Gospel Story Finder

Elder Scott’s great love for Latin-American people deepened even further as he served with them again. And that love was returned by them. The people saw in him not only a leader, but also a friend—one who was willing to learn as well as to lead.
One Sunday in Mexico City, Elder Scott sat listening to a priesthood lesson. The teacher wasn’t a great scholar, and his presentation was not polished. But it was obvious that he loved the Lord and his brethren and had a humble desire to share the gospel with them. A sacred feeling enveloped the room.
As he listened, Elder Scott received a spiritual confirmation of the lesson’s message and also some impressions for his personal benefit. He wrote them down and “found that I had been given precious truths I greatly needed to be a more effective servant of the Lord.” Through the morning, he continued writing the impressions that poured into his mind and heart. That experience has been repeated.
“I don’t think my experience in receiving promptings is different from others,” he says. “But I believe we often leave precious personal direction of the Spirit unheard because we do not record and respond to the first promptings that come to us when we are in need or when impressions come in response to urgent prayer.”

Over the nineteen years of our marriage, nine beautiful children have blessed our home, along with many financial and occupational disappointments for my husband Craig, failing health for me, and increasing responsibilities outside the home competing for our limited time. During the years, as the stress increased, I found myself saying or thinking, “Maybe we aren’t really right for each other.”
I had also noticed that when Craig and I got a night out together, we really didn’t have much in common. For instance, he’d want to see a movie, and I’d want to go to the temple. He’d want to watch a soccer game or something like that, and I’d want to go to a dance or a concert.
I must have expressed my frustration, because one day Craig found himself repeating my statement, “Maybe we aren’t really right for each other.” Hearing himself say this out loud bothered him, for he spent the next few days praying and fasting about our marriage relationship and the frustrations we were feeling.
Then one evening he said, “You and I are like the basic colors—red, yellow, and blue. Between the two of us we have everything necessary to make a successful marriage and an eternal family. Together, we lack nothing. Just as it takes all three basic colors to make all the other colors, you and I, with Heavenly Father’s help, have the ability to blend our qualities to make a happy, eternal marriage.”
As I thought about that, I saw our differences from a new perspective. In our family, Craig is the one who radiates love. I’ve sometimes been jealous of that ability because I wanted to do that, too. I have a lot of love in me, but my love doesn’t always seem to come out graciously. Once, when I told Craig that I felt sad about not being able to express my love well, he replied, “But you bring spirituality into our family. You love to read the scriptures and listen to general conference, and you’re always eager to share what you have learned.” Suddenly I realized that Craig and I were helping each other and our children: he showed me how to give love, and I shared with him what I had learned from the scriptures and prophets.

First, I survived my early life, which started out in the humblest of circumstances. I was born on the dirt floor of my mother’s hut in Dessie, Ethiopia. Mom was the only relative I ever knew, and she built our eight-foot (2.4 m) dome-shaped hut by herself, using sticks and mud that she covered with grass and leaves. Our community had no running water and no restroom facilities. Illness and death ran rampant in our kebele, or neighborhood. Food was very hard to find and impossible for us to purchase. My mother and I never knew a day without hunger.
When I was four, my mother became deathly ill. With her last bit of effort, we trudged to a hospital, where my beloved, weary mom died. The hospital staff saved me from life in the streets and death by starvation by arranging for me to live in an orphanage in the city of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital.
The second miracle came as my life changed dramatically. In this orphanage I lived in a clean building, slept in a real bed, and ate all the food I wanted. Other orphans had also experienced the loss of a loved one, and they taught me how to deal with the loss of my mother. In the evenings we gathered to sing songs in English and pray in Amharic, our mother tongue. We prayed for each other and asked God to bless us to be adopted into “nice, kind, loving homes.” Both the music and the prayers impacted my life in a huge way. I never quit praying.
Third, I was introduced to the missionaries and the Church when I was eight. I was invited to see the dedication of the first LDS Church building in Ethiopia on Sunday, November 30, 2003. At the dedication I felt the powerful influence of the Holy Spirit, and the missionaries in attendance radiated joy, happiness, and that same powerful spirit. I remember thinking that I wanted to be just like them. But I had no idea how I could ever reach this goal.
The fourth miracle came soon after. A family in the United States adopted me. My new father picked me up from the orphanage and took me home. We started the process of becoming acquainted, and I began to settle into my new environment.
Numerous challenges surfaced immediately upon my arrival. Everywhere I went people laughed at my English. My limited education caused problems in school. I prayed for help, and then I worked harder and smarter to close the knowledge gap, especially with English. Once again Heavenly Father answered my prayers. Two years later I proudly skipped a grade.
Then my home life fell apart. Prayers to the Lord, high personal goals, and a deep desire to succeed carried me through that extremely tough time. Finally, with a social worker’s help, my father and I agreed to terminate the adoption. This was a time for prayer, patience, faith, and help from Heavenly Father.
Now 15 years old, I went to live with a foster family for about a year. That was when the fifth miracle came. While sleigh riding with two friends, I met an LDS family with two nice daughters. During the ride home, one of the daughters spoke up, saying, “I think the Lord wants us to adopt Ephrem Smith.” Remarkably, the other three members of the family had also received the same inspiration. The father worked with the Department of Social Services, and soon I moved to my new home. From the very beginning my amazing new father gave me agency. For example, he explained that their family goes to church on Sundays. He allowed me to choose to join them or stay home; he said that they still would love me if I chose not to attend church. I chose to attend church, and I have since made many other righteous decisions.
Miracle six came as I received a testimony of the gospel. One Sunday I sat in sacrament meeting singing “I Stand All Amazed” (Hymns, no. 193). Huge tears began running down my cheeks as I received a personal testimony that Jesus is the Christ and that the Church is His Church.
Finally, nine years later, I knew how to become like those missionaries! The missionary age was now 18, but my adoption had not yet been finalized. I waited seven long months until my adoption was completed. Finally, my missionary papers could be submitted. Four days later I received my mission call. In just one week the Lord blessed me with final adoption papers and a mission call. I treasure both papers exceedingly! They are my seventh miracle. Yes, indeed, it took many miracles along the way from that mud hut in Ethiopia to my treasured mission.

During my teenage years, that decision was tested a number of times. I watched friends accept invitations to see movies and go to parties that I knew were not appropriate. Sometimes I was tempted to join them because it looked like they were having so much fun. I mentioned to my bishop this frustration about feeling left out. He helped me keep things in proper perspective by reassuring me that being a teenager only lasts a few years and that those who exercise their agency properly during those years will actually have far more freedom in the future than those who choose a different path.
I realized that I didn’t want poor teenage decisions to affect my opportunities later in life. I tried to date young women and associate with friends who felt the same way. It wasn’t always easy, but my decision to be worthy of the priesthood, enter the temple, serve a mission, and later marry in the temple have made any tough times as a teenager worth it. You will never regret staying clean and pure. If you have already made mistakes that keep you from feeling close to the Spirit, talk to your parents and your bishop. They will know what to do to help you feel whole again.

“She has only 24 hours to live, and even if she makes it, she will be paralyzed from the eyes down with no chance of recovery.” This was the bleak verdict doctors presented to my family in March 2004. At only 30 years of age, I had suffered a stroke that left me unable to speak or move. Yet in those dark, lonely hours, experiences from my previous calling as a Primary music leader gave me hope.
I have always loved music and felt strength in the words of the hymns. Yet prior to my stroke, when I was called to be the ward’s Primary music leader, I was very apprehensive. How was I supposed to make a difference in the children’s lives? My music education background had taught me to set goals in my teaching, so I decided to try to help the children feel the Spirit as we sang. When we sang songs such as “I Lived in Heaven,” I was astonished by the strong presence of the Holy Ghost in the room and by the children’s deep, thoughtful questions about the lyrics.
One of my favorite teaching methods was using American Sign Language (ASL). I found that the children understood the songs better when we discussed how the signs offered a visual representation of the words. I really enjoyed hearing the children sing and watching them sign “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” The message rang true in my heart, and I often felt that I was the benefactor of the Spirit that the children invited. I could sense my testimony growing, and I truly felt blessed by the Lord.
The blessings of my calling as Primary music leader were not limited to the Primary room, though. With the calling came the need to practice and play the music at home so I would be prepared each Sunday. As a result, my own children’s love for Primary music increased. The words of these songs brought a peaceful, calm spirit, comforting our children when they were hurt and lulling them to sleep each night. They insisted on listening to the Children’s Songbook CDs in the car—even if the ride was just a short one—and consequently began to memorize many of the songs.
However, it was not until after my stroke that I was aware of the far-reaching effects of this music in my life. With so much recent experience singing Primary songs, I found they were what kept me going during my trials. During my darkest hours I would pray and sing “A Child’s Prayer” in my head. As I cried out like the child of the first verse, “Heavenly Father, are you really there?” He would mercifully answer by reassuring me that I was not alone and that He was there, as stated in the second verse of the song. What a strength and reassurance!
During the recovery process, my husband and children came to my hospital room to hold family home evenings and frequently sang “Love Is Spoken Here.” That was the last song I had taught in Primary, and it was wonderful to hear my children sing it, knowing that I had planted those seeds. As they sang, I could relate to the mother in the song, praying on her knees (how I wished that I too could kneel!). Her pleas to Heavenly Father were also mine. I also shared the same gratitude for priesthood authority in my home. While I could not voice these thoughts to my family, the Primary song voiced these feelings for me.
It has been nearly four years since I suffered my stroke, and I have been able to regain far more abilities than the doctors expected I ever would. I have a small amount of movement in my right arm, which allows me to type on my computer and operate a powered wheelchair. I use a modified form of ASL—which I first learned in my Primary calling—to communicate. Because of this, I can still “sing” Primary songs with my children and express my feelings to family and friends.
Before my stroke I had always planned on singing at my children’s baptisms. In August 2005 my oldest child, Zach, was baptized. I was able to use my right hand to plunk out “When I Am Baptized” while my husband supported me at the piano bench. It felt good to express my deepest feelings about baptism through music and in a way that Zach would understand.
When I began serving as a Primary music leader, I did not think the calling would benefit me. Yet it plainly has! The Primary songs have blessed me with a better understanding of gospel principles, a strengthened testimony, the ability to communicate with my family, and the strength to persevere. The words and melody of Primary songs may be simple, but the message and the power of each one are clear.
We may not always understand why the Lord has given us a particular assignment. Even so, we must trust the Lord and put our faith in Him and His promptings. I am so grateful I was a Primary music leader before my stroke! The songs I can no longer sing can still communicate my feelings of the gospel to others. Every time I hear my children sing Primary songs, I know that their testimonies are being strengthened and that they share my love for the Lord and His gospel.

Several years ago, Sister Packer and I determined that we should get our records in order. However, under the pressure of Church responsibilities with my travels about the world, and the obligations with our large family and a home to keep up both indoors and outdoors, there just was not enough time. We were restless and finally determined that we would have to make more time in the day.

So during the Christmas holidays, when we had a little extra time, we started. Then as we moved back to a regular schedule after the holidays, we adopted the practice of getting up an hour or two earlier each day.

We gathered everything we had together and in the course of a few weeks, we were amazed at what we were able to accomplish. The thing that was most impressive, however, was the fact that we began to have experiences that told us somehow that we were being guided, that there were those beyond the veil who were interested in what we were doing. Everything that needed to happen began to happen.

As we have traveled about the Church and paid particular attention to this subject, many testimonies have come to light. Others who assemble their records together are having similar experiences. It was as though the Lord was waiting for us to begin.

We found pictures, records and stories we had wondered about for a long time. It seemed as though they came to us almost too easily. More than this, things that we never dreamed existed began to show up. We began to learn by personal experience that this research into our families is an inspired work. We came to know that an inspiration will follow those who move into it. It is just a matter of getting started.

Once we started, we found the time. Somehow were able to carry on all of the other responsibilities. There seemed to be an increased inspiration in our lives because of the work.

But we must decide, and the Lord will not tamper with our agency. If we want a testimony of genealogical and temple work, we must do something about it.

The Lord will bless you once you begin this work. This has been very evident to us. Since the time we decided that we would start where we were, with what we had, many things have opened to us. We are still not, by any means, experts in genealogical research. We are, however, dedicated to our family. And it is my testimony that if we start where we are, each of us with ourselves, with such records as we have, and begin putting those in order, things will fall into place as they should.

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

On September 11, 2001, we awoke eager for an exciting day! We were foster parents to two little girls, and over the course of a year four-year-old Olivia and five-year-old Amber had entwined themselves around our family’s hearts. We decided to go before a judge to adopt them. Our excitement turned to solemness when we sat horrified watching the Twin Towers collapse, with the loss of thousands of innocent lives, yet we were offering a new life to these innocent little girls. It brought joy to all that day.

Three days later, we travelled to the Salt Lake City Temple where our two precious little girls were sealed to us for time and all eternity. Later, as we stood looking at a statue of Christ, Amber placed her little hand on the statue’s hand. The thought came to me that, although wicked people do unspeakable things to the innocent, the sacred covenants and sealing power of God in His holy temples is more powerful than any evil force and will bind us together with His love as families forever.

We were on a humanitarian missionary assignment to Romania right after the fall of the Berlin wall. By invitation, I taught classes to medical and helping professionals at the neuropsychiatric hospital in Bucharest. The lecture room was cold in the winter but they came in large numbers to learn. Most had not been taught helping theories and skills for forty years. One day hospital administrators came to say they needed our room. I said, "That is fine. We will continue next week." But the class said, "No. No, we will find another place." And they did.
It was an unused building at the other end of the large complex. I believe it had not been heated all winter. As my husband Harold helped me fill the van with our audio/visual equipment, I said, " It is too far and too cold--the class will not walk all that way." But as we drove along the main road, we looked over and saw them--trudging along in the snow through the campus. Soon they were seated in the cold and vacant building, wearing coats, hats, boots, scarves and some with mittens, pencils in hand. They were waiting to be taught. As we were setting up our equipment, we noticed the leader of the group was also searching for an electrical outlet that worked. She had an old, small, hotplate in her hand, the kind with the little wire coil as the element. And I thought, "These people are so innovative." She is going to keep warm with that hot plate. As I was beginning to teach, I noticed her coming toward me. She put the hot plate down by my feet. "There," she said, "It is not much, but I hope it will keep you a little warm while you teach us." And I was the one who was taught--the great blessing of selfless service, given with a willing heart, no matter the sacrifice of the contribution.

My beloved brothers and sisters, for several years and with the deepest feelings I have thought about what I would like to talk to you about this morning. The prophet Mormon tells us that “by the power of [the Lord’s] word did they cause prisons to tumble” (Morm. 8:24). In recent weeks, I have reread the stories of Jean Valjean in Victor Hugo’s brilliant novel Les Miserables and of Bob Merrick in the novel Magnificent Obsession by Lloyd C. Douglas. These two stories, though widely different in time, circumstances, and affluence, have touched my heart in many ways.
I have agonized as I have thought about the ordeal of Jean Valjean—the nineteen years in prison and the things done to him for the small transgression of stealing a loaf of bread to feed a starving family. He suffered so many indignities, even after he was finally released from the physical prison.
Some of the same feelings flood my mind as I reflect upon the self-inflicted sufferings of Bob Merrick. The life of a prominent surgeon was lost and the sight of another because of Bob Merrick’s wayward activities, selfishness, ego, and disdain for others. He suffered in a prison of his own making.
Yes, I realize these masterfully crafted episodes are fictional, but they cause me to think about the various types of prisons Satan leads us into building for ourselves and others, or that others build for us.
Haven’t we all been delivered from various forms of captivity? How did you feel when the doors were opened to your personal prison? How was it to feel free? How wonderful it is to be liberated from any kind of a prison.
I remember how I felt forty-one years ago when I was taken from a train in Europe at 2:00 a.m. by two soldiers of a hostile nation and held against my will. I was verbally and physically abused. I felt I would never see my family or my country again. I assure you that while I was held captive, the blood coursed through my veins like adrenaline. Though the captivity lasted less than a day, it seemed like an eternity. And when I was put on another train and sent back to safety, my gratitude to the Lord knew no bounds. I was free! As I talked to the train conductor, I learned that hundreds had not been so lucky.
I then was led to think of Him who really delivers us from various types of prisons into forgiveness, a newness of life, of spirit, of change, and of opportunity, and how the souls of men find such relief, fulfillment, and safety when this occurs. I thought of the Son of God and His greatest freewill offering to each of us, given at the expense of His own life and under excruciating pain. I thought of how our Father in Heaven loves each one of us. And though we sometimes walk into prisons of our own making, He is there with keys to unlock the doors that bind us. I thought of those who help along the way, who share in turning those keys which deliver others, and who care so deeply sometimes that they rebuild the trust of others—like the two men of God in the novels helped to free Jean Valjean and Bob Merrick from their prisons into magnificent new freedoms promised by the Lord.
As difficult as a physical captivity or prison is, there are other captivities or prisons even more devastating. They are very subtle and take various forms in life, like (1) taking advantage of another; (2) bearing false witness to get gain; (3) knowing things to be true and not defending them; (4) stealing the morality of another; (5) destroying the innocence of a little child; (6) being captive to alcohol or drugs; or (7) financially digging a pit for another, causing hardship and destroying his ability to take care of his needs and so on. There are many prisons which come from our sins or the sins of others “according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Ne. 2:27), who leads us away.
Let me take an example to illustrate the point of these prisons. The prophet Job counseled us not to “dig a pit for your friend” (Job 6:27). I understand that could mean a business associate, a neighbor, a member of the Church. How could this happen?
Several years ago, a great young man had a thriving business. He had worked long, hard hours for many years to develop the skills, reputation, and expertise necessary to build his business and provide for the needs of his young family. He loved his work, and every morning he anxiously began each new project with creativity and opportunity. His was a great life, filled with much hope and many projects. Then one major project was completed and finalized. Rather large payments were anticipated, but a shrewd businessman found that oral approvals, given to my friend to make many necessary alterations in the project, could easily be broken and not honored. After all, there was no written record of the changes requested. It was just “good business” to get it as cheap as possible, even after commitments were made. And so verbal commitments were not honored. The money due, which was considerable, was not paid.
At this point we have several prisons that are in place: the prison of deceit of the “shrewd” businessman, and the prison of the deceived, who could not now honor his own commitments. To this day the one deceived, through further industry and much hardship, is still trying to get out of the prison created by another. And he has lost confidence in others, and he and his family have lost opportunities and his business because of another.
Did not the Savior teach through the prophet Moses, “If a man shall cause a field or vineyard to be eaten, and shall put in his beast, and shall feed in another man’s field; of the best of his own field, and of the best of his own vineyard, shall he make restitution”? (Ex. 22:5).
These types of prisons often cause the offended to lose faith, hope, and even the ability to care for their own, as was the case with my young friend. But these prisons should not happen. They often cause years of anguish. They cause those involved to wonder about justice and mercy. Sometimes these people find it impossible to resolve their own personal affairs honorably.
The lessons taught by the Savior differ widely from these actions. For He taught, in effect, Do unto others as ye would have them do unto you (see Matt. 7:12; 3 Ne. 14:12). He taught, “Behold it is my will that you shall pay all your debts” (D&C 104:78). Yes, even if it takes years, pay your debts.
No Christian should ever be a challenge to another Christian. Many widows, single mothers, and older couples are victimized by those who take advantage of them, who do not honor their commitments and then put them into a type of prison. Those affected find themselves pleading for someone to open their prison doors, often while babies cry for bare necessities.
When we seek to follow Christ, we take the oath of a Christian as a member of this Church; we covenant to never put another in any sort of prison, but rather to try to liberate those who are there. We become like one man who said that when he joined this Church it changed the way he thought, the way he talked, the way he believed, the way he dressed, the way he worked and honored his employer, the things he read, the movies he saw, the way he conducted his financial affairs in absolute honesty with everyone, and the way he served others. He truly believed in the liberating power of the gospel of Jesus Christ and became free because of it. As is stated in the book of John, “If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed” (John 8:36).
Years ago an acquaintance of mine was captive for over twenty years to a serious alcohol problem, which bound him every day. He would leave work, buy his alcohol, drive into the countryside, and drink until he could barely find his way home. He truly was under the captive spirit of the devil and lived in hell. A faithful home teacher loved this brother, saw him often, taught him to pray for help, and prayed for him often. One day while he was driving his pickup truck into the countryside to begin his daily alcohol ritual, he felt a powerful influence to stop his truck, walk out into a field, fall to his knees, and plead for help from his Father in Heaven. Later, he tearfully testified that as he arose from his knees, the desire to drink alcohol had completely left him. He had been delivered from a twenty-year prison. God heard his prayer, felt the desire of his heart, and opened the prison doors that bound him.
Beloved friends, it is Jesus who has unlocked and will unlock the doors of our personal prisons. It is a glorious promise to all who are captive, for whatever reasons, upon the condition of repentance.
Certainly, a Latter-day Saint will demonstrate the freedom he has received by walking in all morality and all honesty, as taught by the Lord. For his word is his bond—sacred and honored. His life becomes the testament that it is all true—every principle and every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Savior and His prophets. By living these cardinal principles, we are truly free and we become the witnesses of His word.
One of the beautiful, profound statements of the man of God to Jean Valjean was: “My brother, you belong no more to evil, but to good. It is your soul I am buying for you, and I give it to God” (Victor Hugo, Les Miserables, volume 1, book 2, chapter 12). No more prisons for others, if you will, because of my actions.
Jesus came that man might have life and have it more abundantly. He walked the path, taught the way, opened the doors to truly liberate mankind, and said, “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:32). The writer, Mr. Douglas, expressed it beautifully when he said to Bob Merrick, “When you find THE WAY, you will be bound—it will become an obsession—a magnificent obsession.”
We know it works, for listen to the words which record what happened to the Saints who truly followed the Savior for two hundred years following His appearance in America:
“And as many as did come unto them, and did truly repent of their sins, were baptized in the name of Jesus; and they did also receive the Holy Ghost.
“… And there were no contentions and disputations among them, and every man did deal justly one with another.
“And they had all things common among them; therefore there were not rich and poor, bond and free, but they were all made free. …
“And surely there could not be a happier people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God” (4 Ne. 1:1–3, 16; emphasis added).
Yes, “by the power of his word did they cause prisons to tumble” (Morm. 8:24). May we live our lives so we will all be free with no prisons for ourselves or others, only a magnificent obsession filled with freedoms and blessings ahead, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Joseph wrote these feelings to his wife in an 1832 letter from New York City, where he had gone with Newel K. Whitney to buy goods for the Whitney store in Kirtland, Ohio. He had spent some time walking through the “most splendid part” of the city:

“The buildings are truly great and wonderful to the astonishing of every beholder and the language of my heart is like this: Can the great God of all the earth, maker of all things magnificent and splendid, be displeased with man for all these great inventions sought out by them? My answer is no. It cannot be, seeing these works are calculated to make men comfortable, wise, and happy. Therefore not for the works can the Lord be displeased, only against man is the anger of the Lord kindled because they give him not the glory.”

Then he wrote:

“I returned to my room to meditate and calm my mind. And behold, the thoughts of home, of Emma [his wife] and Julia [his daughter] rushes upon my mind like a flood and I could wish for a moment to be with them. My breast is filled with all the feelings and tenderness of a parent and a husband. … Yet when I reflect upon this great city … my bowels are filled with compassion towards them and I am determined to lift up my voice … and leave the event with God.”

He concluded,

“I prefer reading and praying and holding communion with the Holy Spirit and writing to you than walking the streets and beholding the distraction of man.”25

While on this journey with Brother Whitney, Joseph suffered a severe case of food poisoning that almost cost him his life. He wrote to his wife:

“My situation is a very unpleasant one although I will endeavor to be contented, the Lord assisting me. I have visited a grove which is just back of the town almost every day where I can be secluded from the eyes of any mortal and there give vent to all the feelings of my heart in meditation and prayer. I have called to mind all the past moments of my life and am left to mourn and shed tears of sorrow for my folly in suffering the adversary of my soul to have so much power over me as he has had in times past, but God is merciful and has forgiven my sins and I rejoice that he sendeth forth the Comforter unto as many as believe and humbleth themselves before him.”26

An active youth committee in Cache Valley made it their project to take care of the aged and shut-ins. Each week the girls would prepare suppers and the boys would prepare lessons or activities to take to the homes of the unfortunate, giving them plenty of tender loving care in a family home evening situation. What do you think it did for those young people to be involved in such a worthy, compassionate service?
Deep desire to be of service and to demonstrate love can even benefit the bishop. In Sacramento, California, while the bishop was away on vacation with his family, the youth committee determined to paint his house. These young people had the time of their lives working together and anticipating the pleasant surprise of the bishop when he returned. A real bond of love was established between the youth and their bishop with such meaningful service.

“Hey, Coach,” he called as I was working with the senior shot putters and discus throwers. I ignored him.
“Hey, Coach Crowe,” he persisted, “that other coach over there said I should come over here and throw. He said you should watch me.”
I turned around and looked at the kid. His black hair hung unevenly over his forehead, his bony shoulders angled out of his baggy tank top, and his long skinny arms hung low, almost to his knees. When the wind blew, his practice uniform flapped around his bony frame like clothes on a scarecrow. He was obviously a freshman.
In his right hand he held a discus, the black rubber kind we issued to beginning throwers. “You wanna watch me throw?” he asked.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Darwin Hughes.”
“Where’d you get that discus, Hughes? You’re too small to be a weight man.”
“Well, Coach,” he answered, “I like throwing, and I’m pretty good. If you’ll watch me, I’ll …”
“Not now, Hughes. I’m working with the seniors. Tell you what, go over to that discus ring over there,” I pointed to the opposite end of the field, “and you throw. I’ll come down in a little while and see how you’re doing, okay?”
“Sure, Coach.” He turned and loped off to the other end of the practice field.
I went back to work with my seniors. Boy, these freshmen, I thought. Why are they so goofy? That kid has as much chance of becoming a discus thrower as I do of becoming president of the United States.
Practice went pretty much as usual that day, and I was too busy with my seniors to find the time to go watch Hughes. The next two days he hung around the throwing areas, and each time I banished him to the opposite end of the field to throw by himself so he couldn’t bother me as I worked with the upperclassmen.
Finally, on the fourth day, some of the throwers came to see me. “Hey, Coach,” said one, “have you seen that freshman throw yet?”
“You mean that scrawny little kid Hughes? I can’t believe he’s still wasting his time. Look, if you guys want to throw down there, just tell him to go work with the distance runners. He’d have a better chance of making the team with them.”
“But, Coach,” interrupted one of them, “maybe you ought to see him throw. He’s throwing over 130 feet.”
That got my attention; 130 feet would make him the number two thrower on my varsity squad. These guys must be pulling my leg, I thought. But I’d better go down and watch, just to make sure.
By the time I got down there, a little crowd had gathered around the discus ring. In the center stood Hughes, just beginning another throw. He held his arms out, bent his knees, spun twice through the ring, and launched a throw that was easily 130 feet.
After he finished his throw, he looked over at me and grinned sheepishly, as if I had caught him doing something wrong. “Come here, Hughes,” I said. He trotted over. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“I dunno, Coach. I threw a little bit in eighth grade, but mainly I just like to throw.”
“Tell you what, Hughes,” I said as I put my arm around his shoulder, “from now on you can throw down at the other end with the upperclassmen so I can watch you a little more.”
Never let it be said that I didn’t recognize talent when it hit me in the face.
By his sophomore year, Darwin had developed into a fine discus thrower. He won nearly every dual meet and placed in every prestigious invitational meet he attended. At five-foot-nine, 145 pounds, Darwin looked out of place among the Goliaths of the shot put and discus rings, and many times when he first began competing on the varsity, throwers from other schools would laugh at skinny Darwin Hughes. Their laughter, however, changed to amazement as soon as he took his first warm-up throw.
By the end of his sophomore year, no one laughed at him anymore because little Darwin finished third in the state championships by throwing 165 feet, two inches.
In his junior and senior seasons, the littlest weight man was the best thrower in Arizona. Spectators, coaches, and other throwers marveled at how such a small thrower (by his senior year Darwin was five-foot-ten, 165 pounds) could throw a discus more than 185 feet and a 12-pound shot more than 57 feet. And I have to admit, even as his coach, I was often amazed at all Darwin accomplished. I’m convinced that, considering his size, Darwin was the best high school weight man in the United States.
People would often ask me, “How does he do it? What’s Hughes’s secret?” I wish I could have answered that Darwin owed all his success to me, but that wasn’t true. First of all, Darwin had some inherent ability, some natural skill for what he was trying to do. Based on that ability, he then applied some basic principles of success.
Second, he had a desire to excel, to be the best discus thrower he could possibly be. “Coach,” he told me one day at practice, “I don’t know how far I can throw, but I’m going to do everything I can to be one of the best weight men Arizona has ever had.”
At the time he was only a sophomore, and considering his size, I was afraid he was setting his goals too high. “Look, Darwin, you’re doing super right now. You should feel great about what you’ve already accomplished. This is a big man’s sport, so with your size, you can’t expect to get much better.”
“But, Coach, I know I can do better. I just know it.” He was right. The next year, Darwin improved his best throw by 20 feet.
But it wasn’t only his drive to excel that helped Darwin succeed. He also believed in himself. Ignored by his own coach as a freshman, scoffed at by competitors as a sophomore, Darwin remained convinced that he could and would be successful. Near the end of his senior season I asked him why he didn’t give up during those first years. He shrugged and explained, “When no one else believes in you, you’ve got to believe in yourself.”
Confidence alone, however, wasn’t enough to make a mountain of a thrower out of a molehill of a boy. Darwin was a dedicated, hard worker. Every day he’d be out to practice a half hour early, throwing by himself. And on most spring afternoons and evenings, he and I would be the only ones left on the practice field, working on his technique until it was too dark to see anymore. Darwin would even spend hours on Saturdays throwing and throwing and throwing.
I’ve never coached an athlete who worked harder than Darwin, and I’ve never coached an athlete who was as successful as he was either. Someone said once, “If you want to be a superstar, you’ve got to start early and stay late.” That was certainly true for Darwin.
But all his hard work wasn’t without direction. Darwin listened intently to every coaching tip he ever received and worked diligently to turn that advice into improvement. When I asked Darwin to do something differently or advised him to spend more time in the weight room, he’d say, “Okay, Coach,” and he’d do it.
Darwin also studied his event. He poured through every track-and-field textbook in our school’s library and was able to quote extensively from the Track and Field News about recent events and technique development. He read coaching journals, sports pages, and anything else that might have a bit of information he could use to become a better weight man. By the time he graduated, Darwin knew more about his event than I did.
And finally, Darwin followed great examples. As a freshman and sophomore, he would carefully watch and study the throwing methods of the leading weight men in the state. As he increased his knowledge, he began to attend college meets to study the methods of collegiate weight men. He even talked me into ordering films of the world’s greatest discus throwers, and he spent hours watching them.
His talents and his efforts made Darwin Hughes the best weight man ever at our high school and ranked him as the fifth best discus thrower in the history of Arizona. All at five-foot-ten, 165 pounds.

A four-year-old Brazilian girl, Mayara Fernanda dos Santos, suffering from leukemia and on oxygen, was blessed recently by Elder Claudio Costa and myself in Curitiba, Brazil. After the blessing, empathetic little Mayara smilingly wiped a tear from her anxious mother’s cheek. Instinctively wise beyond her years, Mayara knows how to “comfort those that stand in need of comfort,” including her precious parents, who are willing to wait upon the Lord (Mosiah 18:9).

It’s a bright, sunny morning on June 26, 1999. The green grass at the Indiana State Capitol building is looking a little shabby. A trailer pulls up, and as 14-year-old Ryan Tripp unloads a lawn mower, it becomes obvious this is no ordinary lawn job.
There are green balloons on the lawn in the shape of a big ribbon—the symbol for organ donation—and Ryan is thronged by Indiana state officials and a large crowd. Flashing a smile, he talks from the podium about the importance of people becoming organ donors.
The idea for what turned out to be a two-year mission began on a spring day in 1997 when Ryan and his dad, Todd, were returning home after mowing church lawns around Parowan, Utah, his hometown. When their truck broke down, Ryan suggested they ride a lawn mower back to town. During the ride Ryan said, “Dad, why don’t we ride this lawn mower all the way to Salt Lake and mow the state capitol lawn?”
His dad replied, “Why don’t you ride it all the way to Washington, D.C., and mow the White House lawn!” Ryan began dreaming about his name appearing in the Guiness Book of World Records for the longest lawn mower ride in history.
But something was missing. Ryan and his family felt they needed a greater purpose for such an undertaking.
Shortly after, while Ryan’s father was getting his truck repaired, his mechanic, a neighbor, confided that their three-month-old daughter, Whitnie, had a rare disease requiring a liver transplant. The cost would be enormous, and the Penders had limited insurance and funds.
Ryan’s heart went out to the Penders. He wanted to help, but what could he do? Perhaps his goal to mow the White House lawn could work together with a fundraising project for Whitnie! Why not hand out cards to the people he met along the way asking for donations to be sent to a special fund? People could pledge money for each mile he drove.
The Tripp family members all wanted to help, and wheels were set in motion. They charted a course from Parowan to Washington, D.C.; they obtained local police permission for Ryan to drive the lawn mower along state and city roadways, and a large lawn mower manufacturer generously donated a machine. Ryan’s mom, Diane, his two sisters, Tiffany and Chantel, and his brother, Robbie, agreed to temporarily take over the lawn-mowing business.
On August 15, 1997, Ryan began his 3,116-mile cross-country lawn mower drive, with Grandpa and Grandma Meidlinger leading the procession by car and his dad following Ryan in their truck.
Sound like fun? Picture yourself driving a lawn mower at 10 mph, 10 to 12 hours a day, for 42 days through blistering heat, rain, and wind. For the first few weeks, Ryan had lots of fun. He signaled his dad on their walkie-talkies, waved to passing cars, listened to music on his CD player, looked at the scenery, and made all kinds of noises as he drove along.
Then he ran into a problem. One day he was particularly tired from their early morning starts and dozed off listening to his music. He awoke to the blasting horn of his father’s truck behind him, just as his lawn mower was careening off the side of the road. His CD days were over.
After that, the hours became long, and it seemed the cornfield-lined roads would never end. “Sometimes I got a little antsy and wanted to get off my lawn mower and go do things a normal boy would, especially when it rained. It got kind of hard to just sit there and drive along the road,” he recalls. The trek became a challenge to Ryan.
However, each challenge brings its own reward, and Ryan’s was time for serious thinking. He thought about his plans for the future; he thought about the importance of never giving up, of keeping promises and commitments; and he thought about how nice it was to have his dad so close. Reaching his father on his walkie-talkie at any time reminded him of talking to another Father: “It was kind of a lesson to me about how close my Heavenly Father is and how I can reach Him through prayer whenever I need something,” Ryan says.
Thinking about his own supportive family, Ryan’s thoughts often turned to little Whitnie. He understood her family’s love for her and knew he must do whatever was needed to help.
Ryan began to see a much greater purpose in this trip. Breaking records took a distant second to helping Whitnie. And as he thought about her, and others he learned about along the way, Ryan’s prayers took on new meaning. “My dad and I would pray every morning before we started and again when we got back to the hotel,” he says. They prayed for safety, for Whitnie, and for all the people needing transplants.
Finally, Ryan’s quest ended at the U.S. Capitol. Senator Orrin Hatch of Utah, other government officials, press members, and TV viewers watched as he mowed the Capitol Hill lawn. The trip was successful—Ryan broke the record and, more importantly, raised $15,000 for little Whitnie, who received her transplant that same year.
But Ryan didn’t see this as the end of his goal. Throughout his trip he had become increasingly concerned about the 63,500 people in America waiting for organ donors. So, even before he and his dad left Washington, D.C., they formulated a plan to further raise awareness for organ and tissue donation: they would mow every state capitol building lawn in the country, including those in Juneau, Alaska, and Honolulu, Hawaii.
Two summers later, on June 1, 1999, Ryan set out on his second mission. This time he had a lot more company—his mother, his sisters, his brother, his Grandpa and Grandma Tripp, and his Grandpa Meidlinger.
The next 72 days were a whirlwind of state capitol buildings, governors, news reporters, talk-show hosts, and families involved in organ donation. The stories they heard from the many recipients, donors, and donor-hopefuls, buoyed them up at each stop.
“One of the coolest stories was about a family in Kansas,” Ryan says. “I had been on local TV speaking about the importance of organ and tissue donation a few days before their daughter died. They told us because they were so touched by what I was doing, they decided to donate their daughter’s organs.”
Ryan encourages everyone he sees to set their goals high and work hard. “With Heavenly Father’s help, you can do anything,” he says, especially if it includes serving others. “It makes you feel so good inside, and you never know how many people you helped.”
Although Ryan met many good people and celebrities along the way, when asked who his hero is, Ryan replies, “There are a lot of role models out there, but my hero is my dad because he’s a good example to me, and he believes in my dreams. I’d like to be just like him when I grow up.”

I grew up to the sound of my older brother practicing his French horn. Day after day, year after year, the sound of his horn emanated from our house. I could even hear it blocks away when I walked home from elementary school.
If challenged, I would surely have contended that my brother was the best French horn player there ever was. Nevertheless, his constant playing embarrassed me sometimes, and once I asked my mother to make him stop. He would even bring his French horn on vacation!
Years later my brother and I found ourselves at a music competition in northern California on the campus of a big university I’d never been to before. While there, my high school madrigal group earned a top ranking, which meant we got to do an encore performance later that day. We were given directions as to where and when to meet, and we all went on our way. Soon I found myself alone, standing in the middle of the campus looking at all the tall buildings. I couldn’t see anyone I knew, but I remembered what my mother had told me to do if I ever got lost: “Stay where you are.”
I stayed but was too shy to ask for directions; besides, I didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t remember anything we’d been told about where or when to meet. But suddenly the thought occurred to me to ask Heavenly Father for help. I was not a member of the Church at the time, but I had attended church regularly with my Latter-day Saint friends and had been taught that Heavenly Father answers prayers.
So I stood there and silently prayed in my heart. Before I had even said amen, my ears perked up. Far off in the distance, ever so quietly, I heard a familiar sound—a sound I had heard most of my life. As I started walking in the direction of the music, it grew louder. Could it be my brother’s French horn? I was sure of it.
But then other French horns started playing. I hesitated. Did I really think I could tell which of all those horns was my brother’s? Every time I doubted, however, I heard his horn, as if beckoning to me. As I entered a building, climbed the stairs, and got closer to the music, I grew scared. The thought of opening the wrong door to find someone I didn’t know made my face turn red. When I reached the third floor, I listened one more time, made my decision, took a deep breath, and opened the door. There he was!

I was born in Weonju, South Korea, sometime in 1958 and was later adopted by an American family. When I was fourteen, I joined the Church. A year later, concerned about what to do after high school, I decided to obtain my patriarchal blessing. I first talked to the patriarch, who advised me to fast and pray about the things I wanted to know. I did, and later received my blessing with good feelings about the promises in it. But one section puzzled me:
“You will have the great privilege of performing work for and in behalf of your family, the parents you have not known. If you will search for your family records, help will come from on high; the heavens will respond to your prayers if you fast and pray and if you will be faithful in giving of your time and talents.”
I knew I needed to do my genealogy work, but I couldn’t understand the part about “the parents you have not known.” I had no idea who my natural parents were or how to find out. As far as I knew, I was an orphan when I was adopted.
During my last semester in college, after sincere prayer and soul searching, I felt strongly impressed to serve a mission. I completed my missionary application and sent in my papers, but worried that I would be called to go to Korea. I did not particularly want to go there. A few weeks passed, and the call came to the “Korea Seoul West Mission.”
I struggled with accepting my call, but as the time drew near, I thought of the promise in my patriarchal blessing. How else could I do my genealogy work? I had to go to Korea.
After arriving at the mission home in Korea, one of the first questions the mission president asked me was, “Do you plan to do some of your genealogy work while you’re here?” Surprised and encouraged by his question, I answered, “Yes, I want to.”

Elder Oaks further illustrates what it’s like to hesitate to share the gospel with our friends:
“Consider that you are invited to a friend’s house for breakfast. On the table you see a large pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from which your host fills his glass. But he offers you none. Finally you ask, ‘Could I have a glass of orange juice?’
“He replies, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was afraid you might not like orange juice, and I didn’t want to offend you by offering you something you didn’t desire.’
“Now, that sounds absurd, but it is not too different from the way we hesitate to offer up something far sweeter than orange juice. I have often worried how I would answer some friend about my hesitancy when I meet him beyond the veil” (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 81–82).

Everyone is a child of God! This means that in the eyes of our Heavenly Father we are all equal and that he loves us all the same. It took me quite a while to realize this. I felt sorry for myself because I wasn’t the prettiest girl in school, or because I didn’t have a date for every Friday night, or some silly reason like that. I knew it was wrong for me to feel that way, but I couldn’t help it. I just felt depressed.
Then I read “Our Family Motto” by Tom Osmond in the April New Era, and it really made me think. I was being greedy and very selfish wanting such useless things when I could have much higher goals and ambitions to work for. (In the 13th Article of Faith it says, “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” Isn’t it worth it to work now in order to be rewarded later?) Tom is deaf, and he has accomplished so many things by having such a positive attitude. A person’s handicap is not what matters. What matters is how he applies himself and goes after his dreams. If you have self-confidence and a positive attitude, you’ll go so much further!
Now, I still look the same, and I’m not going out every single night, but I’m more pleased with myself. I’m not completely satisfied yet—I never will be! But I feel that I’ve overcome a lot of obstacles (self-pity, lack of confidence) that were in the way. We can do anything we want to if we go after it, knowing that we’ll accomplish it by doing our best. After all, we’re children of God.
Gayle HayesPasadena, Texas

A broad education is a crucial part of the Olive Leaf. So, in light of the revealed importance of general education, I want to tell you a funny family story that illustrates how passionate John is about general education. It happened when he spoke with our daughter who was preparing to start college. She casually mentioned that she wanted to “get her GEs out of the way.”

John just about went through the roof. He said, “What do you mean ‘get your GEs out of the way’?! You shouldn’t think of college as something you just ‘go through’ for a degree; college needs to go through you.” He went on to say that too often students think of general education as something someone else requires them to do, like soldiers in World War II who were told to pass down a line of people giving them medical shots. They didn’t know why. The shots were just something to be endured, something someone else said was good for them. And that’s how people often experience general education—as something imposed by others, something to get out of the way.

John: That story is a bit embarrassing. My response may have been a little over the top.36 But I actually still feel the same way about that principle, which in fact applies not just to education but to exaltation.37