Gospel Story Finder

One summer when I was a teenager, I became very discouraged. It seemed that all my friends were taller and better at sports than I. I thought that growing taller would solve my problems, naively thinking being bigger would somehow make me better at whatever I wanted to do.
Worried about my lack of height, I went to my tallest brother and asked him what I could do to grow taller. I figured he would know the answer to my question. What he said surprised me: “Obey your mother. Whatever she asks you to do, do it without waiting.”
My confidence in my brother was so strong that I went to a storage room, stood against the wall, and made a pencil mark to record my height.
For the remainder of the summer days, my mother’s wish or slightest hint was my command. Almost immediately the feelings of growth began to fill me with satisfaction. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this before. My mother may have spent the summer in shock, but it didn’t matter. I was growing. Anticipation of the results that awaited me at the conclusion of my vacation brought me happiness all summer long.
When fall came I returned to my measuring spot near the storage room. Quickly I located the mark on the wall. Standing next to it, pencil in hand, I made a second mark, turned and looked to see how much I had grown. You can imagine my disappointment when only one slightly darker mark could be found.
I went to my brother to get an explanation about what had happened. After hearing my concern, he asked me an important question: “How do you feel inside?” My inward feelings of growth were undeniable. This I explained to him. He then reminded me that Heavenly Father looks on the heart, not the outward appearance (see 1 Sam. 16:7).
It was really true; I had grown. The willing and obedient service rendered had increased my ability to understand that the true measure of our success or growth becomes apparent to us when we do our best to willingly serve others.

My best friend shoved his elbow into my side to keep me from laughing. We were in sacrament meeting, after all, and we were singing the sacrament hymn.
But it was hard not to laugh, and Pat wasn’t doing much better than I at keeping his mouth shut.
We were 15, and we knew everything. We knew that everyone in our ward was supposed to be perfect—but wasn’t. We knew that sacrament meeting talks were supposed to be inspiring—but mostly were boring. And we knew that the worst singer in the world sat among us, mangling hymns that were supposed to send our thoughts heavenward—but usually sent them the other direction.
We could only cover our ears and wince. The occasional laugh seemed to help.
We weren’t sure whether Sister Mabel (her first name, and the only one I remember anyone using for her) knew she was painful to listen to and didn’t care or if she was totally oblivious to the effect her singing had on the rest of us. It’s quite possible no one had ever broached the topic with her. Though elderly, she was a formidable woman. Not in size, but in energy. Everything she did was energetic and loud. Especially her singing.
Her passion for singing found expression not only in our congregational singing but in our ward choir as well. Her enthusiasm there was unrestrained. Though I don’t remember her singing ever being restrained in the congregation, in the choir it had free reign, rising to heights and depths I doubt any diva in the world has ever reached. Or wanted to.
Well, that was a long time ago. In the intervening years, Sister Mabel has passed away. Pat and I have gone our separate ways. And I, at least, have discovered I didn’t know as much at 15 as I thought I did. I believe I’ve learned a few things about life—and singing—over the past 50 years.
I’ve learned that life needs be lived with passion and energy. Each minute is a treasure, and once it passes, it’s gone forever, reflected only weakly in memory. I’ve learned that if you’re going to serve others or worship the Lord, you’re happiest and most effective when you do it with all the joy and energy you have.
I’ve learned that no one this side of the veil is perfect. All that the Lord asks of us is our hearts, might, minds, and strength—to the degree that we can offer them. He accepts our unrestrained offerings, as poor as they may be, as the full measure of our devotion.
It’s ironic, I suppose, that I’ve also discovered I’m no better a singer than Sister Mabel was. I hope my fellow ward members have more charity for me than I had for her. If she were still here, I’d invite her to sing for me. I miss her angelic voice.

All my life I had heard about the importance of getting a patriarchal blessing. So when I turned 17, I started thinking about getting mine.
To me, getting a patriarchal blessing was a little frightening. What if I didn’t hear anything I wanted to hear? What if there were no great promises for me? I worried about being prepared enough.
I decided that I needed to exercise some faith. I prayed many times, was interviewed by my bishop, and set up an appointment with the stake patriarch to receive my blessing. Then, while I waited, I tried to prepare spiritually for this important event.
On the day I was to receive my blessing, I fasted all day. In the morning, I thought I would have a wonderful, spiritual day, but Satan must have worked overtime to make it something else. I had a bad day at school, and by the time I came home I was upset. With nerves on edge, I paced the floor.
Then I remembered a fireside where a man and woman whom I admire spoke about preparing to receive a patriarchal blessing. They suggested that we pray for specific things we want to know.
I went into my room, knelt beside my bed, and prayed that Heavenly Father would tell me what he knew was best for me to hear. I asked that he take away my fears and calm my worried heart.
Everything turned out fine. In fact, it was a personal miracle. It seemed that the patriarch knew me even better than I knew myself. I knew he was speaking for Heavenly Father, and when he spoke, I felt the assurance that Heavenly Father did know me. He heard my prayers. He knew my name.
After the patriarch had finished speaking, I felt wonderful about myself. Nothing has ever given me such a deeply spiritual feeling before.
Now I know why Church leaders emphasize the value of a patriarchal blessing. When we learn the worth of something and pay the price to obtain it, we begin to better understand its value. For me, my blessing and the experience of receiving it was one of the best experiences of my life. I know that my patriarchal blessing will continue to guide me to fulfill its promises.

Thirty-five years ago, I was called to serve as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and assigned to labor in the Norway Oslo Mission. While serving there I saw much of the beautiful landscape and architecture of that country. My Norwegian heritage made it even more exciting and meaningful to me. As missionaries we loved hiking and exploring Norway’s majestic fjords and forests. But there was one climb we weren’t allowed to make: the ascent to Preikestolen, or pulpit rock. It was deemed to be too dangerous by our mission president.

Preikestolen is one of Norway’s most famous natural landmarks. It features a flat-topped cliff 604 meters above the Lysefjord. The breathtaking location has appeared in several major Hollywood movies, including Mission Impossible.

Fast-forward 35 years. Last summer while traveling in Norway with our family, we decided to hike to the top of Preikestolen. We were traveling with my parents, who had been to Norway many times but had never visited Preikestolen. My almost 80-year-old mother was determined to make the trek with us to the top of “pulpit rock”.

Even though the trail was well marked, it included steep and rocky sections. The uneven, slippery paths demanded careful footing. If you wandered off the trail or got distracted, the results could be disastrous—possibly fatal. We were surprised to see so many cliffs without guardrails, with some people sitting dangerously close to the edge, feet dangling over the fjord below.

The hike pushed us to our physical and mental limits. At times, we doubted our ability to reach the summit.

As novices to hiking, we supported each other and enjoyed our time together as a family. We shared many laughs amid our struggles, often questioning why we found ourselves on such an adventure. Despite moments of exhaustion, we paused to appreciate the breathtaking beauty surrounding us. We discovered that there is pure joy in sharing the journey together.

This experience teaches us spiritual rule number one.

Spiritual Rule #1: The journey is meant to be enjoyed
God doesn’t just want us to survive life; He desires us to return to Him joyful, refined, and seasoned with experience. True joy is found through Jesus Christ. But does that mean we’re meant to be happy all the time? Certainly not.

Have you ever felt discouraged when things didn’t go as planned? Or felt you were obeying the Lord’s directions, yet faced disappointment? Life is full of unexpected turns.

In Daniel chapter 3 from the Old Testament, we learn about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who were commanded by King Nebuchadnezzar to worship a golden idol. Despite knowing they would be cast into a fiery furnace, they refused to worship it. Their faith was demonstrated not only through the miraculous deliverance from the flames but through their unwavering commitment to God, regardless of the outcome. In verse 18, they declare, “But if not…” [3] a phrase I love because it beautifully expresses trust: I know what I want, but if that is not what is best for me, I trust that God knows best. I am content with whatever path He chooses for my life. I can choose to be joyful in any circumstance.

President Russell M. Nelson said, “…the joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives. When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation, … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives.” [4]

On our Preikestolen hike, hills, slippery stones, mud, crowds, rain, narrow and scary bridges, all could have made us doubt our choice to climb. But having experienced all those things, we still found the vista at the top to be breathtaking.

So, what can we do to find joy on our journey? We can choose to walk with Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ is the perfect walking companion. Because of the Atonement, He understands us perfectly. The disciples that walked with Him on the road to Emmaus, after His resurrection, learned from Him by the spirit. Earlier, prior to His resurrection, the Savior taught, “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” [5] Invite Him to walk with you. It’s okay to move slowly. Just keep walking, one step at a time, with faith.

Most of you are probably familiar with the primary song… “I Will Walk with Jesus.” [6] I would sing it for you, but unfortunately, you might not recognize it! Stephen Schank, who wrote the lyrics and composition, said, “...choosing to walk with Jesus Christ is not something we do only once but every day of our lives. As we do, the Savior shares His power with us, changing our very hearts to become more loving, more holy, more like Him.” [7] The lyrics to the chorus are as follows:

“As I walk with Jesus to my home above,He will bless me with His Spirit and fill me with His love,Change my heart forever and help me clearly see.I will walk with Jesus... and He will walk with me.” [8]

During the summer, I did odd jobs to earn money. That summer I was working as a service station attendant. A man who worked there was a member of the Church, and he invited me to attend MIA (Mutual). At first I hesitated, but he was persistent, and I finally gave in. The warmth and friendliness of the members and missionaries impressed me, but again the music influenced me most. Their hymns sounded different from any I had ever heard.

When I first started reading the Book of Mormon, it seemed strange to me. The only name in the book that was familiar to me was the name of one of Nephi’s brothers—Sam! But there was a force that drew me to the Book of Mormon. I felt that if I were to become a member of the Church, my life would become much more meaningful.

When I told my older brother that I would like to be baptized, he said, “That would be fine. But if you become a member, you must be a lifetime member. You must commit yourself and be loyal.” I was baptized when I was sixteen.

After high school, I was in the military, and I had the opportunity to have an interview with Elder Harold B. Lee, who was then an Apostle and who later became President of the Church. It was a very precious time for me. For an hour he counseled me to go on a mission, to go to the House of the Lord, and to sustain the leaders of the Church. This same advice applies to every member of the Church.

I never forgot Elder Lee’s advice. I came to Salt Lake City, Utah, on furlough and went to the Salt Lake Temple. After I left the military and went to college, I saved money for a mission. During my mission, I was able to open the Okinawa area, where my father was from, for missionary work. Later, serving as president of the Tokyo Temple, I had the wonderful blessing of seeing many of the Japanese Saints receive their temple endowments. Seeing the joy in the faces of those being sealed was a great blessing.

Boys and girls, prepare yourselves to go to the house of the Lord. Going to the temple will be the greatest thing you can accomplish in your mortal life. In the temple, you can feel the Lord’s presence and know that He is there. You can kneel at the altar and make sacred covenants. The Lord will always keep His part of these covenants. When you keep your part of them, you will receive the greatest gifts, eternal life and exaltation.

You can begin now to prepare yourself spiritually, mentally, and physically by keeping the commandments, by being clean in mind and body, and by being faithful and loyal to our Heavenly Father. If you will do these things, you will be led toward the sacred covenants of the temple. Then you will have peace and be happy, no matter what trials and tribulations you meet.

You can also learn to search your family history so that your ancestors can have the same temple blessings. We will meet them some day and know them as our relatives. All the people of the world will some day have the same privilege. The Lord has many wonderful blessings awaiting us if we just take advantage of them.

Though he was scheduled to complete his three-year mission in 1917, Elder Cowley had become so fluent in the Maori language that President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918) asked him to remain in New Zealand an additional two years to translate the Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price into Maori. Elder Cowley willingly complied. He later served as president of the New Zealand Mission and presiding General Authority over the entire Pacific area, never losing his fluency in Maori.

In 2015 an Area Seventy visited Mongolia and provided training concerning the public affairs efforts of the Church. Odgerel Ochirjav, president of the Ulaanbaatar Mongolia West Stake, was unsure how to proceed. Then in January 2016 his brother-in-law called and said, “I was watching Mongolia’s Got Talent. … I had a strong impression that your Church choir should participate.”
President Ochirjav discussed the idea with the choir director, Sister Unurjargal Purev. She and the choir members were enthusiastic about the possibility. The choir became known as Zion, or “SION,” an acronym in Mongolian for spirit, faith, mind, and unity.
For the first round of the competition in March 2016, SION peformed a mash-up of two songs. One judge said, “I see your faces light up! … We need to put your video on YouTube to showcase this show to the world.”
Another judge asked the choir what they would do if they won the grand prize of U.S. $50,000. He was impressed when they said they wanted to donate it all, as a special Christmas gift, to an orphanage.
Of the 400 participants, SION was among the 200 who advanced to the second round, but their performance was scheduled for the same day as a multi-stake youth conference, which involved half of the 35 choir members. The choir decided to go to the second round, so they hired a bus and, following their performance, traveled eight hours to the youth conference.
Of the 200 acts, SION was among the 32 to advance to the semi-finals. The choir began to be featured on social media related to Mongolia’s Got Talent.
They practiced from June to September to prepare for the semi-finals. On the day of the performance, they woke up at 4:00 a.m. in -29 degrees F (-34 degrees C) weather. Sister Nomuungerel Enkhtuvshin, a choir member, said, “Many members of our group caught a cold. But they got better as we prayed for them.”
People throughout Mongolia viewed the show and texted in their votes.
Brother Shijir Purevdorj said, “As a result of this TV show, many people are cultivating a positive attitude toward the Church.”
Choir members themselves also received blessings. Brother Odgerel Tumursukh said, “We devoted our attention and time for a whole year while managing our jobs and other facets of our lives. Although it was difficult, we have received many blessings. I have learned to manage my time and make sacrifices for the Lord.”
In addition to increasing their faith, members of the choir gained self-confidence, developed friendships, and learned unity. “Singing in the choir has helped us to learn how to forgive and support one another,” said Brother Ganbaatar Ulziiduuren. “We have become more united.” Sister Bilguunzaya Tungalagtuul learned “that I should never doubt myself or think that I can’t do something.”
Brother Bayartsogt Lhagvajav said, “Singing in the choir has brought many blessings to my family, and it also helped me to receive the answers I was seeking for some time. Our leaders offered us solution[s]. … It has affirmed my testimony that our leaders are called of God.”
“When I participated in Mongolia’s Got Talent,” Sister Onon Dalaikhuu explained, “I learned that encouraging and supporting each other [was the] key to [our] success.” Sister Dalaikhuu’s responsibilities included organizing crew members, which helped strengthen her leadership abilities. She added, “We felt that [the] Lord guided and influenced us. Many of us were sick, busy, tired, and feeling overwhelmed. However, when we prayed together, somehow we would find more power and desire to endure.”
Although the choir didn’t receive enough votes to move on to the finals, their performances gave the Church significant exposure throughout Mongolia. President Ochirjav explains, “We were obedient to an assignment by our priesthood leaders, and the Lord prepared a way. … Now the whole city [Ulaanbaatar] talks about the Mormon choir’s participation in Mongolia’s Got Talent.”

Another example of the hand of the Lord in this work occurred before Thanksgiving in 2018. Diann Ross felt prompted to go to the grocery store. While there, she noticed an African family struggling with the ATM machine. The Rusimuka and Lwakihugo families had recently immigrated from a refugee camp in Burundi. Sister Ross helped the families with their groceries and invited them to Thanksgiving dinner. The Rosses, the Lwakihugos, and the Rusimukas soon became close friends.

We just celebrated Pioneer Day a few weeks ago. May I share my own pioneer-like experience with you when I went back to grad school? At the time, I was newly divorced with 3 children and living in North Carolina. Through many sleepless nights, I made the decision to take my kids and go to Utah State to finish a masters and PhD in Mathematics so I could teach at a university. We started across the country in an old Oldsmobile station wagon, which didn't get out of Tennessee before it started having problems. The trip was one adventure after another until we finally reached Logan and marveled at the beauty of the place. We were especially amazed at the number of LDS churches; it seemed like one on every corner. We were all excited to start over and make Logan home for a while. We were alone, I and three kids, and 2000 miles from any family that I had. I had no support group but the members of my ward. A part of me was terrified that I might fail and what would we do then. We certainly had no money to get back to the east coast.

I studied and studied for my classes, taught classes as a TA, and tried to be both mother and father to my children. It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. There were many, many nights when I cried myself to sleep, begging the Lord to help me get through. I really did try to do my best, and though my efforts didn't always seem very effective, I did learn some Mathematics and my children survived. I know that there were times when the Lord held me up by my arms and gave me strength when I had none. I know that there were times when I couldn't remember something on a test and then it would come to my mind or I would remember how to figure it out on the spot. I can honestly tell you that I worked well beyond my capacity and that I relied on the Spirit and the power of the Atonement to complete my work there. I know how I got through the program, on my knees and by the blessings of a loving Heavenly Father who wanted me to succeed as much as I did.

As I've had time to reflect over the years since then, I can see that the Lord has been beside me in every trial and in every success. I have never seen a burning bush. I've only audibly heard a voice speak to me once in my life and that was a life-threatening situation that called for immediate action. Instead, I have tried to figure out what was the best thing to do and sought confirmation by prayer. Sometimes, foolishly, I haven't waited for an answer. Sometimes, I've felt like I wasn't really sure what was best, but I've learned without a doubt that the Lord would take care of us and that has built my faith to move forward and how the blessings have showered down!

For a while after the death of my son, this principle did not matter to me. It didn’t matter if I died. I might have wished it. All I knew was his absence. The void without him was all there was. I had no sense of where he was or if he was. All I knew was that he was gone.

But the greatest gift of the Atonement is that it is real and there for us regardless of the state of our testimony. Whether we believe it or not, it is true. The Savior lives. His Atonement allows us to try again, to repent, to have hope, and to live. He suffered, died, and rose again for us, regardless of where we are in our belief or doubt about that reality. Sorrows and losses will come. We will sin and regret and need to try again. We will be hurt and need to forgive again. We will grieve and need to find joy again. We must help each other to remember the gift of life, that “men [and women] are, that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25; emphasis added). Our very existence today is to know joy.

That night with the wedding mints, hearing my mother’s conversation, I made a decision. Perhaps it was not a decision but a gift. But I decided that since I cannot die, then I must live. If I must live, then I am going to live fully, embrace life, and engage in each moment. I have little patience for those who are not engaged. I have little patience for those who see some hassles of daily life as matters of life or death (unless, of course they are my own hassles). I have little patience for those who don’t understand my favorite word: vivace.

The Savior lives, and because He lives, we live. It is this life, one day at a time now to forever, in which we find joy.

In October 2024, Eliza was diagnosed with Stage 3 Parapharyngeal Synovial Sarcoma—an extremely rare and aggressive cancer. Her diagnosis was a miracle in itself, confirmed only after two nearly impossible biopsy operations. Surgery wasn’t an option due to the tumor’s location, leaving chemotherapy and radiation as her only treatments. Despite completing seven cycles of high- dose chemotherapy and 36 radiation sessions, the cancer progressed to her bones and eventually her brain. She underwent 10 more rounds of radiation under palliative care. Through it all, Eliza showed remarkable courage and unwavering faith, facing even her final days with peace and trust in the Savior.
Eliza’s faith was nurtured in many ways. She loved Strive to Be music, which helped her feel close to the Savior. She looked forward to temple visits and attended church meetings whenever possible. Her time at FSY 2025 strengthened her testimony and deepened her love for the Savior. She bore her testimony from the pulpit—not from a wheelchair—during Testimony Sundays. Even when hospitalized and unable to see or move, she sent a voice recording to her bishop. Her patriarchal blessing reminded her of her divine identity and gave her peace, even in moments of great pain. In her final weeks, she stayed awake to be fully present with us, showing love and courage without relying on heavy medication.
On June 18, 2025, Eliza returned to our Heavenly Father. That day shattered our hearts, but amid the grief, the Spirit whispered that her earthly mission was complete—and that our story with her was far from over.

To illustrate this point, I would like to relate one such experience that occurred in my ward when I was a bishop. I do this with permission.

Recently an elder had his missionary farewell. It was very nice but did not really reflect the emotional and spiritual energy exerted to get him to that glorious point in his life. The elder was like many young men who really do not catch the vision of the place the Church should hold in life during the teenage years. Much to the dismay of his parents, he spent many more Sundays away from meetings than in them. But his parents and friends never gave up and prayed for him and loved him in spite of his seeming lack of spiritual discipline. But, like many who struggle, he one day decided for himself that he wanted to go on his mission. And, based solely on his faith that he was supposed to go, he went. Up to the day he left, his mother still wondered about the reality of it. She had endured literally years of seeing little or no interest, and with cautious optimism she said good-bye to him as he entered the MTC. I wish now to read a letter the parents received from their son while he was in the MTC:

Mom and Dad,
Well, I got my hair cut today. Thanks for the money. Dad, I think you should get the GTI aligned first and get tires and get them balanced. Then, if it doesn’t drive right, get a set of used aftermeshed rims. I really want to thank you, Dad, for taking all of my problems so that I can go on this mission. I really feel bad to just dump all of this on you. But I want you to know that I’m doing the right thing. Terrence and I went to the temple today, and when we went to the celestial room, we stood in a corner and Terrence prayed and then I did. We just stood there for awhile and cried and just looked at each other. I felt the spirit and happiness that I have never before felt. It’s true, this church is true. I know that now.
I really want to thank you for all you are doing to give me the opportunity. I just hope that one day I will be able to repay you somewhat. I love you.
Dave

This simple testimony from a son is the joyous blessing that came as a result of faithful endurance. The thing is, we never know what blessings await us when we are asked to endure or when they will come, only that they will assuredly come.

I believe my first experience in having the courage of my convictions took place when I served in the United States Navy near the end of World War II.

Navy boot camp was not an easy experience for me, nor for anyone who endured it. For the first three weeks I was convinced my life was in jeopardy. The navy wasn’t trying to train me; it was trying to kill me.

I shall ever remember when Sunday rolled around after the first week. We received welcome news from the chief petty officer. Standing at attention on the drill ground in a brisk California breeze, we heard his command: “Today everybody goes to church—everybody, that is, except for me. I am going to relax!” Then he shouted, “All of you Catholics, you meet in Camp Decatur—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A rather sizeable contingent moved out. Then he barked out his next command: “Those of you who are Jewish, you meet in Camp Henry—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A somewhat smaller contingent marched out. Then he said, “The rest of you Protestants, you meet in the theaters at Camp Farragut—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”

Instantly there flashed through my mind the thought, “Monson, you are not a Catholic; you are not a Jew; you are not a Protestant. You are a Mormon, so you just stand here!” I can assure you that I felt completely alone. Courageous and determined, yes—but alone.

And then I heard the sweetest words I ever heard that chief petty officer utter. He looked in my direction and asked, “And just what do you guys call yourselves?” Until that very moment I had not realized that anyone was standing beside me or behind me on the drill ground. Almost in unison, each of us replied, “Mormons!” It is difficult to describe the joy that filled my heart as I turned around and saw a handful of other sailors.

The chief petty officer scratched his head in an expression of puzzlement but finally said, “Well, you guys go find somewhere to meet. And don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”

As we marched away, I thought of the words of a rhyme I had learned in Primary years before:
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.

Although the experience turned out differently from what I had expected, I had been willing to stand alone, had such been necessary.

Since that day, there have been times when there was no one standing behind me and so I did stand alone. How grateful I am that I made the decision long ago to remain strong and true, always prepared and ready to defend my religion, should the need arise.

“My mother opened a little country store to help keep our family financially afloat. I worked with her in the store quite a bit. She taught me about respecting and serving people. Once, when I was fourteen, my mom and dad went to Salt Lake City for a conference and left me to mind the store. The Hutterites in our area wouldn’t go to the bank to cash their huge grain checks, so Mom was a bonded payor, and we would sometimes have thousands of dollars in the store safe. I knew the combination to the safe, and I knew that my parents trusted me, so I opened and closed the store on time and took care of customers.”

It began as an ordinary day, for the most part. Dad, who was a professor at Texas Tech University, was coming home from California, where he had been for a conference. He called Mother to come and pick him up at the airport. So she loaded my two littlest brothers and me into the little Volkswagen and headed to the airport. It was about a half-hour drive, so it didn’t take us very long to get there.
Once we were there, Mother sent me in to find Daddy. She gave me specific instructions as to where my father would be. But being ten years old, my mind was on other things, and I didn’t listen very well. I went into the airport searching very diligently for the walking sidewalk my friend had told me was there. Of course I wanted to see my father, but how often do you get to ride a walking sidewalk? After about 15 minutes, I decided I had better find Daddy so Mother wouldn’t be angry; I abandoned the walking sidewalk. My memory did not come to my rescue, and I couldn’t remember where Mother had said to find Daddy. I looked and looked but all to no avail, no Daddy. I returned to the car to tell Mother of my bad fortune, which she was not very happy about. She gave me a quarter and told me to go call home to see if Daddy had gone home in a cab. I let the phone ring about three times, and then I spotted him. I ran to him calling, “Daddy-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye!” He picked me up and twirled me around. I told him about all the things that had gone on while he had been away. When we got to the car, we faced a not so happy mother, who had waited for an hour in the passenger loading zone and did not feel very well. Daddy was an even-tempered man, and as we drove home he tried to settle Mother down enough to talk. Meanwhile, I felt very responsible for starting the whole thing. I began to say something, but I never finished my sentence. I was interrupted by Mother’s scream, and I turned to see a car headed straight for ours.
I woke to find myself covered with blood, sitting in two or three inches of broken glass. David and Russell were trying to awaken my parents. I warned them not to shake them, as I was afraid they would be injured further. The scene was too much for me to handle and I passed out.
I don’t remember how I got out of the car. One side was smashed in, and the windows were too little for me to fit through. I sat in the middle of the street with my brothers standing by my side and what seemed like a hundred people gathered around me. People trying to stop the bleeding, people trying to calm us down, people taking pictures, and people just standing there watching us. All of this was very annoying to me. Where were my parents? Who was helping them?
Before long two ambulances arrived. I was put into the front seat, and the attendant tried to console me. That ride to the hospital was the longest ride I had ever made. When we finally got to the hospital, I had lost a great amount of blood and I passed out going through the emergency doors.
I was living a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up. I kept wanting to shut off the T.V. or change the channel. I couldn’t make sense of the whole situation. I didn’t understand what was happening to me.
I lay in a bed for three days, quietly wondering if I was going to live. I constantly asked about my parents, but no one seemed to know how they were. I had several visitors, including my grandparents and my dad’s sister from California. I wondered why they had all come. How serious was the accident? Then I realized they had come for a reason. The reason wasn’t me but my parents. Finally, I pulled as much courage together as I could and asked about my parents one more time. This time, I got my answer.
My grandparents were in my room when I asked, and instead of the pause I usually received after the question, they began to cry. Slowly and carefully they told me that my parents were dead. They had been warned not to tell me because of my serious physical condition. Any word about the death might have had a great impact on me psychologically. I cried very quietly, for I think I had known long before it was verbalized.
I missed the funeral in Texas because my condition was too unstable for the doctor to allow my release. My grandmother and I flew to Utah for the final services and burial. The doctor had released me on condition I would be very careful in my activities. My relatives made sure I was very careful. I missed several outings and I felt very alone.
When things finally began to settle, we all had to take a step back and look at our lives. Five children without parents. We all wondered how we would survive the terrible ordeal. We had so many questions and so few answers. We were lost without our guides. Even our loving grandparents could not take away the pain. It was something we would have to deal with each in our own way.
As I look back, I realize my life has gone in stages: first of living without them, then of anger towards my Heavenly Father, then of accepting their death, then of coping by myself without looking continually to them. I look at it, not so much as a very tragic time in my life but as a learning time.
I have learned that I am loved by my Heavenly Father, for he has given me many blessings in my life. Even the death of my parents has been a blessing in a way. I had never realized how much I really loved them until they were gone. Now I try to be appreciative of the things I have instead of waiting until I don’t have them.
I live each day of my life wondering if I am good enough to be with them again. So I strive for excellence, as though it were possible. Then maybe someday I will be able to run to my dad calling, “Daddy-ye-ye-ye-ye!”

Jens and Ane Cathrine Andersen had a deep and abiding testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Despite angry mobs and community and parish persecution, they joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1861.
By spring of the next year, they heeded the call of Zion, beckoning 5,000 miles (8,000 km) away in the Salt Lake Valley. Gathering to Zion meant leaving behind their good life in Denmark—including friends, extended family, and a beautiful farm that for generations had been passed from father to eldest son. Located in the village of Veddum, near Aalborg, on the fertile Jutland Peninsula in northern Denmark, the farm was large and productive. It employed dozens and brought respect and means to the Andersen family.
Sharing those means with their fellow converts, Jens and Ane Cathrine paid the emigration costs of approximately 60 other Saints making their way to Zion. On April 6, 1862, the Andersens, with their 18-year-old son, Andrew, joined 400 other Danish Saints on the small steamer Albion and sailed for Hamburg, Germany. Arriving at Hamburg two days later, they joined more gathering Saints aboard a larger vessel to begin their transatlantic voyage.
The joy of gathering to Zion, however, soon turned to sorrow. Several children who had embarked on the Albion were carrying the measles virus. As the disease swept through the ranks of the immigrants, 40 children and several adults died and were buried at sea. Among them was 49-year-old Jens Andersen, my great-great-grandfather.
Jens’s dream of reaching and building Zion with his family and fellow Danish Saints ended only 10 days out of Hamburg. One historian wrote, “A deliverer who like Moses never set his own feet on the promised land was Jens Andersen of [Veddum], Aalborg, who had assisted no fewer than sixty of his fellows to emigrate; he met death on the North Sea in 1862 soon after leaving [Germany].”1
Was the Andersen family’s sacrifice—leaving their comfortable farm and losing their loving husband and father—worth it? I’m confident the world would say no. But the world lacks faith, foresight, and the “eternal perspective”2 offered by the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
Andrew with members of his family
What became of Ane Cathrine and her son, Andrew? Did they despair and return to Denmark following their sad six-week journey to New York City? No. Relying on their testimony of the Savior and the plan of salvation, and trusting in God, they courageously pressed forward by train, steamboat, and wagon train. They reached the Salt Lake Valley on September 3, 1862, and joined in building Zion.
They settled in Ephraim, Utah, where Andrew married and started a family. Later, Andrew moved his family, including his mother, to Lehi, Utah, where he became a successful farmer, banker, and mayor. He served a three-year mission to his home country, more than two decades in bishoprics, and more than three decades on the high council or in the high priests quorum. Three of his sons served missions in Denmark and Norway.

Tami liked to go to Primary. She liked learning about Jesus, she liked to sing, and she liked her teacher, Sister Brown.
Tami liked everything about Primary except for one thing. She couldn’t sit with Mom. Mom taught a different Primary class.
Mom, I want to sit with you.
You need to sit with your Primary class, and I need to sit with mine.
Tami walked to the chairs where her class was sitting. She was not happy.
Tami saw that Jamie was sitting all by herself. Jamie was new to Primary. She was crying.
Tami sat in the chair next to Jamie.
Don’t cry. It’s OK.
I want my mom.
I know, but Sister Brown is really nice. I’ll sit next to you so we can be together.
Thank you.
Tami saw Mom smiling at her. It felt good to help Jamie. She was glad she was sitting in her own seat.

A few years ago I was walking across campus and saw one of my fellow faculty members. I greeted him. He had on a wonderful necktie. (There's an oxymoron, a wonderful necktie.) Red and gold and green. I complimented him on it. He started to take it off and give it to me. "I said it had great colors; I didn't say I wanted it. Keep your tie on."

He said, "I would like you to have this tie."

"I can't take your tie."

"Look, I'm giving you this tie. You can take it or leave in that bush right there."

Humbled, I took the tie.

The next day I took to his office while he was in class a wooden box I had made. I had written a note that said something like this: I do not give you this box in exchange for the tie. I give it to you in honor of our friendship. Long after the tie and this box have the gone the way of all the earth, I believe our friendship will endure. Thank you, my friend.

I called that tie the consecration tie, and I wore it fondly on the most important occasions. One day, one of my fellow English faculty, a man who had once been a student of mine, complimented me on a special red and gold and green tie. I put it in a manila envelope with a note telling the story I am telling you, telling him how glad I was to pass the consecration tie along, and how much I appreciated his friendship. When I saw him wearing the tie, it made me happy. You guessed it. The next semester, a student of his complimented him on the tie, and he gave it to him with a story of its history.

I am not suggesting that you tell your teachers or even friends what wonderful ties they have on. They are listening to this talk too, and they might think you have ulterior motives. This tradition of giving illustrates spiritual mindedness because the unity born of friendship is more important than individual ownership.

Whether she’s organizing her own flea market to raise money for the needy or playing Queen of the Woods in a “secret” green hideaway, Heidi Irene Pedersen fairly bubbles with enthusiasm. She lives with her family in Hallingby, a hilly, wooded area about 50 miles (80 km) northwest of Oslo, Norway’s capital city. Like many wooden homes in Norway—old and new—the Pedersens’ house has a ladder permanently attached to one of its outside walls, which allows quick and easy access for the skorsteinsfeir (chimney sweep) to reach the rooftop.
Touched by pleas to help poor people in third-world countries, Heidi got the idea one day to hold a flea market. Afterward, she and her friend Kim Pedersen, who helped her, sent the 150 Krone ($21.00) that they had earned to an organization that helps children in need.

Many, many years ago, woodcutters went deep into the jungle of Chiapas, Mexico, in search of precious wood. Because of the difficult terrain, they could not take their families with them. When they finally reached their work site, the men raised temporary rustic huts of thick branches, roofed with palm leaves.
Night after night, after long days of woodcutting, the men would sit around the fire and talk or sing. The songs they had learned from their ancestors floated away on the night wind. But the men were lonely, and there was sadness and even bitterness in their voices. There was a great need for some cheerful music to accompany the sad choruses that penetrated the jungle.
Among the woodcutters was a handsome young boy named Quetzal Feather. This boy loved the murmur of the jungle more than anything or anyone in the whole world.
One evening as the sun was about to set, Quetzal Feather went deep into the jungle. He was guided by the music of the wind in the foliage. Suddenly he stopped. He thought he heard the sound of voices high in the branches. He went forward cautiously until he was almost at the foot of a tasseled palm. The palm was speaking sadly to a majestic-looking silk-cotton tree.
Quetzal Feather hardly breathed as he listened to what the trees were saying.
“My friend,” said the palm, “because of my great height, I can see the place from where those heartrending songs come. Just before nightfall, I saw the woodcutters with their eyes fixed upon the jungle. How sadly they sang!”
The robust silk-cotton tree shook its branches in protest. “Man should not live sunken in sadness!” it declared.
“We should do something,” responded the palm tree.
Quetzal Feather, hidden in the underbrush, listened in wonderment to the conversation. Then, he heard another voice, shy and nervous. It sent a shiver through him as he strained to catch every word.
“Friends and companions,” said the voice humbly, “the sad songs of the woodcutters have moved me to my very roots. But—perhaps I can do something to help.”
Quetzal Feather poked his head out of the underbrush and saw the tree that had just spoken. It was an hormiguillo tree that stood not far from the stately palm.
The great silk-cotton tree answered first, a little doubtfully. “If you can help, please do so!” it begged.
“Yes,” agreed the palm, “but what can you do? How can you lift the sadness from the woodcutters’ hearts?”
“For a long time now,” began the hormiguillo tree with more self-assurance, “I have been storing under my bark the torrent of nature’s harmony. For a long time I have held the songs of the birds and the cricket, the murmur of wind and rain, and the sound of water cascading over rocks. I have treasured up in me the soft sound of doves in flight and the roar of the tempest.”
Suddenly, before Quetzal Feather had time to realize what the tree had said, beautiful chords began to come from the hormiguillo tree.
“What music is this?” Quetzal Feather asked himself in amazement. “Even the jungle trembles in delight!”
The branches of the palm and the silk-cotton tree swayed in surprised and happy approval.
Trembling with excitement, Quetzal Feather fled from the underbrush. He wished to tell the woodcutters all that he had heard.
But the woodcutters did not believe him, judging him to be a strange and imaginative boy. Wearily they entered their huts for a night’s rest. And Quetzal Feather was left by the dying fire, alone and confused. Then just before sunrise he arose and ran straight as an arrow to the place where he had hidden in the underbrush the night before. The hormiguillo tree was silent now, yet in spite of its silence, some strange love kept Quetzal Feather beside the tree.
Days and nights passed, but the youth, hugging the hormiguillo tree, heard not a single happy note of the heavenly music he had heard before.
The woodcutters were very fond of Quetzal Feather, in spite of what they thought were the boy’s strange imaginings, and they tried to persuade him to leave the tree. But it was of no use. “The tree has bewitched him,” the Old Ones said sadly.
At last, Quetzal Feather became so weak and tired that he fell asleep at the foot of the tree.
“Now,” said the oldest woodcutter, “we can help him. While he sleeps deeply, we will cut the tree down and free him from his bewitchment.”
With their sharpened axes, the woodcutters began to chop at the hormiguillo tree. But to their great surprise and fear, beautiful musical sounds came from the tree at each stroke of their axes.
Quetzal Feather, hearing the music, awoke and clung to the wounded tree that seemed to be moaning with pain.
“Finish cutting me down at once!” begged the hormiguillo tree. “Take my wood. It is full of harmony!”
The next day when Quetzal Feather gathered up the pieces of the fallen tree, he discovered to his great delight that the sticks of wood when tapped by other sticks sent out beautiful happy chords.
Day and night he worked without rest until he had arranged the small pieces of the hormiguillo tree into a rustic instrument.
Thus the noble forest of Chiapas had furnished a lively and happy accompaniment to the tired and sad voices of the woodcutters. The marimba was born, and to this day men search the jungles of Chiapas and Guatemala for the musical wood of the hormiguillo tree.