Gospel Story Finder

Almost all the families living in the valley came on Valentine Day 1853 to see the ground-breaking ceremonies for the Salt Lake Temple, conducted by President Brigham Young. At the close of the service, after Brother Brigham turned the first shovel of dirt, many of those present rushed forward to do the same. Twelve year old Wilford Woodruff, Jr., joined his father and grandfather as they each “flung out dirt for this important temple.”

Thirty-six years ago I served a mission in southeast Mexico. At that time there were no stakes, with the largest cities in the mission having only two branches. There were limited opportunities for education and much poverty. With two or three exceptions, all the missionaries were from the United States.
I remember the people of the Nealtican Branch. All buildings in the town were made of adobe, except the Catholic cathedral and the LDS chapel. I remember standing in the small adobe house of the branch president. It had a dirt floor, windows with no glass, and a rug hanging over the entryway. There was no furniture in the house. His family had no shoes.
But they were a happy people. He told me that they had sold everything they had to buy bus tickets to the Mesa temple, where they were sealed for time and all eternity. Many of the branch members had done the same thing.
A month ago I returned to Mexico to serve in the Mexico North Area Presidency. The Mexico of today is much different from that of 36 years ago. Nealtican is the center of a thriving stake of Zion. Mexico has 200 stakes and a million members of the Church. Many stake and ward leaders are highly educated and financially secure. Thousands of young men and women from Mexico are serving full-time missions.

An experience of Daniel W. Jones illustrates well the concept of being strengthened by the hand of the Lord as we wait upon Him. Daniel Jones was one of 20 men who agreed to stay at Devil’s Gate through the winter of 1856 and protect possessions left there by the immigrant pioneers I mentioned earlier. Daniel and two of the other men had come from Salt Lake City as members of the rescue party and were planning to be gone for just a few days, not the entire winter. There were only enough provisions to last about 20 days, even though there were at least five months of winter ahead. After eating the meager provisions, including the remaining 20 head of cattle, the men survived on what they could hunt. But food was scarce because the cold winter storms had driven away all the animals.
Daniel Jones related the following about their situation:
Game soon became so scarce that we could kill nothing. We ate all the poor meat; one would get hungry eating it. Finally that was all gone, nothing now but hides were left. We made a trial of them. A lot was cooked and eaten without any seasoning and it made the whole company sick. Many were so turned against the stuff that it made them sick to think of it. . . .
Things looked dark, for nothing remained but the poor raw hides taken from starved cattle. We asked the Lord to direct us what to do. The brethren did not murmur, but felt to trust in God. We had cooked the hide, after soaking and scraping the hair off until it was soft and then ate it, glue and all. This made it rather inclined to stay with us longer than we desired. Finally I was impressed how to fix the stuff and gave the company advice, telling them how to cook it; for them to scorch and scrape the hair off; this had a tendency to kill and purify the bad taste that scalding gave it. After scraping, boil one hour in plenty of water, throwing the water away which had extracted all the glue, then wash and scrape the hide thoroughly, washing in cold water, then boil to a jelly and let it get cold, and then eat with a little sugar sprinkled on it. This was considerable trouble, but we had little else to do and it was better than starving.
We asked the Lord to bless our stomachs and adapt them to this food. We hadn’t the faith to ask him to bless the raw-hide for it was “hard stock.” On eating now all seemed to relish the feast. . . . We enjoyed this sumptuous fare for about six weeks, and never had the gout.
As Daniel Jones and the other men waited upon the Lord and trusted in Him, they were strengthened by His hand. Their bodies were able to bear their burdens with ease. They were able to cheerfully endure months of freezing temperatures and near starvation without murmuring.

With his first preaching trip ended, Erastus worked on the family farm a winter and attended a short term of school. In the spring of 1835, still 16, he “labored what I could, some in the neighboring churches and some in the adjoining towns until the first of June when I went to the state of New Hampshire and laboured a while in Lisbon and the adjacent country … but none at this time obeyed the truth.” That year, 1835, he helped his father with spring and summer work. “I was father’s chief help on the farm,” he recalled, “but always carried a pocket Bible or some of the religious works with me to the field, and when my team was resting, I was reading. Father sometimes thought my team owed a debt of gratitude to my Bible.”

He also remembers the time his dad was seriously sick. Raúl’s mother thought he was going to die. She rode a bus to the missionaries’ house to ask them to give him a blessing. They weren’t home, so she left them a message. When they arrived several hours later, Raúl’s father was so sick he could hardly talk. The missionaries gave him a blessing—and within half an hour, he was up and feeling much better.

You may be too young to remember the famous American trial of Alger Hiss, tried for treason against the United States. The principal witness against him was Whitaker Chambers, a longtime atheistic Communist, who finally could not escape the reality of God. He speaks of his conversion in these words:
My daughter was in her high chair. I was watching her eat. She was the most miraculous thing that had ever happened in my life. …my eye came to rest on the delicate convolutions of her ear – those intricate, perfect ears. The thought passed through my mind: “No, those ears were not created by any chance coming together of atoms in nature (the communist view). They could have been created only by immense design.” The thought was involuntary and unwanted. I crowded it out of my mind. But I never wholly forgot it or the occasion. I had to crowd it out of my mind. If I had completed it, I should have had to say: Design presupposes God. I did not then know that, at that moment, the finger of God was first laid upon my forehead.[21]

I had an interesting experience a few years ago. I came down to general conference from Idaho. I went to purchase some merchandise at ZCMI and to cash a check. They didn’t know me, and so they sent me up to the cashier. She asked for some identification. I reached into my wallet and took out some credit cards. Inadvertently, my temple recommend fell out. The cashier said, “I’ll accept that.”
I said, “You’ll accept what?”
She said, “Your temple recommend. It’s current, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s current.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
Well, I thought about that. You know how you get an idea, and then pretty soon the idea gets you. I thought about it all the way home. I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if we had a Mormon credit card, and a card-carrying Mormon could be depended on to keep his word and pay his bills—a card carrying Mormon, who, as a teacher, would teach until there was understanding (that may be a tall order); a mechanic who would honestly repair automobiles; a tradesman who would be a craftsman; one who would practice integrity in every way?” Wouldn’t it be great to be a peculiar people on the basis of our honesty and not our Word of Wisdom or a former marriage practice? I think that is a stimulating challenge. I don’t know how you’d like to be known as peculiar, but that’s a peculiarity I’d like to see all over the world—that Mormons and integrity are synonymous.

At first it was very hard for the missionaries to preach the gospel in Mexico for the people were controlled by the dominant church. And when the priests told them not to listen to the Mormon missionaries, most of the Mexican people did not dare to disobey.
About the time the Mexico Mission was established, the poor people of Mexico rose up against their rulers to demand their rights as Mexican citizens. A revolutionary war that lasted for many years made it unsafe for missionaries to be in Mexico.
On three different occasions, the missionaries were withdrawn from that mission. Each time they returned to Mexico they found that the members were more faithful than before and that more of the people were prepared to receive the gospel.
Once when the missionaries were withdrawn from Mexico, a man named Rafael Monroy called on the mission president, Rey L. Pratt,* to say goodbye.
“President Pratt,” Brother Monroy asked, “what will we do in San Marcos? All of the branches have leaders except San Marcos. No one there has the Melchizedek Priesthood.”
“Brother Rafael,” the president answered, “we will ordain you an elder and set you apart as president of the San Marcos Branch. There you will be responsible to teach the gospel to every member of your little branch.”
President Monroy not only taught the members of his branch, but he also taught his nonmember neighbors and friends. During the time the missionaries were not allowed in Mexico, the San Marcos Branch doubled in number of members. Rafael Monroy eventually was shot and killed because he would not deny the gospel.
When the mission was reopened, thirty members of the small branch at Cuantla were waiting at the train station to greet the missionaries when they returned. Twelve children and some young adults began singing songs of welcome. Afterward they shouted, “Qué viven los misioneros!” (long live the missionaries), as they showered the elders with confetti.
The missionaries were then taken to a home that had been decorated with beautiful flowers and cedar boughs in honor of this special occasion. Following a delicious dinner, a meeting was held.
President Pratt in his report to the brethren in Salt Lake told of the joy of the people in welcoming the missionaries. Even the children had planned for a program during the evening. President Pratt said, “It was wonderful to note the progress of the children of the branch along lines of study upon which they had been started by the missionaries. Little tots that were babies in arms when the missionaries left got up and recited one or more of the Articles of Faith.”
Nor was this the only group that had been active. The Church members in the little branch of San Pedro were proud to show the missionaries a meetinghouse they had built. President Pratt described it as “a humble house where the Spirit of the Lord can dwell.” He said, “Only those who have experienced it can know the joy of meeting these dear people after so long an absence. Their faithfulness through seven long years, during which time they have passed through untold suffering, is wonderful.”

As prophet, President David O. McKay traveled with his son Llewelyn to Europe. He dedicated temple sites and tried to greet as many Church members as possible.
Llewelyn: Father, you don’t have time to greet all these children. Aren’t you tired?
President McKay: Son, never hurt a child. I can take time to meet these youngsters—I wouldn’t disappoint them for anything.
Girl: President McKay, could you sign my autograph book?
President McKay: Do you think I can write plainly enough for you to read it?
Just then, someone tapped President McKay on the shoulder and whispered to him for a moment. When he turned back to sign the little girl’s book, she was gone.
President McKay: Llewelyn! Please find the little girl in the blue dress. I’m afraid she thinks I didn’t want to sign her book.
Others helped Llewelyn search, but the little girl was nowhere to be found. On their way to London, Llewelyn and President McKay traveled with a group of missionaries. President McKay told them about the little girl in the blue dress.
President McKay: I wish we could have found her.
Missionary: President McKay, we think we know who she is. We’ll talk to her branch president, and he’ll phone you this evening.
President McKay: Wonderful!
President McKay talked to the little girl’s branch president, apologized for what had happened, and arranged for the autograph book to be sent to his office in Salt Lake City. When it arrived, he eagerly signed it and mailed it back.

While serving with my wife in Brazil, we were blessed to have Elder Holland visit our mission. We were able to have a picture taken of Elder and Sister Holland with all of our missionaries. At the end of our mission, one of the stake presidents that we served with gave us a large framed copy of that picture. As I looked at everyone in the picture, I noticed the stake president in the left corner next to the missionaries. I said, "President, thank you so much for this beautiful picture, but I don't remember you being there". He said, "I wasn't, but I wanted to be, so I just Photoshopped myself into the picture." If you just looked at the picture and didn't know better, you would think he was there, but he wasn't. What appeared to be real was not.

Picture a small, one-room apartment which is home for a family of six. The room is dirty and cluttered. The family has not been to church in years.

As the ward welfare committee discussed the family’s needs, there was a feeling of discouragement, for bishops, over the years, had helped the family often. In the discussion, a new idea began to dawn. Perhaps, if the committee called upon the resources of the Lord’s storehouse—the talents and skills of ward members—even this difficult situation could be assisted.

The committee first focused on future possibilities as well as immediate needs. As possibilities turned to reality, hope and optimism replaced gloom and depression. Filled with hope, the family committed to help improve their own situation. The committee also went to work. A hairstylist gave the family haircuts. A dentist volunteered, and for the first time in years, a mother was not embarrassed to smile. A new pair of glasses allowed this mother to once again read to her children. A financial specialist worked with the family in budgeting their funds. A three-year-old received much needed physical therapy.

Slowly the family began to believe their life could be different. The apartment, once dirty and disorganized, began to show signs of order and cleanliness. Curtains went up on the windows. Just a year later, invitations were extended by this family to an open house for their three-bedroom home.

A wounded family was found by the side of the road, a family suffering just as much as the traveler from Jerusalem in Jesus’ day. The family’s cries were heard, and their wounds were bound. The modern good Samaritans followed the divine injunction to “go, and do thou likewise.” Spiritual lives were also rescued. Today, this family is active in the Church and preparing to receive the blessings of the temple.

Consider this experience: Once, in an elevator, I encountered a young woman who was pursuing a master’s degree. She hadn’t taken any of my classes, but I had seen her in the building and knew her to be a promising mentee of one of my colleagues. I asked her how she was doing.

Her response to me, a virtual stranger, was this: “I’m struggling today because my family thinks I have been led astray by the devil to pursue my education.”

I asked her if she herself was concerned that she was on the wrong path, as her family had suggested.

Between the first floor of my building and the seventh, this young woman bore testimony—and the Holy Ghost confirmed it to me—that the Spirit had guided her to pursue her studies and that she would continue to do what God asked of her.

“Shortly after we were married, we began looking for a church. We had promised each other we would have a Christian home. Our neighbors had a daughter who had just joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She asked us if we’d like to talk to the missionaries. As soon as they walked onto our porch, we knew these men were different. There was a spirit about them.”
Another homecoming, this one leading to serious study, fasting, prayer, and finally the realization that Heavenly Father was welcoming them into the only true church.
“All the pieces fit. Everything was right. And since then our love for God has grown, our faith has grown, and we’ve seen the truth in action in the lives of Latter-day Saints everywhere we’ve lived.”

Ruth’s baptism in December 2001 marked a shift in their family focus. With that shift came spiritual strength and blessings that have guided them to this day.
“We were sealed in the temple on June 28, 2003,” Richard says. “Because of that, many blessings have come into our lives. Our first two children were sealed to us, and our next two children were born in the covenant. Our children are a blessing.”
Richard explains that serving faithfully in the Church has brought harmony into their home: “My wife and I are yoked together equally. We have faced challenges and trials, but we have been able to get through them united. We believe in the same things. Being sealed in the temple, we know that if we endure faithfully, the Lord will help us.”
Attending the temple has changed their family. “When we were sealed in the temple, things changed radically,” Ruth says. “Our spiritual strength has grown.”
Richard agrees: “For our family, it has meant greater family unity, knowing that the family bond, which ultimately is the beginning and end of everything, gives us the strength to move forward. In life there are always challenges. But with the focus that the temple gives us, we can face the future in a different way. Being able to share these blessings—and especially to help other families do the same—brings great joy to our lives. I feel greater commitment in our home.”

It had only been two weeks since Dad had died. I hadn’t gone back to school yet. My little brother Jamey and little sister Tammy were attending school again, and Mom encouraged me to go. “It’ll be easier if you stay busy,” she said, but the emptiness I felt made the thought of being among all my cheery friends repulsive.
“Would you talk with a counselor?” she asked. “No,” was all I could answer.
I spent most of the day in my room among the things I knew so well: my poster of the Great Nebula in the constellation Orion, my collection of Louis L’Amour and Ray Bradbury books, my stake softball trophy, a picture of Dad and me heading out for a fishing trip to Molly Lake in the Sawtooths, and next to that the scriptures Dad had given me on my 12th birthday.
On a blank page in the fron Dad had written: “These scriptures are the word of God; they contain the truth. If you will study them and follow what they say you will know what you need to know for salvation and find the peace you seek. … I love you, Your father.”
I loved the scriptures. During the two years since Dad had given me that set I had read the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price, the New Testament, and about a third of the Old Testament. Since Dad’s death I had read every scripture I could find on death and the resurrection. I understood as well as any LDS 14-year-old that only Dad’s body had died and that Dad was alive and busy in the spirit world, but the pain and loneliness wouldn’t go away.
During the days after the funeral I prayed to Heavenly Father often for faith and strength, but my sorrow remained. I thought God might be displeased with me for feeling so bad about Dad’s death because I knew the plan of salvation. I asked for forgiveness. I told God that I knew that if I lived right I could be with Dad again in the celestial kingdom, but that I just couldn’t stop missing him so much right now. I privately hoped that Dad would come visit me in a dream or vision and tell me that everything was okay, but it never happened.
I felt a strong need to cry, but I didn’t, not even that first day when the principal got me out of geometry and took me to his office where Mom was waiting to tell me Dad had been killed in a tractor accident. Not during the funeral when everyone was watching to see how I would react. And not when I was alone, because I knew death wasn’t really anything to righteous people, and to cry about it would be weak. I found that not crying took a lot of energy.
It was on a Wednesday night when Mom told me Grandpa Anson was coming to stay for a while. He had been one of the speakers at the funeral. He had told how his son had been a little rebellious when he was young but had turned his life around and gone on a mission, of how wonderful it was to see his son married in the temple, and of the joy it brought him to hear the good things people have to say about Rodney because of the service he had given them. There had been no sorrow in Grandpa’s voice. I guessed that Mom had asked Grandpa to come now because of me. I resented that. I just wanted to be left alone.
Thursday afternoon, when Grandpa was supposed to arrive, I went out for a walk. I wanted to avoid Mom calling me from my room like she always did to formally greet Grandpa. I walked across the back lawn, jumped the cement ditch, and crossed the rows and rows of sugar beets that covered 200 acres. The green leaves were just pushing out of the dirt. I knew I would be spending my afternoons and Saturdays thinning them soon. At the lower southeast corner of the field I came to a pile of large rocks that had been taken from the field years before. This is where Dad’s tractor had turned over. I couldn’t understand it—Dad knew about these rocks. He had warned me not to drive the tractor over them.
“Sometimes it only takes one mistake,” he had said.
I walked out of the field into the sagebrush. Dad said that a lot of people thought sagebrush was ugly and that he couldn’t understand why. He loved the way it smelled.
After about an hour I climbed the fence and began walking up the road that led to my home. When I got closer I could see Grandpa’s car in the driveway. A surge of anger flowed through me. The anger was so strong it scared me. Grandpa was a good man. Mom said he had done nothing but spoil me ever since I was a baby. “You’re his first grandson. He’s proud of you!”
I stopped and tried to get a hold of myself. Why? I thought. Then it came to me. Grandpa is 85 years old. He’s the one who should have died, not Dad. It was a mean thought, but there it was. Forcing my feet to move, I began walking home.
At dinner Grandpa didn’t have much to say to me. He asked Mom about the affairs of the farm, whether Uncle Barney was able to spend enough time here to get things done right. Grandpa had been a farmer and a good one. He had survived two droughts and numerous hail storms. The index finger on his right hand had been cut off at the knuckle by a combine.
After dinner Mom took me aside and asked me not to go straight to my room. I sat in the family room and watched TV with Grandpa for a couple of hours. He held Tammy in his lap and spoke with Jamey, but he pretty much ignored me. I guess that’s what I wanted.
The next morning I slept in until almost eight o’clock, which was unusual. There was a knock on the door and in walked Mom.
“How’re you feeling this morning?”
“Fine.”
“Grandpa would like to go for a walk with you along the river today. That is ‘if he’s feeling up to it,’” she said, trying to imitate Grandpa’s deep voice. Then she smiled.
“Okay,” I said. Mom’s smile faded. She looked long into my eyes, then left. She had cried in the principal’s office when she told me about Dad. She had cried since then too, but she hadn’t neglected the family. She had even made breakfast the day of the funeral.
We drove in Grandpa’s car to the recreation area—a picnic table underneath a shelter amid the sagebrush. The Snake River moved slow and deep in its lava channel, but just downstream a half mile it went over a falls and roared for the next 20 miles though a narrow canyon. We could hear it as we sat and threw rocks into the water. You could see them sink for a ways, but then they disappeared in the murky green. As we walked up the old Oregon Trail he told me some Indian stories that had happened in the area and about the pioneers that had traveled this way “not so long ago.” I already knew the stories, but listened anyway. As we ate the lunch Mom had packed, he told me how to cook biscuits on a stick and how to cook fish over a fire without a pan. Dad had done those things with me on our camping trips.
It wasn’t until we were on our way home that he actually talked about Dad.
“Your dad was a great farmer,” he said looking over the beet field.
“I know,” I said.
“I taught him everything he knows.” I realized too late that he meant that as a joke.
“It’s ironic the accident he had. That kind of avoidable accident seems to happen only to the best farmers. I can name five other good farmers something like that has happened to.”
You’re making me feel a lot better, I thought.
“Shoulda happened to me years ago,” he mumbled.
Suddenly I felt guilty. “No …” I said, but I couldn’t go on.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. Mom looked up hopefully when we came in. I went straight to my room. I lay on the bed and held Dad’s picture to my chest, staring at the ceiling.
After dinner that night Mom told me not to go to my room until at least nine o’clock. I couldn’t bring myself to watch TV so I went outside. The lilacs were in bloom. Their smell was soft and alluring. Dad had planted them when he built the house. They were a Mother’s Day gift for Mom. “They’re a gift that gives every year,” he had said. I sat under them on the far side so no one from the house could see me. The hollow feeling inside me was getting bigger. I wondered how much longer it would be before there was nothing left of me. I was scared, but I didn’t know what to do. I knew that God cared, but why did he let me hurt so much? And why did Dad’s death hurt so much? I believed in the plan of salvation.
I didn’t notice Grandpa until he was sitting down beside me. I pretended not to notice him and watched a robin hop across the lawn, stop to listen, and fly underneath the juniper bush.
“You’re in a lot of pain aren’t you, Jarren?” Grandpa said, abruptly breaking the silence.
I swallowed and nodded.
“Your dad’s death hurt a lot of people,” he said. “I don’t know how your mother is getting along without him. She’s stronger than I thought.”
I didn’t want to speak; I just wanted to curl up and go away, but Grandpa’s presence seemed to draw the pain to the surface. “Dad was a righteous man—we know the plan of salvation—there’s no reason to be sad.” My anger was apparent and my voice shook on sad.
Grandpa stared at me for a long moment while I stared at a dandelion next to me in the grass. Finally he spoke. His voice was old but he had a veteran farmer’s strength and roughness in it.
“Plan of salvation or no plan of salvation, death can hurt.” He reached down and pulled a few blades of grass. “Jarren, you know the scriptures. In the New Testament Heavenly Father mourned for Christ, in 3 Nephi Christ mourned for those who died in the great destruction, and what’s that scripture in Moses? It ‘How is it that the heavens weep, and shed forth their tears as the rain upon the mountains?’” (Moses 7:28).
I thought for a moment how beautiful those words sounded. Then Grandpa spoke. “It seems that feeling sorrow is a part of being like God,” he said.
Still trying to hold onto my anger, I said, “You didn’t sound sad at the funeral!” He stared at me again.
“Jarren, everybody takes death differently, but I think you need to know I bawled like a baby right on the phone when your mom told me.” Then, his voice trailing off almost to a mumble he said, “I never guessed one of my children would die before me.” For an instant I felt Grandpa’s pain.
I knew the answer, but I had to ask him before I could surrender, “Do you miss him, Grandpa?”
“I miss him, Jarren.”
I smelled the lilacs again and I thought about the way Dad had looked when he planted them. I began to cry. Grandpa didn’t move until I put my arm around him, and then he hugged me.

As I have contemplated this vast audience of priesthood bearers, and what I have in my mind and heart to convey to you this day, my thoughts have turned back to a bewildered and confused young man in a huge city. He had lost his way. In desperation he stopped a man on the sidewalk and said, “How do I get to such-and-such a destination from here?” After considerable thought, with the skyscrapers, dense traffic, confusing streets, winding rivers, freeways, bridges, tunnels, and so on in mind, the man said, “You can’t get there from here.”
I have often thought of this advice as I have contemplated particularly some of our youth in their present locations in life. Some are lost, bewildered, confused, scared, sick, insecure, and discouraged. What a tragedy to be in these straits and to be told, in answer to the questions “How can I get back to where I was?” or “How can I get to where I want to go?”—“You can’t get there from where you are.”
The disciples of the devil teach there is no way back: Live it up, everybody is doing it, be with the in-group, and it’s more fun to stay lost. The devil is an enemy to the ways of God, and enticeth to sin.
“Wherefore, all things which are good cometh of God; and that which is evil cometh of the devil; for the devil is an enemy unto God, and fighteth against him continually, and inviteth and enticeth to sin, and to do that which is evil continually.” (Moro. 7:12.)
What a happy day it will be when, in contrast to the experience this lost young man had in the big city, he or others can find someone who will say, “Yes, you can get there from here. Come, follow me.”
I humbly, but with all of the power in my possession, declare to our “lost” youth, young men and young women worldwide, you can make it back from where you are. The great social services program of the Church, operating as an arm of the priesthood, lends a helping hand to our young people with social and emotional problems. As President Smith has declared to us tonight, by honoring our priesthood we can help them find their way back to joy and stability.
Young people, be not deceived. God loves you. He cares about you. He wants you back in his paths, where there is comfort, companionship, and purpose. We as leaders need to effectively communicate to our youth that God loves them no matter where they are. We need to sacrifice our time and talents in this direction.
“But to do good and to communicate forget not: for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.” (Heb. 13:16.)
I pray to God that we in the future may communicate the positive, the happy, the abundant way of life to those around us.
I would like to share briefly with you a few experiences of some of our friends who are proving you can get there from where you are.
Roger Locke, a friend of mine, is presently confined in the Utah State Prison. (Incidentally, I have visited with Roger within the past few days and have his and Warden John Turner’s permission to share his name and thoughts.)
Incidentally, you young Aaronic Priesthood bearers, I would appreciate it if you would remember that when I go to the prison to visit, I have the same trouble as the inmates—in one respect. That is, it is easy for me to get in, but difficult for me to get out. The difficulty comes when I am stopped by prisoners who want to talk. During my last visit, a young man stopped me, and we talked for about fifteen minutes, time I didn’t think I had to spare. As I was leaving him he said, and I will never forget it, “Thank you for talking to me.” As I drove home that night, I recalled that in fifteen minutes I may have said twenty-four or twenty-five words; however, I believe that is the kind of talking and listening we need to have more of. But that is another subject. Let’s get back to Roger. He said:
“I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison today, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I am involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the parents who have been assigned to me through this social services program, many times I would have given up. These people love me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now, with their help and that of others, I believe I can now make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of being in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while being there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us, Roger would be justified in believing he couldn’t make it back. He had detoured too long. But he doesn’t believe that. Instead, he is thanking those who are presently helping him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
The Church attenders in prisons are unfortunately in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified at the Utah State Prison as a member of “God’s Squad.” He seems determined to make it back from where he is.

When I was 15, my father and I took a walk one Sunday evening. Suddenly, my father stopped and suggested that we go to the Mormon Church. I was surprised, but out of curiosity I went with him. The choir was singing a beautiful hymn. I had never heard anything so touching.
After the song, a missionary stood up and gave a talk about the Godhead. He later talked to my father and me for a few minutes.
I didn’t go back to church until one year later when I went to learn English from the missionaries. When each English class ended, we drifted into religious discussions. The missionaries taught me about the gospel and how to pray to God the Father in the name of Jesus Christ. They told me about the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and many other gospel principles.
All this was so new to me, yet it had a familiar sound. I studied the scriptures intently and prayed sincerely for enlightenment, which was given to me.
My father noticed a change in me. But when he realized that I was getting serious about the Church, he became angry and forbade me to go to church. I went anyway. Frequently he sent my brother to bring me home in the middle of Church meetings.
When I turned 17, my father asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted his approval to be baptized. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted, “Never!”
By this time my parents had joined a different church. My father sent the church’s minister and others to talk to me, but I was firm in my testimony of the gospel. Father told me I was a disgrace to the family, and I was forced to leave home. I stayed at the home of a Relief Society sister for about a week. During that time my father’s heart was softened, and he allowed me to come home.
Within several months my father realized that nothing could take away the testimony I had of the gospel, so he gave his consent for me to be baptized. My joy and happiness were so great that they made a deep impression on my father. He even wanted to go with me to Oslo to attend my baptism.
All through this time, my mother didn’t say very much, but I could tell that she believed the gospel was true. We spent many hours talking about the gospel together.
However, the struggle was not over at home. My father wouldn’t listen to me. I put pamphlets on his nightstand, as he always read long into the night. I invited the missionaries to our home often, and they talked to my father, but nothing seemed to help.
One day my father asked me, “Do you ever pray?” I told him that I prayed every day that his eyes would be opened to the truthfulness of the gospel. He responded that it was all from the devil but then said, “Let’s pray together.”
I said, “All right, you pray to your God, and I will pray to my God, and we will see which answers first.” So we did.
Soon after that I started noticing that he was reading the pamphlets and the Book of Mormon. He went to church several times with me but would never talk about it or show me any change in his beliefs. Still, there was rarely a day when we didn’t discuss different principles of the gospel.
One day, after three years of this, he told me he was going to Oslo and wanted me to go with him. When we arrived at the station, one of the local elders was there. I asked him where he was going.
The elder said, “Don’t you know? I’m going to baptize your father.”
I cried and laughed! One month later my mother and youngest brother were also baptized. My sister and her husband joined the Church a short time later, as did three of my brothers.
Sara Elvira Eriksen’s faithful posterity in the Church now numbers in the hundreds. This account from her personal history was submitted by her children, Rose Anderson, Betty Farley, Aksel Tanner, and Janet Bylund.

Some people may think it’s unusual for someone as young as Steven to play the organ for sacrament meeting, but for the Parkway Eighth Ward in South Jordan, Utah, young players are a regular occurrence. Steven is just one of seven youth in this ward who take turns playing the organ for sacrament meeting.
The youth involvement started when Sister Deanna Sorensen, the former ward organist, was going to retire from her job as a schoolteacher and go on a mission. There was only one other person in the ward who could play, so Sister Sorensen decided to teach some of the youth who already played the piano how to play the organ.
“Sister Sorensen was always talking about how the world needs more organ players,” says Emily Holbrook, 17.
Emily decided to learn the organ when Sister Sorensen was tutoring her in math and mentioned she would be teaching the organ. Emily thought it sounded exciting and wanted to learn how to play.
The most important thing she and the other students would learn was to hold down the organ keys for the duration of the notes, because unlike a piano, an organ has no sustain pedal. An organ also has two keyboards, a number of foot pedals, and things called stops, which change the type of sound that comes out of the organ.
Learning the organ can be difficult, but these youth have put in the effort and received support from their leaders and parents. And they know their efforts make a difference.
“It’s really blessed our ward because we’ve all developed a greater love and appreciation for the hymns,” Sister Craven says. She also says the ward has grown closer as they’ve come together to support the youth.
“A lot of people come up and give me compliments and they seem really happy the youth are helping out,” says Landon Howard, 14, another organist.
Playing for sacrament meeting was not easy at first. Lauren Howard, 17, remembers being nervous. “I was terrified,” she says. “I remember my hands were just shaking.” All the youth admitted they were scared, but they did it anyway.
“I knew it would be a good experience and it would help me overcome my fear of playing,” Lauren says. “And now it has. I’m a lot better than I was my first time.”
The key to overcoming fear, they learned, is putting effort into preparation.
“I just practiced a lot,” says Randon Fullmer, 13. The other youth agreed that practice helped them overcome nervousness. They also relied on the Lord.
“I think that the Lord has helped me play by calming my nervousness before I play,” Steven says. “I pray before I play, and it helps me play better, without too many mistakes.”
These students started taking lessons so they could learn a skill and help their ward, but in the process they learned a lot of other things.
“I know Heavenly Father is there,” says Jenny Forsyth, 16. “I know that I can’t do it without Him.”
Sharli Fullmer, 11, the youngest of the group has learned that “your testimony can grow when you sing and play because the hymns teach you truth.”
Sister Craven says the youth have also learned how to magnify a calling. They choose the hymns they would like to play, subject to approval from the ward music leader and the bishop. And not one of them has ever missed a Sunday assignment. Learning to play the organ will prepare them for future callings, especially if they are somewhere an organist is needed.
“I think it could be a good talent to use on a mission, for example,” Landon says.
Many youth at some point have the opportunity to learn to play a musical instrument, and some have the chance to play in sacrament meeting. The youth of the Parkway Eighth Ward know youth can be successful at both.
“Stick with it; don’t give it up,” Emily says. “A lot of people do it because their parents want them to. Or they get really discouraged because they’re not doing very well. I say just have fun with it and have a good attitude.”
“Pray to Heavenly Father that He will help you, and practice really hard and practice a lot,” Jenny says.
It’s the positive attitude, practice, and reliance on the Lord that has helped them to play and to serve, something they do so well that the members of their ward are excited to look and see who is playing.

“I guess I thought that the Good Fairy would wash the milk pail,” Paul grumbled sleepily to himself the next morning when he found the unwashed bucket where he had left it in the sink. He scrubbed the bucket and strainer until they were as clean and shiny as Grandma had left them, then headed out to milk the cow. He breathed deeply the fragrant early morning air as he walked and thought how very different Sunday was here than at home. A cow that had to be milked and livestock requiring feed and water every day made some changes in even the most carefully planned “day of rest.”
Paul milked with hands still sore from the night before, but at least Clarabelle cooperated a little better. She stepped around some, but she didn’t step on him or kick the bucket. “Someone should invent a cow that you don’t have to milk on weekends,” Paul told her as he turned her loose into the horse pasture.
“Since the calves are a pretty good size now,” Grandpa had explained, “they get the morning milk, and we get the night milk.” So Paul fed the cats meowing around his feet, then divided the remaining milk between the two red calves. With an eye on his watch, he hayed them and grained the pigs and made sure that all the animals still had water.
The horses came when he whistled. Ginger was limping, and one knee was swollen, but she really didn’t look too bad, considering how she had looked just a few hours before.
He detoured to open the chicken coop door on the way to the house. This time he washed the milk pail right away and set it in the dish drainer.
Since he had neglected his bath the night before, he took one now, then dressed in his good clothes. He had time for a leisurely breakfast and was on his second bowl of cold cereal when Grandma called.
After she told him that Grandpa had reacted badly to the anesthetic the doctors used when they set his leg, Paul decided not to tell her about the horse just yet. She asked him to bring her a change of clothes and her scriptures after church and told him where to look. He couldn’t find the blouse that she had described, so he picked one that he liked and put all the items into a paper sack.
He was sitting on the front porch in the sunshine, the sack beside him and his scriptures in his hand, when Brother Ross arrived. This, he thought, is hardly how I expected my first Sunday in Wyoming to be.
There were a few faces that he recognized from visits other summers, but mostly he was surrounded by strangers as he entered the chapel. He was welcomed warmly, however, and it felt good to be where he knew he should be.
He watched with interest as the deacons passed the sacrament. This was the first time all year that it wasn’t his responsibility, and, fleetingly, he felt a little left out. A number of people stopped him in the hall between meetings and afterward to ask about his grandfather.
He and Brother Ross stopped at the hospital after church, and Paul gave the sack to Grandma. She looked inside briefly, nodded, and thanked him. Paul thought that she looked as tired as he felt—if that were possible.
Grandpa, pale and groggy, lay with his stiff, cast-covered leg propped up on a pillow. He squeezed Paul’s hand, smiled at him, but had little to say.
As they walked down the hall later, Grandma explained, “The doctor says that when he gets over the problem from the anesthetic, he should recover quickly. We think he’ll be home in a few days.” She hesitated, then said almost pleadingly, “If you’re going to be all right, I’ll stay here until his mind is clear enough for him to fight his own battles.”
“Everything’s under control,” Paul assured her. “He needs you worse than I do—at least until the roast runs out,” he added with a grin.
Grandma chuckled and gave him a hug.
“My family’s gone and I’m a lousy cook, or I’d invite you to dinner,” Brother Ross explained as he took Paul home.
“That’s OK. Why don’t you come have a roast beef sandwich with me? There’s a big roast in the refrigerator, and I was too tired last night to make much of a dent in it.”
After Brother Ross left, Paul carefully put away his good clothes and flopped across his bed. Despite the bright sunlight in the room, he slept until nearly chore time.

Illustrations by Andy Elkerton
Sarah was unpacking a box in her room when Mom walked in.
“Can we paint the walls yellow?” she asked Mom.
They had just moved into a different house. Sarah had been able to pick out a quilt and curtains for her new room!
“Sure,” Mom said. “Yellow is a happy color.”
But Mom and Sarah didn’t always feel happy lately, not since Dad had died in an accident.
Sarah put a few of her favorite books on a little shelf by her bed. She put her favorite picture of Dad next to the books, where she could see it every morning when she woke up.
She heard a sniffle and saw tears in Mom’s eyes.
“I love you, Mom,” Sarah said, wrapping her arms around Mom’s waist and squeezing tight.
“I love you more,” Mom said.
The Saturday before school started, Mom and Sarah put on old clothes, moved the furniture to the middle of Sarah’s room, and carefully pushed paint rollers into trays of yellow paint. After a while, the walls were covered in yellow—and so were their faces and clothes!
“You look like you’ve got sunshine splattered all over you,” Mom said.
Sarah giggled. “And you look like a banana exploded next to you!”
They were still laughing as they cleaned up. But Sarah’s smile faded when she thought about going to Primary tomorrow and school the day after that.
“I’m worried about church and my new school,” she told Mom as they rinsed paintbrushes in the sink. “I won’t know any of the teachers or kids or anybody.”
Mom turned off the water and pulled Sarah into a hug.
“You’ll make friends,” Mom said. “You have a kind heart that will draw others to you. Be your wonderful self, and friends will come.”
Sarah felt a little better, but she was still nervous.
“I wish Dad were here to give me a blessing,” she said. “Like he always used to before I went back to school.”
Mom was quiet for a minute. “What about Uncle Wyatt?” she said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a blessing.”
Sarah nodded. Maybe a blessing would help.
That night, Sarah’s uncle put his hands on her head to give her a blessing.
“I bless you to know that the Savior is mindful of you as you start this new chapter in life,” he said. “He will not leave you alone.”
Sarah paid special attention to the words new chapter. She loved to read and was always excited to start a new chapter in a book.
The next morning Sarah and Mom went to church. After sacrament meeting Mom helped Sarah find the Primary room. A girl smiled at her and said hello.
“You can sit here,” she said, patting an empty chair next to her.
“Thanks,” Sarah said. “My name’s Sarah. I’m new here.”
“I’m Melody. And I’m new too! This is only my second week.”
Soon Sarah and Melody were talking with the other Primary kids. Their teacher was really nice.
I hope school goes well too, Sarah thought as she went to bed that night.
The next day, Sarah rode the bus to her new school. She was excited to see a few kids from Primary in her third-grade class.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, Sarah prayed silently as she ate lunch with her new friends. Maybe this will be a good chapter, after all.