Gospel Story Finder

Another thing I learned from my father is gratitude. When I was a child, there was a severe drought in our community. Weeks and weeks passed with no water, and our small farming community was suffering. As the bishop, Father told the ward members to fast and pray for water. He also counseled them to settle any bad feelings among each other so that we could have feelings of love and unity in our ward.
I remember gathering for the special fast and testimony meeting we held to plead for water. During the meeting, it began to rain. It rained so heavily that we couldn’t leave the meetinghouse! We had to wait for it to stop before we could go home.
Our prayers were answered. In gratitude, my father invited the ward members back the next week for a second fast and testimony meeting—this one to thank the Lord for sending the water. I learned at a young age to thank Heavenly Father for the blessings He gives us.

A friend of mine related the following experience. His father and his father’s cousin lived in the same community and were competitors in the construction business. A bitter rivalry, started in the beginning by some contract bidding, grew up over the years and was eventually inherited by the immediate families, even after the death of my friend’s father. It was difficult for them to be civil to one another, even in their church callings, where my friend was the bishop of one ward and his cousin in another. The situation became worse.
Suddenly my friend found himself with a call to serve as a mission president. He and his family were thrilled with the prospect, but he had an uneasy feeling. He kept asking himself if he were really worthy for such an important call. He knew he was living the Word of Wisdom, was a full tithepayer, faithful in his Church activities, was morally clean, and so forth, but the uneasy feeling persisted. …
In the midst of his preparations he was returning from his office one afternoon when something said to him, “You must go to your father’s cousin and correct this situation that exists between you. You cannot go out to teach the gospel of love while this feeling exists between you.”
So he went to his cousin’s home, rang the doorbell, and waited fearfully, but there was no response. He turned away feeling that at least he had tried and that this attempt would conclude the matter. But the uneasy feeling did not go away.
The next day at a funeral service his cousin came in and sat across from him. He asked his cousin if he could talk to him after the service. I quote from my friend’s account:
“When I rang the doorbell he invited me into the living room and congratulated me on my mission call. We talked a few minutes about unimportant things and then it happened. I looked at him with a feeling of love which replaced all the old bitterness, and said: ‘I have come to ask forgiveness for anything I have ever said or done that has tended to divide us and our families.’
“At this point tears came into our eyes, and for a few minutes neither of us could say a word. This was one time when silence was more powerful than words. In a few minutes he said: ‘I wish I had come to you first.’ I replied, ‘The important thing is that it is done, not who initiated it.’
“At this moment we had a rich spiritual experience which caused us to purge our lives and our souls of those things which had separated us. That experience has resulted in our having proper family relationships. Now I could go on my mission and teach the true meaning of love because for the first time in my life I had experienced its deepest dimension. Now I could honestly say that there wasn’t a person in the world that I didn’t love and appreciate. Since that day my life has never been the same, for it was then that I learned in a most positive way, as I had never understood before, this injunction of the Master to his disciples: ‘A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another’” (John 13:34).

Two taxing bush walks or hikes climaxed the boys’ stay on the island. The first was a long hike east from camp on a track that runs across a narrow part of the island, around the old convict cement works, and up along Fossil Cliffs above Fossil Bay. Here the trail climbs inland through forests of gum trees and across rocky scree slopes. Most of the boys reached the summit, the twin peaks of Bishop and Clerk. Perched on the rocky summit 630 meters above the sea they ate their boiled eggs, sandwiches, biscuits (cookies), and oranges while they drank in the magnificent vistas of Freycinet Peninsula to the north and Cape Bernier to the south.
Wednesday’s 26-kilometer walk to Chinaman’s Bay and back was tougher than the hike up Bishop and Clerk. Everyone brought their bathers (swimming trunks) and a towel, plus lunch. It took several hours slogging along the soft sandy road that followed the shoreline to reach the white beaches of Chinaman’s Bay. The boys showed amazing stamina as they not only kept up but often overtook their leaders.
As four young Scouts passed him, Brother Pash described the feelings of many of the adults when he said, “It’s disgusting, it is, to see little blokes catching us up that way.”
After some very icy swimming (the Tasman Sea carries too much of the Antarctic chill for the less hardy souls), everyone began the long walk back to camp in time to hike down to the ferry dock, meet the afternoon boat, and buy a fizzy (soda pop).
Thursday’s activities included a treasure hunt that lasted several hours and figured as the high point of the trip for many of the boys. Patrols used clues provided by leaders to guide them from point to point around the island. Because the clues were written very subtly the boys’ powers of observation were sharpened, and whether they had to identify the bleached bones of a beached whale or an old cabin used by one of the early penal officers, they gained a new appreciation for the island and its inhabitants.
Wide games (for getting acquainted), softball, cricket, chess, and fishing took up their share of time as did some service projects for the ranger. Most agreed that it was a wonderful camp, but by Friday men and boys alike were ready to go home.
Geoffrey Swanton, 13, summed up the feelings for many when he said, “The camp was a good experience for me. I think the hikes to Bishop and Clerk and Chinaman’s Bay did me good. I’m glad came. The food was good, but there was not enough of it. I reckon the wildlife here is some of the best in Australia. You could pat the wallabies and observe other animals quite close up. The historic value of the island is good and there was always something to do. I wouldn’t mind staying a little longer, but I need a good shower, a good feed-up, and some sleep at home.”
Though everyone had his favorite activities, most agreed that the most successful part of the whole camp was the wonderful associations that were forged in the warm glow of campfire conversations, in the hot dust of the island’s trails, and in the friendly warmth of patrol and tent group prayers.
“At first the camp appeared boring, but by the second day things became all right. I hardly knew anybody from the other patrols at first, but by the end of the camp I had made many new friends,” said David Scott, from Launceston.
“The camp drew us all a lot closer to our leaders, and it made us all work as a group in order to eat or have activities. The camp succeeded. It brought the young men and leaders together and helped to unify the stake Scout force,” said Matthew Parsons, from Glenorchy.
Every leader enjoyed his associations with the young men of the camp. They seemed pleased when the boys wanted to tell them about their troubles and hopes for life.
“I’ve enjoyed getting to really know the boys I’ve been called to watch over. It has helped me to know their strengths, and this camp really opened up the lines of communication between us,” said Bishop Triffith, Devonport.
The young men left the camp with new friends, better associations with their priesthood leaders, and in many cases stronger interests in the gospel of Jesus Christ and the Scouting program. The first all-Tasmanian LDS Scout camp on Maria Island was over, and everyone agreed that it had been a smashing success.

I recently learned a modern story that parallels this situation from Old Testament times:
A Latter-day Saint couple bought a restaurant that had not previously been highly successful, but they planned changes to put new life into the business. Sunday had been one of the restaurant’s busy days, and some of their acquaintances—including a close friend who had loaned them money to buy the business—urged them to keep it open on Sunday. The couple agonized over whether to close the restaurant on Sunday; after all, it defied good business logic. But they finally decided to close it, follow their own beliefs, and trust in the Lord. The succeeding months saw an immediate increase in sales, and since then the business has steadily and consistently grown.
This couple’s experience, along with the experiences of others, teaches us that the Lord rewards those who obey his commandments. Just as he promised the Israelites of Moses’ day a double amount of manna on the day before the Sabbath (see Ex. 16:29) and a more bountiful harvest during the sixth year to provide for the seventh and eighth years (see Lev. 25:3–7, 20–22), in a modern restaurant, he can increase sales on Friday and Saturday to compensate for—and often exceed—what could have been earned on the Sabbath.

Real missionary work is, of course, based on real love, and an experience of these fine young Latter-day Saints proves it. They worked for a long time to reactivate a member of the priests quorum, but it soon became clear that he wasn’t interested. They made it equally clear to him that they still wanted to be his friends, and recognizing their sincerity he was happy to have it that way. When he was in the hospital some time later, they visited him often, not to activate him, but just because they loved him. He got the message without their having to give it to him and took the first steps toward becoming active again.

Running was one of my favorite activities when I was young. I was on the track and field team, and my specialty was the 800-meter dash. That meant I ran two laps around the track.
My dream was to be in the Olympics. My trainer had been an Olympic athlete. He thought I was talented enough to go to the Olympics if I practiced hard.
I practiced a lot and ran in many races. When I was 15, I was the second-place champion for my category in the whole country of Argentina. I hoped that if I continued working, perhaps I could go to the Olympics.
But there was a problem. Often our races were on Sunday. Soon I realized that I could not continue competing. So I chose to stop running.
The choice was hard. I had to give up my dream of being in the Olympics. My trainer didn’t understand why I stopped. But I knew I had made a good decision. Even though sports are a good thing, choosing to follow the Lord and His Church is better.

A few years ago President Monson was scheduled to dedicate the Oquirrh Mountain Utah Temple on his birthday. As he arrived at the temple and approached the front door of the temple, a group of young people had assembled. They obviously knew it was President Monson’s birthday because they began to sing “Happy Birthday” to him. He stopped and faced them with a big smile on his face. He even started to wave his arms as if he were leading them in the singing. At the end they added the refrain “And many more.” He said to me, “That’s my favorite part.”
The children and the youth of the Church love him, and they have no doubt that he loves them too!

That is how a legacy of testimony is created, preserved, and transmitted in a family. It isn’t easy, but ordinary people have done it. Like many of you, I had such ancestors. One was my great-grandfather John Bennion. We cannot duplicate what he did because the world has changed, but we can learn from it.

He was a convert to the Church from Wales. He, his wife, and his children came into the Salt Lake Valley in one of the early companies of pioneers. We know something of his life because after that time he kept a journal, making a short entry nearly every day. We have the journals from 1855 to 1877. They were published in one bound volume because his descendants hoped to transmit that legacy of testimony. My mother was one of them. Her last labor before she died was to transform the daybooks in which he’d written into a manuscript for publication.

His short entries don’t have much preaching in them. He doesn’t testify that he knew Brigham Young was a prophet. He just records having answered “yes” every time the prophet called him on a mission from “over Jordan” to the Muddy mission, then on to a mission back to Wales. He also answered “yes” to the call to ride into the canyons to track Johnston’s army and the call to take his family south when the army invaded the valley. There is even a family legend that the reason he died so close to the day when Brigham Young was buried was to follow the prophet one more time.

The fact that he wrote every day makes clear to me that he knew his ordinary life was historic because it was part of the building of Zion in the latter days. The few entries which record his testimony seem to appear when death took a child. His testimony is to me more powerful because he offered it when his soul was tried.

Here is his record of one of those times. His daughter Elizabeth died in his arms. He reported her burial and the location of her grave in a few lines. But then the next day, November 4, 1863, this is the entire entry:

“Wednesday. Repairing up the stable my little children pratling around me but I miss my dear Lizzy. I pray the Lord to help me to indure faithfull to his cause to the end of my days, that I may be worthy to receive my children back into the family circle, who have fallen asleep in Christ in the days of their innocence Ann, Moroni, Esther Ellen & Elizabeth, blessed & happy are they because of the atonement of Jesus Christ.”

All the elements are there. He taught the truth. He testified that it was true. He lived consistent with his testimony and prayed that he might endure faithful until he could be united with his dear family. I feel his love and a desire to be included in that circle.

I remember the first time Jenni walked into my seminary class and said hi to me, her new teacher. She had a very difficult time speaking, her words were slurred and hard to understand, and she limped and hobbled as she tried to make her legs carry her body toward her desk. During Jenni’s first week of “main-streaming” in my class, she seemed content to be mostly ignored by her classmates, who appeared to be struggling to figure out how to interact with her.
Jenni would try to speak, but very few students could understand her. She had a difficult time keeping her nose wiped, and sometimes she would drool and soil her shirt. The students in my classroom were unaccustomed to the needs and actions of someone like Jenni, so most of them distanced themselves from her both physically and socially and, as a result, proceeded to politely ignore her.
However, they weren’t aware that inside Jenni’s deformed body was a keen mind, a heart of gold, and an indomitable spirit crying out to be heard, to be understood, to be accepted, and to be loved. She wouldn’t be ignored, politely or otherwise.
I’ll never forget the day when Jenni asked me if she could say something to the class. I wondered what she wanted to say to everyone, but I never expected her to deliver the message she did.
“I neeeeed a frrriennnd,” she stuttered. “I neeeeeeeed sommeonne toooo ssiitt bbyy mmee attt lllunnch.”
As she finished her last word, a hush settled over the class. Jenni stood erect and, rather than doing the socially acceptable thing and taking her seat, waited for a volunteer. Finally, from the back of the classroom, Treasure raised her hand and said, “I’ll be your friend, Jenni.” Jenni responded by asking, “And sit by me at lunch?”
Treasure responded, “And sit by you at lunch.”
“Every day?” asked Jenni.
“Every day,” answered Treasure.
This conversation relieved the class and also gave Treasure’s friend Wendy the confidence to raise her hand and tell Jenni that she would also be her friend and sit by her at lunch every day. The “miracle of Jenni” had begun!
The next day Treasure and Wendy sat by Jenni at lunch and then helped her through the school parking lot to the seminary building. I noticed as the days turned into weeks that Treasure and Wendy began to translate Jenni’s words when we couldn’t understand her.
As the students began to see what a beautiful, intelligent person Jenni was, they began to invite her to activities, to pick her up, to help her with her difficulties. On one occasion, Jenni excitedly told me she had a date with a young man named Kurt. “He’s so cute!” she told me. This led to other dates, more recognition, and more fun.
Often during class when someone would be sharing their feelings and begin to weep, Jenni would, unannounced, get up and walk over to this person and put her arm around them and hold them. This would touch the class, and soon we would all be weeping. Jenni would often bear her testimony to the class. She would express her gratitude for her many blessings, especially her family, and then share her firm faith in Jesus Christ.
The months turned into years, and soon it was time for Jenni to graduate from seminary. I remember the love I felt for her as she awkwardly walked up to receive her diploma, and I realized all over again how she had blessed my life. As the ceremony and the meeting ended, I encountered Jenni’s mother at the back of the chapel. Her eyes watered as she said something like this: “You’ll never know what you’ve done for my little girl.”
I replied, “Oh, not me. Look around,” as I pointed to Jenni’s classmates. “They’re the ones.”
Jenni’s classmates helped her realize what a wonderful person she is. They’re the ones who included her in their circle of friends and helped her feel like she belonged. They’re the ones who saw through her disability to the special needs of her heart—a young woman wanting to be accepted and understood. They’re the ones who came to see into the beauty of her soul, the ones who helped perform a modern-day miracle—the miracle of Jenni.

When I was 19, I left my small village in central Cambodia to live with my older brother in the capital city of Phnom Penh. Several years earlier my brother had met two young men wearing white shirts, ties, and name tags. Now my brother introduced me to the gospel and baptized me into the Church.
When I was baptized, my district president, President Pen Vibol, told me, “Memorize the Articles of Faith. They explain everything that is good in the Church, things you should always remember.” I thought this was wise advice, so I memorized all 13 and reviewed them regularly. After all, if someone asked me about Christianity, I wanted to be able to explain my faith. But I never imagined how important President Vibol’s advice would turn out to be.
My brother always encouraged me to improve myself and get an education. A few years after I was baptized, I was able to pass the English university entrance test, and I received a four-year scholarship to study international marketing at Brigham Young University–Hawaii.
But as difficult as the entrance test was, the hardest part was still ahead—getting an American visa. Permission to enter the United States is difficult and expensive. Sometimes permission is denied even for students who have scholarships to attend American universities. I filled out the proper forms, made an appointment for an interview at the U.S. Embassy, and soon found myself sitting across the desk from a young man with blue eyes.
“There are a lot of American universities,” the interviewer said. “Why do you want to go to BYU–Hawaii?”
“Because I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and it’s a Church-owned university,” I replied.
The interviewer shuffled his papers. “I see your brother is already there,” he said. I knew that the embassy didn’t like more than one member of a family to leave the country at the same time.
“Yes,” I admitted. “My older brother is attending BYU–Hawaii.” The interview wasn’t looking good.
“Can your parents support you?” was the next question.
“My father is a farmer, and my mother is a seller,” I said. I told him they didn’t make much money.
“Then how can you afford to study in the United States?” asked the interviewer.
I pulled out my acceptance letter and explained that I had a scholarship to attend the university.
After looking at the letter, the interviewer reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small card. “Recite four of these Articles of Faith,” he said.
I knew them as well as I knew my own name. “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost,” I began. After I had finished the third, the interviewer stopped me.
“OK, great!” he said, putting the card back in his desk. “You can pick up your visa tomorrow.”
I don’t know why the interviewer had an Articles of Faith card in his desk, but I was grateful I didn’t have to think twice when he asked me to recite them. Knowing the Articles of Faith may not always bring such dramatic results, but they’ll always be good to know.

My late brother-in-law, Patrick Clarke, served a mission in Chile in the mid-1960s. One of his most memorable mission experiences happened during a two-week period when he and his companion traveled with the mission president and his wife and Elder Spencer W. Kimball and his wife, Camilla, on a 3,000-mile tour of Chile, holding branch and district conferences as they traveled.

They rode in a ’61 Chevrolet station wagon with three rows of seats along the Pan?American Highway, which was then a narrow cement road with no shoulder or painted lines to identify lanes. Many rivers and deep canyons crisscrossed the path of the highway, necessitating bridges to span them. Most of these bridges were very narrow.

Late one afternoon, after holding a conference in the most southern branch of the Church in Chile, they headed north along the Pan-American Highway. Patrick was driving. His companion was in the front passenger seat. The mission president and his wife were seated in the back row, and Elder and Sister Kimball were in the middle row.

As they drove along they approached a narrow bridge that crossed a deep canyon with a river gushing below. Elder Kimball suggested they pull over and stop.

Patrick questioned him, saying, “Do you want to stop here where there is no shoulder, or do you want to drive a ways and find a better place to stop?”

Elder Kimball repeated, “Stop here.”

Without further hesitation, Patrick pulled the car over and stopped. Then he realized a semitruck was approaching the opposite end of the bridge in front of them. As the truck moved onto the bridge, the front wheel came off, causing the truck to roll over. Patrick and his companion jumped out of their car and assisted the driver out of the wrecked semitruck.

After the truck was removed from the middle of the bridge and things settled down, they continued across the bridge and up the road. As they reflected on what had happened, it became obvious that if Elder Kimball had not told them to pull over, they would have arrived on the bridge at the same time the semitruck lost its wheel and rolled. They would have had nowhere to turn and would very likely have been killed in a collision.

Patrick asked Elder Kimball how he knew they were in harm’s way. Elder Kimball explained that the Holy Ghost had whispered to him, “Pull over. Pull over.” The young elders were impressed with his inspiration but also wondered why they had not been warned; after all, they were missionaries living close to the Lord. Elder Kimball explained to them that the Holy Ghost had not overlooked them but that they were not listening. They had not trained themselves to hear the still, small voice. Elder Kimball encouraged them to hone their senses to the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

“I have a friend who learned this truth in a very personal way. His son was raised in the gospel, but he seemed to be wandering spiritually. He frequently declined opportunities to exercise the priesthood. His parents were disappointed when he declared that he had decided not to serve a mission. My friend prayed earnestly for his son, hoping that he would have a change of heart. Those hopes were dashed when his son announced that he was engaged to be married. The father pleaded with his son to get his patriarchal blessing. The son finally agreed but insisted on visiting the patriarch alone.
“When he returned after the blessing, he was very emotional. He took his girlfriend outside, where he could talk to her privately. The father peeked out the window to see the young couple wiping away each other’s tears.
“Later the son shared with his father what had happened. With great emotion he explained that during the blessing, he had a glimpse of who he was in the premortal world. He saw how valiant and influential he was in persuading others to follow Christ. Knowing who he really was, how could he not serve a mission?”

The people who come to BYU for our annual conference are often deeply moved by what they experience here. One of my favorite statements comes from another friend who is currently the head of religious affairs in Albania. He had the opportunity last fall, the day before our academic conference started, to attend the Sunday morning session of general conference in the new Conference Center. Some of you who stood in lines to get into conference this past weekend can appreciate what he saw. This is what he said about the experience:

I have been in [my position as head of religious affairs] for a year, and I have seen a lot. But now I am totally convinced that religion should be an essential part of people’s lives. In my country, people line up for bread; today I saw thousands of your people standing in line . . . to worship.

This kind of impression changes perspectives on the importance of religious freedom. I returned a month ago from a conference that same man had organized in Albania aimed at pointing the way toward a good law on religious associations that can bless the lives of people in that poor and struggling country for years to come. These stories indicate only a few of the many approaches that can help promote religious freedom.

Their story began years earlier when Darmande Legbanon joined the Church. He had a desire to read the Book of Mormon and learn more about the Church, but was limited because he only spoke Fon, the traditional language in Benin. French is the official language of Benin, and what is spoken at Church. Through his institute teacher, Lionel Missigbeto, he was able to learn French and eventually served a French-speaking mission. Darmande is now the bishop of the Fidjrosse Ward in the Cococodji Benin Stake, and Lionel is the stake president. Bishop Legbanon has also built a successful welding business in Cotonou with 10 to 12 apprentices working under his tutelage.

Back in 2000 we were living in London directing the Study Abroad Program. It was our kids’ first time in the city, so we spent a couple of days walking around the neighborhood and helping them get settled. On one of these walks down a busy street, Amy noticed a bus number that she had been wondering about, and since it was one of the old Routemaster buses with the driver up front and a conductor in the back, she hopped on the back platform to ask the conductor about its route and cost. Satisfied, she hopped back off, and the bus started to drive away. What we hadn’t noticed was that Hansen had followed her onto the bus. And as it drove away, we had a perfect view of his eight-year-old face looking quizzically at us from the back platform. A million things go through a parent’s mind at a time like this, including, “How in the world is he ever going to find his way back when he doesn’t have any money, doesn’t know the city, and has no idea where we live?”

Panicking that she would never be able to find him again, Amy starting yelling, “Jump!” In a panic of what would happen if he jumped off a speeding bus onto a busy street, I started yelling, “Don’t jump!” Caught in that awkward moment of conflicting parental demands, Hansen froze, uncertain what to do. Luckily, an observant businessman grabbed him, stopped him from jumping, and notified the driver to pull over.

In the aftermath of our little scare, we went to a great deal of effort to establish a family safety travel plan. If any of the kids ever got separated from the family, they were to get off at the next bus or Tube stop and wait for the family to catch up.

These are the squares. They enjoy living all by themselves in Square City.
These are the circles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Circle Center.
These are the triangles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Triangle Town.
Here are the rectangles. They enjoy living all by themselves in Rectangle Ranch.
Each group of shapes thought the other groups were very strange and not as good as themselves. After all, they thought, anyone who was different couldn’t possibly be as interesting and beautiful as themselves. The squares felt that in order for your shape to be the best, you had to have all four of your sides look just alike, the way all of the squares did. If you didn’t, you certainly couldn’t do as many wonderful things as a square could – or so thought all the squares in Square City.
The circles, however, felt that you must be perfectly round–like them–so you could roll all around. If you were pointy or square or only had straight lines, you were boring and certainly not as nice - looking as the circles were - or so thought the circles of Circle Center.
The rectangles felt that to be really important and nice looking, you must have two short sides exactly alike and two long sides exactly alike. If not, you must be most confusing to look at – or so thought the rectangles of Rectangle Ranch.
The triangles, on the other hand, felt that the only group to be a part of was one where everyone had nice sharp points and only three sides. After all, what could you possibly need four sides for – and rolling all around was just plain silly – or so thought the triangles of Triangle Town.
The squares didn’t like the circles. The circles did not like the triangles. The triangles certainly didn’t like the rectangles. And the rectangles didn’t like any of the squares. Each group of shapes didn’t want to play with any shapes that were different from themselves. In fact, if any other shape came near their group, they would make fun of it and chase it away!
One beautiful summer day, the little squares and the little circles and the little triangles and the little rectangles went outside to play – but NOT together! While they were playing a strange thing happened.
The little circles were playing on top of the hill. Some of them rolled a bit too far and before they could stop, they had rolled right down the hill and smack into the middle of the game that the little squares were playing. The little squares were very upset. Not only was their game ruined, but they were mad about having the circles come rolling into THEIR playground. The squares yelled and made faces at the circles trying to chase them away. The circles were very frightened and tried to roll away, but they became confused and kept bumping into the little squares.
The rectangles and triangles heard all the yelling and the crying. They all stopped their playing and hurried as fast as they could to see what was happening. Soon everyone was hollering at everyone else. It was a terrible commotion! Suddenly, a few of the little circles became so frightened, that they leaped up into the air and came right down on top of some of the little triangles! Oh, wonder of wonders! Everyone was absolutely quiet. No one moved, even an inch. They just looked and looked at what had happened. The little circles and the little triangles had made some ice cream cones – beautiful, big ice cream cones!
Some of the circles rushed over to get a closer look at the ice cream cones. They didn’t even notice that they had rolled right next to a big rectangle. But then everyone began to cheer and clap because the circles and the rectangle had made a very nice wagon! Then everyone became very excited about their new discovery. Because there were so many different shapes, they were able to make all kinds of new things. Everyone wanted to help, and they all had to work together to create the special shape pictures. The squares and the circles made a train. A little rectangle made the smokestack, and some tiny circles made the puffs of smoke. Soon they were all working together to make a sailboat and many other fun things. Everyone was happy and enjoyed working together. They had discovered that each shape, because it was different, added just what was needed to make special things they could all enjoy.
When playtime was over, all the shapes were very glad the little circles had accidentally rolled down the hill. It gave them all a chance to get to know each other, and to see how much more fun it can be to play with those who seem different from yourself. They worked together to make a lovely new house and many pretty things to go with it. Now that all the shapes had all become friends, they didn’t want to live apart from each other, so all of the shapes moved their little groups into their lovely new house where they could all live together, happily ever after. They often went sailing on their new sailing ship and even renamed their new home the Friendship Farm.

I remember as a child looking at my grandmother’s wrinkled cheeks. Lines creased the corners of her eyes, and tiny lines graced her upper lip. I asked her how I could keep from getting wrinkles.
“Don’t smile,” she said. “And don’t cry.”
I followed her advice—for one day. Then I gave up. How could anyone live without smiling or crying? I decided I’d rather have a face that shows the lines of laughter and tears.

Paul Cox had no idea the rain forest near the village where he and his family were living in Falealupo, Western Samoa, was about to be destroyed until he heard the roar of bulldozers one morning in 1987.
Villagers had reluctantly sold more than 12,000 hectares of forestland to raise money to build a new school. Building the school was required by the Samoan government; financing it was left up to the village. “The villagers didn’t want to allow the loggers into the forest,” explains Brother Cox, who is on leave from Brigham Young University while he serves concurrently as director of the National Tropical Botanical Garden in Hawaii and as a professor of environmental science in Uppsala, Sweden. “In fact, they had held off the loggers for 10 years. But they had no other way of getting funds for the school. They felt they had to choose between their children and their forest. It was a terrible, terrible decision for them.”1
Many people would feel powerless in such a situation, but in that difficult moment, Brother Cox made a decision. “I offered to raise the money to build the school if the villagers would protect the forest. … I had no idea how we’d get the money.”
But a more immediate challenge than finding the money was getting the villagers to accept his offer. Many of the village chiefs were suspicious of Brother Cox, but High Chief Fuiono Senio trusted him and persuaded the other chiefs to accept Brother Cox’s assistance.
The loggers had already begun clear-cutting the forest when the chiefs gave their agreement. Chief Senio ran several kilometers down the road, machete in hand, and chased the loggers away.
The next day, after talking with his wife and receiving her support, Brother Cox flew to Apia, Samoa’s capital, and signed a mortgage for the amount needed to build the school. Then, he remembers, “I came back to my wife with the good news and the bad news. The good news was that we’d helped save a 12,000-hectare rain forest; the bad news was that we’d have to sell our house and our car and we still might not have enough money.
“I guess it’s at a moment like this that you know your marriage is working because Barbara took my hand and said, ‘Paul, how often in our lifetime will we have a chance to do something so wonderful? What a great thing!’”
Brother and Sister Cox began preparing to sell their Utah home, but soon Brigham Young University students, family members, and community members heard about the cause and raised enough money that the Coxes did not actually have to sell their house and car.
Brother Cox worked out a covenant with the people of Falealupo that protects the forest for 50 years. Villagers can still use the forest as they always have: to gather food, medicinal plants, or materials to build homes and canoes. Loggers or other commercial developers, however, cannot harm the forest in any way.
Brother Cox did not stop after saving Falealupo’s rain forest. In 1997 the international community honored him and Chief Senio for their work in Falealupo with the Goldman Environmental Prize, which has been referred to as the Nobel Prize of environmentalism. Brother Cox used his portion of the prize money to set up a fund that will protect the Falealupo forest permanently, even after the original 50-year preservation covenant runs out.
By 1997 he had also established the Seacology foundation. Seacology works to “save the world one village at a time” by helping other Pacific island villages finance schools, water systems, health-care facilities, and other necessities without having to sell their forests.2
“They’re small projects that we’ve done in little villages,” Brother Cox says, “but they mean a lot to the people who live there. These projects are not changing the whole world, but they’re helping improve the lives of a few people in several villages, and that’s worth my time.
“I hope that when I leave the world, I can leave it just a little bit better than when I came. Let’s face it: the Falealupo forest is a small place. The country of Samoa is a small country, but at least I’ve made a difference there. And I think that’s what it comes down to—each one of us. We can all make a difference in our own way.”

One such pioneer who was guided by the “fire of the covenant” was Stillman Pond. He and his family were among the last to leave Nauvoo in September 1846. Having already endured much persecution and harassment from the enemies of the Church, the Pond family was ultimately driven from their Nauvoo home at the point of a bayonet. Without adequate preparation for their trek, they were left without proper food, clothing, and shelter. Their trek across Iowa to Winter Quarters was fraught with almost unimaginable suffering and heartache.

Snow came early to the Iowa territory that year, making travel extremely difficult. Weakened from trudging through the deep snow, Stillman’s pregnant wife, Maria, who had already been afflicted with consumption, then contracted malaria. She, along with every member of her family, suffered greatly from this sickness. Bowed down with grief and aching from the pain and fever of malaria, Maria could no longer walk. Amidst these grim circumstances she gave birth to twin boys who were named Joseph and Hyrum. They both died only a few days later. The deaths of these children coming across the plains from Nauvoo to Winter Quarters were only the beginning of the sacrifice and trials of Stillman Pond.

With all of the members of the Pond family sick with malaria, Stillman, who was unable to walk or even sit up, lay on his stomach in the bed of his wagon. Bracing himself with one arm and extending his other over the dashboard to hold the reins, he drove his team the last 150 miles. On October 16, 1846, they arrived at Winter Quarters. During the winter there the Pond family continued to suffer. In the space of five days, three more children died. A sixth died a few weeks later:

Laura Jane Pond, age 14, died of “chills and fever” on December 2, 1846. Harriet M. Pond, age 11, died “with chills” on December 4. Abigail A. Pond, age 18, died “with chills” on December 7. Lyman Pond, age 6, died with “chills and fever” on January 15, 1847.

Having survived the heartache of burying all of her children, the hardships of the trek across Iowa, and the hunger and privations of a long, hard winter, Stillman’s beloved wife, Maria, finally succumbed to her sicknesses on May 17 at Winter Quarters. Yet despite all this, Stillman Pond journeyed onward in the pioneer company led by Elder John Taylor, arriving in the Salt Lake Valley in the early fall of 1847. His testimony of the gospel, his faith in the Lord, and the fire of the covenant that burned in his soul gave him the strength to go on. “I am perfectly satisfied with the authorities of the Church,” he wrote in February 1846, “and consider it my indispensable duty to give heed to all things.”

In November 1966, I had been in the combat zone in Vietnam for nearly ten months. I was an infantry platoon leader. I had experienced much of the perils, the trials, the moment-to-moment anxiety of combat. Our battalion had just returned to our base camp for some “R and R”– rest and relaxation– after several weeks in the jungles and rice paddies. It was a Saturday night. Having taken our first showers in a very long time, we were sitting around on our bunks cleaning our rifles and listening to music on the Armed Forces Radio Network. Suddenly, an urgent message crackled over our battalion radio net. A sister battalion in our brigade– still in the jungle– was being overrun by a much larger enemy force. We were needed to go, right then, to the rescue.

It is very hard to adequately describe the icy feelings that clutched at my heart in that moment. I had experienced the anxieties of combat many times before. I had seen men horribly wounded. I had seen men die. But the news that we were going again– right then– back into the jungle-...at night..to face a fierce and determined foe. That news brought with it what I can only describe as a dark sense of foreboding. Borrowing from my metaphor of this talk, I found myself yanked from “calm water” to “white water” in a matter of seconds.

How I would have liked time to prepare! Time to ponder inspiring scripture. Time to pray...to fast, even. Time to “gird up [my] loins.” But there was no time. I only could grab my helmet, my rifle, give some terse orders to my men and move out. But one thing I could do was to utter a silent prayer in my heart. And as I did, there came to my mind– literally– a “still, small voice.” The voice repeated the words to a passage of scripture that I had memorized in seminary, and memorized again as a missionary. Words that have become my very favorite in all scripture: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths.”[12] As those words came to mind, peace filled my heart. The foreboding retreated.

More weeks passed. We remained in the jungle on that operation following that nocturnal SOS message. Finally, it was the very last day of this particular operation. I was riding in an armored personnel carrier through a lightly forested area of jungle. Suddenly, an enormous explosion beneath the vehicle seemed to lift it off the ground. Some enemy soldiers nearby had detonated a huge landmine. The engine was blown out. The tracks and all the road wheels were blown off. Everyone inside, including me, was wounded. But no one died.

And in that very moment, there again came to my mind that same still voice and that same passage of scripture. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths.”