Gospel Story Finder

When I was a student here, I took a year off from my studies to tour with a USO group that entertained at military bases around the world. One trip took us to the Far East, and before we left, my father gave me a strong warning. “I am worried about this trip,” he said. “Be careful. Don’t go anywhere you shouldn’t go.” His words caught my attention, but, frankly, as our adventure in the Orient began, I forgot about his caution.

One day we were scheduled to perform at a base near the Demilitarized Zone that separates North and South Korea. Our escort officer asked if we would like to go into the DMZ and visit Panmunjom, where the peace treaty ending the Korean War had been signed. It was a place of great historical significance. Relations between the two Koreas were strained at the time, and we asked if it was safe. The officer assured us it was, but then promptly furnished waivers we were to sign that absolved the military of responsibility in the event of accident or death. I suddenly remembered Dad’s warning: “Be careful. Don’t go anywhere you shouldn’t go.” But not wanting to be the killjoy, and being a little curious myself, I shrugged off my worry, signed the waiver, and headed into the DMZ, where we were no longer under the protection of the U.S. armed forces.

That reality was immediately evident as we drove past rows of somber North Korean soldiers sporting machine guns. “Don’t look them in the eyes,” we were warned. “Anything can set them off.” As we joked about our bodies never being found, my stomach started to churn and my father’s warning played in my mind in digital, Dolby sound. I knew that I had indeed gone somewhere I shouldn’t have gone. The experience was nerve-racking. I felt as though I was behind enemy lines. And, as fascinating as the excursion was for a history major, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. It wasn’t until we crossed the border back into South Korea that I again felt safe. And, as it turns out, for good reason. Later that week three Americans were shot and killed in the Demilitarized Zone.

I remember how a well-meaning uncle tried to teach me to waterski in the frigid water of Lake Tahoe, one of the deepest and coldest lakes in the United States.

I was a pre-teen from Rexburg, visiting my extended family in Northern California. I didn’t want to try waterskiing. Yet I also didn’t want to be scorned by my older and more-athletic cousins. They knew that I was a strong swimmer, having learned with them in the big pool at our grandparents’ house, where I lived as a boy.

But there is a big difference between a heated swimming pool and Lake Tahoe. And it’s impossible to swim when your feet are in water skis. Shivering and shaking behind the boat, up to my chin in frigid water, I was told to keep my knees bent, to lean back, and to wait for the pull of the waterski rope to lift me out of the water naturally, rather than trying to stand up.

You can guess what I did; you’ve probably done it yourself. Feeling like an almost-submerged ice cube, I wanted to stand up on those skis the moment the boat started to pull me. Of course, with the boat and me moving slowly at the beginning, the attempt to straighten my legs and stand had the effect of turning my skis into anchors. Then, by holding tightly to the rope handle—as admonished by the boat captain—I began to swallow water like a whale shark sifting plankton.

Fortunately, Lake Tahoe doesn’t have plankton, or I’d have needed serious medical attention. Regardless, after that one experience, I wanted nothing to do with waterskiing. It was many years before I tried again and finally succeeded in getting up.

What made the difference then was my increased faith in the instructions given by a boat captain I trusted, Dean Davies, now a member of the Presiding Bishopric. Dean gave me easy-to-understand-and-imagine instructions. He also expressed full confidence in me, even after my many failures. When I finally succeeded in getting up, after several waterskiing trips, Dean acted as though my success had never been in doubt.

I attended Harvard University, a very challenging school. Having gotten straight As all my life, I expected to do well. I was shocked when my first paper came back with a D on it! I found out that most students there had attended preparatory schools. I had attended a regular high school and was about two years behind them in preparation.
The pressure to study on Sunday was enormous. Almost everyone else did. Finally, a group of us Church members decided that we would keep the Sabbath day holy and not study on Sundays. I can still remember how strongly we felt the Spirit on those days. We charged our spiritual batteries, and it carried us through the week. As a result, my grades went up, and I graduated with the highest honors in physics.

Recently Sister Nelson and I were in Denmark during the commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the Church in Scandinavia. Between meetings, we took a few hours to search for villages where two of my father’s grandparents were born. They were among the early converts to the Church in Denmark.
Thanks to a good driver and a superb map, we found each town on our list and obtained treasured information. During the entire journey, my hands were riveted to that valuable map so essential to achieve our goals.
In contrast, many people travel through life without good guidance, lacking knowledge of a desired destination or how to get there. But if rapt attention is paid to a road map for a day’s journey, isn’t it also wise to pay attention to authoritative guidance on our journey through life?
The ultimate objective in our mortal journey has been revealed by our Creator, who said, “If you keep my commandments and endure to the end you shall have eternal life, which gift is the greatest of all the gifts of God” (D&C 14:7).
His gift of eternal life is subject to conditions established by Him (see D&C 130:21). Those conditions constitute a plan, or a spiritual road map. And when trouble comes, guidance is needed most. In our journey in Denmark, we met an unexpected detour that led us astray. In order to get back on course, we stopped the car. We studied the map with great care. Then we made the necessary course correction.
What if you are lost and have no map? Suppose you are alone. You do not know where you are. What can you do? You call for help. You call home. Call the Church. Pray. When connected with your help line, you learn that you need to make a climb here or a turn there to get back on course. Or you may have to go back to the beginning in order to be certain that you can get where you want to go.
We turn to Him who knows us best—our Creator. He allowed us to come to earth with freedom to choose our own course. In His great love, He did not leave us alone. He provided a guide—a spiritual road map—to help us achieve success in our journey. We call that guide the standard works, so named because they—the Holy Bible, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price—constitute the standard by which we should live. They serve as a standard of reference, as are standards of time, weights, and measures that are kept in national bureaus of standards.
To reach our objective of eternal life, we need to follow teachings in the standard works and other revelations received from prophets of God (see D&C 1:38). Our loving Lord foresaw our need for guidance: “For strait is the gate,” He said, “and narrow the way that leadeth unto the exaltation and continuation of the lives, and few there be that find it” (D&C 132:22).
Few find the way because they ignore the divine road map provided by the Lord. An even more serious mistake is to ignore the Maker of the map. God declared in the first of His Ten Commandments, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me” (Ex. 20:3). Yet carnal man tends to let his loyalty drift toward idols.
We marvel at computers and the Internet that enable transmission of data with remarkable speed. We are truly grateful for these electronic servants. But if we let them take over our time, pervert our potential, or poison our minds with pornography, they cease being servants and become instead false gods.
False gods can only lead to dead ends. We need to follow divine direction. The Lord said, “Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not” (D&C 6:36). And the Psalmist wrote, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path” (Ps. 119:105).
Following such counsel demands not only conviction but conversion and often repentance. That would please the Lord, who said, “Repent, and turn yourselves from your idols; and turn … from all your abominations” (Ezek. 14:6).
In your journey through life, you meet many obstacles and make some mistakes. Scriptural guidance helps you recognize error and make the necessary correction. You stop going in the wrong direction. You carefully study the scriptural road map. Then you proceed with repentance and restitution required to get on the “strait and narrow path which leads to eternal life” (2 Ne. 31:18).
Our busy lives force us to focus on things we do from day to day. But the development of character comes only as we focus on who we really are. To establish and accomplish those greater goals, we do need heavenly help.
How can we truly live, not “by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God”? (Matt. 4:4).
We begin with a determination to “liken all scriptures unto us, … for our profit and learning” (1 Ne. 19:23). If we “press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, … [we] shall have eternal life” (2 Ne. 31:20).
To feast means more than to taste. To feast means to savor. We savor the scriptures by studying them in a spirit of delightful discovery and faithful obedience. When we feast upon the words of Christ, they are embedded “in fleshy tables of the heart” (2 Cor. 3:3). They become an integral part of our nature.
As you ponder and pray about doctrinal principles, the Holy Ghost will speak to your mind and your heart (see D&C 8:2). From events portrayed in the scriptures, new insights will come and principles relevant to your situation will distill upon your heart.
You cultivate such revelatory experiences by living according to the light already given you and by searching the scriptures with pure motives. As you do so, your confidence will “wax strong in the presence of God,” and the Holy Ghost will be your constant companion (see D&C 121:45–46).
We all need guidance through life. We obtain it best from the standard works and teachings of the prophets of God. With diligent effort, we can achieve that guidance and thus qualify for all of the blessings that God has in store for His faithful children.

Because of COVID-19, I started third grade by learning online. After about a month of learning online, I was able to go back to school. I was happy to be around other kids again! But it was hard to make friends. I spent several recesses alone.
One day my teacher announced that there would be two new students in our class. I was so excited! The day the two new boys arrived, I helped them get their supplies ready. I remembered my first weeks of school and how hard it was to make friends. I wanted to try to make their day feel special. I knew that’s what Jesus would do. Then a thought popped into my head: I had two coupons for lunch with a friend and the teacher. I could ask the two boys to come with me.
When it was lunchtime, I invited them to lunch. They said that they would love to go! We grabbed our lunches and walked down the hallway to our classroom. It felt good to include them and make them feel welcome.

When the Hinckleys began the trip home, they learned that the plane would refuel on the island of Saipan. President Hinckley asked if there were any missionaries on Saipan and was told that there was a small number. Although he was at the end of an exhausting trip, he wanted to meet with those few missionaries: “I asked if we might somehow get word to them that we would land in Saipan about 7:00 p.m. and would try to come out at the airport to greet them.”
Hours later in Saipan, 10 missionaries and about 60 Church members were there to greet the Hinckleys. “They threw their arms around us,” President Hinckley recorded. “They were so grateful to see us, and we were grateful to see them. We could spend only a very short time with them since only a brief time was needed to refuel the plane. We left our blessing with them and went back to the plane.”12

Throughout my life, I have been blessed by such women. My departed wife, Dantzel, was such a woman. I will always be grateful for the life-changing influence she had on me in all aspects of my life, including my pioneering efforts in open-heart surgery.

Fifty-eight years ago I was asked to operate upon a little girl, gravely ill from congenital heart disease. Her older brother had previously died of a similar condition. Her parents pleaded for help. I was not optimistic about the outcome but vowed to do all in my power to save her life. Despite my best efforts, the child died. Later, the same parents brought another daughter to me, then just 16 months old, also born with a malformed heart. Again, at their request, I performed an operation. This child also died. This third heartbreaking loss in one family literally undid me.

I went home grief stricken. I threw myself upon our living room floor and cried all night long. Dantzel stayed by my side, listening as I repeatedly declared that I would never perform another heart operation. Then, around 5:00 in the morning, Dantzel looked at me and lovingly asked, “Are you finished crying? Then get dressed. Go back to the lab. Go to work! You need to learn more. If you quit now, others will have to painfully learn what you already know.”

Oh, how I needed my wife’s vision, grit, and love! I went back to work and learned more. If it weren’t for Dantzel’s inspired prodding, I would not have pursued open-heart surgery and would not have been prepared to do the operation in 1972 that saved the life of President Spencer W. Kimball.

Photo illustrations by David Stoker
I had the opportunity to serve as a missionary in Catania, Italy. At one point, we hit a rough spot in the work. We’d had a whole week of pretty much everything going wrong, and each day was a test of whether or not we would retain good spirits, keep a smile on, and continue trying hard.
One evening, we were determined to change the flow of things. We went around talking to people in a park near our house, and we saw this guy sitting on a bench with his head down and a cigarette in his mouth. He was dressed in black from head to toe and wore the hood of his big puffy jacket over his head. He did not look like a very pleasant man to talk to. I looked at him, my companion looked at him, we looked at each other, and back at him.
Elder Farley asked me, “Have we talked with him before?”
“I think we have, because I really think I know him,” I responded.
“Yeah, me too,” Elder Farley said.
So we started walking toward him. Part of me was scared because he was just not a person I would normally talk to, but another part really wanted to talk to him.
“Good evening, how are you?” we asked.
He looked up with darkened eyes, as if to say, “Who disturbs my slumber!?” Then very softly he said, “Good evening.” We introduced ourselves as missionaries, and he quickly told us that he was atheist and didn’t believe in anything. We asked him why, which I think caught him by surprise.
“Well, because I lost my mom, dad, sister, and niece all in the same month, and I’ve lived a terrible, lonely life because of it. Religion didn’t do anything but make it worse for me.”
We asked him if he knew where his loved ones were.
“In Catania cemetery, where they have been for a long time,” he responded.
We explained to him the spirit world and the Resurrection. We told him that right now we are each a spirit and a body, and that death is merely a temporary separation between the spirit and the body. We told him that his family members were just waiting for him until they could all be reunited with their bodies and live together for eternity.
He looked at us, confused, and said, “I didn’t understand any of that. Could you repeat everything?”
So we repeated everything. Then he raised an eyebrow in confusion and said, “Wait, I’m a spirit and a body? And my family is just waiting for me and learning right now?”
We read him several scriptures from Alma 40 and other chapters, and he looked at us and asked, “So why have I never heard this before?”
I don’t think I had ever met a more truly humble person in my life. This man had been so lost for such a long time, so confused, so lonely. He took in everything we said, telling us that he understood very little of it because it was all stuff he had never heard before, but he liked everything.
We taught him about how we can get answers through prayer. He hadn’t prayed in over 30 years, and the last time had been a recited prayer in church when he was a child. After we talked about answers from the Spirit, he asked us what the Spirit feels like. Since it can be different for everyone, we both shared what it feels like for us. I told him that to me it feels like getting a hug from your mom after you haven’t seen her for a long time. I felt impressed to promise him that he could and would feel that same thing, a feeling like a hug from his mom who had been missing from his life for a long, long time.
We asked him if we could pray with him. He was really confused and asked, “Now? Here, in the park?”
“We can pray whenever, wherever we want,” I told him. “God wants to hear from us, and He is especially anxious to hear from you because He hasn’t heard from you in a long time.”
He had never heard a prayer before that wasn’t a memorized prayer to a saint, so he was pretty eager to see how it worked. We bowed our heads, and my companion said the prayer for our new friend, Alfio, and asked for blessings, help, and comfort for him. He asked for Alfio to feel an answer that his family was all right and that God really exists. We finished our prayer, and Alfio looked at us with gigantic eyes.
“I must tell you something,” he said. “I am not a person who lies, especially about something like this. I feel like I just got a huge hug from my mother. I haven’t gotten a hug from anyone in a long, long time. That felt so good. I want to know how I can feel that again, because I want more hugs like that.”
The next day we met again. Alfio sat down next to us on the same bench and said, “Elders, my entire life I have walked with my hood up and my head down, staring at the ground. I have never, ever walked with my head up. Ever since that prayer, I have walked around with my head up, and I look at everything. This world is beautiful.”
Needless to say, we continued working with Alfio to bring more hugs, more light, and more looking up into his life. The scary man on the bench who looked like he would hate us was really a soul crying out, begging to feel his Heavenly Father’s love again.

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.

The early days of April in the year 1893 were heavy with storm and gloom. A leaden sky stretched over the earth, every day the rain beat down upon it, and the storm-winds swept over it with terrific force. Yet the brightness and the glory of those days far outshone the gloom. It was during those tempestuous days of early April that the Salt Lake Temple was dedicated.
During the dedicatory services, it was my privilege to transcribe the official notes of the various meetings. At the first service, which was known as the “official dedication,” I was sitting on the lower side of the east pulpit, at the recorder’s table. Brother John Nicholson, who had been busy at the outer gate, came in and sat down beside me. Just as President Joseph F. Smith began to address the Saints, there shone through his countenance a radiant light that gave me a peculiar feeling. I thought that the clouds must have lifted, and that a stream of sunlight had lighted on the President’s head.
I turned to Brother Nicholson and whispered: “What a singular effect of sunlight on the face of President Smith! Do look at it.”
He whispered back: “There is no sunlight outdoors—nothing but dark clouds and gloom.”
I looked out the window, and somewhat to my surprise, I saw that Brother Nicholson had spoken the truth. There was not the slightest rift in the heavy, black clouds above the city; there was not a gleam of sunshine anywhere.
Whence, then, came the light that shone from the face of President Smith? I was sure that I had seen the actual presence of the Holy Spirit, focused upon the features of the beloved leader and prophet, Joseph F. Smith. It was but an added testimony to me that he was the “Chosen of the Lord.” I cherish the occurrence as one of the most sacred experiences of my life.

In the 1970s, under the direction of President Spencer W. Kimball, a scripture committee of faithful scholars was formed to create what would become the LDS edition of the scriptures.

One of those scholars was a dear friend and mentor of mine, Dr. D. Kelly Ogden. He was a relatively new professor of Ancient Scripture at Brigham Young University at the time. Pay attention as you listen to a journal entry he wrote in October of 1976. Note the way he persists even though he doesn’t understand the scope of his contribution.

“When I came to Brigham Young University a year ago … I came here with a fairly empty feeling, an uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty for the future and a definite feeling of dependence on Heavenly Father. Following a couple of months of pleading and searching, life began moving in … exciting directions—the Lord was guiding me into new, unusual paths, and only He knew why. I’ve been thinking these days of how the Lord has prepared me over the years for my contribution to this Bible Aids project: my training in English grammar, spelling, diction, and reading and proof-reading skills combined with a quickened understanding of gospel doctrine and extensive memorization, study, and cross-referenced annotations of the scriptures. All these skills acquired year by year are invaluable to me.”

My parents helped me prepare for my baptism and to understand the reasons why I needed to be baptized. I started reading the Book of Mormon with my mother, and the more we read, the more I liked it.
Later, the missionaries taught me, and I started understanding the things I learned in Primary. When the missionaries asked if I wanted to take upon me the name of Christ, I was a little scared because I knew the responsibilities baptism brought with it. But I said yes—I wanted to be baptized as soon as I turned 8.
On November 14, 2004, I was baptized a member of the Church. Since then, I have faced many situations that have caused me to remember that I need to always live the way Jesus Christ did. For example, my sisters are 7 and 2 years old, and now I know what kind of example I need to be for them. I try to take care of my sister at school and help her behave. I work hard at school, and at home I always try to be quieter so my sisters will do the same. I help my mom fix breakfast every Sunday, and I have started fasting on the first Sunday of the month like my parents.
As I try to do the things that Jesus taught, I can see blessings. My parents teach me to feel the Savior’s love in all the things I do. I am eagerly waiting for the day when I can serve a mission.

Daniel pushed the handcart with all his strength. His arms and legs shook with the effort. He saw sweat run down his sister’s face as Jane pushed beside him and their parents strained to pull the handcart. He saw his mother’s mouth moving and her eyes shut, and he knew she was praying for strength.
The last few weeks had been difficult. Food supplies were low. Each person in the handcart company was allowed only about 230 grams of flour a day. There hadn’t been any meat for days. Daniel didn’t mind the hungry feeling as much as the weakness. And now they had come to this stretch of the trail. The deep, dry sand made it difficult to pull the wagons, and they were almost at the end of their strength.
Daniel’s father set the cart handle down and said, “Let’s all rest for a few minutes.”
Jane crumpled into a heap at Daniel’s feet. He sat down by her and gingerly lifted one of her feet. He tore another little strip from the bottom of his shirt and wound it snugly around her foot.
Her shoes had worn out weeks ago. At first, she had tried walking in the soft dust of the wagon-wheel ruts. But her feet had become so sore that much of the time she either had to crawl or have Daniel carry her piggyback. When she had to stand, her feet bled painfully. “Tell me again what the Salt Lake Valley will be like,” she said.
Daniel sighed. At least she hadn’t asked how much farther they had to go. “The missionaries said that the beginning of a beautiful city is already there. Thousands of people have arrived in the valley, and a temple has been started.”
“Will we live in the city?” she asked next.
“The missionaries said some of us will stay there, but Brigham Young will call some families to settle towns and cities in other places.”
“What is the land like? Is it beautiful?”
Daniel tore another strip from his shirt to wrap her other foot. He wondered if she was missing her flower garden.
“Well, the missionaries said it was land that no one else wanted. That’s one reason the Saints hope to be able to worship and build Zion there without the persecution we’ve had elsewhere. And we’ll make it beautiful. After all, the scriptures say that the desert will ‘blossom as the rose’” (see Isa. 35:1).
Jane smiled contentedly. Daniel leaned against the cart. He knew Jane had been waiting to hear “blossom as the rose.” For some reason that gave her comfort. Tears sprang to his eyes as he looked at her. Her clothes were worn, and her feet were blistered and scabbed, but a complaint never escaped her lips. Her testimony of God was firm and sure. He wished he felt that way.
He had at first. But lately, with so many adversities, he had begun to wonder. Why wasn’t God helping them? Why had the journey been so difficult? Did he really want to be planted in this new land—especially a desert—after all?
Daniel looked around. Not a handcart moved. Most of the company were doing as his family was—resting. His parents moved closer to him and Jane. His father pulled off his hat and bowed his head in prayer. “Dear Father,” he pleaded, “Thou seest our situation and knowest our needs. We pray that thou wilt bless us that we may live to yet serve thee and to build up thy kingdom. …”
“Pa, look!” Daniel whispered as soon as the prayer was over. A large cloud of dust was moving toward them.
“Is it a buffalo stampede?” Jane asked.
The attention of the whole company riveted on the growing dust cloud.
“I think it’s Indians, Pa,” Daniel whispered. Jane moved close and put her hand in his.
The Indians stopped a short distance from the weary company. The sun shimmered on the sand, and waves of heat could be seen as well as felt. One Indian dismounted and slowly approached the handcarts. Daniel hugged his sister protectively. He heard Mother’s sharp intake of breath.
The Indian went to where Father stood and stared at him for several moments. Without taking his eyes off Pa, he took hold of the cart and began to pull it. It moved sluggishly, protesting with loud creaks. At his signal, the other Indians got off their horses and pulled the handcarts through the sand. Their somber faces sometimes broke into smiles, as though they were having fun. A great cheer arose from the handcart company.
By evening the handcarts were on solid ground again. The pioneers began to fix their meager meal to share with the Indians, who now unloaded fresh buffalo meat from two ponies. As Daniel helped one of the Indians unload some of the meat, he noticed a pair of moccasins tied to the saddle. If only Jane could have them for her feet!
Perhaps there was something he could trade for them. All through supper, he hardly noticed the taste of the roasted meat as he thought about the moccasins. His only possession was a broken pocketknife. He pulled it out and looked at it. Very little of the blade was left. No, he couldn’t ask his new Indian friend to trade for it. It wasn’t a fair trade. He put the knife away.
Morning came early. The Indians stayed for breakfast; then they and the Saints prepared to go their separate ways.
Mother leaned her mirror against the wagon wheel. Daniel took the comb from her hand and began to comb his hair. He had long since quit grumbling about this morning ritual. Even though it seemed silly to him to comb his hair in such circumstances, he knew it was important to his mother.
The astonished face of his Indian friend filled the mirror beside his own. The Indian examined it front and back. He pointed to the mirror and then to himself. Daniel nodded. “Mother, I think he wants this mirror.”
Mother looked up from the campfire. “After all he has done for us, if he wants it, let him have it.”
Daniel lifted the mirror off the wheel and put it into the hands of the Indian. Within minutes the man was back with his horse. He put the reins in Daniel’s hand. Daniel understood that the Indian wanted to trade his horse for the mirror. Daniel smiled warmly at his friend, shook his head, and handed him back the reins. The Indian pulled a long rifle out from under his saddle blanket and offered it to the boy. Again Daniel shook his head. His friend climbed on his horse, looked at him for a moment, then disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Daniel sighed. He had wanted to ask for the moccasins, but he didn’t know if it was fair to ask for more when they had already been given so much.
The next morning he was abruptly awakened by his sister. “Daniel, come quick! Look what Heavenly Father has blessed me with.”
There on her bedding lay the beautiful moccasins. Daniel gently slipped them onto her feet. The Indians had helped them get out of the sand, given them food, and now his friend had left footwear for Jane! In his mind and heart the thought blossomed—Heavenly Father does answer prayers!

I remember handing in a paper to Dean Bruce B. Clark who was at the time the teacher of an English literature class I was taking. I loved the class and knew from the first day of instruction that three short papers would be due on clearly stated dates during the term. Yet I left those papers—in every case, I think—until the night before they were due. I remember Dean Clark handing one of them back to me, saying something like “You had the makings of a good paper here. It’s too bad you didn’t spend more time on it.” I was devastated. Here was the chairman of my major department, teaching only one class a semester that year, the very symbol of my academic hopes and dreams for the B.A., saying “You didn’t work very hard.” Oh, I had worked hard all right—from 9:00 the night before until 3:00 that morning—without stopping, without breathing.

Now, my young brothers and sisters, I deserved to be devastated. I should have been devastated. And it could have been a good paper. Perhaps that discouraged me more than anything. You see, I discouraged me. I discouraged myself. Remember, dear Brutus, “The fault . . . is not in our stars, but in ourselves” (William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar). And that’s the worst kind of despair, the kind of self-despising that eats at our image and crushes our hopes. It isn’t the class or the teacher or the paper. It never is. I simply should have done better. I should have been at work much sooner. I should have written a draft or two and then left it alone for a time. I should have gone back to it in freshness and strength. I might even have asked for some suggestions. I should have reworked it and shaped it and fine-tuned it over several rewritings. At the end I should have been working with a scalpel; as it was I delivered one butchered idea, the meat axe still dripping as I walked into class. And furthermore, you don’t type very well at 3:00 in the morning.

The mother of the Prophet Joseph, Lucy Mack Smith, is a great example of unwavering faith and commitment. On one occasion, she was traveling from New York to Kirtland, Ohio. Her account of an incident in Buffalo, New York, illustrates her faith in the prophets of the Lord and the restored gospel:
“[In Buffalo] we found the brethren from Colesville, who informed us that they had been detained one week at this place, waiting for the navigation to open [the waterway that had been blocked by ice]. Also, [we learned] that Mr. Smith and Hyrum had gone through to Kirtland by land, in order to be there by the first of April.
“I asked [the Colesville brethren] if they had confessed to the people that they were ‘Mormons.’ ‘No, indeed,’ they replied, ‘neither must you mention a word about your religion, for if you do you will never be able to get a house, or a boat either.’
“I told them I should tell the people precisely who I was; ‘and,’ continued I, ‘if you are ashamed of Christ, you must not expect to be prospered; and I shall wonder if we do not get to Kirtland before you’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, edited by Preston Nibley [1958], 199).
Lucy Mack Smith then searched for and found a Captain Blake, who was willing to take her group on his boat: “On arriving there [on the boat], Captain Blake requested the passengers to remain on board, as he wished, from that time, to be ready to start at a moment’s warning; at the same time he sent out a man to measure the depth of the ice, who, when he returned, reported that it was piled up to the height of twenty feet [six meters], and that it was his opinion that we would remain in the harbor at least two weeks longer” (History of Joseph Smith, 202).
Most of the Saints traveling on the boat with Lucy Mack Smith assumed that they would be there for a long stay, and many of them murmured and grumbled. Hearing and seeing their reaction, the Prophet’s mother responded: “‘Where is your faith? Where is your confidence in God? Can you not realize that all things were made by him, and that he rules over the works of his own hands? And suppose that all the Saints here should lift their hearts in prayer to God, that the way might be opened before us, how easy it would be for him to cause the ice to break away, so that in a moment we could be on our journey! …
“‘Now, brethren and sisters, if you will all of you raise your desires to heaven, that the ice may be broken up, and we be set at liberty, as sure as the Lord lives, it will be done.’ At that instant a noise was heard, like bursting thunder. The captain cried, ‘Every man to his post.’ The ice parted, leaving barely a passage for the boat. … The noise of the ice, and the cries and confusion of the spectators, presented a scene truly terrible. We had barely passed through the avenue when the ice closed together again, and the Colesville brethren were left in Buffalo, unable to follow us.
“As we were leaving the harbor, one of the bystanders exclaimed, ‘There goes the “Mormon” company! That boat is sunk in the water nine inches [23 centimeters] deeper than ever it was before, and, mark it, she will sink—there is nothing surer.’ In fact, they were so sure of it that they went straight to the office and had it published that we were sunk, so that when we arrived at Fairport we read in the papers the news of our own death.
“After our miraculous escape from the wharf at Buffalo, we called our company together and had a prayer meeting in which we offered up our thanks to God for his mercy” (History of Joseph Smith, 203–5).

Each week Melissa looks at the family home evening chart to see what her assignment will be. When it’s her turn to give the lesson, she likes to use the Friend magazine. “If I use the Friend, I don’t need any help from my mom or dad,” Melissa explains. She often invites a friend to share family home evening with her family. One of her friends enjoyed coming so much that she asked her parents if they could have their own family night.

As we begin, I have felt impressed to share with you two experiences I had when I was your age. As you will see, I had much to learn about the true nature of God’s plan of salvation!
One night in the Missionary Training Center while preparing to preach the gospel in Japan I had an unusual dream. I found myself striding down a beautiful tree-lined path. The sun was setting amid lightly falling leaves and I realized I was walking on a rich-red carpet. Suddenly I heard the clear notes of royal court trumpets and I had the sense that I’d just passed through one of those idealistic life-on-the-line tests I fantasized about. I immediately understood that I was ascending up to the throne of God! As I passed between rows of noble-looking people on either side, I was filled with wonder over what I sensed would be my final judgment. As an aside, keep in mind that I’m just 19, I’m in the MTC, and I’ve been a fan of King Arthur since I was old enough to know what swords and fair maidens were! As I climbed the steps on that deep red carpet I saw a jewel-encrusted gold crown resting on a luxurious purple pillow. I envisioned Heavenly Father taking the Sword of Laban and tapping me on each shoulder as if I were being “knighted”! I anticipated receiving the keys to some corner of the cosmos and told, “Go and be awesome.” In that very moment, everything ended abruptly. In the darkness a clear voice declared, “It’s not like that!” Sleeplessly, I was left to ponder… so, if the Judgment isn’t like that, what is it like?!
Even though I asked that night, I didn’t receive an answer to that question immediately—in fact, it has been a significant part of my personal gospel searching ever since. I’d like to explore with you today what I’ve been learning about how the gospel really works since that dream in the MTC when the Lord kindly, but firmly dashed my romantic and idealistic notions.

We have a rich tradition of the work of the Twelve as we have traveled throughout the world proclaiming the gospel of Jesus Christ. For example, it was on Sunday, June 4, 1837, that the Prophet Joseph Smith approached Heber C. Kimball in the Kirtland Temple and whispered to him, saying, “Brother Heber, the Spirit of the Lord has whispered to me: ‘Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my Gospel, and open the door of salvation to that nation’” (quoted in Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball [1945], 104).
The account of Heber C. Kimball and Brigham Young leaving their homes for England certainly shows the sacrifice they were willing to make for the callings they had received. The account reads:
“September 14th, [1839], President Brigham Young left his home at Montrose to start on the mission to England. He was so sick that he was unable to go to the Mississippi [River], a distance of thirty rods, without assistance. After he had crossed the river he rode behind Israel Barlow on his horse to my house, where he continued sick until the 18th. He left his wife sick with a babe only three weeks old, and all his other children were sick and unable to wait upon each other. Not one soul of them was able to go to the well for a pail of water, and they were without a second suit to their backs, for the mob in Missouri had taken nearly all he had. On the 17th, Sister Mary Ann Young got a boy to carry her up in his wagon to my house, that she might nurse and comfort Brother Brigham” (quoted in Life of Heber C. Kimball, 265).
Heber C. Kimball’s family were also ill. Charles Hubbard sent his boy with a team and wagon to help them on their way. Elder Kimball records: “It appeared to me as though my very inmost parts would melt within me at leaving my family in such a condition, as it were almost in the arms of death. I felt as though I could not endure it. I asked the teamster to stop, and said to Brother Brigham, ‘This is pretty tough, isn’t it; let’s rise up and give them a cheer.’ We arose, and swinging our hats three times over our heads, shouted: ‘Hurrah, hurrah for Israel.’” Sister Young and Sister Kimball came to the door and waved a farewell which gave Brother Brigham and Brother Heber much comfort as they continued “without purse or scrip” toward England. (See Life of Heber C. Kimball, 265–66.)
The Bible Dictionary states that Apostle “means ‘one sent forth.’ … The calling of an apostle is to be a special witness of the name of Jesus Christ in all the world, particularly of his divinity and of his bodily resurrection from the dead. … Twelve men with this high calling constitute an administrative council in the work of the ministry. … Today twelve men with this same divine calling and ordination constitute the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (“Apostle,” 612).
An Apostle today continues to be “one sent forth.” The conditions we face are different from those of the early Brethren as we make our journeys to fulfill our assignment. Our manner of travel to all corners of the earth is very different from that of the early Brethren. However, our assignment remains the same as that which was given by the Savior as He instructed His called Twelve to “go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world” (Matthew 28:19–20).
For you two new Brethren, I can promise you that there will be a new understanding of what it means to belong to a quorum. I wish the feeling and respect we have for our council could be transported to every quorum in the Church. Would you deacons, teachers, priests, elders, and high priests quorums listen for a moment to what I believe is one of the greatest blessings one can receive from being a bearer of the priesthood? That special blessing is belonging to a priesthood quorum.
President Stephen R. Richards, many years ago, gave us some wonderful counsel on Church government. His statement is as follows:
“The genius of our Church government is government through councils. … I see the wisdom, God’s wisdom, in creating councils: to govern his Kingdom. In the spirit under which we labor, men can get together with seemingly divergent views and far different backgrounds, and under the operation of that spirit, by counseling together, they can arrive at an accord. … I have no hesitancy in giving you the assurance, if you will confer in council as you are expected to do, God will give you solutions to the problems that confront you” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1953, 86).
And what are the great benefits you will experience from belonging to a quorum? Again from Stephen R. Richards—he said, “A quorum is three things: first, a class; second, a fraternity; and third, a service unit” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1938, 118).
I see this genius so manifestly apparent in the functions of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. We are a class as we study the doctrines of the kingdom together. Can you imagine what a special experience it would be to be in a quorum meeting and be taught gospel doctrine by Elders Ezra Taft Benson, Mark E. Petersen, LeGrand Richards, Howard W. Hunter, Bruce R. McConkie, David B. Haight, or Neal A. Maxwell? You will notice that I have used only those Brethren who have completed their earthly ministries in order not to be selective among our current Apostles. This same blessing can be yours in each of your quorums. The words of the Apostles, past and present, live in the scriptures, conference addresses, Church magazines, devotionals, and so forth. They are available to bring the power of the doctrine of the kingdom into your quorum’s class. Make of your quorum a class to increase your knowledge of the gospel of our Lord and Savior.
In our quorum, we have a special brotherhood. We are there to lift, inspire, and bless each other with the spirit of our calling. When one is burdened, there are 11 others anxious to help lift and share that burden. At times we rejoice together in feelings of accomplishment. We weep together in times of sorrow. We never feel as if we are facing a problem alone! There is always the counsel, support, help, and encouragement of our quorum members.
From the book Priesthood and Church Government, we have this statement on the brotherhood which should exist in every priesthood quorum: “The Priesthood is a great brotherhood, held together by the eternal and immutable laws that constitute the framework of the Gospel. The feeling of brotherhood should permeate the quorum. It should be the first concern of a quorum to help all members who may be in need temporally, mentally, or spiritually. The spirit of brotherhood should be the directing force in all the plans and operations of the quorum. If this spirit be cultivated, wisely and persistently, no other organization will become more attractive to the man who holds the Priesthood” (Rudger Clawson, foreword to A Guide for Quorums of the Melchizedek Priesthood [1930], 3; quoted in John A. Widtsoe, comp., Priesthood and Church Government [1939], 135). We would encourage each priesthood quorum in the Church to cultivate such a brotherhood.
Finally, the only purpose for our Quorum is to be of service. Perhaps our deep feelings of this responsibility could be characterized in an epistle dated October 26, 1886, by Wilford Woodruff, who was then serving as President of the Council of the Twelve Apostles: “I will say to the Apostles, our responsibility is very great. … What manner of men ought we to be? The whole earth is ripening in iniquity, and the Zion of God should be prepared for the coming of the bridegroom. We should humble ourselves before the Lord and be in a position to be filled with the spirit of our calling, with the Holy Ghost, and with the revelations of Jesus Christ, that we may know the mind and will of God concerning us, and be prepared to magnify our calling and bring to pass righteousness, and be valiant in the testimony of Jesus Christ to the end. … There never was a time when the work of God required a more faithful testimony and labor from the Apostles and Elders than to-day” (“An Epistle,” Deseret News, Nov. 24, 1886, 712). Make of each of your quorums a great service organization for the benefit of all your quorum members.
Now this word of warning from the scriptures:
“Wherefore, now let every man learn his duty, and to act in the office in which he is appointed, in all diligence.
“He that is slothful shall not be counted worthy to stand, and he that learns not his duty and shows himself not approved shall not be counted worthy to stand” (D&C 107:99–100).
And so I say to you two Brethren who have joined us in our quorum, and to all of you brethren who belong to the priesthood of God, may God bless each of us in our calls to serve. May our faith strengthen as we serve in righteousness, faithfully keeping the commandments. May our testimonies ever grow stronger as we seek to find the fountain of eternal truth. May the brotherhood that exists in our quorums be of comfort and strength and security as we pass through this mortal part of our existence. May the joy of gospel service ever abide in our hearts as we go forward to fulfill our duties and responsibilities as servants in our Father in Heaven’s kingdom is my humble prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I met William on the first day of my third year of teaching English in the adult high school program at our local community college. He was small, dark-eyed, with tight blond curls, rather unattractive, unwashed, and, as I soon came to discover, almost totally illiterate. It was the early ’70s, when long hair was popular among the young and drugs were beginning to be a major problem. I thought, Here’s another victim of the drug culture, and my heart sank.
After making my introductory remarks, I asked the class, as I always do on the first day of school, to write about themselves. Looking from student to student, I noticed that William worked very hard on his paragraph, grasping the pencil in a stranglehold, licking the point every few minutes. William’s face was close to the paper, his brows knit close together.
The rest of the class completed the assignment rather quickly and grew restless. I let them leave. It took William 40 minutes to print a few lines, and when he at last handed it to me, I could not read it. He stood at my desk staring at me while I looked at the paper.
“You want I should read it for you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“My name is William, and I live off a government pension in my car in an empty garage. I’m 19 years old, and since I was 11 I been a drinker. Now I’ve decided to be a learner.”
I had never before taught a student who could hardly read and write. I had no idea how to handle the problem.
“You’ve misspelled every word,” I said.
William looked dismayed. “I can learn,” he said.
“All right. I’ll print them correctly, and when you come to class tomorrow, plan to write them for me.”
“A spell test,” he said, as though it were some magical word.
I looked away from him. “Look, William …” I meant to tell him that the class would be impossible, that his skills were so poor he would fall behind immediately, and that there was no hope for him to catch up. I meant to tell him he could not possibly succeed. But instead I said, “Your basic skills are somewhat limited. How hard are you willing to work?”
He stared at me.
“We’ll be studying difficult writers—like Shakespeare and Twain.”
“Who?”
“William Shakespeare. Mark Twain.”
“Oh,” he said. And after a pause he added, “I can learn.”
“It won’t be easy for you,” I said, “but if you work hard …”
I didn’t expect to see him ever again, but the following day William was the first one in the room. He took a front-row seat, and as I taught, his eyes followed me intently, his brows knit into the same shaggy line, his mouth slightly open as he listened. After class ended, he stood by my desk staring at me for a long time.
“What is it?” I asked, irritated.
“I’m ready to spell,” he said.
And he was. He had memorized all the words, and as I called them out to him he wrote them quickly.
He stood watching as I marked his paper, putting a check by each correct word and then an A+ and a large I AM SO PROUD OF YOU at the top of the page. For the first time, I saw William smile. He took the test, folded it carefully, and put it into his shirt pocket.
“Now,” he said, “I’d like to pick up some on my reading. You got anything I can borrow?”
“I don’t think I have anything appropriate,” I said. Opening the desk drawer I began to look through the papers and books.
“What about that?” he said, pointing to a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
My hand hesitated, and then I shook my head. “It would be too hard for you.”
“I’ve done hard things all my life,” he said.
I pulled Ellie the Elephant Learns to Fly, one of my daughter’s books, from my desk drawer.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“It’s for new readers,” I said, handing it to him.
“I want that other one.”
Ignoring his comment, I opened the child’s book and began to read aloud, resting a finger under each word while he stood beside me watching and listening.
“Let me do it now.” He read hesitantly and with great difficulty. “See, if somebody shows me, I can learn. If I had that other book, I could work at it. I’m not stupid.”
I gave him Huckleberry Finn.
Each day I sent William home to the garage with a list of words clutched in one hand and one of my daughter’s books tucked under his arm. Every morning he came back with the material mastered. A few weeks later he returned the Twain text. “I read it,” he said, and the look of pride on his face brought tears to my eyes.
That week I gave him a bag containing a bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel, and deodorant. “This is an important part of education, too,” I said.
He looked in the bag and then at me, stunned. But the next day William was clean. And he was reading and writing with greater confidence. He had progressed so much that he insisted on taking his turn at reading poems from our literature text aloud. And every day he stayed after class for an hour to talk with me. Actually, he asked question after question, and I tried to answer them.
His enthusiasm for learning was contagious, and soon three other students began to stay, too. There was Suzy, who later trained as a registered nurse; Jody, who went on to earn a doctorate in biology; and George, who planned to become a physician but died in a motorcycle accident that spring.
George’s death upset the class deeply, and we spent that day talking about the transient quality of life, trying to answer the eternal questions—where did we come from, what are we doing here, and what happens to us when we die? I taught the class that knowledge is power, that the glory of God is intelligence, and that all we take with us from this world to the next is our relationships with others and the knowledge we gain in this life.
“There are two ways most people learn,” I told them. “One way is by experience—and life doesn’t last long enough for us to get all our knowledge that way. The other is to read.” I encouraged them to spread their wings and learn while they were young and filled with energy and enthusiasm.
One day William came into class with a list of quotations he’d copied from the library, and he shared them with us. He particularly loved “Knowledge is the wings wherewith we fly.”
“Watch me fly, teacher.” He spread his arms and flapped them, bringing laughter from the students and me.
William (this genius—the only true genius I ever taught) was my student for two years of English. When he graduated, I sat in the audience and watched with pride, tears brimming my eyes. He enrolled in the community college program and continued his education. On occasion he stopped by my office during the week, sharing with me the excitement of his new world. Each Friday afternoon he borrowed one of my books, which he quickly read and returned. On one occasion, he asked to read my Book of Mormon. I gave him a copy and a week later learned that he had called the missionary number left with my testimony on a front page. At his baptism, I gave him the Pearl of Great Price.
Last spring I received a card from William. He was teaching Spanish and American literature at a large university. “We’re reading Huckleberry Finn,” he wrote, “and I’ve never been happier. I seem to have a gift for languages.” He continued, “Remember years back when you had to teach me English? For all you did for me, I thank you, teacher. Thank you for lending me your wings while I was growing my own.”

Luck is a marvelous thing. I know. It kept me out of a number of scrapes when I was a beginning driver of a big car.
My greatest challenge was maneuvering in our two-car driveway, especially when the other car had been parked too close to the center. Then I was faced with the white Oldsmobile on one side and a one-foot concrete retaining wall on the other.
Usually luck was on my side of the driveway, but one Saturday morning it just didn’t hold out. As my sister and I drove up the sloping hill into the driveway, we heard a grinding noise not unlike that of a demolition crew at work.
“Stop, Michelle!” Anne screamed. “You’ve hit the wall!”
“I have not!” I insisted, but I put my foot on the brake. The grinding stopped.
“Okay, Anne, so maybe I nicked the wall, but all I need to do is pull forward and …”
The car didn’t move. The back left wheel scraped itself into a spin, but the car didn’t move.
“Stop! I’m going to get Dad.”
“Don’t you dare. If I can’t go forward, I can always go backward …”
Fortunately for Anne, me, and the wall, I didn’t have a chance to shift into reverse. With a sudden thrust, the back wheel spun free and the scraping stopped.
“I’m going to tell Dad.” She hopped out of the car and ran into the house.
Surveying the damage, I had to admit that a demolition crew could not have done a better job. The one-foot wall had been reduced to a half-foot mound of concrete Legos.
As I walked slowly up the stairs to the front door, I remembered what was now the second worst disaster of my life.
Anne was a baby then; Matt, Mike, and I were six, three, and five. We three older children were playing in the boys’ bedroom when we decided to go sailing.
Three empty dresser drawers made great boats, but the carpet around them looked like a still blue lake, and we wanted a stormy ocean. Soon the floor was covered with toy, clothing, and blanket waves.
We were deep-sea fishing when we noticed Dad standing in the doorway.
He didn’t say a word. It was our worst mess ever, and he didn’t say a word. He simply started to help us put our waves away.
That was 12 years ago, I reminded myself. But there Dad stood in the front doorway. He was holding a garbage can, a push broom, and a dustpan. “Uh, Dad …” I began.
He didn’t say a word. It was my worst mess ever, and he didn’t say a word. He must have understood that right then I needed acceptance more than condemnation; I had already condemned myself. He just handed me the broom, and together we went down to the driveway.