Gospel Story Finder

Toward the end of that year of seminary, we had a final seminary activity—a stake scripture chase coupled with a stake speech competition. I was involved in a lot of things in our high school—sports, drama, student leadership, and such. In the past, I would have just bowed out of the speech competition because it may not have been considered “cool” to participate. But I thought, “No, I’m going to do this.” Maybe I did so just to discipline myself.
I didn’t win the stake speech contest, but I placed high enough to go on to the regional competition. Then in the regional competition, I had an interesting experience. I stood up and began my speech based on a truth in the Book of Mormon. All of sudden I was no longer giving just my memorized speech; it was an extension of my soul. It is hard to describe what I felt as I spoke. Instead of participating in a speech contest, I was bearing witness to truth and learning the truth at the same time. I quoted Alma 37:35–37, and as I did I knew and testified that youth was a season to learn wisdom, to prepare for the later season of performance of our lives. Citing Elder Richard L. Evans (1906–71) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I taught that youth was like springtime: a time to plant the seed of the word of God such that when summer comes, the seed can be cultivated. Then, as we enter the fall season of life, the fruits of the seed can be harvested, so that, upon the arrival of the winter of our lives, we have laid up in store all we need to be able to bless others around us.1 I realized as I spoke that reading and pondering the Book of Mormon was precisely what one should do in one’s youth, because it brings the Holy Ghost in such abundance that our lives will become fruitful inasmuch as we cultivate the words of the book by reading, pondering, living, and sharing them. I knew as I spoke that a life so lived is lived in season. The Spirit flowed through me strongly, and I knew—again—of the power of the Book of Mormon.
When I sat down, I thought, “That wasn’t about the competition at all; it was about the Spirit.” It was a unique experience for me. I have had it many times since. But that was the first time for me to feel that witness to me as well as through me as I spoke. The experience was worth the time I took to prepare the talk! It did not matter to me at that moment whether I won or not. I was simply grateful for what I had just experienced.

9. An International Holiday. Plan with three or four other couples to celebrate the Chinese New Year, Jewish Rosh Hashanah or Hanukkah, Hawaiian Kuhio Day, Irish St. Patrick’s Day, Mexican Cinco de Mayo, or any one of the many holidays from the nations of the world. Find out what the people do on their special holiday, what they traditionally eat, how they celebrate, and why. This may take a bit of study and planning, but it can be very rewarding and interesting. With so many returned missionaries to aid you, this shouldn’t be difficult. One young couple celebrated the Chinese New Year with firecrackers and a Chinese dinner served on a low table. Everyone ate while seated on cushions on the floor. After dinner each person was given a piece of paper and asked to think up an original Chinese proverb. The host couple gave a brief account of how the Chinese celebrate their new year. Background music and artwork from the country had been checked out of the local library, and for a few special hours, everyone enjoyed being part of a distant land.

Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Love, Amalie
Illustrations by Dilleen Marsh
Christmas was almost here. Amalie was excited. Soon she could unwrap the presents under the tree!
At family home evening it was Mom’s turn to give the lesson.
“Why do we give presents at Christmas?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s Jesus’s birthday!” Amalie said.
“Then shouldn’t we give a present to Him?” Mom said.
Dad helped Amalie’s brother Noah read a scripture. It said that when we serve other people, we are serving God (see Mosiah 2:17).
“Is serving others giving a gift to Jesus?” Mom said.
Noah nodded.
“What else?”
“Keeping the commandments,” Amalie said.
“Being nice,” Noah said.
“Great ideas!” Mom said. “Now let’s play a game. I’ll say a gift someone gave to Jesus. Tell me if you know who it was. Here we go. This person gave out Christmas cards at the care center.”
Noah raised his hand. “Amalie did that!”
“This person went home teaching.”
“That’s Daddy,” Amalie said.
Soon they had named lots of gifts they had already given to the Savior.
“We can give gifts every day,” Mom said.
The next morning it was time to clean the house. “Oh no,” Amalie groaned. But then she remembered. Serving others is a gift! If she helped Mom, it was the same as helping Jesus. She found a cloth and wiped the counters until they shone.
The next day Amalie earned some money.
“Your tithing is eight cents,” Mom said.
Amalie remembered again. Tithing is a commandment, so paying it is a gift. She put eight cents in her tithing jar.
Later that week Amalie helped pick up pillows. Her baby brother had thrown them off the couch. “Another present for Jesus,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad told Amalie they were proud of her. “You’ve been giving gifts to Jesus all week long,” Dad said. “That’s like having a little bit of Christmas every day.”

Years ago, after moving to a home in Murray Utah a kind neighbor brought over a box of tulip bulbs that were surplus from the abundant crop they had recently thinned. We were excited to add them to our new landscape and worked hard that fall to get them all planted. The wintry weather arrived early that year and although we planted many of them the ground froze before we got all the bulbs snuggly settled in the rich soil. Several of the bulbs were left in the cardboard box and abandoned in the garage forgotten through the long winter.
As spring came we noticed the planted bulbs pushing up green shoots through the newly thawed ground. We could hardly wait for them to bloom. It was not until then that we remembered the other bulbs, the ones that never got planted. We felt bad that the spring display of bright colorful tulips would be less than what it could have been. We found the box with the unplanted bulbs in the back corner of the garage while rummaging for gardening tools. My wife took the box to the garbage can planning to throw out the deserted bulbs but to her surprise she saw that they were also sending up shoots. These tender little plants were doing their best to fulfill the measure of their creation under much less than ideal circumstances. The other tulips had been nurtured beneath the soil while these little bulbs were doing their best to push out their blooms without the benefit of dirt or sun in a cold dark garage. We took these brave little bulbs and immediately planted them in the same flower beds as the others. In a matter of weeks, they had caught up to those previously planted bulbs and by the time they bloomed you couldn’t tell them apart. Since God made it possible for tulips to bloom under less than ideal conditions, imagine how infinitely greater He has endowed each of us with the capacity to progress and prosper through difficult life situations.

In more than 165 countries of the world, our sisters are being instruments in the hands of God. I think of a ward in Brazil that has an influx of new members every week. The sisters in that Relief Society decided to set a goal to not let even one week pass without each newly baptized sister receiving a visit in her home and a copy of “The Family: A Proclamation to the World” and the Relief Society Declaration. So far they haven’t lost any sisters to inactivity.

I hold in my hand a first-edition copy of the Book of Mormon. It was printed in 1830 on a hand-operated letter press at the E. B. Grandin Company in the village of Palmyra, New York.
In June of 1829, Joseph Smith, then 23 years old, called on 23-year-old Mr. Grandin in company with Martin Harris, a local farmer. Mr. Grandin had three months earlier advertised his intent to publish books. Joseph Smith provided pages of a handwritten manuscript.
If the content of the book did not doom it to remain obscure, the account of where it came from certainly would. Imagine an angel directing a teenage boy to the woods where he found buried a stone vault and a set of golden plates.
The writings on the plates were translated by use of a Urim and Thummim, which is referred to a number of times in the Old Testament and described by Hebrew scholars as an instrument “whereby the revelation was given and truth declared.”
Before the book was off the press, pages of it were stolen and printed in the local newspaper, accompanied by ridicule. Opposition was destined to excite mobs to kill the Prophet Joseph Smith and drive those who believed him into the wilderness.
From that very unlikely beginning to this day, 108,936,922 copies of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ have been printed. It has been published in 62 languages, with selections of it in another 37 languages, and 22 more translations are in process.
Now 60,000 full-time missionaries in 142 countries pay their own way to devote two years of their lives to testify that the Book of Mormon is true.
For generations it has inspired those who read it. Herbert Schreiter had read his German translation of the Book of Mormon. In it he read:
“When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
Herbert Schreiter tested the promise and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In 1946, released as a prisoner of war, Herbert returned to his wife and three little daughters in Leipzig, Germany. Soon thereafter, he went as a missionary to Bernburg, Germany. Alone, without a companion, he sat cold and hungry in a room, wondering how he should begin.
He thought of what he had to offer the war-devastated people. He printed by hand a placard which read, “Will there be a further life after death?” and posted it on a wall.
About that same time, a family from a small village in Poland came to Bernburg.
Manfred Schütze was four years old. His father had been killed in the war. His mother, with his grandparents and his mother’s sister, also a widow, and her two little girls, were forced to evacuate their village with only 30 minutes’ notice. They grabbed what they could and headed west. Manfred and his mother pulled and pushed a small cart. At times, the ailing grandfather rode in the cart. One Polish officer looked at the pathetic little Manfred and began to weep.
At the border, soldiers ransacked their belongings and threw their bedding into the river. Manfred and his mother were then separated from the family. His mother wondered if they might have gone to Bernburg, where her grandmother was born, perhaps to relatives there. After weeks of unbelievable suffering, they arrived in Bernburg and found the family.
The seven of them lived together in one small room. But their troubles were not over. The mother of the two little girls died. The grieving grandmother cried out for a preacher, and asked, “Will I see my family again?”
The preacher answered, “My dear lady, there is no such thing as the Resurrection. They who are dead are dead!”
They wrapped the body in a paper bag for burial.
On the way from the grave, the grandfather talked of taking their own lives, as many others had done. Just then they saw the placard that Elder Schreiter had posted on the building—“Is there further life after death?”—with an invitation from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a meeting, they learned of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
The book explains:
The purpose of mortal life and death;
The certainty of life after death;
What happens when the spirit leaves the body;
The description of the Resurrection;
How to receive and retain a remission of your sins;
What hold justice or mercy may have on you;
What to pray for;
Priesthood;
Covenants and ordinances;
The office and ministry of angels;
The still, small voice of personal revelation;
And preeminently, the mission of Jesus Christ;
And many other jewels that make up the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
They joined the Church. Soon their lives changed. The grandfather found work as a baker and could provide bread for his family and also for Elder Schreiter, who had given them “the bread of life.”
Then help came from the Church in the United States. Manfred grew up eating grain out of little sacks with a picture of a beehive on them and peaches from California. He wore clothes from the welfare supplies of the Church.
Soon after I was released from the air force, I went to the welfare mill at Kaysville, Utah, to help fill bags of wheat for shipment to the starving people in Europe. I like to think one of the bags of grain that I filled myself went to Manfred Schütze and his mother. If not, it went to others in equal need.
Elder Dieter Uchtdorf, who sits with us on the stand today as one of the Seventy, remembers to this very day the smell of the grain and the feel of it in his little-boy hands. Perhaps one of the bags I filled reached his family.
When I was about 10, I made my first attempt to read the Book of Mormon. The first part was easy-flowing New Testament language. Then I came to the writings of the Old Testament prophet Isaiah. I could not understand them; I found them difficult to read. I laid the book aside.
I made other attempts to read the Book of Mormon. I did not read it all until I was on a troop ship with other bomber crew members, headed for the war in the Pacific. I determined that I would read the Book of Mormon and find out for myself whether it is true or not. Carefully I read and reread the book. I tested the promise that it contained. That was a life-changing event. After that, I never set the book aside.
Many young people have done better than I did.
A 15-year-old son of a mission president attended high school with very few members of the Church.
One day the class was given a true-or-false test. Matthew was confident that he knew the answers to all except for question 15. It read, “Joseph Smith, the alleged Mormon prophet, wrote the Book of Mormon. True or false?”
He could not answer it either way, so, being a clever teenager, he rewrote the question. He crossed out the word alleged and replaced the word wrote with translated. It then read, “Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet, translated the Book of Mormon.” He marked it true and handed it in.
The next day the teacher sternly asked why he had changed the question. He smiled and said, “Because Joseph Smith did not write the Book of Mormon; he translated it. And he was not an alleged prophet; he was a prophet.”
He was then invited to tell the class how he knew that.
In England, my wife and I became acquainted with Dorothy James, the widow of a clergyman who lived at the Close of Winchester Cathedral. She brought out a family Bible which had been lost for many years.
Years before, the possessions of a family member had been sold. The new owner found the Bible in a small desk that had remained unopened for over 20 years. There were also some letters written by a child named Beaumont James. He was able to find the James family and return the long-lost family Bible.
On the title page my wife read the following handwritten note: “This Bible has been in our family since the time of Thomas James in 1683 who was a lineal descendant of Thomas James first librarian of the Bodleian Library at Oxford, who was buried in New College Chapel August 1629. [Signed] C. T. C. James, 1880.”
The margins and the open pages were completely filled with notations written in English, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. One entry particularly touched her. From the bottom of the title page, she read, “The fairest Impression of the Bible is to have it well printed on the Readers heart.”
And then this quote from Corinthians: “Ye are our epistle written in our hearts, known and read of all men: Forasmuch as ye are manifestly declared to be the epistle of Christ ministered by us, written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God; not in the tables of stone, but in fleshly tables of the heart” (2 Cor. 3:2–3).
My Book of Mormon also has many notes in the margins and is heavily underlined. I was in Florida once with President Hinckley. He turned from the pulpit and asked for a copy of the scriptures. I handed him my copy. He thumbed through it for a few seconds, turned and handed it back, saying, “I can’t read this. You have got everything crossed out!”
Amos prophesied of “a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord.”
In a world ever more dangerous than the world of little Manfred Schütze and Dieter Uchtdorf, the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ has the nourishing power to heal starving spirits of the world.
Manfred Schütze is now a member of the Third Quorum of Seventy and supervises our seminaries in Eastern Europe. His mother, now 88, still attends the temple at Freiberg, where Herbert Schreiter once served as a counselor to the president.
With Elder Walter F. González, a new member of the Seventy from Uruguay, I attended a conference in Moroni, Utah, a town with a Book of Mormon name. There is no doctor or dentist in Moroni. They must leave town to shop for groceries. Their students are bused to a consolidated high school across the valley.
We held a meeting with 236 present. Lest Elder González see only ordinary rural farmers, I gave this sentence of testimony: “I know the gospel is true and that Jesus is the Christ.” I asked if someone could repeat it in Spanish. Several hands went up. Could someone repeat it in another language? It was repeated in:
Japanese
Chinese
Finnish
Spanish
Tongan
Maori
German
Italian
Polish
Portuguese
Tagalog
Korean
Russian
Dutch
French—15 languages
Again in English: I know the gospel is true and that Jesus is the Christ.
I love this Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. Study it and one can understand both the Old Testament and the New Testament in the Bible. I know it is true.
In this 1830 edition of the Book of Mormon, printed by 23-year-old Egbert B. Grandin for 23-year-old Joseph Smith Jr., I read from page 105: “We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
And that, I assure you, is exactly what we do. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Harriet and her parents recently moved from their home near Melbourne to the countryside near Mornington, farther down the peninsula. Moving can be difficult for any teen. Even though Harriet had lived in several wards, moving was still a little scary and intimidating. But it has all worked out. “My new seminary class is just the ward group. We meet every day during the school year at 6:30 a.m. At first, I was really nervous, but somehow I just fit in. For an activity, we went on a fishing trip. The theme was becoming fishers of men. Before I went on the trip, I hadn’t seen any of the group. I didn’t even want to go. But everyone was really nice and talkative, especially Naomi and Leirosa. Then Young Women just grew. Some others moved in about the same time, and now we have a big group.”

When I received the invitation to respond to this question there immediately flashed through my mind the recollection of a teenage experience of many years ago. In the stake where I lived, the young people were planning a week-long camping trip that would extend through a Monday holiday. This involved being in the mountains on Sunday. The general policy guideline was for Church groups to avoid Sunday camping, but those responsible for the planning of this camping trip felt that by carefully working out a program to include the regular Sunday meetings at the campsite they could overcome any objections that might be raised. Approval to go forward was sought from the stake president. The young lady serving as the spokesman for the group explained what was being planned and concluded by saying, “We feel that by getting close to nature we can get closer to the Lord and can increase our spirituality.”
The stake president listened patiently and then in a kindly tone replied, “I agree with you that these things can happen, but my observation is that they usually don’t. I have no concern about the outcome of the Church meetings being planned. It’s what happens before and after. The minute church is out, the young folks are back in their grubbies and ready for play.”
The stake president was identifying a problem common to many of us, where we rationalize that attendance at church qualifies us for Sabbath day observance, and that this can be followed with activities not always in keeping with the spirit of the Sabbath.

Something that happened during a Book of Mormon class years ago has had a great impact on my life. Our teacher, Brother Fernando Aguilar, told us an experience that had happened to his father, Santiago Aguilar II, who had been working hard to find genealogical information about his ancestors. He had been successful in submitting many family names for temple ordinances. Nevertheless, on one of his family lines, the information he could find stopped with his grandmother. Despite many trips and continual research, he had not been able to find the necessary information about her. But the Spirit gave him a sense of urgency to keep looking.
Brother Fernando Aguilar, currently a part-time coordinator for the Church Educational System in Chile, recalled: “One day my father had an impression that he should return to a small village 90 kilometers east of the city of Osorno—some 500 kilometers from his home in Talcahuano—even though he had recently visited our relatives there and had received genealogical information. He knew of no reason to return, but the impression would not leave. So with a prayer for guidance, he returned to the village. When our relatives saw him, they were surprised he had returned so soon, and they assured him they had given him all the genealogical information they had. He simply explained that he felt an urgency to return, even though he didn’t know why.
“My father spent the following day seeking—but not finding—additional information. After a tiring day, as he was walking to an uncle’s home, he felt impressed to change his route. My father followed the impression, even though he didn’t know where he was going or why. His new route led him to a large vacant lot filled with trash, and he felt a strong impulse to take the path through the lot.
“After entering the lot, he stopped suddenly and began to look around, seeking the reason for being in that spot so far from home. Looking down at his feet, he saw a yellowed, dirty piece of paper and picked it up. After shaking the dirt off, he recognized it as his grandparents’ marriage certificate, which included the names and other family information he was missing. This certificate was the key he needed to bring to pass the temple work for our ancestors.”
When Brother Aguilar finished his story, he took from his pocket the marriage certificate, which he had covered with plastic. He passed it around the room so each of us could read it. None of us could speak, for our emotions were great.
Then he bore his testimony and told us that the Spirit of Elijah had continued to encourage his family’s efforts. He said the Spirit of Elijah is given to those who pray for it and we should earnestly seek to obtain it.

Last year during a trip to Europe, I visited my old place of employment, Lufthansa German Airlines at the Frankfurt Airport.
To train their pilots, they operate several sophisticated full-motion flight simulators that can re-create almost any normal and emergency flight condition. During my many years as an airline captain, I had to pass a check flight in the flight simulator every six months to keep my pilot license current. I remember well those intense moments of stress and anxiety but also the feeling of accomplishment after passing the test. I was young then and loved the challenge.
During my visit, one of the Lufthansa executives asked if I would like to give it a try again and fly the 747 simulator one more time.
Before I had time to fully process the question, I heard a voice—sounding astonishingly like my own—saying, “Yes, I would like that very much.”
As soon as I said the words, a tsunami of thoughts flooded my mind. It had been a long time since I flew a 747. Back then I was young and a confident captain. Now I had a reputation to live up to as a former chief pilot. Would I embarrass myself in front of these professionals?
But it was too late to back down, so I settled into the captain’s seat, placed my hands on the familiar and beloved controls, and felt, once again, the exhilaration of flight as the big jet roared down the runway and took off into the wild blue yonder.
I’m happy to say that the flight was successful, the aircraft remained intact, and so did my self-image.
Even so, the experience was humbling for me. When I was in my prime, flying had become almost second nature. Now it took all my concentration to do the basic things.

Illustration by J. Beth Jepson
I’d finally made it: I was a high-school senior. Now I had to prepare for the next step in my life: college. I knew that I wanted to major in music education with an emphasis in strings. While looking for colleges, I started to search local universities and found one that had a very good music education program.
My uncle was a professor at a public university, so I sought advice from him. I told him about the university and its excellent music program. His answer startled me: “Will that university support you spiritually? Will you graduate from that university with a stronger or weaker testimony than you have now?” He then shared a scripture with me that says that we are to “seek learning, even by study and also by faith” (D&C 88:118).
With these new ideas floating around in my head, I looked up the institute programs that the local universities had to offer. They were basically nonexistent. I would have been in a vast academic jungle of knowledge but in a spiritual desert. This was frustrating for me because deadlines were approaching and I needed to pick universities to apply to. I prayed and fasted as I searched for a school that would be right for me.
One Sunday in sacrament meeting, a sister talked about a music school out of state. Leaving the state had never crossed my mind before. I went home and excitedly looked up this new school. I also looked into their institute program, and they had a lot of students in their institute program at that university. They also had a strong music program. This felt right.
To my astonishment, I’d found the college for me! This experience showed me that prayers are answered—but on Heavenly Father’s time. Sometimes we have to wait for an answer.
I know that it’s important to seek learning by both study and faith. I’m grateful that my uncle reminded me of the importance of growing spiritually in college as well as academically. I’m excited about my college choice and can’t wait to see what the experience brings!

Charlotte Clark was just six years old when her family left Nauvoo, Illinois, to travel west to the Salt Lake Valley. It was a long, long way to walk. Charlotte walked so much that she wore out her only pair of shoes. Every night when Charlotte knelt to pray, she asked Heavenly Father for a pair of shoes.
One day Charlotte and her sister were picking berries when Charlotte saw a pair of shoes. She and her sister ran back to their mother and father, saying, “Heavenly Father sent me shoes, and they fit perfectly!” Charlotte’s father was concerned that the shoes belonged to someone who had lost them. He told Charlotte that if the shoes belonged to someone in their wagon train, she should return the shoes to their owner. Charlotte’s family showed the shoes to everyone, but no one claimed them. Charlotte’s prayer was answered.

The oars lapped softly in the still water as Warren rowed his small boat through the marsh. The stars had disappeared, and a pale pink light showed on the horizon. Almost in unison the birds began their joyful crying and squawking, rising up from cattails and grassy patches of land, some circling above or soaring into the sky. The noise surrounded Warren. His skin prickled and his heart pounded with excitement as he watched the wild ducks and geese, a few gray herons, and some small marsh birds whose names he didn’t know yet.
Warren tried never to miss this moment of first light on the marsh. The excitement of the birds thrilled and fascinated him. And after he’d found a nest hidden in the tall grass along the far shore, the experience became even more exciting. Warren stepped out of the boat into the soft mud and pulled it up onto the bank. He stretched and looked around him, watching the ducks take off from the water into the sky.
Here in the marsh Warren didn’t miss his old friends too much. And it didn’t seem so important to him that he had made no new friends. His father managed the reserve where they lived. It was several miles out of town and in the six months that Warren had lived there he felt strange and different among the other kids. They had called him a sissy because he wouldn’t go shooting sparrows with them.
Warren loved all animals, but especially birds. He never tired of watching them. Now he turned and walked stealthily along the shore again, hoping to find the hen off her nest so that he could examine the eggs more closely. When he parted the tall grass, his heart was pounding. He knelt and studied the blue-gray eggs cradled snugly among the downy feathers the hen had pulled around them. She was nowhere in sight, so Warren relaxed and peered closely at the eggs, wanting to touch them but knowing he shouldn’t.
Suddenly the loud twang of a slingshot startled him. He jumped up and saw a small marsh bird spiraling out of the sky. It splashed softly into the water.
“I got one!” someone near Warren suddenly shouted. Then two boys splashed out of the high cattails. When they saw Warren they stopped, and Warren recognized them from school—Tom Jenkins and Steve Peterson.
“Do you think he saw us?” Tom, the smaller one, whispered.
“How could he help it? He’s right here. But if he knows what’s good for him he won’t tell anyone.”
“This is a game reserve,” Warren declared. “It’s against the law to kill birds here.” He moved closer to the nest, hoping they wouldn’t see it.
“Hey, look!” Tom called. “There’s a nest right there in the grass.” Both boys looked at the nest.
“So this is why you’re out here prowling around,” Steve said, smiling at Warren in a sneering kind of way.
“You’d better not bother those eggs, or you’ll be in even more trouble,” Warren warned.
“Smash them, Tom” Steve urged. Tom stepped around Warren and raised his foot above the nest.
“Don’t do that!” Warren yelled, “I won’t tell.”
Tom paused, his foot still in the air, and looked at Steve.
“Is that a promise?” Steve asked.
“Yes, I promise,” Warren answered.
“Come on, Tom.” The two boys turned and walked away from the shore toward town.
Warren stood for a long time looking after them, then went to his boat and rowed home.
All day in school, Warren thought about the nest and about Tom and Steve and the bird that had fallen into the water, dead. He knew he should tell his father, but he had promised not to. They still might come back and smash the nest anyway, he worried. At lunchtime he saw Tom and Steve in the hall, but they pretended not to see him.
After school, Warren walked very slowly up the dirt road from the bus stop, still thinking about what he should do. He wondered how long he’d have to wait for the day when he’d part the grass and see three tiny naked geese in the cloudy down of the nest or if it might never happen. Tom’s big ugly foot could crush the eggs with one smash. Warren didn’t like to think about it. He breathed in the moist spring smells all around him and heard small animals scurrying through the underbrush. He couldn’t understand why some kids wanted to destroy beautiful living things. If he told his father about Tom and Steve, they’d tell his classmates how he’d squealed, and everyone would hate him. Still, Warren knew he would eventually have to tell. If he didn’t, the bullies might be even more destructive. He couldn’t stand to have kids killing birds, especially here on the reserve.
Warren could see his father near the shed, squatting down with a pan in his hands. He was feeding a small animal. The boy was curious and began to run, but stopped when he saw the black and white fur of a skunk. He approached his father slowly, stopping a short way off. The skunk looked up at him, but when he didn’t move, it began eating again. “Dad, why are you feeding a skunk?” Warren asked softly. “He might spray you.”
His dad smiled. “He only does that to his enemies. I’m making him my friend.”
Warren looked at the skunk. Its thick black and white fur gleamed in the sunlight. It ate quickly from the pan and then ambled off toward the woods. His father stood up. “How was school today?”
“All right,” Warren said. He knew his dad was waiting for him to go on, but he didn’t know what to say. They began walking toward the house, Warren watching the shadows of the new aspen leaves on the dirt path. His father put his arm on his son’s shoulder. “Dad,” Warren began, “should you always keep your promises?”
“Yes, you should,” his father replied.
“Even if you’ve promised to do something wrong?”
His father was quiet for a minute. “I see what you’re asking now. No, I think that would be one time a promise should be broken.”
“I think I’d better break one then,” Warren said. “I saw two boys from school shooting birds in the marsh this morning.” His father looked at him sharply. Warren told him about the nest and about the boys’ threat to smash it if he told.
His father was silent again for several seconds. Finally he said, “You did the right thing to tell me, son. When you see someone breaking the law, you have an obligation to report it.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have promised not to tell,” Warren said.
“Probably not, but I can see why you did.”
“What will happen now?”
“I’ll talk to their fathers tonight, and they’ll be fined.”
“But what if they come back and smash the eggs?” Warren reminded him, shuddering. “The least they’ll do is beat me up at school,” he added.
“I think they’ll be afraid to come back into the reserve once they know that I know about them, but it’s true that they might want to beat you up. Maybe you can think of a way to turn them into friends,” Warren’s father suggested.
“Friends! I don’t want to be friends with guys who shoot birds and smash eggs,” Warren retorted. He felt angry that his dad would suggest something like that.
“Maybe they don’t understand about birds and animals the way you do. Maybe they haven’t had a reason to think about it much.” His dad smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s go in and eat.”
All through dinner and chores and homework, Warren thought about what his dad had said. He didn’t want the eggs crushed, and he didn’t want to be clobbered by two bigger boys either. He didn’t much want them for friends, but maybe it was the best choice if it could be done. However, it didn’t seem likely that they’d want to be his friends after he’d told on them.
Warren waited up for his dad to come back from seeing Tom’s and Steve’s parents, but when he came in all he said was, “I’m going up the canyons to stock the streams with trout on Saturday. You want to go?”
“Sure,” Warren answered. He usually went with his dad to stock the streams, and it was always exciting.
“Better get to bed now,” his dad said.
“But what happened at Tom’s and Steve’s?” Warren asked.
“Nothing much. They have a fine to pay. Good night, Warren.”
Warren stood for a minute as his father picked up the newspaper. Then he went up to bed. He lay awake for a long time, thinking about Tom and Steve and about how he might possibly make friends with them. He thought, too, about the fun of stocking the streams on Saturday and seeing hundreds of tiny fish squirming wildly in the water and then taking off downstream. Finally Warren knew what he could do. “It wouldn’t hurt to try,” he murmured.
The next day during the lunch hour, he saw Tom and Steve standing together near the drinking fountain in the hall. Warren’s heart was pounding as he walked toward them. They were waiting for him, glancing at each other.
“So you told after all,” Tom said.
“Our dads are making us pay the fines out of our own money. No allowance for four months, and it’s your fault,” Steve said. “You broke your promise, and you’re going to pay, just as soon as we catch you off the school grounds.”
Warren stood for a few seconds, his stomach churning with fear. Then he said what he had planned. “On Saturday my dad’s taking me up the canyons to stock the streams with trout. Do you guys want to go along?”
Steve and Tom looked at each other, surprised and speechless.
“It’s really fun,” Warren said. “He takes millions of little fish and puts them in the water. And while we’re there he’ll probably show us badgers’ dens and stuff like that. Later on when fishing season opens, I can show you some of the best fishing places.” Warren stopped, a little breathless. “You want to go?”
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his feet. “Well, yeh, I guess so.” Steve glanced at Tom. “You want to go, Tom?”
“Sure, if you’re going. Maybe we could beat him up while we’re there.”
“You crazy? With his dad there?” Steve laughed and jabbed Tom with his elbow.
Tom laughed too. “Sure, we’ll go,” he said.
“What time?”
“Early,” Warren replied. “I’ll let you know the exact time on Friday.”
The bell ran, and kids raced past them.
“See you later,” Warren called as he ran to his class.
All afternoon Warren had a peaceful feeling. He knew his dad would be proud of him too. Making friends with Steve and Tom is an even bigger accomplishment than making friends with a skunk, he decided.

Grandpa had a great desire to serve, and no matter what the job, he was dedicated to it. He served as stake clerk for many years. When the shaking of his hand became so severe that it became difficult to write, the stake president asked him if he would like to be released. Without hesitation and with a twinkle in his eye, Grandpa replied, “You know, President, it’s not writing I have a problem with. It’s fishing. Whenever I go fishing my hand gets to shaking so that I can’t tell if I’ve got a fish on the line or if it’s just me.” With that, Grandpa continued to serve in his position almost until his death.

“What are you making?” Jonas asked.
“I don’t know,” Sam told his little brother. “I’m just making it up as I go along.” They were at the learning center, waiting for their parents to pick them up. Sam had found a box of scrap wood by the craft table. He was busy gluing pieces of wood together.
“OK.” Jonas shrugged and walked away. Sam watched him join some kids at the game table. Then he went back to digging through the box of wood.
Sam found a purple block he liked. He carefully squeezed a line of glue along its side and pressed it against the blocks he’d already glued together.
He really liked his wood creation so far. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t really care about that. It just felt good to do something with his hands after the craziness of last week.
A week ago, a fire started burning in Sam’s town. His family had to leave their house in a hurry. Sam could still remember the white ash falling in the air like snow. There were even flames on the side of the road as they drove to safety. It was terrifying!
Sam’s family was OK, but their house was gone. It had burned in the fire along with most of the town.
It doesn’t feel real! Sam thought to himself. He kept thinking his family was just on a weird vacation and they’d be going home soon. But he knew that wasn’t true. They were staying with friends until they could find a new place to live.
Today Mom had brought Sam and his siblings to the learning center. It was a place for kids who lost their homes in the fire. Sam’s favorite was the craft table.
At the bottom of the wood box, Sam found a triangle-shaped block he hadn’t noticed before. That gave him a great idea!
When Mom came back to the learning center, Sam was excited to show her what he had made.
“It’s a temple!” Sam said. He handed it to Mom.
“I love it,” Mom said. “It reminds me of the wooden temple I used to have.”
Thinking about Mom’s wooden temple made Sam’s stomach drop. They had wanted to save it from the fire, but it had been left behind.
“I wanted to put it by your temple on our bookcase,” Sam said. “But … your wooden temple is gone. And so is the bookcase.”
“How about we make this the first decoration in our new house?” Mom said. “The temple is a place of peace. It can remind us that no matter what happens, we’ll be OK.”
Imagining his wooden temple on a new bookshelf helped Sam feel a bit better.
“I like that,” he said.
That night, Sam put his temple on the kitchen table in the house where they were staying. The kitchen was filled with his family’s bags of emergency supplies, but seeing the temple there made the room look happier.
A couple of days later, Dad and Mom called a family meeting. “Someone donated a camper trailer we can live in,” Dad said. “We’re really blessed to have a place to stay.”
Sam helped his family pack their things in the car. He put his wooden temple on one of the seats so it would be safe during the bumpy ride.
“You OK?” Mom asked. She handed him a box to load into the trunk.
“Yes,” Sam said. He didn’t want to move again, but he remembered what Mom had said about the temple. “No matter what happens, we’ll be OK.”

Three years after Daniel was born he was followed by his brother, Austin. For me as a dad, it’s been great to watch both boys become best friends. And Austin has been just as fun as Daniel in his own way. He enjoys building and destroying block towers, and one of his favorite activities is to fearlessly wrestle me as if I stand no chance against his four-year-old powers. Of course, I give in and let him win—so I guess I reinforce his belief. But it’s so much fun. I know he’ll be a great wrestler, but what I want most is for him to wrestle “against the rulers of the darkness of this world” and “against spiritual wickedness” like it says in the scriptures (Ephesians 6:12). And I hope I’m helping to prepare him to do that.

In the early days of the Church, when the pioneers first came to Salt Lake City, and even before that time for that matter, our people indulged in recreation and clean amusement as we do now. The Salt Lake Theater was built during the presidency of Brigham Young and dedicated on March 12, 1862. In the prayer of dedication Daniel H. Wells, one of the counselors in the First Presidency, said, among other things:

Accept our gratitude, our Father, for the privilege we now enjoy of assembling within these spacious walls for the purpose of consecrating and dedicating this building, which has been erected for a theatre wherein thy people may receive amusement and recreation. In the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and in the authority of the Holy and eternal Priesthood of Almighty God, we consecrate and dedicate this building with its surroundings above and below and upon each side thereof, unto Thee, our Father and our God. . . .

And wilt Thou, O Lord, preserve for ever this house pure and holy for the habitation of thy people; suffer no evil or wicked influences to predominate or prevail within these walls, neither disorder, drunkenness, debachery or licentiousness of any sort or kind, but rather than this, sooner than it should pass into the hands or control of the wicked or ungodly, let it utterly perish and crumble to atoms; let it be as though it had not been, an utter waste, each and every part returning unto its native element; but may order, virtue, cleanliness, sobriety and every excellence obtain and hold fast possession herein, and the righteous control and possess it, and holiness unto the Lord be forever inscribed therein. [Deseret News, 12 March 1862, p. 290]

I have had the privilege on many occasions of witnessing performances in that temple of drama, music, and comedy, but there came a time when traveling companies brought to that playhouse shows that were vulgar, that were not pure, shows that did not manifest an influence such as President Wells prayed would prevail and predominate. President Grant loved the drama. He loved the stage. I think he personally was the principle owner of the stock in the old Salt Lake Theater. Accordingly, the theater was closed. It, the property on which it stood, were sold and the theater was torn down. The Church has always stood for clean amusement, moral cleanliness and those things which tend toward righteousness. We cannot compromise with wickedness.

I have always been fond of a story from the era of the Great Depression. The Mayor of New York City, Fiorella LaGuardia was an unusual leader. New York named an airport after him and perhaps that has something to do with how he cared for his people. While in office he sometimes presided at the Police Court just to keep in touch with what was happening in the streets. One bitter cold day the officers brought in a trembling, ragged man charged with stealing a load of bread. He defended his actions by explaining that his family was starving.

"I've got to punish you," declared LaGuardia. "The law makes no exception." So he fined the man ten dollars. But, as he said that, the Mayor reached into his pocket and brought out a $10 dollar bill which he tossed into his hat. "The fine is paid," he said. "And I'm going to fine everybody in this courtroom fifty cents for living in a town where a man has to steal bread in order to eat. The Bailiff passed the hat and the incredulous man, with a light of heaven in his eye, left the courtroom with forty-seven dollars and fifty cents.

The building of this structure has been a bold undertaking. We worried about it. We prayed about it. We listened for the whisperings of the Spirit concerning it. And only when we felt the confirming voice of the Lord did we determine to go forward.
At the general conference of April 1996, I said: “I regret that many who wish to meet with us in the Tabernacle this morning are unable to get in. There are very many out on the grounds. This unique and remarkable hall, built by our pioneer forebears and dedicated to the worship of the Lord, comfortably seats about 6,000. Some of you seated on those hard benches for two hours may question the word comfortably.
“My heart reaches out to those who wish[ed] to get in and could not be accommodated. About a year ago I suggested to the Brethren that perhaps the time has come when we should study the feasibility of constructing another dedicated house of worship on a much larger scale that would accommodate three or four times the number who can be seated in this building” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1996, 88–89; or Ensign, May 1996, 65).
The vision of a new hall was clearly in mind. Various architectural schemes were studied. One was finally selected. It included a massive structure to seat 21,000 with a theater accommodating another thousand. There would be no interior pillars to obstruct the view of the speaker. There would be trees and running water on the roof.
Ground was broken July 24, 1997, the 150th anniversary of the arrival of the first pioneers in this valley. That was an historic event.
We did not know it at the time, but in 1853 Brigham Young, in speaking of temples, said, “The time will come when … we shall build … on the top, groves and fish ponds” (Deseret News Weekly, 30 Apr. 1853, 46).
In 1924 Elder James E. Talmage of the Council of the Twelve wrote, “I have long seen the possible erection of a great pavilion on the north side of the Tabernacle, seating perhaps twenty thousand people or even double that number, with amplifiers capable of making all hear the addresses given from the Tabernacle stands, and in addition to this a connection with the broadcasting system, with receivers in the several chapels or other meeting houses throughout the intermountain region” (journal of James E. Talmage, 29 Aug. 1924, Special Collections and Manuscripts, Harold B. Lee Library, Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah).
In 1940 the First Presidency and the Twelve had their architect draw up a plan of a building that would seat 19,000 and would stand where this building stands. That was 60 years ago. They thought about it, they talked about it, but finally they dropped the idea entirely.
These statements and actions were wonderfully prophetic. We knew nothing about them. All of them have come to our attention since we began this construction.
We have not built a temple with trees and fishponds on the roof. But on this edifice we have many trees and running water. Brigham Young may have foreseen this structure very near the temple. We have what Brother Talmage thought of, and much, much more. These services will not only be heard by all who are seated in the Conference Center, they will be carried by radio, television, and cable, and they will be transmitted by satellite to Europe, to Mexico, to South America. We reach far beyond the intermountain area of which Brother Talmage spoke. We reach beyond the confines of the United States and Canada. We essentially reach across the world.
This is truly a magnificent building. I know of no other comparable structure built primarily as a hall of worship that is so large and that will seat so many. It is beautiful in its design, in its appointments, and in its wonderful utility. It is built of reinforced concrete to the highest seismic codes required in this area. The concrete is faced with granite taken from the same quarry as was the stone for the temple. Both buildings even carry the blemishes of that granite.
The interior is beautiful and wonderfully impressive. It is huge, and it is constructed in such a way that nothing obstructs the view of the speaker. The carpets, the marble floors, the decorated walls, the handsome hardware, the wonderful wood all bespeak utility, with a touch of elegance.
It will prove to be a great addition to this city. Not only will our general conferences be held here, and some other religious meetings, but it will serve as a cultural center for the very best artistic presentations. We hope that those not of our faith will come here, experience the ambience of this beautiful place, and feel grateful for its presence. We thank all who have worked so hard to bring it to this stage—the architects, with whom we have had many meetings; the general contractors, three of whom have worked together; the subcontractors; and the hundreds of craftsmen who have labored here; the construction supervisor; the city building inspectors; and everyone who has had a hand in this project. They have all joined in a herculean effort so that we might meet together this morning. Many of them are with us, I am happy to say.
And now, my brothers and sisters, I would like to tell you about another feature of this wonderful building. If I get a little personal and even a little sentimental, I hope you will forgive me.
I love trees. When I was a boy we lived on a farm in the summer, a fruit farm. Every year at this season we planted trees. I think I have never missed a spring since I was married, except for two or three years when we were absent from the city, that I have not planted trees, at least one or two—fruit trees, shade trees, ornamental trees, and spruce, fir, and pine among the conifers. I love trees.
Well, some 36 years ago I planted a black walnut. It was in a crowded area where it grew straight and tall to get the sunlight. A year ago, for some reason it died. But walnut is a precious furniture wood. I called Brother Ben Banks of the Seventy, who, before giving his full time to the Church, was in the business of hardwood lumber. He brought his two sons, one a bishop and the other recently released as a bishop and who now run the business, to look at the tree. From all they could tell it was solid, good, and beautiful wood. One of them suggested that it would make a pulpit for this hall. The idea excited me. The tree was cut down and then cut into two heavy logs. Then followed the long process of drying, first naturally and then kiln drying. The logs were cut into boards at a sawmill in Salem, Utah. The boards were then taken to Fetzer’s woodworking plant, where expert craftsmen designed and built this magnificent pulpit with that wood.
The end product is beautiful. I wish all of you could examine it closely. It represents superb workmanship, and here I am speaking to you from the tree I grew in my backyard, where my children played and also grew.
It is an emotional thing for me. I have planted another black walnut or two. I will be long gone before they mature. When that day comes and this beautiful pulpit has grown old, perhaps one of them will do to make a replacement. To Elder Banks and his sons, Ben and Bradley, and to the skilled workers who have designed and built this, I offer my profound thanks for making it possible to have a small touch of mine in this great hall where the voices of prophets will go out to all the world in testimony of the Redeemer of mankind.
And so to all who have made this sacred edifice possible, and to all of you who are here assembled on this historic occasion, I express gratitude and appreciation, my love and my thanks for this day and this sacred and beautiful house of worship, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Eighteen-year-old Chris Garrett has made a dramatic recovery from drug addiction so severe that he is considered lucky to be alive. He first drank alcohol as a small boy, was smoking marijuana by his early teenage years, and, within a few years, was using anything he could find: marijuana, cocaine, LSD (lysergic acid diethylamide), opium, crack, speed, and many types of prescription drugs. He even grew marijuana among his mother’s house plants. To finance his habit, he burglarized people’s homes, picked pockets, and took money from purses left in parked cars during church services. Three years ago, Chris entered a treatment program that took him fourteen months to complete.
Chris did not look like what most people think a drug abuser looks like, which is perhaps part of the reason his habit escaped his parents’ notice for a time. He was neat, well-dressed, and well-groomed. “You don’t have to look like a drug-user or associate with the ‘bad’ kids anymore to get into trouble,” says Carol White, a community leader in drug prevention. “I know one boy who started using drugs at work, and he used drugs with his closest friends and their parents. Many of those friends were leaders at his school.”