believed. I told her the obvious things about the Word of Wisdom, tithing, and going to church on Sunday. She threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, “Merciful heavens! I want to be religious and hear a good sermon on Sunday, but I’m certainly not going to let it interfere with my life.”

She didn’t know about the plan of salvation—that life is a part of eternity, as much as any part before we came or after we leave. It is all one round whole of the plan of salvation.

I must have recited the Young Women theme a million times before I had an experience that helped me learn to appreciate its importance.
In Young Women opening exercises, I usually recited the theme without really thinking about what I was saying. But one particular day, during my junior year of high school, those inspired words rang through my mind as I faced an important decision.
My teacher assigned our speech class group projects. Each group picked a scene from a play to perform for the class. We spent the next four days preparing for our performances, and we started to hear rumors that one group of boys had chosen a questionable scene dealing with morality issues. A lot of us were surprised when our teacher allowed them to keep their selection. He argued that it was a well-known play, and “for art’s sake,” he said, he must allow them to perform it.
On the day of the performances, our teacher again discussed the controversial play. He agreed it might be offensive. Then he added, “Those of you who feel uncomfortable have my permission to leave the room.” Jokingly, half the class stood up and pretended to walk out. Who wouldn’t want to take advantage of going to lunch early?
I began feeling a little nervous as the boys started their performance. At first, several of my classmates blushed and giggled uneasily, but as the scene went on, people began to relax. I was shocked to see no one leaving the room. I looked at a few of my Latter-day Saint friends, watching for one of them to give the signal for us to walk out together. But none of them did. I remained at my desk with my head down so no one could see my crimson cheeks. I felt very uncomfortable, but I was also afraid to leave. After all, it was art, right?
At that moment, the Young Women theme came into my mind: “We will ‘stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places’ (Mosiah 18:9).” Immediately, I knew what I was going to do. “All places” meant everywhere, even in a classroom with my friends.
Quietly, I got up and left the room. That was it. No one got up and followed me. No one applauded my valiant act. No one was converted by my example. But inside I knew I had done the right thing, even though people teased me for the next two weeks. I felt good about standing up for my beliefs “at all times and in all things, and in all places.”

I am sure every mother has thought her life would make a great television sitcom—either that or a good disaster movie. That’s how I felt one particular morning.
I had made hot cereal for breakfast, and my older children had gone to school with contented smiles on their faces. When my two-year-old woke up, I set him on a stool at the kitchen counter, put a bowl of cereal in front of him, and left the room for a few moments. Big mistake.
Some situations are so bad they defy a reaction—this was one of those situations. When I returned I saw that there was cereal on every inch of exposed surface from my son to as far as his spoon could catapult it. I stared in stunned silence. Still, I had to admire his thoroughness. I was amazed at the coverage he had achieved from one small bowl.
My gaze drifted to the clock on the stove. Through clumps of cereal I noticed the time and came to my senses. I had a meeting at my children’s school in less than an hour. Should I change out of my robe and slippers and hope this was a nightmare I would awaken from, or should I face reality and try to find my kitchen under its new textured coating?
I decided to remove the cereal while there was still a chance. With a withering look at my son—still perched on his stool, his hair spiked with granulated “mousse”—I rolled up my sleeves and slipped and slid to the sink. I retrieved a dishrag and started to clean.
After what seemed an eternity of scrubbing, I could see progress. I looked at my son again and realized this was the longest he had ever sat in one place in his life. Either he was getting an inordinate amount of pleasure from seeing me work so hard, or he was stuck fast to his seat with ever-hardening cereal.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me. Then I saw it—something I had never seen before: remorse on the face of a two-year-old.
“Sorry, Mommy.” Big brown eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Why did he have to do that just when I was calm enough to scold him? I glanced at the clock and knew I had missed my meeting. So with a huff, I rinsed my rag and began to wash him.
When I had him clean enough to touch without getting stuck, I finally picked him up. He immediately slipped his chubby arms around my neck and snuggled into the fuzzy softness of my robe. With a sigh, I sat down and gently stroked his back.
My mind drifted to a dreamy world where the kitchen sparkled, few dishes were ever dirtied, the floor rarely needed to be swept, and cookies stayed in the jar for more than 15 minutes—where bathrooms smelled like pine forests, guest towels weren’t covered with greasy smudges, and the tub wasn’t full of assorted action figures. I pictured beds that were made, floors void of debris, and laundry that stayed in the hamper until wash day. How wonderful! Yet how sad.
No more little arms thrown around my neck or kisses planted firmly on my mouth. No unconditional hugs despite my temper. No bedtime stories or eager anticipation as new life nudged through the soil in a paper cup. No more homemade Mother’s Day cards or art projects. No clay toothpick holders wrapped in newspaper for Christmas.
That’s all it took.
Even though it was frustrating to have punch stains on the carpet, to constantly blaze trails through toys and dirty socks, and to remove crayon scribbles from the new wallpaper, I realized that these things were insignificant when compared with the magic my children brought into my life. I held my son tighter as I smiled and thanked heaven for messes, for they walk hand in hand with joy.

When twins James and Jeremy Ruesch were eight months old, their mother, Lisa, hurt her arm and was not able to care for the two energetic babies during the day while her husband was at work. When babysitters volunteered to help out until she healed, James and Jeremy were split up between two tenders. They screamed the entire time they were apart. Once back together, the babies were quiet and content. After that, Lisa never tried to separate her boys. For 19 years they have rarely been apart, and even then for no more than a day.

Many believe that King Solomon was the wisest man who ever lived, and, therefore, that his writings in the book of Proverbs comprise the world’s greatest textbook on wisdom.
The book of Proverbs is conveniently divided into 31 short chapters, and I learned a simple practice years ago from my father. As part of my daily Bible reading, I read the corresponding chapter of Proverbs—meaning I will read through the entire book every month, 12 times every year.
I would estimate I have now read through the book of Proverbs some 300 times—and the Holy Spirit still gives me fresh insights almost every week. He also brings occasional humor. One morning I was reading my Bible while my wife was getting ready.
“Read me whatever you’re reading today,” she said.
Glancing down at the chapter of Proverbs I was about to read, I noticed the chapter heading and said, “It’s about ‘the wiles of the harlot.’ Do you still want to hear it?”
“No,” she replied, “but I want you to hear it!”
When our son finished high school two years ago, I wrote him a letter and gave it to him the night before his commencement service. The next day there was a note from him on my desk thanking me for my letter. He closed that note with a P.S. I’ll never forget. It said, “Dad, I’ve been reading Proverbs every day since eighth grade because of you.”
If I do nothing else as a father, I will have achieved something special by passing along a Bible-reading habit learned from my father years earlier.

An anteater began to feast upon a group of thirty ants. After he had eaten six of them, along came a buddy and asked him to share. They split the remaining ants between them evenly and began eating. They had each eaten three of their ants, when another friend happened by. It would be rude not to share with him, they thought, so they divided the remaining ants equally among themselves. How many ants did each anteater eat?

I grew up in Hawaii. I loved to swim in the ocean, to catch the waves, to bodysurf. Lest you think I was a pro, I was only about ten years old. Sometimes, as I looked out at an incoming wave, I would catch a glimpse of a beautiful bubble floating on top of the water. I would do anything in my power to move away from that bubble. The bubble was beautiful, alluring, and very deceptive. It was a Portuguese man-of-war, a small jellyfish. I knew the consequences of coming in contact with that bubble, with its long, almost invisible threads stretching out into the water below. The sting was terrible. It felt like dozens of bee stings as the strands brushed against your skin or wrapped around you.

At times, when we arrived at the beach, there would be a caring adult or another child who would warn us of the danger: “Don’t go in the water. There are a lot of Portuguese man-of-wars today.” If we were wise, we would listen and not go in the water. If we were not so wise, we would at least be alert and watchful. I was always very grateful to have someone warn me and prepare me for the danger.

As the members of the advance company headed into the heart of the Rocky Mountains, the trail grew steeper and the men and women tired more easily. Ahead of them, clearly visible above the rolling plains, were snowcapped peaks much taller than any mountain they had seen in the eastern United States.
One night in early July, Brigham’s wife Clara awoke with a fever, a headache, and intense pain in her hips and back. Others soon complained of the same symptoms, and they struggled to keep pace with the rest of the company. Every step they took on the stony ground was agonizing for their feeble limbs.27
Clara felt better as the days passed. The strange sickness seemed to attack quickly, then subside a short time later. On July 12, however, Brigham came down with a fever. He became delirious through the night. The next day, he felt somewhat better, but he and the apostles decided to rest most of the company while Orson Pratt pressed on with a band of forty-two men.28
About a week later, Brigham instructed Willard Richards, George A. Smith, Erastus Snow, and others to continue on and catch up with Orson’s advance company. “Halt at the first suitable spot after reaching the Salt Lake Valley,” he instructed, “and put in our seed potatoes, buckwheat, and turnips, regardless of our final location.”29 Remembering Jim Bridger’s report on the region, he cautioned the company against going south into Utah Valley until they had become better acquainted with the Ute people who inhabited it.30
Clara, her two young half brothers, and her mother stayed behind with Brigham and the other sick pioneers. Once the company felt strong enough to continue, they followed a crude trail across uneven terrain choked with underbrush. In some places, the canyon walls were so high that heavy dust became trapped in the air, making it difficult to see what lay ahead.
On July 23, Clara and the sick company climbed a long, steep trail to the summit of a hill. From there they descended through a thick grove of trees, winding their way down a path riddled with stumps left by those who cut the trail. A mile down the hill, the wagon carrying Clara’s brothers overturned in a ravine and smashed against a rock. Men quickly cut a hole in the wagon cover and pulled the boys to safety.
While the company rested at the bottom of the hill, two riders from Orson’s company arrived in camp with reports that they were near the Salt Lake Valley. Exhausted, Clara and her mother pushed ahead with the rest of the company until the early evening. Above them, the sky looked ready for a storm.31
The next morning, July 24, 1847, Wilford drove his carriage for several miles down a deep ravine. Brigham lay behind him in the carriage, too feverish and weak to walk. Soon they traveled along a creek through another canyon until they arrived at a level bench of land that opened to a view of the Salt Lake Valley.
Wilford gazed with wonder at the vast country below. Fertile fields of thick green prairie grass, watered by clear mountain streams, stretched for miles before them. The streams emptied into a long narrow river that ran lengthwise down the valley floor. A rim of tall mountains, their jagged peaks high in the clouds, surrounded the valley like a fortress. To the west, glistening like a mirror in the sunlight, was the Great Salt Lake.
After a journey of more than a thousand miles through prairie, desert, and canyons, the sight was breathtaking. Wilford could imagine the Saints settling there and establishing another stake of Zion. They could build homes, cultivate orchards and fields, and gather God’s people from around the world. And before long, the Lord’s house would be established in the mountains and exalted above the hills, just as Isaiah had prophesied.32
Brigham could not see the valley clearly, so Wilford turned the carriage to give his friend a better view. Looking out across the valley, Brigham studied it for several minutes.33
“It is enough. This is the right place,” he told Wilford. “Drive on.”34
Brigham had recognized the spot as soon as he saw it. At the north end of the valley was the mountain peak from his vision. Brigham had prayed to be led directly to that place, and the Lord had answered his prayers. He saw no need to look elsewhere.35
Below, the valley floor was already alive with activity. Even before Brigham, Wilford, and Heber Kimball descended the mountain, Orson Pratt, Erastus Snow, and other men had established a base camp and begun plowing fields, planting crops, and irrigating the land. Wilford joined them as soon as he reached the camp, planting half a bushel of potatoes before eating his evening meal and settling in for the night.
The following day was the Sabbath, and the Saints gave thanks to the Lord. The company met to hear sermons and partake of the sacrament. Though feeble, Brigham spoke briefly to encourage the Saints to keep the Sabbath, take care of the land, and respect each other’s property.
On the morning of Monday, July 26, Brigham was still convalescing in Wilford’s carriage when he turned to Wilford and said, “Brother Woodruff, I want to take a walk.”
“All right,” Wilford said.36
They set out that morning with eight other men, traveling toward the mountains to the north. Brigham rode in Wilford’s carriage part of the way, his hands clutching a green cloak around his shoulders. Before they reached the foothills, the ground leveled off into a plain, and Brigham stepped out of the carriage and walked slowly over the light, rich soil.
As the men followed Brigham, admiring the land, he stopped suddenly and thrust his cane into the ground. “Here shall stand the temple of our God,” he said.37 He could already see a vision of it in front of him, its six spires rising up from the valley floor.38
Brigham’s words struck Wilford like lightning. The men were about to walk on, but Wilford asked them to wait. He broke off a branch from a nearby sagebrush and drove it into the ground to mark the spot.
The men then continued on, envisioning the city the Saints would build in the valley.39
Later that day, Brigham pointed at the mountain peak north of the valley. “I want to go up on that peak,” he said, “for I feel fully satisfied that that was the point shown me in the vision.” The round, rocky peak was easy to climb and clearly visible from all parts of the valley. It was an ideal place to raise an ensign to the nations, signaling to the world that the kingdom of God was again on the earth.
Brigham set out immediately for the summit with Wilford, Heber Kimball, Willard Richards, and others. Wilford was the first to reach the top. From the peak, he could see the valley spread out before him.40 With its high mountains and spacious plain, this valley could keep the Saints safe from their enemies as they tried to live the laws of God, gather Israel, build another temple, and establish Zion. In his meetings with the Twelve and the Council of Fifty, Joseph Smith had often expressed his desire to find such a place for the Saints.41
Wilford’s friends soon joined him. They called the place Ensign Peak, evoking Isaiah’s prophecy that the outcasts of Israel and the dispersed of Judah would assemble from the four corners of the earth under a common banner.42
Someday they wanted to fly a massive flag over the peak. But for now, they did their best to mark the occasion. What happened is uncertain, but one man recalled that Heber Kimball took out a yellow bandana, tied it to the end of Willard Richards’s cane, and waved it back and forth in the warm mountain air.43

I served my mission in Kingston Jamaica, I had a very wealthy, funny mission president, President Calvert. From what I was told, he owned a very successful law firm. I saw his wallet once, and boy it was full of all kinds of large Jamaican and U.S. bills. He would always tell us as missionaries to look for your eternal companion, but don’t be obsessed with it. Become anxiously engaged in a good cause and serve the Lord and you will find your eternal companion along the way. He told us that when he was going through college, he bagged groceries at the local supermarket. One day the Football team’s Quarterback walks in with his girlfriend so she could buy some things. President would say, “So here she was, the Quarterback’s girlfriend, right in front of me. I’m waiting to bag her items, and watch her as she turns to her boyfriend and say, ‘I’m short 20 bucks?’ The quarterback replies, ‘I don’t have any money’. So as I stood there I reached into to my pocket and handed her a 20 dollar bill.” Then he would go on to say, “I’ve been giving her money ever since”. My short, bald-headed mission president marries the quarterback's pretty girlfriend. He was such a funny man. He would always get up during Zone conferences and butcher my name on purpose so everyone could get a laugh. He would also always say, “Well brethren, God only made a few perfect heads, and the rest he put hair on them.” I sure miss and love him.

As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

Saturday was a special day for the Olson family, who lived in a sprawling old farmhouse in a little western Canadian town nearly seventy-five years ago.
The ten brothers and their sister knew that Saturday was the day to get ready for Sunday, and everyone was expected to help. Some were assigned to care for younger children, while others helped Father with the outside chores. Indoors, there was washing, cleaning, and baking to do, for even the food to be eaten on Sunday was prepared on Saturday.
Aromas of freshly baked chicken, warm spice cake, and homemade bread were tempting, but everything was carefully wrapped, covered, and put away for Sunday dinner.
After the baking was done, teams of boys helped Mother scrub and clean the kitchen, while their only sister ironed freshly laundered white shirts with the old flat iron that had been heated on the big black coal stove. Sheets were changed and bedrooms tidied, and when the house was finally ready, it was time for the last Saturday chore—the bath. Two or more boys at a time had to share the large round wooden tub of hot soapy water.
After the last child was scrubbed and in his nightclothes, Mother served a favorite treat—hot cider with fresh buttered popcorn or homemade doughnuts. Afterward Father gathered the family together to give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the blessings of that day. Finally the children would climb into bed clean, tired, happy, and ready for the Sabbath day.

I returned to Italy shortly after. Then, in May 1930, while looking in a French dictionary for some information, I suddenly saw the entry “Mormon.” I read the words carefully and found that a Mormon Church had been established in 1830 and that this church operated a university at Provo [Brigham Young University, Utah]. I wrote to the university president, asking for information about the book and its missing pages. I received an answer two weeks later telling me that my letter had been passed on to the president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
On June 16, 1930, President Heber J. Grant answered my letter and sent a copy of the Book of Mormon in Italian. He informed me that he would also give my request to Elder John A. Widtsoe, president of the European Mission, with headquarters in Liverpool, England. A few days later, Elder Widtsoe wrote to me, sending me a pamphlet that contained the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the gold plates, and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Finally, I had learned the rest of the story of the torn book I had found on top of a barrel of ashes.

It was New Year’s Day, and a snowstorm had just blanketed the small mountain town of Estes Park, Colorado, where I lived. Filled with the excitement of the holiday season, my older brother, Roger, and I had gone outside to play in a field near our home. A little lake where we had played on the ice many times before now lay underneath a fresh mantle of snow, flat and absolutely flawless.
No one worried about the lake being unsafe at that time of year—we lived at such a high altitude that the cold weather generally insured that small lakes would be frozen. But as we were playing, Roger suddenly fell through a soft spot in the ice. I was only six years old, and I didn’t know what to do. I could see no sticks around to pull him out with; everything was covered by snow. His heavy clothing soon pulled him under the water.
I ran all the way home through the deep snow, over a mile, to get my father. We drove back to the lake, and he dove through the ice and somehow found my brother. He tried to revive him, but by that time Roger had drowned.
That experience left me with several feelings. First, I saw the strength of the gospel in my parents’ lives. We were the only members of the Church in our community. Everyone rallied around my parents to give them support and comfort, but I think that the whole community gained more comfort and understanding by watching how a knowledge of the gospel helped my family handle that very difficult situation.
Years later, after I had a family of my own, my wife’s mother heard a caller in a radio talk show describe how he had watched a young family that had lost a son in a drowning accident. He didn’t mention the names of my parents, but the accident had occurred in Estes Park. It was obvious of whom he was speaking. He said it had taught him a great lesson about the strength of that family and the principles that guided their lives. Even then, about twenty-five years after the accident, my parents’ conduct continued to influence others.
Second, I learned about the purpose of this mortal experience. We come to earth to gain a body. Some of us are going to live on the earth a shorter time than others. When you’re literally side by side with your brother, and he goes through the ice and drowns and you don’t, it gives you a whole different way of thinking about life. It could have just as easily been me that drowned. But I’ve always felt that my brother’s mission here on earth had been completed and that he was just “called home” at an earlier age than most of us. But being the one who was allowed to remain, it was important to live as well as I could so that not only Heavenly Father but also my brother would be pleased with my actions.
Third, I learned a great deal from the courage exhibited by my father. He risked his life to break through that ice and dive underneath it to try to rescue his ten-year-old son. It was an immediate response; he did what he felt he needed to do. He showed great love, courage, and strength of character.
Mortality is significant, but it is a very small part of our eternal existence, I learned that lesson then too. I also learned to appreciate that through the ordinances and covenants of the temple our family relationships truly can be eternal.
There’s always another side to tragedy, and that side is one of greater understanding of the purpose of life. I know that Heavenly Father provides special comfort to family and friends who go through painful experiences, as He did with my family. It was a time when Heavenly Father was particularly close to us. And He will be close to you in times of difficulty if you call on Him in prayer.

I graduated high school at 17 and went to Idaho State University Vo-Tech in Pocatello. I lived on campus in the dorms that were right up the street from the LDS Institute building, which was in the middle of campus and also where the campus student wards met on Sundays. Being only 50 miles from home, I usually went home on the weekends, where I knew everyone and felt the most comfortable at church in my home ward. In those days you could hitchhike fairly safely and easily, the biggest challenge getting a ride from the freeway to the dorms or my house in Malad. As the weather grew colder, I tended to stay more frequently on campus for the weekends. Only problem was when I did, I never went to church. You see, I really didn’t know any active members at school. Oh, I faithfully took a religion class all three semesters I attended there, but I really never became friends with anyone from the campus wards. I was very active at home, totally inactive at school.

There was a very large hill, called Red Hill, right next to the institute building, with fake Greek ruins on top, and I would climb up there occasionally to be by myself and feel lonely. Oh I had friends in the dorm, but they drank and partied most of the time, and by Sunday evenings they were pretty burned out from the weekend. I was still scared of girls at that time and had no car to escape anywhere, so all I had to look forward to was the start of the next week and classes again. I vividly remember sitting up there in the cold late one Sunday afternoon, watching the students coming to sacrament meeting down below—that was when it was separate and late in the day—and thinking to myself how I wished I was going there to church. I sat up there the beginning of one sacrament meeting into the next, watching churchgoers come and go, the campus lights coming on and it getting dark. I knew I should be down there in church. I desired to be obedient, but I felt so alone and uncomfortable. I hated being in Pocatello on the weekends. I really wanted to be in Malad with my family, comfortable and warm in my own sacrament meeting. I knew I was supposed to be in church, and I was sure everyone at home just assumed I was going while at school. No one ever asked. No one ever checked up on me.

I learned that year the easiest place to be truly alone is in a crowd. Who among us is feeling alone, and how do we recognize and help them?

It wasn’t until my second year at school that an elders quorum president found me and made an effort to get me out when I was there and I became somewhat active in the student ward, but I still went home as often as I could.

With the spring of 1666 came the second wave of the Black Death, the bubonic plague, to the English village of Eyam in Derbyshire. A few years before, the first onslaught of the plague had scattered residents about the countryside in a frantic effort to escape. But this time, the minister of the village church, William Mompesson, told his faithful flock that they should not run away, in case they infected others. “Stay in Eyam,” he pleaded, “to save the rest of Derbyshire.”
The minister must have been a persuasive man, for the townspeople heeded his request. A circle of stones was laid around the town as a warning boundary, and food for the villagers was left at the perimeter by outsides anxious to avoid contact.
Months went by, and the frightful disease took its toll. By the time the scourge had passed, 259 of the 350 faithful villagers were dead, including the minister’s wife. But the plague had not spread; Derbyshire was saved.

First Reader: We have invited [name] to take the part of William Clayton in recreating a scene from pioneer history.
Brother Clayton is sitting by a campfire somewhere in lowa, but a large share of his heart is back in Nauvoo with his wife, Diantha, who had to remain behind. It is late at night on Wednesday, April 15, 1846 …
William Clayton: Ah, [Yawns] this has been a long day for me, but I cannot sleep tonight until I finish writing in my journal. Let’s see, have I forgotten anything?
[Reads from journal] “Last night I got up to watch, there being no guard. The cattle and horses [were] breaking into the tents and wagons. … This morning Ellen Kimball came to me and wishes me much joy. She said Diantha [my wife] has a son. I told her I was afraid it was not so, but she said Brother Pond had received a letter. I went over to Pond’s and he read that she had a fine fat boy on the 30th … , but she was very sick with ague and mumps. Truly I feel to rejoice … but feel sorry to hear of her sickness. … In the evening the band played. … We had a very pleasant time playing and singing until about twelve o’clock. … This morning I composed [the words to] a new song—‘All is well.’ [Plays “Come, Come, Ye Saints” on violin or reads first verse] I feel to thank my heavenly father for my boy and pray that he will spare and preserve his life and that of his mother and so order it that we may soon meet again.” [Kneels and bows head]
Second Reader: The words of “All Is Well,” written to an English melody, gave encouragement to the pioneers. Soon it became almost a theme song. It was decided in the camps that when anyone started singing it, everyone would join in.

Growing up in Australia, our closest temple was Hamilton New Zealand. As a new missionary in January 1976, I received my endowment there. I still remember experiencing tranquility and peace in a house of the Lord. I also remember the distinct feeling that I needed a choice eternal companion to receive the full blessings the temple has to offer.
In January 1979 when I returned with Maxine Thatcher, a most beautiful and righteous girl from my home ward, we were sealed for time and eternity. We marveled and rejoiced in the covenants we made to each other and the Lord.

My experience applying to PhD programs was the opposite of my experience of finishing up my undergraduate degree. This time I felt very clear direction that I needed to get a doctorate, and I received some of the most distinct line-upon-line16 guidance of my life in the process. Because of how strong those promptings were, I figured that getting my PhD must be really important for me.

After I was accepted to Johns Hopkins University, I decided to visit the campus in Baltimore before making a final decision. I flew in on a Sunday so that I could visit a ward and get advice on where to live. I arrived at the Inner Harbor Ward church building early and took a seat on the back row of the chapel. As I waited for the service to begin, I heard a distinct voice in my mind say, “Ali, your PhD is important, but your experiences in this ward will be more important.” Because of this prompting, I made sure to find housing in the ward boundaries.

I learned so much from my associations with people in that ward. And I am so grateful for that prompting because I made sure that I prioritized the friendships and service opportunities that were extended to me. Otherwise, I think it may have been easy to put too much time and energy into my PhD and neglect building relationships with the people around me. There is not time to share the experiences I had with my ward, but I will say that it was because of the things I learned while serving with my ward family that I came to my dissertation topic. I believe I would have been far less successful in my program if I had not accepted both formal and informal opportunities to serve that allowed me to get to know the wonderful people in my Church community better.

After working in department stores selling men’s clothing for several years, I became quite proficient at coordinating shirts and ties with the suits I sold. It was rewarding to pick the perfect assortment, and my customers were usually pleased with the choices I presented them.
However, in one particular store, the suits were in an area illuminated with fluorescent lighting while the shirts and ties were displayed in another area under incandescent bulbs. This difference in lighting proved to be quite challenging.
It often happened that after a customer had decided upon a suit or two, I’d go select an array of shirts and ties that I thought would work well. But once the shirts and ties were moved from one section to the other and placed next to the suits, the result was surprising—the colors “changed” in the new light and did not match at all.
Taking a suit to the area that displayed the shirts and ties worked better. But even with this approach, customers often became confused, noticing that the suits we had in hand didn’t look like the ones they had just selected. A suit that looked olive green under the fluorescent lighting now appeared gray, taupe, or brown when viewed under incandescent lights. Black, charcoal, and navy suits underwent similar transformations.
More often than not, I had to solve the problem by taking customers out a nearby door to look at their selections in the daylight. By seeing with the light of the sun, we could quickly discern true colors and make appropriate choices.