Gospel Story Finder

By the time I turned 12, I was a 5-foot 10-inch social disaster. Towering over my friends was the bane of my adolescence. I didn’t want to stand out—at least not that way—so I compensated by slouching. As a result, Mother was constantly urging me to “stand up straight.” Well, I didn’t want to stand up straight then, but I do now. For we have all been admonished to “stand up” (2 Ne. 8:17) and to stand as a witness (see Mosiah 18:9) so that we may “stand blameless before God at the last day” (D&C 4:2). I can find absolutely no scriptural injunction to slouch in Zion. Instead, we are repeatedly told to get on our feet, to “arise and stand up” (3 Ne. 20:2).
As a teenager I did not realize that blending in with the crowd would never be my lot. Nor is it yours. For as women of God we must stand tall so that we will stand out from the rest of the world. Only in doing so may we hope to find joy. For finding joy and standing tall, not in feet or inches but as ambassadors for the Lord, are directly connected.
My family has been reminded of this recently in a very poignant way. I have 17 nieces and nephews, who are a pure delight. We have hiked and biked and fasted and prayed together. And recently we have cried together. A few weeks ago we suffered a crushing loss when an accident took the lives of two of my sister’s children—Amanda, who was 11, and Tanner, who was 15. Because we have lived together in love, we have truly wept for the loss of them that died (see D&C 42:45).
Our friends in our hometown wept with us, most of them nonmembers, and we knew their hearts might never be more open to truth than on the day two caskets rested in our little Kansas chapel. So we dedicated the funeral entirely to testifying of Christ and the restored gospel. Afterwards many told us how moved they were by what they heard and by what they felt. Some have even asked to learn more. Now, we don’t know if anyone affected by our children’s deaths will join the Church. But this we do know—that standing up for what we believe and teaching the gospel to friends who had never before been willing to listen helped soothe our pain and bring us joy as a family.
In this world, the only true joy comes from the gospel—the joy that radiates from the Atonement and from ordinances that transcend the veil, and from the Comforter that salves our souls. Recently my 11-year-old niece Aubrey, whose father died five years ago, was asked by a nonmember friend why she wasn’t sad about the deaths of her father and, recently, her cousins. Aubrey’s reply was classic: “Not sad? Trust me, we are sad, but we know that we will be together again, so we don’t worry as much.” As a family we’ve no doubt cried as much, but we don’t worry as we would if we hadn’t felt the transcendent reach and healing power of Jesus Christ. The gospel is “beauty for ashes” (Isa. 61:3); it is “the oil of gladness” (Heb. 1:9); it is such good news!
Though our children are gone for now, we have the glorious reassurance that we haven’t lost them. But what about our Father’s children, our brothers and sisters, who are lost and who face not only physical but spiritual death? The gospel of Jesus Christ is all about people. It’s about leaving the ninety and nine and going into the wilderness after those who are lost. It’s about bearing one another’s burdens, with the ultimate burden anyone can bear being walking through this life without light. Hence the Lord’s latter-day plea:
“The field is white already to harvest; and it is the eleventh hour, and the last time that I shall call laborers into my vineyard. …
“… Wherefore, thrust in your sickles, and reap with all your might” (D&C 33:3, 7).
Ancient prophets foresaw a day “when the knowledge of a Savior [would] spread throughout every nation, kindred, tongue, and people” (Mosiah 3:20). That day has come. And it is our turn to thrust in our sickles and help with the harvest. That we are here now is no accident. For aeons of time our Father watched us and knew He could trust us when so much would be at stake. We have been held in reserve for this very hour. We need to understand not just who we are but who we have always been. For we are women of God, and the work of women of God has always been to help build the kingdom of God.
When in premortality we accepted our Father’s plan, said Elder John A. Widtsoe, “we agreed, right then and there, to be … saviors for the whole human family. … The working out of the plan became … not merely the Father’s work, and the Savior’s work, but also our work” (Utah Genealogical and Historical Magazine, Oct. 1934, 189). Then, when we were baptized here, we renewed our commitment to—and our covenant with—the Lord. No wonder President Gordon B. Hinckley has declared that “if the world is going to be saved, we have to do it. … No other people in the history of the world have … received a … more compelling mandate than we [have] … , and we’d better be getting at it” (“‘Church Is Really Doing Well,’” Church News, 3 July 1999, 3).
Sisters, we have work to do. The Prophet Joseph charged the Relief Society with the work of saving souls (see History of the Church, 5:25), for it is our very nature to nurture and to search after those who are lost. And yet, President Spencer W. Kimball lamented that there was a power in Relief Society that had not “yet been fully exercised to … build the Kingdom of God” (“Relief Society—Its Promise and Potential,” Ensign, Mar. 1976, 4). For all the good it has done in the past, Relief Society has yet to help move this latter-day work forward as it must. Sisters, the time has come to unleash the power of righteous happiness that exists among women of God. The time has come for us to be anxiously engaged in the work of saving souls. The time has come for the sisters of Relief Society to stand with and for the prophet in helping build the kingdom. The time has come for us each to stand tall and to stand together.
Standing tall begins with our own conversion, for when we taste the gospel’s “exceeding joy” (Alma 36:24) we want to share it. The casseroles and quilts we have made to relieve suffering are splendid acts of kindness, but no service—I repeat, no service—compares with that of leading someone to Christ. Do you want to be happy? I mean really happy? Then nurture someone along the path that leads to the temple and to Christ.
The most effective way to share the gospel is to live it. When we live like disciples of Christ should live, when we aren’t just good but happy to be good, others will be drawn to us because we are “distinct and different—in happy ways,” as President Kimball prophesied (“The Role of Righteous Women,” Ensign, Nov. 1979, 104). Happy about the way we’ve chosen to live, happy because we’re not constantly reshaping ourselves in the world’s image, happy because we have “the gift and the power of the Holy Ghost” (1 Ne. 13:37), happy to stand tall so that we will stand out.
Every time we strengthen our own testimony or help someone else strengthen theirs, we build the kingdom of God. Every time we mentor a newly baptized sister or befriend a wandering soul without judging her or invite a nonmember family to home evening or give a Book of Mormon to a colleague or lead a family to the temple or stand up for modesty and motherhood or invite the missionaries into our homes or help someone discover the power of the word, we build the kingdom of God. Imagine how it lifted my sister’s spirits when she read this journal entry Tanner had made just before he died: “Thanks, Mom and Dad, for teaching me about Christ.” What builds the kingdom more than raising up a child to the Lord?
With the exception of those serving full-time missions, we needn’t don name badges or knock on doors to help build the kingdom. For though some would portray us as dowdy and dominated rather than the dynamic, radiant women we are, no woman is more persuasive, no woman has greater influence for good, no woman is a more vibrant instrument in the hands of the Lord than a woman of God who is thrilled to be who she is. I like to think of us as the Lord’s secret weapon. If we did have name tags, I would want mine to read: “Sheri Dew, Woman of God, Busy Building the Kingdom of God.”
Imagine what would happen in this Church if every morning 4.5 million of us got on our knees and asked our Father who He needed us to reach out to that day. And then imagine if we did it! Imagine if we consecrated our energy and our focus en masse to the greatest service of all, that of leading our sisters and brothers to Christ. Imagine what will happen when we mobilize the sisters of Relief Society to stand together to help build the kingdom. We will see the awakening and arising of a sleeping, slouching giant.
Tonight I invite you to stand tall, to thrust in your sickle and join in this work with vigor. I invite you to rededicate your life to building the kingdom. To reach out to someone who has wandered. To take a new member under your wing. To consider serving a mission with your husband. To look and pray for missionary moments. To make a difference in someone’s life spiritually, especially the members of your own family. None of us have to reach everyone. But what if we all reached someone? And then someone else? And so on. President Hinckley has asked us to “become a vast army with enthusiasm for this work” (“Find the Lambs, Feed the Sheep,” Ensign, May 1999, 110). As we do so, we will become one of the mightiest forces for good this world has ever seen. For we, the sisters of Relief Society, are women of God. And the work of women of God and the work of the Relief Society has always been to help build the kingdom of God. I believe that we can do more to help our priesthood leaders than we have ever done before.
In my nephew’s priesthood quorum, just a few hours before he died, Tanner said this: “You know, if I were to die soon, I would want my funeral to be a missionary farewell.” My prayer tonight is that we can be equally clear about our mission as women of God. This isn’t just a really nice church that teaches really nice ideas so that we can live really nice lives. This is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, endowed with His power and charged with carrying His truth to the ends of the earth. I love our Father. And I love His Son. And I have come to know for myself that this is Their work and Their glory and that we are the most blessed of all women to have such a vital part in it. May we lift our “voices as with the sound of a trump” (D&C 42:6). May we find joy as we stand tall and stand together. And may we “cheerfully do all things that lie in our power” (D&C 123:17), and then stand still to see the arm of God revealed as His work goes forward boldly and nobly until “it has … swept every country, and sounded in every ear, till the purposes of God shall be accomplished, and the Great Jehovah shall say the work is done” (History of the Church, 4:540). In the sacred and holy name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Tommy Ayres moved with his family to Arizona, hoping the climate would benefit his father’s health. Tommy was ten years old at the time. The family attended an Evangelical Church; and at one gathering, President L. Harold Wright of Maricopa Stake was invited to explain the beliefs of the Mormon Church. Tommy was interested but did nothing about it until his father’s ill health kept them from driving the several miles to church. Tommy started attending Scout meetings at the nearby Latter-day Saint Church. Then he was on his way. He and his mother were taught by the missionaries and were baptized. His father, in a nursing home, was later baptized by Tommy. Two elders helped Tommy with the baptism by wheeling his father to the edge of the font and gently lifting him into the water. One month later his father died. His temple work was done two years later from sheets carefully prepared by Tommy.

Tommy’s interest in genealogy began soon after his conversion. He has spent hours researching family records for his own direct lines. It was a sweet moment for him when his parents were sealed (someone standing proxy for his dead father), and a brother who had lived for only two days and Tommy were sealed to their parents. Tommy left shortly afterward for his mission. He is serving in the Montana-Wyoming Mission under President Wright, the man from whom he first heard about the gospel.

My first Sunday home, I was lying on my bed and realized I hadn’t looked at Facebook since coming home. I opened it and was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of pictures and videos from before my mission. I love to dance and had started watching some dance videos when I heard my mom call up to my room, “Breanne! What are you listening to?”
I listened more closely and realized how inappropriate the background music was. I was pretty embarrassed that here I was—a freshly returned missionary—listening to music that wasn’t inviting the Spirit.
That experience helped me realize how easy it is to become more relaxed in how much we maintain our gospel standards when we aren’t full-time missionaries. I wanted to stay changed. I wanted to remain the person God had helped me become. Luckily, I recognized that, for me, what I was listening to wasn’t bringing the Spirit and was able to adjust.

I applied for a classical piano competition a few months ago. I knew it would likely be on a Sunday, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I started practicing three months before the competition, and it took a lot of time and effort to get ready.
A month before the competition, a seminary lesson on the Ten Commandments made me think about whether or not competing on a Sunday was a good idea. I wanted to push away the thought, because I’d already paid the application fee of TWD$1,400 (about US$50)—not to mention that I’d spent so much time practicing. I asked my seminary teacher if going to a piano competition would be breaking the Sabbath. He told me that was between God and me. But he bore his testimony that keeping the Sabbath day holy would be a blessing. I thought about it, and I really didn’t want to have to forfeit the competition.
Each day, I read a general conference article. I had just finished one talk and was about to put down the articles, but the next article caught my eye: “Stand in Holy Places” by President Thomas S. Monson (Ensign, Nov. 2011, 82). When I began reading it, I hadn’t been thinking at all about my piano competition, nor was I expecting an answer from the talk. But as I read, it was as if Heavenly Father were chastising me. President Monson’s words hit me hard:
“The Ten Commandments are just that—commandments. They are not suggestions. They are every bit as requisite today as they were when God gave them to the children of Israel” (83).
Then as I continued, I found:
“His constancy is something on which we can rely, an anchor to which we can hold fast and be safe, lest we be swept away into uncharted waters.
“… There is nothing which can bring more joy into our lives or more peace to our souls than the Spirit which can come to us as we follow the Savior and keep the commandments” (83).
I knew then what my Heavenly Father expected of me. I said a prayer and told Him that if it were necessary, I would forfeit the competition, even if I didn’t get a refund. I prayed that I wouldn’t have to forfeit if it were possible, that there might be a way for me to still compete, but that I would keep the Sabbath day holy no matter what.
At the end of the day, I told my piano teacher I couldn’t compete on a Sunday. She was surprisingly understanding. She said the competitions were divided by area and that I could try to transfer to an area that competed on a different day. I made a call the next day and successfully transferred to compete in Tainan, Taiwan, where the competition was held on Saturday.
I am so grateful that I made the decision to obey my Heavenly Father’s commandments. God not only wanted me to keep the Sabbath day holy, but He cared that the piano competition mattered a lot to me. Because I was willing to obey, my testimony of God’s love for me and of the blessings that come from obeying His commandments has been strengthened. I know that when we do our best to do what He asks, God will provide the rest.

As a teenager, however, I started falling away after I moved to a new ward. I attended youth activities most weeks, but I kept to myself and didn’t participate much. I didn’t enjoy church on Sunday, but I attended off and on. I realized that I was not really converted to the gospel and its teachings. I didn’t have a testimony of my own.
As usual during one fast and testimony meeting, my mind wandered. I wasn’t really listening as ward members bore their testimonies, but I said amen at the end of each one. Then a sister went up to the pulpit and started bearing her testimony. When she mentioned cake, I looked up and started paying attention.
“I always speak to Heavenly Father, even when I’m baking a cake,” she said. “I say a little prayer that the cake will rise and come out well. I know He answers our prayers.”
I didn’t think much about that testimony until our car wouldn’t start when we needed to go to the store to get some food. At that moment I remembered the words of the sister. So, I went back to my bedroom to ask God to help us so that the car would start. I knelt and prayed. When I finished, I took the car keys and put them in the ignition. And then came the answer to my prayer—the sound of the car starting.
Because of that answer to a simple prayer, I went from almost falling away to continuing on a path that has helped me gain a personal testimony and become fully converted to the gospel. The words to my favorite Primary song, “I Feel My Savior’s Love,”1 became more than just words of a song. They became feelings that I really have.
I pray about everything now. And though the answer or the timing isn’t always what I desire, I still choose to hear Him as I remember Nephi’s words: “But behold, I say unto you that ye must pray always, and not faint” (2 Nephi 32:9).

“Throw ’em in the rag bag,” Mom would say whenever I outgrew an article of clothing. Sometimes it was hard to think that a favorite blouse or skirt would end up as a cleaning rag.
But one rainy day, Mom told me how I could make something new from my old clothes. “I’ll show you how to make a rag rug,” she said.
We got out the sack of old clothes. First, we tore the clothing into inch-wide strips. These varied in length. For instance, the pieces from a skirt were longer than those from a blouse.
“Roll the strips into balls,” Mom said. “That way, the pieces won’t get all tangled up.” So I made separate balls of woolen cloth strips, cotton strips, and strips made from knit fabric. Mom explained that it was better to make my rug from one kind of fabric. If the strips were similar in bulk, it would be much easier to “work” the rug.
When there was a variety of strips, I sewed them together, end to end. I sewed mine by hand, but a machine works fine, too. By alternating strips in color and design, I created a pretty pattern. It takes many, many of these strips sewn together to make a rug. I figured about 680 yards would make a 24-by-45-inch rug.
Using a large wooden crochet hook (size 15), Mom showed me how to make a chain. This was the base of my rug.
Size 15 (Actual size.)
I made a slip knot with my cloth strip and inserted my hook through it from right to left. By pulling both ends of the strip, I drew the loop up close to the hook (figure 1).
Figure 1.
“Not too tight,” Mom directed.
With my right hand, I held the hook. I looped the strip over the hook with my left hand. Then I pulled the strip through the loop to make a chain stitch. I repeated this over and over until I had 45 chains. That is, I had 45 chains plus the one on my hook (figures 2a and 2b). This made my rug about two feet wide.
Figure 2.
Next, I inserted the hook down through the second chain from the hook. I looped my strip over the hook and pulled it up through the chain (figure 3a). I then had two loops on my hook. Putting the strip over the hook once again, I pulled it through both of the loops. That made one single crochet (figure 3b). This procedure was repeated in each chain. When I got to the end of the row, I chained one more, then turned my work (figure 4).
Figure 3.
Figure 4.
The second row was formed by making a single crochet in each single crochet of the first row. I again chained one before starting the next row.
I kept repeating this until my rug was the length I wanted. Eighty-five rows of single crochet made a 45-inch rug. It took me approximately 56 hours to make it.
To finish the rug, I removed the hook. Pulling the loop out, I worked the end of the strip back and forth through the rug’s stitches.
At times, weeks would go by before I’d work on the rug. Then I’d be in the mood to crochet again, so I’d do a few more rows.
Sometimes my girl friend would help. I’d let her crochet while I watched. Once in a while, Mom and I would work on our rugs together. Those were nice sharing times.
When it was finally finished, it made a colorful spot by our door. I felt good when I’d see my favorite old clothes still being useful in a bright rug.

My parents moved to St. George a few years after they retired. I loved to visit them and escape from the cold and the smog of the Wasatch Front. After one visit with them, my daughter Laura and I left to drive home. We had just passed the fourteen-mile marker on I-15, north of St. George, when we got a flat tire. I pulled over to the shoulder and quickly reached for my cell phone to call my dad and ask for his help. He was at the neighbors’, but my mom went over to tell him of our plight.

In the meantime, a couple of nice men stopped and began to change our flat tire. They were just finishing when my dad pulled up behind us. He got out of his car and thanked the men for helping me. My dad and I visited briefly and then said our good-byes once more.

I got in my car, started it, and tried to pull forward but could not. Something was wrong. My dad was behind us, so he had not yet moved. We got out of our cars, and he took a quick look at my tire. He went to his trunk and removed a two-by-four piece of wood and a hammer. Something was hanging underneath my car in the wheel well against the tire, preventing it from rotating. He placed the two-by-four along the top of the tire and hit the other end of the board with his hammer, moving the dangling piece out of the way so the tire could rotate freely.

When I looked at my dad, I noticed he was a bit teary. I thanked him, and he said, “There is something you need to know. When I entered the garage to get in the car and come to you, I felt prompted to take a two-by-four and a hammer. Although I wondered why in the world I would need a two-by-four and a hammer to change a tire, I gathered them and put them in the trunk. They were exactly what I needed to fix your car.”

I became teary too. A loving, watchful Heavenly Father had communicated to my dad through the Holy Ghost to help me with a need that neither my dad nor I knew I had when the prompting was given. My heart filled with gratitude for my Heavenly Father, for my wonderful earthly father, and for the Holy Ghost. I felt so loved, so protected, and so safe. Our Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost care about the details of our lives.

In the final few weeks of 1944 I was bundled up and taken, at about six in the morning as I recall, down to the Big Hand Cafe on the corner of Main Street and Highway 91 in St. George, Utah. That’s where the Greyhound bus stopped in our little town, and that morning my Uncle Herb, all of seventeen years of age, was leaving for San Diego, California—wherever that was. Apparently in 1944 there was a war on somewhere, and he was now deemed old enough to go and do his part. He had joined the United States Navy, and we were there to say goodbye.
Actually, I had a rather formal part in this bus stop program. I had practiced and was now supposed to sing in my four-year-old solo voice a little ditty that celebrated sailors with lyrics beginning “Bell-bottom trousers / Coat of navy blue. / She loves her sailor boy / And he loves her too.” However, as with other assignments later in my life, I panicked in the public eye and went stone silent. I refused to sing a note.
But my silence seemed to work out all right anyway because my mother and my grandmother and my aunts were all crying and nobody cared much whether I sang or not. I asked why they were crying, and they said it was because Uncle Herb was going to war. I asked, “How long will he be gone?”—not knowing then that some of the boys were never coming home. Through her tears my grandmother said, “He will be gone as long as it takes. He will be gone for the duration of the war.”
Well, I had no idea whatsoever of her meaning. “As long as it takes to do what?” for crying out loud—which is exactly what they were doing. And what was “the duration of the war”? I was totally confused and very glad I didn’t sing my song. That would only have added to the confusion, and the Big Hand Cafe never could stand much confusion.
As you might suppose, I have thought a lot more about my grandmother’s words later in my life than I ever thought about them in my youth. Lately they have been on my mind again, and I hope they might have some significance for you this morning.

Let me tell you a story I heard recently in Mexico.
Thirty years ago David Castañeda; his wife, Tomasa; and their children lived on a dry, little, run-down ranch near Torreón. They owned 30 chickens, two pigs, and one thin horse. They walked in poverty. Then the missionaries called on them. Sister Castañeda said, “The elders took the blinders from our eyes and brought light into our lives. We knew nothing of Jesus Christ. We knew nothing of God until they came.”
The elders taught them, and they were eventually baptized. They moved into the little town of Bermejillo. They started in the junk business, buying wrecked automobiles. They gradually built a prosperous business. With simple faith they paid their tithing. They put their trust in the Lord. They lived the gospel. They served wherever they were called to serve. Four of their sons and three of their daughters filled missions. They have been made fun of for their obedience to gospel principles. Their answer is a testimony of the power of the Lord in their lives.
Some 200 of their family and friends have joined the Church due to their influence. The children, now grown, and the parents take turns going to Mexico City each month to work in the temple. They stand as a living testimony of the great power of this work of the Lord to lift and change people.

I had a similar problem at school where one certain girl seemed to really hate me. Finally, through prayerful study of the scriptures, I decided I would show some act of kindness to her every day, no matter how much I hated the thought of being nice to someone so undeserving. I prayed daily that the Lord would help me see this girl as a child of God and help me love her as He loves her. My goal was to smile at her every time I saw her. It sure was hard. Even though sometimes my smile was very slight, I kept my promise. Whenever she made a rude or unkind comment, I thought to myself, She is a child of God. By the semester’s end, I felt as if my smiles were sincere. I even found myself standing up for her when others had mean things to say about her. This year we are even friends. I think this same approach might work for you.
Jennifer Dobberfuhl, 16Barron, Wisconsin

In 1959, I received that invitation. I did not even know of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a dance, I met a young lady who was raised in the gospel. I was attracted to her. She said to me, “You know, I could never consider marrying you unless it were in the temple.” I responded to that invitation and was taught the gospel. She is now my eternal companion. I will ever be grateful that that was the invitation she extended to me, for it transformed my life.

As the years passed, my parents stopped practicing their religion, and I became an atheist. I thought it beneath me to believe in God.
One day when I was 17, I was sitting alone, looking out the window. For some reason, I suddenly began to believe in God again. At the time I was not interested in religion, but there came into my heart a conviction that God did actually exist.
A week later my family moved to Clermont-Ferrand in central France. I began asking myself some difficult questions: What is Jesus like? What is my relationship to Him? One afternoon some young men gave me a paper that read: “Who is Jesus? Come to the Christian pub to discuss this question with other young people.” I told the young men that I had been asking myself that very question. I said I would stop by soon.
The next day I decided to go to the Christian pub. But as I walked up to it, I couldn’t bring myself to enter. In the days that followed, I went back several times, but for some reason I was afraid to go inside.
My inability to enter the pub left me feeling sad. I didn’t know what to do. But after I came home from one of my uncompleted trips, the thought came to me that Jesus Christ organized His Church almost 2,000 years ago; therefore that Church must exist today. As soon as the idea entered my mind, the doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints standing there. I was surprised—not by their sudden appearance at my door, but by my reaction. I felt as though I had been waiting for them.
Because my room was in disorder, I felt embarrassed to have the missionaries come in, so I asked where they held meetings. The following Sunday I attended church at the address they gave me. What I learned of Jesus Christ and of my relationship to Him felt right. I was soon baptized. I have always believed the Spirit converted me to the gospel before the missionaries ever contacted me.

When Kahn turned 4, we holidayed in our homeland of Samoa, where we reconnected with Kahn’s birth family. They welcomed us with open arms, and Kahn’s birth grandmother wept when she recognised him. “Your son is gorgeous,” she said. “He’s so active, and he looks like he enjoys his food, too.”

It was an emotional reunion. They thanked us for loving and nurturing Kahn—and then they asked if we had room in our lives for another child.

My husband and I were astonished.

We discovered that Kahn’s birth mother had another baby. Naree Alalafaga was 5 months old at the time and, again, her family wanted more for this child than they were able to offer.

My mother’s words echoed softly in my mind: you reap what you sow.

It wasn’t by chance we met our miracle daughter this way. The Lord knows our deepest desires, and what is best for us. So, when our reunion with Kahn’s birth family brought a precious addition—his baby sister—to our home, it just felt right.

My father was our bishop, but he died before I received the priesthood. I remember so clearly being ordained a deacon. A new world opened up for me. I was now living on a higher plane. As I would hear people say, “You hold the priesthood,” it was not easy to fully comprehend. But with humble leaders, we began to understand that as deacons we had been given blessings and authority to do sacred things.
As quorum officers we accounted for all of our members and would see that they were all at church. We enjoyed being together. We helped the elderly and the widows. We cleaned the meetinghouse and raked the grounds. We made sure that the sacrament trays and sacrament cloths were clean and fresh. We were part of the Church, and the Church was part of us. We knew it; we felt it! We held the priesthood of God! Understanding leaders guided us and helped us broaden our vision and our ever-expanding role as young men; but more important, they helped prepare us to be called in our youth to be servants of our Savior. He needs every one of you young men.

I have always been interested in animals and birds. When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens, I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour in South Africa. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days.
The mission president was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) I thought we were planning to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans. “There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left to go to our isolated cabin. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem.
In the morning they brought us back to the compound. We had no automobile and no way to get a replacement until late in the afternoon. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us. “We are building a new lookout over a water hole about 20 miles [32 kilometers] from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of 17 lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “Crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.
I hope you’ll be wiser in talking to your guides than I was on that occasion. That smart-aleck idea that I knew everything really wasn’t worthy of me, nor is it worthy of you. I’m not very proud of it, and I think I’d be ashamed to tell you about it except that telling you may help you.

The auditorium is dark. Downstage a spotlight picks out a white telephone. Rrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrring!

Then a deep, penetrating voice asks, “Waiting for a call?” And as the voice continues, figures begin to gather onstage. “They are. They’re waiting for a call from Heavenly Father. They don’t realize he is always calling and ready to listen. All they have to do is lift the receiver.”

The orchestra begins to play ever so softly and is joined by a male voice singing.

It is the beginning of the play “Awaiting Answers,” written, produced, and directed by high school seminary students. But, of course, that isn’t really the beginning. It started one spring at the annual Davis County Seminary District “S-Day” traditionally held at the Regional Center in Bountiful, Utah.

Shirley Anderson of Kaysville, Utah, was there as a chaperone. “The professional music program was good,” she recalls, “but I had the strongest feeling an S-Day program should be something the kids can take home with them.” So Sister Anderson devoted her speech and drama talent to guiding the seminary students for the coming year in an effort to create a really good, seminary-produced play. Two co-directors were appointed, Carolyn Hawkins and Todd Williams, and a committee of representatives was formed from every seminary in the district.

Like the teenagers who did the work, those in the story came out triumphant. With love of God and a growing love for each other, the actors acted, the singers sang, the orchestra played, and the dancers danced; and when they were through and the lights were lowered on the last strains of “Oh, my child, this is Saturday. Blessings are in store, blessings are in store,” there was scarcely a dry eye in the audience or on stage.

We need not go into Mormon folklore to find strange and miraculous happenings of protection—almost any missionary journal tells of them. Many of you have served missions and have had both great and small experiences with the promptings of the Holy Ghost. On our own mission, my husband and I were protected and blessed. An example of just a small blessing occurred one evening when we were parking our car in a lot behind an apartment complex where we were to give the missionary discussions to some investigators from Brazil. As my husband pulled into a parking spot, I suddenly said, “Don’t park here.” I’m sure he thought, “There goes my nutty wife again.” There didn’t seem to be any reason for my request, but my husband pulled out and moved to a different spot. It was dark when we came out of our discussion sometime later, but we noticed that another car was where we had originally parked. It was totally hemmed in by other vehicles.

An apostle of the Lord made me a promise. “The Lord God will not leave you alone, nor will he be in debt. This you can count on.”
Those were the comforting words of Elder Richard L. Evans of the Quorum of the Twelve as he spoke at funeral services for my young husband. The “compensation” he spoke of was beyond my comprehension, and the thought remained in my memory for years. I could not see the end from the beginning.
That we are not alone, however, and that a loving Father in Heaven hears our prayers was more tangible. Our five children, ages four through sixteen, understood this. Their father, whose career had been in broadcasting, had often taught that their voices and thoughts are audible to the Lord, that they could reach the Lord through prayer if their lives were tuned in to the right frequency. Little David, the youngest, prayed at his grandmother’s knee on that first lonely night, “Please bless my daddy, so he will be well when I get there.”
We were on a family vacation in Utah when my husband died of a sudden heart attack. Still numb from shock, I faced my first major decision. Our home was three thousand kilometers away in Washington, D.C. “What do we do now?” I wondered. “Do we move back to Utah among family and old friends, or do we stay is Washington where we had established our home?” My ninety-two-year-old grandfather, a wise patriarch of a large family, offered good counsel. “Go back home to Washington for the present,” he said. “It is not wise to uproot your family until you think it through for at least a year.”
It was not a difficult decision to make. Our home, with its familiar surroundings, was a haven, and there was a memory in every room. It would have been more difficult for us to start over somewhere else.
Also, the Church in the Washington D.C. area was strong and growing fast. Members from adults to grade-school children felt a strong sense of identity with the Church. The opportunity to identify oneself as a Latter-day Saint promoted awareness of doctrine and practices and, through commitment to covenants, helped build strong testimonies of the gospel.
There was a feeling of missionary excitement. Our neighborhood is filled with beautiful churches of various Christian denominations. In the months and years after we returned to our home, school friends who were members of those churches invited our children to speak to their youth groups about Mormonism, and the interest and questions of the young people and their religious leaders challenged our children to expand their knowledge and test their faith. Many close friendships and several conversions resulted.
Looking back, I see the wisdom of remaining among supportive neighborhood, school, and Church friends. The great loss we had suffered did not disrupt the stability of our lives.
There was little time for grief that first year. The awesome responsibilities of my new role as sole parent were overwhelming. Ralph had been very much in charge, and I relied heavily on his judgment and leadership. Attempting to establish my authority was of prime importance. The children thought they were very funny when they made birthday and Mother’s Day cards depicting me in a general’s uniform. However, I knew my authority was finally recognized when I overheard one small child say to another, “What are Mother and Daddy going to do when they get together again, now that Mother’s the boss?”
But there was a special presence in our home. Father was considered to be out of reach but not out of touch. I realized this one day when teen-aged Alison said, “Mother, I can always get out of your range, but I can’t get out of Daddy’s.” This was a positive moment that reminded me of Elder Evans’ promise.
Our youngest child insists that he never felt fatherless. His departed father was always a real person to him, and he intuitively understood the eternal nature of the family unit long before he learned about the covenants and promises that can ensure its endurance. This awareness also translated into a desire on the part of our children to prove themselves so as not to disappoint the father they had come to idealize. As for me, I was determined to succeed in my stewardship. I could not fail my eternal partner or my Eternal Father. Our purpose bound us even closer together as a family as we shared our trials and successes.
Temple marriage was a subject of special interest. It was an anchor to which we could hold and a prize that all would one day attain. Our primary motivation was that we might all serve the Lord’s purposes so as to be reunited as a family once again.
A second major problem that had to be resolved soon after Ralph’s death was how to provide for my family. This is probably the most crucial and frightening reality that most newly-widowed mothers face. My options were whether to use our insufficient financial resources until they were gone, and then decide how to support the family, or to find employment in the near future and keep some funds in reserve. I chose the latter. Fortunately, it was possible for me to be away during the day because all the children were in school, and an older daughter was responsible until I arrived home. The children’s acceptance of this new situation and their faith in me was viewed as “God’s in his heaven and Mother will provide.”
I had limited qualifications, having married before completing college. But after a refresher course in business English and typing, I was ready to start at the bottom. I became a receptionist. It was a good beginning. Further training brought additional employment opportunities and added responsibilities. These experiences, along with subsequent years in the field of corporate communications at one of the government banking agencies, have broadened my interests, supplemented my education, developed my skills, strengthened my self-confidence, contributed to my financial independence, and provided for my future security. This is compensation I had never dreamed of.
When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

Eric was different from the other children and he knew it. But he wasn’t sure whether he liked being different. He often thought about it when he woke up early in the morning and had to stay in bed and be quiet so he wouldn’t wake up his brothers. Sometimes he would turn on his lamp and read. Other times he would lie in the dark and listen to the cars and trucks whizzing by on the highway or to the roosters crowing. Then he would think about how far away the cars and the rooster were and why he could hear them so well in the morning, when he never even noticed them in the daytime while he played.
Sometimes Eric would think about his curly red hair and how the other children called him “Red, Red, the Fire Head” and how he had to share a room with his three brothers instead of having a room all by himself like his friend Andy Rogers. Those were times he didn’t like being different.
It wasn’t just his red hair and waking up early that made Eric different. And it wasn’t just having seven brothers and sisters when his friends had only one or two.
Eric was the only one in his school class who went to Primary and the only one in his neighborhood who couldn’t play boisterous games on Sunday.
Mostly, Eric decided, it wasn’t much fun to be different, but lately he was thinking about something else. In two weeks it would be his birthday and he’d be eight years old. Sometimes when he’d wake up in the mornings, he’d think about being baptized. He tried to imagine how it would be when he put on the white clothes and walked down the steps into the water. He could picture his dad standing in the water waiting for him and holding out his hand for Eric to take. This thought made Eric feel good.
One day on the way home from school Eric talked to Andy about being baptized. “Are you going to be baptized when you’re eight?” he asked his friend.
“I don’t think so,” Andy replied. “I don’t know much about those things.” Eric thought, I am different again!
Then Andy asked, “Will you be baptized when you’re eight?”
Eric looked at Andy for a moment and decided, Andy won’t tease me if I tell him about it because he’s a good friend. “Yes, I will,” Eric answered. “In two weeks it will be my eighth birthday. And that’s old enough to be baptized. I can hardly wait.”
Then an exciting idea came to Eric. “Andy,” he asked, “would you like to come to my baptism. My dad’s going to baptize me. I get to wear all white clothes and sit on the front row with my dad. You could come and bring your dad, too, if you’d like.”
When Eric’s baptism date finally came, his whole family went with him. Andy and Andy’s dad, Mr. Rogers, were there too.
Before the baptism all the people participated in a brief service. First there was a song and then a talk about Jesus being baptized and about the importance of following Him.
Jesus was different too, Eric realized. It was a very comforting thought.
When it was time to be baptized, everything happened just like Eric had imagined. But now he could really feel Dad’s strong hand reach out for his. He could feel the cool water pushing softly against his waist. For a few minutes Eric didn’t think of anything at all except the sound of his dad’s voice and the warmth of his dad’s hand and the cool water all around him.
After the baptism and after he and Dad had changed clothes, Eric shook hands with everyone and his mother gave him a tight hug. Then Eric and his dad walked to the back of the room to see Andy and Mr. Rogers, who were both looking pleased. Dad shook hands with Mr. Rogers and said, “Thanks for coming, Frank.”
Mr. Rogers waited a moment before he answered. “It was my pleasure,” he said. “It was a lot different than I expected. I’m glad we were here to see it.”
Then he turned to Eric and shook his hand. And Eric knew that something very important had happened not only to him but to Andy and his father too. And then Eric knew that in some ways it was good to be different.

Then came that great and important day in my life. I got my driver’s license. Who better than a teenage boy can savor the thrill of holding in his hand the piece of paper that says he can now drive a car?
When I sat down with my parents and requested permission to drive the family car, I expected some opposition, or at least a sermon on safe driving, but I was pleasantly surprised to find they were nice people. We worked out a schedule for when I could take the car—special events such as school dances or a date but not for just joy riding to burn up gasoline. Dad did give me a few pointers on safe driving and the results of not doing it.
“Okay, dad, okay,” I thought to myself. “I drove well enough to get my license, didn’t I? I don’t need any advice on how to drive.”
Things went along pretty well for the balance of my senior year. The smoking habit did not develop, and my relationship with my parents was pretty good. However, there was one incident that changed the entire course of my life. One Saturday night I took the family car, and a companion and I went to a movie. Afterwards I drove to a local drive-in for a malt. In the parking lot we met three of my schoolmates. They were acting so jovial that I should have guessed something was not just right. It was Saturday night, and I wanted to be a good sport, so when they invited us to go for a ride with them, I agreed. My companion and I climbed in their back seat, and we all headed for the canyon.
Before long the driver was gunning the car up the narrow, windy road with reckless abandon, and I could see that they had all been drinking. There were times when I wanted to caution him to slow down, but I didn’t want to appear to be chicken.
We went several miles up the canyon, then turned around to come back. I learned the true meaning of fear as the driver began taking hairpin curves at an unsafe speed. Then it happened. The car flew off the road at high speed and struck a concrete abutment. As the car flipped over on its side and then onto its roof, we skidded down the road in a mixed-up bundle of humanity.
As I watched the sparks flying from the roof of the car, I reviewed my life—down to the last wasted opportunity and foolish act. I prayed too. I don’t remember what I prayed for, but it must have been a prayer of desperation, a plea for life and a chance to change. After skidding down the road for several hundred feet, the car came to a jarring stop against a large cottonwood tree that stood above the river.
Miraculously, no one was seriously hurt. Suddenly sober, the driver and his companions began concocting a story to make the accident look less incriminating. It was agreed that the driver had swerved off the road to avoid hitting a deer. To my shame, I agreed to this lie, and later that night I told it to my parents. They believed their son.
The next day dad insisted we go to the scene of the accident. When he saw where the car had struck the abutment, he knew at once that the story of the deer was pure fiction. Back home, dad sat me down across the table from him. He was very serious.
“Son,” he said in a voice that was touched with emotion, “the night of the accident your mother and I kneeled at your bedside and your mother asked the Lord to protect you and your companions. She said she had a feeling you needed help.”
It took him a few moments to control his emotions; then he continued. “Today we thank God for preserving your life, and we have come to the conclusion that he has a mission for you. This could have been a day of sadness for us; instead, it is a day of rejoicing. Our family is still together, but only by the grace of God.”
I went into my room and lay on the bed. “Okay, dad, okay,” I thought, only this time I thought it with love and appreciation. “You have put something into my heart that was never there before—an understanding of your love and the love of my Heavenly Father.” I spent that night riding upside down, watching the sparks fly up from the road, and feeling the closeness of death. I was glad when morning came with its warm sunshine.
After I graduated from high school, the bishop called me into his office. “I want you to prepare for a mission,” he said. He looked me in the eyes, and the word prepare was there.
At supper I told my parents and saw the light in their eyes. “If you decide to go, we will support you in every way.”
There was no pressure. As usual the decision must be mine.
At the mission home in Salt Lake City, the General Authority who set me apart placed his hands upon my head and called me by name. Then, as if he were looking into the windows of my life, he said, “As of this moment, all of your sins are forgiven you.”
I served my mission and am now married to a wonderful woman. We have a little boy and have already started a missionary fund for him. I am sure that as he grows older there will be times when he will say, “Okay, dad, okay.” I will understand, and I will pray for the faith and understanding of my own dad and mother.