Gospel Story Finder

I was a typical high school football player with a typical football vocabulary. I was one of the captains of the football team at El Segundo High School and didn’t have the best reputation. Glenda’s locker was a couple of lockers from mine, and whenever she walked by I suddenly improved my language. I worried that if I offended her she would avoid me.
As the semester progressed so did our mutual respect and friendship. She was unique, but I did not understand why. One thing I knew for sure, though, was that she never attended the parties I went to.
So, when she invited me to a Christmas party at her home, I didn’t know what to expect. Although I enjoyed my friends, I had seriously considered changing my bad habits. I was searching for something different. I was interested to see what kind of a party she would throw. I put on my best clothes, poured on the cologne, and off I went.
Was I surprised! I was shocked to see everyone having fun, dancing, playing games, and drinking—soft drinks! After a while, I couldn’t believe that I was having fun too. I was surprised to meet Glenda’s parents at the party, since all the parties I ever attended occurred while the parents were away. Most everyone was a bit surprised to see me. Still, they were all smiles and treated me with kindness.
As the evening ended I offered to provide rides home to anyone who needed one. Fortunately, one particular girl I had my eye on during most of the party needed a ride. I drove all around town dropping people off until we were alone. I drove her home very slowly.
I asked her what she was doing for Christmas, and she told me her family was leaving for Argentina the next day. What a small world, I thought. I briefly explained to her that my family had immigrated from Argentina 11 years ago. She said her father had served a mission there, and they were going to visit some of her father’s old friends. Soon we were at her home, and I didn’t get a chance to ask her what a mission was, but the seeds of curiosity were sown and so was my interest in her.

When I was just a young girl, I became seriously ill. Each day the illness became increasingly severe. Nothing the doctor recommended helped. At that time the dreaded disease of polio was raging in almost epidemic proportions in the land. It was taking the lives of many, and those who didn’t die were often left crippled.
One night my illness became critical, and my father and grandfather administered to me using consecrated oil, and through the power of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, which they held worthily, they called upon God for healing, help, guidance, and comfort. And then my parents took me to a doctor in another town who immediately sent us to the hospital—two and one-half hours away—with the admonition to hurry. I overheard the doctor whisper that he was certain it was polio.
When we finally arrived at the hospital in Salt Lake, there were medical personnel waiting for us. They grabbed me from my parents’ arms and whisked me away. Without a word of good-bye or explanation, we were separated. I was all alone, and I thought I was going to die.
Following the painful diagnostic procedures, including a spinal tap, they took me to a hospital isolation room, where I would stay by myself with the hope that I would not infect anyone else, for indeed I did have polio.
I remember how very frightened I was. It was dark, and I was so sick and so alone. But my parents had taught me to pray. I got on my knees, and I knelt beside the railing in the criblike bed and asked Heavenly Father to bless me. I was crying, I remember. Heavenly Father heard my prayer and sent His comforting power, which enveloped me in quiet love. I felt the power of the Holy Ghost, and I was not alone.
You too are loved by the Lord. You are loved more than you will ever know. He wants you to be successful in your life’s mission! You don’t have to face the experiences of this life alone, nor have you been sent here to fail.

When my wife, Lucia, and I were called to serve as leaders of the Nebraska Omaha Mission, we had a young family. Five of our six children would be going with us to the mission field. They would be leaving behind friends and familiar surroundings in our home in Elk Ridge, Utah. Lucia and I prayed diligently that the Lord would help each of them know that things would be okay. We also prayed to know the best way to share the news with our children. We finally decided we would talk to them individually.

The children’s reactions to the mission call varied from sadness to “Are you serious? They called you?” When breaking the news to our youngest son, who was nine years old at the time, we reminded him of the story of the Lord commanding Lehi to take his family into the wilderness because Jerusalem was going to be destroyed. We had recently taught a lesson about this in family home evening, and hoped it would build his faith that the Lord would bless our family as He blessed Lehi’s family.

It seemed to work. Our son said he was willing to go with us. It took him a little while for it to sink in, but over the next several days, he didn’t say much and seemed to grow sadder with each passing day. I finally went to his room one evening and asked him if we was okay. He said, “Dad, I am okay with going with you and leaving my friends if that is what the Lord wants us to do, but is Elk Ridge really going to be destroyed?” We should have been clearer in our use of Lehi’s experience. Oh, the faith of a child!

The Nebraska Omaha Mission became a sacred place to us, in large part because of the sacrifice and consecration of my wife and children. We went forth and did what the Lord had called us to do.

After I completed my doctoral studies in Ohio, we moved our family to the West Texas city of San Angelo. Neither my wife nor I had ever lived in Texas. This was a new place and a new adventure. It was mid-August when we pulled our moving van up in front of our new home. It had been vacant for a short time and the interior of the home was a mess. The lawn sprinklers had been turned off for some time, and it doesn’t take long for a lawn to die in the West Texas afternoon sun. With help from members of our new ward, we were able to get into our home, and then I turned my attention to our lawn. It was toward the end of the day and dusk was setting in as I surveyed our new yard. I glanced over the shrubs and trees and then cast my eyes toward the pitiful looking lawn. As I looked down I saw something strange: there was this weed stretching across my lawn. I grabbed hold and started to pull it up, and it kept going. I pulled hard, and as it came up it was about four-feet long. As I pulled it up, another appeared, and I pulled that one up. I was building a tidy little pile of these weeds. I soon discovered they were all over the place. I pulled up two more, and my next-door neighbor, who was a retired Air Force officer with a slight Texas accent, said, “Son, why y’all pullin’ up your grass?”

Now, have you ever had those moments when simply no answer will suffice for something you’re doing? This was one of those moments. I stood there looking at these long strands and thinking, “Soooo, this is grass!” My previous conceptions of grass changed. My lifetime experience told me that grass consisted of straight green blades shooting up from the ground. My neighbor then told me about St. Augustine grass. By the time he got done, I realized I had to change everything I thought I knew about lawns and lawn care and, for that matter, grass. I wouldn’t be sodding my yard here, I would have to lay in plugs of this grass, and they would grow together. Watering would be different. Mowing was different. Care would be different. Excited with my new discovery, I ran inside. I called my wife and said, “Hey, check this out—this is grass! We were in a new place and we now had a new mode of doing things.”

When I was a young boy, my parents received a gift that became fascinating to my younger brother David and me. The gift was a miniature model of the golden plates the Prophet Joseph Smith received from the angel Moroni. As I recall, the model plates had 10 or so metal pages with words written on them. However, those pages weren’t what caught our attention.
We had been raised hearing the stories of the Restoration. We knew of and had sung in Primary about golden plates hidden deep in a mountainside and delivered by the angel Moroni to Joseph Smith.1 As the curiosity of our young minds stirred, there was one thing we really wanted to see: what was written on the small section of the model plates securely sealed with two small metal bands?
The plates sat on an end table for several days before our curiosity got the best of us. Although we clearly understood that these were not the actual plates Moroni had delivered, we wanted to view the sealed portion. So on several occasions, my brother and I tried using butter knives, old spoons, and anything else we could imagine to pry apart the sealed portion of the plates just enough to see what they contained—but not enough to break the small bands. We were at least smart enough not to leave a trace of our mischievous boyhood curiosity. To our disappointment and frustration, these attempts to “pry at the plates” were always unsuccessful.
I still don’t know what—if anything—was hidden under that sealed portion. But the embarrassing part of our story is that to this day, I have no idea what was written on the portion of the metal pages that was meant to be read. I can only imagine that these pages contained stories of the Restoration and testimonies of Joseph Smith and the Three and Eight Witnesses, who saw the actual plates Moroni delivered.
Knowing the diligent nature of my younger brother, I imagine it very likely that he read all the words written on the model plates in our parents’ home. I, however, ignored those plain and precious truths and instead exerted my effort searching for those things that were not meant to be revealed.

The Prophet Joseph Smith petitioned the Lord on two occasions, asking if a prominent friend, Martin Harris, could take the first 116 handwritten pages of translated material from the book of Lehi from Harmony, Pennsylvania, back to Palmyra. Each time, the Lord counseled Joseph to avoid entrusting the manuscript to Mr. Harris.
Martin was seeking to use the translated material as evidence to stop his associates from spreading rumors about his friendship with Joseph Smith. On the third request the Lord granted Joseph’s appeal.
Martin lost the manuscript, and as a result the plates were taken from the Prophet Joseph Smith for an extended period. This was a painful lesson for the Prophet Joseph, who said, “I made this my rule: When the Lord commands, do it.” This should and can be our rule as well.

In 1885, a young woman named Margaret Gordon was living with her family in a tiny village in Ontario, Canada. Her father had moved his family to Canada from England and managed to find a job teaching school in that remote place. Margaret, then 19 years old, corresponded with some LDS cousins in Utah. They sent her a copy of the Book of Mormon. As she read it, she felt a powerful spiritual witness that what she was reading was true. She was sufficiently moved that she began sharing her witness with the other members of her family. Eventually her father, the last hold-out, agreed to move the family to Utah, where they joined the Church. Margaret never faltered in her testimony and spent a lifetime of remarkable service on the frontiers of the western U.S. and Canada, building the Kingdom of God.21
Her testimony of the Gospel, and especially of the Book of Mormon, was irrepressible. As an old woman in her 90s, she hauled two, young great grandsons into her little bedroom where she read the Book of Mormon with them aloud, and explained it, and testified of it, verse by verse, over the course of many weeks. It may have seemed a fool’s errand at times, because the little boys squirmed and laughed at the strange names in the book. But the light of her testimony was strong. It shone brightly on the seedling testimonies of the two boys. My brother and I were changed forever by that experience. To each of us, a testimony of the Book of Mormon is an anchor to our faith.

I served the first 11 months of my mission in Utah instead of where I had been assigned. This reassignment came because of the COVID-19 pandemic. I spoke my native language, ate food I was comfortable with, and visited familiar faces and places. It was amazing!
When travel restrictions lifted, I spent the remaining seven months of my mission in the beautiful Dominican Republic (my original assignment). I walked hours along the bright and lively streets, spoke Spanish, ate a ton of plantains and mangos, and taught the gospel of Jesus Christ to some of the most humble, fun, and faithful people I’ve ever met. This was also absolutely amazing!

I would first like to tell you a little story about Elder LeGrand Richards. I choose him as my subject because he represents the qualities that I want to talk about tonight. Brother Richards was at a conference about a year ago, when he was in his ninety-fifth year. At the conference at which he reorganized a stake, he sat on the stand, and the choir sang a beautiful rendition, and he thought they were so outstanding that he turned around to the choir leader and said, “I’ll bet you could sing ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ couldn’t you?”
The choir leader said, “Yes, I think we could.”
He said, “Good. I’d liked to hear it sung at the end of this conference today.”
In and of itself, that doesn’t seem like a very unusual thing, but unbeknown to Brother Richards, sitting halfway back in the audience was a man who had been inactive and who decided that he’d go to conference, and if the choir sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” he would know that it was a signal from heaven that he was supposed to be active again.
A most unusual series of events—except that isn’t where it ends. Because he was there and made the decision to become active again, when they reorganized his ward bishopric a week later, he was called to be a counselor in that bishopric. He already had his answer, and he knew what he would need to do. Then he recounted the story—this spiritual little story out of one of the many pages of Latter-day Saint stories throughout the world in which the Spirit of our Father in Heaven guides us.

I had not planned on becoming a single parent of four children in my mid-20s and found myself reeling. I had a modest home to care for, four small children, and no post-high school education. I wondered how I would ever financially support my young family. My answers did not come in days or months but over many years of obeying one prompting after another.
Fortunately I had the habit of turning to the Lord in times of trouble. One night the answer came clearly: “Go to school.” I wondered how this would be possible with the financial obligations I had, so I spoke to my parents and my bishop. They agreed that going to school was the right course, and within a few weeks I was enrolled at a local university, where I earned a degree in elementary education with a special education endorsement.
As a teacher, I was still not making enough money to meet the financial demands of my growing children. I continued to petition the Lord about the lack of funds. During a visit with my bishop, he recommended that I go back to school to obtain a master’s degree. I went home, prayed about it, and enrolled back in school the following semester.
Several years later I was prompted to go back to school again. I scheduled the needed tests, interviewed for programs in educational administration, and found myself enrolled, once again, in a master’s program at another local university. Upon its completion, new employment opportunities opened up to me that have enriched my life with new relationships, fostered personal growth, and helped me discover new talents.
In the temple one night, I was sharing my frustration with the Lord that in spite of my efforts, I was still not able to consistently make ends meet. I felt the warmth of heavenly communication reminding me that all my family’s needs had been met, either by my own work or by the generosity of others, and that as long as I remained obedient, we would be cared for. And as I am reminded by Alma 20:4, “I know, in the strength of the Lord [I] canst do all things.”
I am so grateful to Heavenly Father for the promptings to complete my education and the consequent employment opportunities. I am also grateful for all those in my life who have been so thoughtful throughout the years. I’ve learned I can do more than I thought possible with the help of my Heavenly Father. Of equal significance, I’ve learned to receive graciously and to give generously.

Our family knew a young lady who passed away from skin cancer. But even while on her death bed, unable to care for herself, she chose to exercise positive power by expressing love and gratitude to all those that attended her and visited with her. She was a perfect example of grace and Christlike love. She didn’t complain or bemoan her lot in life. She trusted our Heavenly Father and accepted His will. Though in great pain, she was truly an angel, and her positive power has had a lasting impact on the many lives she touched before she passed away. Many people in her situation would be bitter. She was young, vibrant, and newly married to a loving husband, with all the promise of a wonderful life ahead of her. She had every reason to complain, but she was one who had learned the power of choosing to be positive and speaking words that would inspire and uplift. This young woman chose the light of God’s positive power.

An older brother and sister had been able to attend the University of Utah in Salt Lake City; but since the family was too poor to send another child there, Joseph enrolled at Weber Academy (now Weber State College) near Ogden, Utah. At the Academy Joseph idolized his principal and English teacher, David O. McKay, “a handsome man, straight as an arrow, and a man of great personality” who disciplined his students by his bearing.
His teacher refused to let Joseph’s bashfulness keep him back: more than once he called on the young boy to pray or to write on the blackboard in front of the large class—a task, he recalls, that made him sweat with fright. His days at the Academy under David O. McKay influenced the rest of his life, as he studied English poetry and memorized parts of Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake,” a Scottish classic beloved of Principal McKay, who had recently returned from the Scotland mission. Joseph’s love of words and his natural talent at shorthand, learned from a commercial course, later set him on his secretarial career.

“I grew up in Mormon country, but I never heard of the Mormons except maybe one time,” said Elder Hartman Rector, Jr., a convert to the Church. “I grew up in Missouri, and one day as my mother and I were driving over to Huntsville, the county seat, I saw a couple of mounds in a field. We were traveling about twenty-five miles an hour in a Model T Ford, so I had time to look around. I asked my mother what those mounds were. She said she thought that they were the graves of two Mormons who had died moving through the country years ago. I didn’t know what a Mormon was, and she didn’t say anything more about them. That was the only time, as a boy, that I ever heard the term Mormon.
“My home in Moberly was up on a hill,” Elder Rector remembered, “and a creek that ran about fifty yards below it formed a swimming hole. Everyone learned to swim in that creek. We called it the Old Well.
“I was the only boy in a family of three children, and I was spoiled. My grandmother saw to that. Her name was Lucy Ellen Mason, and she would save marshmallows for me. Back in those days, before plastic packaging, marshmallows in an open package would turn as hard as rocks. I still love hard marshmallows.
“My grandmother was very religious. I would spend a whole week with her before school started, and every night we would go to revival meetings (something like the meetings Joseph Smith went to before he prayed in the Sacred Grove to find out about the true Church). She would also read the Bible to me as I sat on her lap.
“My father never joined the Church. But I guess he’s about as honest and honorable a man as I’ve ever known. If he gave you his word, you never had cause to question it. He was a stern disciplinarian. When he told me that I had to do something, then I knew I had to do it.
“When I was about seven, Dad sort of hoodwinked me into milking cows. He said, ‘You’re not big enough to milk the cows.’
“Well, I knew I was big enough to milk them, so I said, ‘Of course, I can milk them.’ I got up early, got the bucket, and went out and milked the cows.
“My dad then said, ‘I believe you can milk the cows. You’ve got the job!’ For the next dozen years I milked eight to twelve cows each night and morning.
“Dad was a lot smarter than I was. One day I said to him, ‘I don’t want to milk cows.’ He replied, ‘That’s OK. You don’t have to want to. … as long as you do it.’
“My dad loved to play baseball, and I loved baseball too. I was sure I was going to pitch for the St. Louis Cardinals, and I might have done it, too, if the war hadn’t come along. As a result, I went into the service. Although I hate war, the Fourth of July and what it stands for always gives me a thrill. I have the strongest feeling for my country’s flag. I can’t see it pass by without getting a lump in my throat. I considered it a tremendous privilege to serve my country in the military.
“My mother was a sweet, wonderful woman who really loved my father. Their example had a great effect on me. I wanted to live like that; I thought it was the only way to live. It was quite a shock when I got out into the world and discovered that their relationship was rare.
“Sunday was a day spent visiting our relatives. My dad’s sister, Aunt Lila (whom I baptized in 1955, the only other member of my family who has joined the Church), had four children. My three boy cousins were practically my brothers. In fact, one of them came to live with us for a year and went to junior college with me. He even helped with the milking!
“I loved school. There were only thirteen pupils in my little school. They didn’t teach all eight grades each year, but alternated certain grades. They double-promoted me twice, so I missed the second grade and the fifth grade completely. I went from that little school to a big junior high school with three hundred sixty students. I found that there were many things I didn’t know, and I really had to study hard. By the time I got to college, studying wasn’t at all difficult for me.”

We have been blessed beyond measure to live and work here in this very special place for the past 33 years. It was April 1983 when President Elliott Cameron, then the president of BYUH, came to my office in Beaver, Utah, and asked me to come to Hawaii to help establish a full service Health Center on campus. I had lived here as a young missionary in the summer of 1969. I had been called to serve in the Southern Far East mission and to serve in Taiwan. The language training program had just been instituted by the church, and the Asian and Pacific Language Training Mission was here in Hale 6.
During the years after my mission, as we made our way through pharmacy school, then medical school and further residency training, we had always thought that we would return to our hometown in Southern Utah to live the rest of our lives. However, we often felt that something was missing and that we needed to look beyond our original plans. It was a difficult decision to leave our home, family, and successful practice, and move out here to Laie. As many of you know, it is always difficult to be far away from family and familiar things and venture into “unknown” situations. We are facing many of the same emotions now, as we prepare to leave our home here and move on to the next chapter of our lives.
As we look back on the years we have spent here, we have become more aware of how short life is and how fast the time goes. We have been reminded many times of the thoughts expressed by Nephi, as he talked about the Lord preparing a way to accomplish the things that He commands us to do 1 and how the spirit will lead us along, even though we may not know “beforehand, the things which we should do.” 2
As we have tried to follow promptings and respond appropriately, we have been blessed with many wonderful opportunities to witness the hand of the Lord working in our lives and the lives of those we have associated with.

Now, getting back to the experience we had with Elder LeGrand Richards when we brought him to the Missionary Training Center to speak. It was a short time before he passed away. As I mentioned, he was 96 years of age and was having a variety of difficulties with his health. (I suppose we all might have some difficulties with our health if we live to age 96!)

He had some heart and circulation problems and walked with a cane. Before he died he had a portion of one of his legs amputated. He quipped that he was glad that they had started on that end.

On that Tuesday evening, he addressed about 1,700 missionaries. He gave a stirring message quoting missionary scriptures and sharing those lively missionary experiences to illustrate them. In a remarkable way he held the missionaries on the edges of their seats for almost an hour. At the conclusion of the meeting I asked Elder Richards if he would share with the missionaries what he had told us earlier, just before the devotional began, when we had asked him how he was.

In his good-natured and enthusiastic way he returned to the pulpit and said:

This is just for a little fun. I am past 96, as you know, and when people ask me how I am, I say “fine,” if you don’t want details. If they want details, I tell them: “Well, I’ve lost my hair. These are not my teeth. I can’t see out of that eye. I can’t hear out of this ear. My feet and legs don’t percolate like they used to. The house I am living in is a bit dilapidated.”
[And then, raising his clenched hand above his head, he said,] But LeGrand Richards IS ALL RIGHT!

It was electric! That whole congregation of missionaries rose spontaneously to their feet and gave this great missionary apostle a standing ovation. I share the experience for two reasons: one, because it was one of those interesting and unforgettable experiences at the MTC, but two, and more important, because of what I learned from the occasion.

Consider the lifesaving power in this story. A few years ago, twin girls Brielle and Kyrie were born prematurely to the Jackson family. They were placed in separate incubators to reduce the risk of infection. Kyrie, the larger sister at two pounds three ounces, quickly began gaining weight and calmly slept. But Brielle, who weighed only two pounds at birth, could not keep up with her. Suddenly one day Brielle’s condition became critical. The nurse tried everything she could think of to stabilize Brielle. Still Brielle squirmed and fussed as her oxygen intake plummeted and her heart rate soared. Then the nurse remembered a procedure she had heard about. She said to the worried parents, “Let me just try putting Brielle in with her sister to see if that helps.” The parents consented, and the nurse slipped the squirming baby into the incubator with the bigger sister. No sooner had the door of the incubator closed than Brielle snuggled up to Kyrie and calmed right down. Within minutes Brielle’s blood-oxygen readings were the best they had been since she was born. As she dozed, Kyrie wrapped her tiny arm around her smaller sibling (see Nancy Sheehan, “A Sister’s Helping Hand,” Reader’s Digest, May 1996, 155–56).

Sister Hafen: Like Elder Holland and Paul, who both came to know God through suffering and sacrifice, so did young Agnes Caldwell. She was nine years old in October of 1856 when she and the others in the Willie Handcart Company were slogging through wind-driven snow on the high plains of Wyoming. She was literally starving, and Rocky Ridge was still ahead. Then she tells how she was rescued:

“The infirm and the aged were allowed to ride,” she says, “all able-bodied continued to walk.” Some of the children decided they would keep up with the wagons, in hopes of being asked to ride. One by one the others dropped out until she was the last one remaining.

“After what seemed the longest run I ever made … Brother Kimball called to me, ‘Say, sissy, would you like a ride?’ I answered in my very best manner, ‘Yes, sir.’ At this he reached over, [took] my hand, [then clucked] to his horses [which made] me run, with legs that seemed to me could run no farther. On we went [for what] seemed miles … [I thought] he was the meanest man that ever lived … Just at what seemed the breaking point, he stopped. Taking a blanket, he wrapped me up and lay me in the bottom of the wagon, warm and comfortable. Here I had time to change my mind, as I surely did, knowing full well [that] … by making me run … he saved me from freezing [to death.]”

Note the symbols: Young Agnes—Giving everything she had, taking the wagon master’s hand, and holding on. The wagon master—Loving enough to lend his strength, yet wise enough to stretch her to her limits, and courageous enough to volunteer for the rescue in the first place. She didn’t have to hang onto his hand when he pressed her to give more. Yes, he saved her life, but so did she. They both had to sacrifice and give their all. A story of mercy? Yes, but in this case, not “tender mercy,” but what we might call “severe mercy.”

Consider this example of the blessings that flow from giving of yourself. I know of a young man who came to BYU after having skipped his senior year at high school. He was younger than usual. You can understand why his parents were concerned. In the dorm there were returned missionaries and young men who had resolved to go on missions. They spent the early hours of the morning and late hours of the evening talking together, reviewing the teachings of the Savior, singing hymns. They served one in need. His life will never be the same nor will ours, for he is our missionary son.

While we were living in California, one of our sons was seriously injured in an automobile accident. His skull was badly fractured, and doctors gave us very little encouragement that he would survive. Three days after he was admitted to the hospital, he contracted meningitis and his condition worsened. Our family doctor and neighbor came to our home and said, “All we can do now is pray.”

And pray we did. For several weeks our neighbors, friends, and business associates joined us in praying for our son and for our own strength. After almost a month, our son’s condition finally stabilized and then improved, and we were blessed to see him eventually recovered and smiling again.

I would not wish a similar experience on anyone, but that terrible, difficult period taught us the principle that President Thomas S. Monson has taught the Church. Said he, “Prayer is the passport to spiritual power.” During our son’s illness, we saw and felt the spiritual power of prayer! Our ward had never prayed harder than it did then, and I don’t think that the members had ever been closer to each other. Our family was sustained by the collective faith and prayers of our friends. And even as our hearts were breaking in fear that we might lose our son, we felt closer to Heavenly Father and more aware of our dependency on Him than at almost any other time in our lives.

One of my general education requirements was to attend a certain number of cultural events. Does that sound familiar? I decided I would attend an upcoming performance by the Tokyo Symphony Orchestra. The concert was to be held in the Marriott Center. I thought to myself, “That’s where they play basketball, not violins.” Even though I didn’t hate classical music, I didn’t exactly embrace it either. My mother had taken us as small children to see the Utah Symphony on one or two occasions. They were thoroughly enjoyable outings. But, I went to this one with a little bit of the attitude that I’m really not into this type of music. The first number to be performed was a piece composed by Igor Stravinsky called the Firebird Suite. It only took about 60 seconds into the piece for me to become completely mesmerized by the music I was hearing. I had never heard music like this before. The remainder of the concert was equally beautiful and impressive to me. I could not remember having witnessed such a display of skill and perfection. The experience changed me. I discovered that what we call classical music could engage me spiritually, intellectually, and aesthetically in a way few things outside the gospel could. It has been a profound blessing to have great music as part of my life. These days when I need a haven from the world, I retreat to the beauty of great music from all genres.