Gospel Story Finder

I had a co-worker several years ago who was legendary for sending out scathing emails. If this person didn’t agree with something you did or wrote, you could count on a venomous email being sent to you. My initial reaction was to reply with more venom and sometimes I did but it never solved the problem, it only escalated it and strained my working relationship with this person and made me feel guilty for allowing myself to react negatively. When I sought counsel from my very wise boss, he told me not to reply to those emails but to go and meet face-to-face with my co-worker. The next time I received a blistering email from my co-worker, I went to their office and calmly asked if I could meet with them regarding the concerns they had emailed about. And you know what? A miracle happened. My co-worker quickly apologized for the tone of their email and said they had over-reacted and regretted sending the email. We were able to calmly discuss the concerns and resolved them rather quickly in front of each other. When I received similar emails again, I would go to their office and every single time, their tone was more patient and non-combative than they were in their email text. It’s much easier to belittle and contend with someone if you don’t have to look at them while doing so. It is more noble and civil to respond with the Golden Rule in mind.

I shall ever remember the bewilderment of one boy from down on the farm when he first gazed at the skyscrapers in Toronto. He inquired of me: “President, how many people in this here town?” I answered: “Oh, about a million and a half,” to which he responded, “Goll-ee! There are only 80 in my home town.”
That evening at our traditional get-acquainted testimony meeting, some of the veteran missionaries expressed themselves regarding the difficulty of the work. “Doors will slam in your face, abusive language will be hurled toward you, you’ll get discouraged and downhearted, but when it’s all over you will say, ‘These have been the happiest two years of my life.’” My missionary from the small town was more hesitant than ever as he spoke falteringly: “I’ll be glad when the happiest two years of my life are over.”
This young missionary was short in stature but tall in testimony. Together with his companion, he soon called at the home of Elmer Pollard in Oshawa, Canada. Feeling sorry for the young men who, during a blinding blizzard were going house to house, Mr. Pollard invited the missionaries into his home. They presented to him their message. He did not catch the Spirit. In due time he asked that they leave and not return. His last words to the elders as they departed his front porch were spoken in derision: “You can’t tell me you actually believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God!”
The door was shut. The elders walked down the path. Our country boy spoke to his companion: “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard’s question. He said we didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Let’s return and bear our testimonies to him.”
At first the more experienced missionary hesitated, but finally he agreed to accompany his “green” companion. Fear struck their hearts as they approached the door from which they had been turned away. A knock, the confrontation with Mr. Pollard, an agonizing moment, then with power, a testimony born by the Spirit: “Mr. Pollard, you said we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Mr. Pollard, I testify that Joseph was a prophet; he did translate the Book of Mormon; he saw God the Father and Jesus the Son. I know it.”
Mr. Pollard, now Brother Pollard, stood in a priesthood meeting some time later and declared: “That night I could not sleep. Resounding in my ears I heard the words: ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it.’ The next day I telephoned the missionaries. Their message, coupled with their testimonies, changed my life and the lives of my family.”

“How can it be six o’clock?” I thought my head had just hit the pillow, but my alarm clock was already screaming at me to get out of bed. The darkness and cold air made it even harder to peel back the blankets. After a few more seconds of enduring the screeching of my alarm clock, I finally got up.
My goal was to wake up at six a.m. and read my scriptures before I started a busy day. I flipped on my lamp and opened my scriptures.
After a good half hour of scripture study and a prayer, I showered and dressed for my eight o’clock class. I couldn’t be late. My first big humanities paper was due at eight. One second late and the paper wouldn’t be accepted. A zero on this assignment would ruin any chance of earning an A in the class. I had put a lot of effort into writing this paper, and I finished a couple of days before it was due. I left myself plenty of time to walk to campus to turn in my polished paper.
As I walked down the dorm hall stairwell, I heard a voice say, “Check to make sure you have your paper.” Surprised, I immediately opened my backpack and discovered that I had grabbed the wrong folder. I didn’t have my paper with me!
As I rushed back to my room, I knew it had been the influence of the Spirit that told me I didn’t have my paper. A sense of relief washed over me when I put the paper in my backpack and started off to class again.
On my walk to campus I reflected on what had happened. The impression I had received was intense. I did not doubt the voice, and I immediately acted upon the prompting. As a result I was blessed with the chance to fix the situation quickly.
This experience left me asking some questions. Why was the feeling so intense? Why did I not doubt it? Why was I given the opportunity to go back and get my paper? Why did I have the prompting at all? In the great scheme of things, did it really matter if I got an A in this class?
When I stepped into the classroom, the answer became clear. Yes, it mattered; it mattered to me. As I put my paper on the teacher’s desk, I realized Heavenly Father knew the desires of my heart. Through my early-morning scripture study and prayer, I had invited the Spirit to be with me. Even though my situation wasn’t a matter of life or death, I was receptive to the influence of the Spirit and was given the desire of my heart.

When I visited Hyderabad in 2014, John Murala told me his story and much of the Church history that he has been diligently gathering. He also introduced me to his wife, Annapurna, who told me one of the most powerful Latter-day pioneer stories I have ever heard.

Annapurna was 12 years old in 1991 when her brother Murthy was taught the gospel by two missionaries in Hyderabad. Annapurna’s parents didn’t allow her to listen to the missionaries or attend church. However, Murthy gave her a Book of Mormon and a constant stream of Church literature for her to read. For seven years, Annapurna studied the gospel on her own and gained a strong testimony of its truth. She dreamed of being baptized, serving a mission, and being married in the temple but did not have permission from her parents.

Annapurna faced a difficult decision in her life when she was introduced to John Murala. John had remained strong in his testimony since his baptism in 1978 and was looking for a member of the Church to marry. After a very brief meeting where Annapurna shared her testimony of the gospel, John was convinced that he had met his future wife. Annapurna knew that if she married John, she would be able to be baptized and one day be sealed in the temple. However, at about the same time, Annapurna’s parents were planning to arrange a marriage for her.

Annapurna made the difficult decision to leave home and marry John. She felt it was the only way she could join the Church. She said she was “totally heartbroken” to leave her parents. But even today she affirms, “For everybody’s salvation, … for my posterity and for my parents and their ancestors, to do their temple work, I had to take that step.”8

John and Annapurna are grateful that her parents have now accepted their marriage. Many members in India have made sacrifices, just like the early pioneers, to become members of the Church. Yet these Saints pressed forward with faith because they picture themselves as pioneers and welding links for their families on both sides of the veil. I cherish the many stories of faith, sacrifice, and courage that I have heard from members blazing trails in new gospel frontiers. I still think about pioneers pulling handcarts and crossing icy rivers, but now I can picture modern pioneers in India and all over the world.

Another faith promoting experience I remember during this time period was trying to get water for the school. During the first year of operation, they had to truck in all the water because even though they had a big supply, the government would not give them a permit. Everyday, this big water truck, much like the big gas trucks that deliver fuel to the service stations, would make trips all day long between the pump and the water tank at the school. The church had purchased a ranch to build the school, and the water could only be used for the ranch. One of the church authorities was soon visiting to decide if they would be able to continue and even be able to have a church school. All the school workers and all the students decided to have a special fast and have everyone pray for the permit to be granted. The government had never granted this type of permit, and yet after the fast they gave the church permission to use the water for both ranching and for the school. On the way out of the government office building one of the government workers asked my father how much he had to pay as a bribe to get the permit. He was stunned when my father told him nothing had been paid. When he arrived back with the good news a young girl who was a student came up and asked if it would be appropriate to hold another fast and thank the Lord. What a beautiful feeling for everyone to be a part of this experience.

Vacations are usually for relaxing and enjoying a few days off, but I did not find that solace on my vacation. Every day I felt sad, and it continued after returning home. I felt lost, became lazy, felt a lack of self-esteem, and there was an emotional wear and tear constantly weighing on me. I was drifting away from Heavenly Father and sinking into my own doubts. I am Yonal. I am sixteen years old, and I live in Verón in the Dominican Republic.
Life can be difficult, but when people go through depression, they often have no idea why or what event caused these feelings in their life. I fall in this category.
I love music, and the words from the hymn, “Where can I Turn for Peace”1 felt very familiar to me. However, it is important to sing that entire song, for in it we receive direction. I was blessed with the knowledge of the gospel, and I did indeed find “love without end” that came from the Lord through my bishop’s guidance. I shared my feelings with him, and he led me to many scriptures that helped me understand my situation. In those scriptures, I was able to see my life through the Savior’s perspective.
One night, I slipped again into discouraging thoughts, but then I remembered this verse in Doctrine and Covenants 25:12, “The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads.”
Through this scripture, I felt that developing my singing talent would be my song of righteousness unto Him. I felt building that talent would be a blessing to myself and to others. Many artists write songs about how they feel, so I found a notebook and started writing my feelings and after several days I felt peace in my soul. I had my dear friend, Enoch Mirabal, assist with the final touches to my song. I am not sure where that song will go but it allowed me to release my frustration and to move forward.
I am now more aware of songs that lift my spirit and I thank Heavenly Father for opening my eyes to the talents I have. If I improve my musical talents, they will continue to set me, and possibly others, free from their own challenges.
I learned we will be challenged in this life, we are not alone, we are to grow and share the talents that we have to help all of God’s children, and as we do, we will receive blessings upon our head.

One summer, my mother and I went on a humanitarian trip to Guatemala. One day, we went to the Semac Champey, a park with pool after pool of deep blue water connected by rock terraces overflowing with water.
Our group hiked up the steep, rugged path to the cliff top overlooking the pools. The hike involved many staircases along a sheer drop-off. Several times we had to stop by a bench just to catch our breath.
After hiking for hours, my mother was winded and tired. She stopped alongside the trail, saying she would join us on our way back down.
I continued about 200 feet farther and came to the clearing with the lookout. The view was beyond words. Hurriedly, I ran back to my mother and encouraged her to come and see it.
As we rested and took in the view, I thought about how that hike is like our lives. Though the pathway of the gospel is straight and narrow, sometimes it seems like a vertical climb. We get discouraged as friends give up or turn back to paths that seem easier. And the adversary is constantly there, telling us that we’re foolish or just not spiritually cut out for the journey.
But we shouldn’t give up. Eternal life, just like that view, will be beyond words. Though we won’t achieve perfection in our mortal state, we can reach any heights through Christ, and He will always be there to help us for those last 200 feet.
Since this experience, I’ve tried to not give up on my hike to heaven. The Lord has blessed me in my efforts to fulfill His commandments and serve others. I know that He will help all of His children. Our part is to keep pressing on.

In World War II, I was in a military hospital in Africa for a few days with a respiratory infection. The hospital was staffed with native orderlies who were to keep the hospital clean, change the beds, and generally be of help to the patients. Because of the prevalence of malaria and its carrier, the mosquito, we slept under large mosquito nets which hung from the ceiling and covered the whole bed. One night as I went to bed I slipped my wallet under my pillow and drifted off to sleep.
Some time later in the night I was awakened and startled to feel some hands slipping under my bedclothes. I suspected that a thief was after my wallet. I instinctively grabbed one of the hands and switched on the light. My wallet slipped out from under the pillow. To my surprise, I held the arm of the native boy who was the orderly assigned to clean my room. All he said in defense of his action was, “Don’t worry. I am a disciple.” He could tell from the look on my face that I did not understand. In further explanation, he said simply, “I am a disciple. I am a Christian. I do not want your purse. I was only tucking the mosquito netting around your bed to protect you from the mosquitoes while you slept.” I came to know that this young man was not only a Christian, he was a disciple.

I know the blessings I enjoyed on my mission came partly from a defining moment in the MTC. When I first arrived, I was told of the great work other welfare service missionaries were doing around the world. In my heart, I said I would be one of those missionaries they talked about. But the good Spirit of the MTC humbled me as the weeks went by and by the end of my stay, I promised the Lord that I would serve Him in any way, no matter how small, even if it was only to help one person take one step. Wouldn't you say that it is a credit to the Lord's sense of humor that our work in the refugee camp made it into the Church News?
Like Elder Maxwell, I feel I have fulfilled my pledge imperfectly, but I do recognize that every good gift and blessing in my life has come from following the teachings of the Savior.

Lindsey Walch and Carson Evers, two 17-year-olds from the Santa Cruz California Stake, had to decide what the Sabbath meant to them. When challenges came, they made their decision and found greater understanding and peace.
Carson’s game is basketball, and he loves to play in tournaments. The problem, of course, is that many tournaments include Sunday in their schedules.
“At this one particular tournament we had a chance in the finals, which were on a Sunday,” he says. “I was thinking about going because it was the final big tournament. I said to myself, ‘I don’t want to give up. I don’t think it’s right.’”
When he talked to his coach, he felt even more pressure. “He was kind of pushing me to go because we were in the finals of the big tournament.”
What made it even more difficult were his own prior choices. “Before then I was kind of used to making exceptions,” he says. “I used to go play some on Sunday every once in a while for tournaments. I always played my worst game then. It just never worked out.”
But this time he made a decision about what the Sabbath meant to him. “I talked about it with my parents,” he says. “They said, ‘Whatever you decide.’ I always hate that when they make you choose.”
Carson also received support for his decision from a friend and teammate, who is also LDS and chooses not to play on Sunday. “It’s kind of easy for me, because he is a member,” says Carson. “He’s like my best friend, and we always play sports together. And it’s easier for me because we both don’t do that stuff on Sundays. It’s just good having another person there. I’m not the only one.”
When Carson made his decision not to play, it had quite an effect on him. “I had this good feeling about it when I went to church that Sunday,” he says. “I knew I needed to be there and not at my tournament. That whole day, I just knew—that nice little chill up the spine feeling, you know?”
Attending church is an important part of the Sabbath for Carson, particularly renewing his covenants and remembering the Savior through the sacrament. “It makes me keep the Sabbath day a little more holy,” he says. “It helps me think of the Sabbath as a holy day and not just a day of rest.”
So what does the Sabbath mean to Carson?
“For me, it’s about showing respect for Heavenly Father and what He commanded,” he says. “It’s resting, taking a day off, just getting back in the groove. By the end of the week I’m burned out; I’m done. I always need a rest.”
One of his favorite things about Sunday is spending time with his family. “It’s just good to have one day just with my family to get to know them better,” he says. “During the week I don’t have the time to be with my family as much as I’d like. So Sunday’s a pretty good day to be with them.”

True Repentance Requires More Than a Cleansing
Actually, the whole process of repentance requires more than just a cleansing, and we need to do more than just repair all damage done. Early in 1984, while returning to our home in Jerusalem, I must have been handling our large, heavy suitcases in such a way that something went wrong in my lower back. For several months I found myself in periodic excruciating pain—apparently from some bone fragments sticking in the largest nerve in my body, the sciatic nerve that runs down the spine and into the legs. After three months of experimental treatments in Israeli doctors’ offices and hospitals, and not being able to function because of the intense pain, my doctor put me on the strongest painkiller he could prescribe without personally accompanying me and sent me on a plane flight across the world to Salt Lake City for a back operation. The surgery was successful. After some weeks of recovery I flew back to the Holy Land to resume what I loved: teaching and guiding the students on field trips throughout the lands of the Bible and, over the years, climbing Mount Sinai a total of eighteen times.

I learned something from that painful ordeal. It is not enough to repair the damage done. I have to continually strengthen my back so it doesn’t happen again. So it is with repentance: we must cleanse ourselves of all that is wrong inside, repair the damage that has been done, and continually strengthen ourselves to become more and more resistant to sin and more and more capable of sustaining light and truth from Him who is our strength.

One of President David O. McKay’s annual family traditions was to take the grandchildren riding on a bobsleigh pulled by a fine team of horses, “bells a-jingle.” The ride was one of their favorite traditions. President McKay continued it into his 80s. To stay warm, President McKay wore his long, thick raccoon coat and big gloves. The smaller grandchildren rode in the sleigh, but the older ones “whizzed along behind on their own sleds” tied to the back of the bobsleigh. These long-to-be-remembered Christmas celebrations sometimes ended with carols around the piano and singing “Love at Home.”7

Mark Twain wrote:
“Some years ago in Hartford, Connecticut, we all went to church one hot, sweltering night to hear the annual report of Mr. Hawley, a city missionary who went around finding people who needed help and didn’t want to ask for it. He told of life in cellars, where poverty resided; he gave instances of heroism and devotion of the poor. ‘When a man with millions gives,’ he said, ‘we talk a lot about it and praise him. It’s praise in the wrong place, for it’s the widow’s mite that is significant.’
“Well, Hawley really got me excited. I could hardly wait for him to get through. I had $400 in my pocket. I wanted to give that and borrow more to give. You could see money in every eye. But instead of passing the plate to collect money then, he kept on talking and talking, and as he talked it grew hotter and hotter, and we grew sleepier and sleepier. My enthusiasm went down, down, down—$100 at a time until finally when the collection plate did come around, I stole ten cents out of it.” (Thesaurus of Anecdotes, ed. Edmund Fuller, Crown Publishers: N.Y., 1942, pp. 58~59.)

When I was a little girl, comic books were treasured items. When we went on a family vacation my mother allowed us each to buy a new comic book to take along. I always chose either an Archie and Veronica or an Uncle Scrooge. Although Uncle Scrooge (Donald Duck’s rich uncle) was the prototypical tightwad, I loved the frames that showed him diving into his coins. Does anyone here remember the artist’s rendition?

At least once—and usually on the last page, he would go into a room that was essentially an indoor swimming pool, but instead of water, the pool was filled with his money. With an expression of absolute delight and happiness Uncle Scrooge would bounce on the end of the diving board and then dive into the money, swimming around in it—loving the absolute abundance of it all! That’s the way I feel about my blessings. There are so many we all revel in. Abundance with a capital “A.” Remember that in God’s world there is enough and more for everyone. Ultimately we can each inherit all that the Father has. Interesting math, isn’t it? That we each get everything that He has.

Conversely, charity can both deepen knowledge and make it more productive. This is demonstrated by the story of Bartolomé de Las Casas, who in 1514 was a rather ordinary 40-year-old Catholic priest living what was the typical gentlemanly life of a Spaniard on his estate in Cuba. Like many of his fellow countrymen in the Americas at the time, he owned ample land and numerous Indian slaves. Although he was a university graduate, he had not, up until that time, shown much interest in, or aptitude for, scholarly things. Fifty-two years later, when he died at the age of 92, Las Casas had become one of the greatest scholars of the Spanish empire, producing thousands of pages of materials, including works on law, history, anthropology, political theory, and theology.17 Moreover, Las Casas’ scholarship was as productive as it was extensive, and he became a vocal advocate of the Native American people. His scholarly reputation was such that when the king of Spain convened a conference in 1550 to consider the most pressing issue of the day—the manner in which the Spanish should deal with the indigenous population of the New World—Las Casas was one of only two scholars invited to debate the matter.18
What triggered this sudden outburst of scholarly productivity, this seemingly unquenchable search for knowledge? It was Las Casas’ arrival at the conclusion that the indigenous people of the New World were being treated unjustly and that they, of all people, were in need of the love of Christ. The way in which Las Casas arrived at that conclusion demonstrates how charity can transform awareness of factual information into the kind of deep and productive knowledge that only a lifetime of dedicated searching can produce.
Shortly before Christmas in 1511, Las Casas was part of a congregation in Hispaniola that heard a stern sermon from the Dominican friar Antonio de Montesinos concerning the Spaniards’ mistreatment of the indigenous people. Although Las Casas remembered Montesinos’ words well enough to record them in a work he began more than 16 years later,19 they had no immediate impact on him. Las Casas “took no steps to change his way of life and for more than two years after the sermons continued to play the role of comfortable gentleman-ecclesiastic.”20 Without charity, Las Casas’ awareness of the plight of the Indians remained unconnected and isolated dots of information. He had, at best, incomplete knowledge of the matter.
Yet something began to work within Las Casas once he began to view this information from the perspective of charity. While preparing a sermon to deliver at the Pentecostal mass at the newly established settlement of Sancti Espiritus in 1514, Las Casas came upon a verse from chapter 34 of Ecclesiasticus:21
Tainted his gifts who offers in sacrifice ill-gotten goods! . . . Like the man who slays a son in his father’s presence is he who offers sacrifice from the possessions of the poor. The bread of charity is life itself for the needy, he who withholds it is a person of blood. 22
These powerful words greatly affected Las Casas. As historian Lewis Hanke explains:
Pondering on this text for several days and turning over in his mind the doctrines preached by the Dominicans, Las Casas became increasingly convinced “that everything done to the Indians thus far was unjust and tyrannical.” The scales fell from his eyes, he saw at last what was to be forever after the truth for him, and experienced as complete a change of life as did Saul of Tarsus on the road to Damascus.23
Once Las Casas viewed the information he had from this new perspective, previously unperceived connections began to appear everywhere. Thus he said, more than four decades later:
Never have I read a book . . . all these interminable forty-four years, in which some argument or authority was not adduced to prove and corroborate the justice of these Indian peoples and to condemn the injustices and evils and harm done to them.24
The same charitable impulses also motivated Las Casas to make this more expanded knowledge productive. He not only preached the sermon at Sancti Espiritus, he immediately gave up his Indian slaves and embarked on a lifelong journey to acquire and use all the knowledge he could on behalf of the Indian people, making repeated arduous trips across the Atlantic to persuade the Crown to alter its policies toward them.
Sparked by what he called “the charity of Jesus Christ, which knows no measure nor seeks any rest while on this pilgrimage,”25 Las Casas’ knowledge was both deepened and made more productive.

My father-in-law, Samuel Kaina Lowe came from extremely humble beginnings. He was as he describes it, “poorer than poor”. Please allow me to read his words:
“As the first born son, I grew up in a family with an abusive father who preferred to gamble and drink away his paycheck, forcing my mother to somehow provide for seven children. To obtain food my mother caught salt water crabs with her bare hands. She caught fresh water shrimp with a net in the Nuuanu stream and gathered seaweed from the brackish waters off Waikiki. She gathered discarded tuna fish heads and bones from the fishermen on the docks. From the ground she picked breadfruit and mangoes that had fallen from their trees. I experienced going without food for days at a time. As a result, my mother had to give away two of my younger brothers because she couldn’t feed them anymore. Losing her sons forever and her total sacrifice of giving them up, took its toll and broke her heart. But she knew my brothers would have something to eat and have a better life with their new families.
One day I stepped on broken glass that severed a major blood vessel in my foot. The bleeding would not stop. We couldn’t afford an ambulance so my mother packed me on her back and carried me over five miles to Queens Hospital. She was drenched with my blood when she released me to the doctors. But her fear that I was going to die and her love for me gave her the strength to get help for me.
Fear also meant abuse by my father. My mother was severely beaten and abused by my father each time he came home drunk. My mother died at the early age of 38, heart-broken with a massive stroke. I was fourteen. My mother, friend and care-giver and the only person who loved and cared about me was dead. I had no will to live. However, after witnessing the abuse that my father afflicted upon my mother over the years, I vowed never, never to strike a woman! And I am proud to say that I have kept that promise. My fear of following in my dad’s footsteps of abuse, “like father, like son”, had been turned around in my life, for I am not like my father. My mother’s love for me taught me that fear and abuse can be controlled, and her love for me knew no fear as she protected me and raised me into a man.” I need to add that his father in later years did change his life and became a man of great faith and one who actively lived the gospel.

My father-in-law, was true to his word, he never not ever abused my mother-in-law. He broke that evil tradition and instead showed great love and respect for his wife. He allowed Heavenly Father to mold him into the best person he could be. Besides serving as a leader in the Church wherever they lived; Johnson Island, California, Kansas, Mississippi, England and Hawaii, he served as a counselor in the Laie Hawaii temple under 4 presidents, served in the Hawaii Mission Presidency for 7 years and then served a mission in the Family History Center in Salt Lake City, Utah.

I remember the job opportunity that finally came after months of searching during the depression. Unfortunately the work was in an amusement park, and beset with moral hazards. The final decision was mine, but how careful the bishop was to alert me to the problems and obstacles ahead. For the nearly two years I was employed there it was a job requirement to carry a package of cigarettes in my pocket for the convenience of the customers. But not once did I ever forget my bishop’s advice or my parental teaching about the Word of Wisdom. Neither were any of the other temptations able to overpower me.

During the administration of President John Taylor, the need arose to colonize the southeastern part of the Utah Territory in what is now San Juan County. A group of Saints in Parowan, Utah were called to establish a colony in southeastern Utah in order to secure peaceful relations with the Indians and to open that area to further colonization. In order to establish colonies in that remote region, a trail needed to be built. This trail has been called the Hole in the Rock Trail. The story of blazing such a trail is among one of the most dramatic cases of enduring to the end and having an eye single to the glory of the Lord.

In November, 1879, 250 men, women, and children, with 80 wagons and teams and 1000 head of livestock set about the task of cutting a trail through what seemed almost impossible and impassable terrain. They had selected the shortest and supposedly safest route, but unfortunately it was also the most difficult route.

I have had the privilege of following the Hole in the Rock Trail, and it, indeed, runs through some of the most rugged topography in the entire American West. Even with a 4 wheel drive vehicle it is still very challenging and dangerous travel. My experience puts in bold relief what a tremendous endeavor they so earnestly engaged in. The road today stands as a monument to their pioneer determination. They really had to endure to the end—in their case to the end of the trail.

Rocks and brush had to be cleared and depressions had to be filled in. Not only were they blazing a trail for their trek, but for others to follow as the process of colonization went ahead.

After an already arduous journey the determined group reached the Colorado River gorge which stretched 1200 feet below the place where they stood. In order to proceed through what has been now been called the Hole in the Rock, they had to construct a suitable passageway down to the river. It looked impossible. But these Saints had been called to colonize southeastern Utah and this was the only way to go at this point. For more than 6 weeks the men in the party carved a wagon road down that narrow steep crevice—the only way down from the plateau above.

Their initial task was to blast away a sharp 40 foot drop off into a more gradual downward slope. They also moved huge boulders from the center of the crevice. As they moved down toward the river they had to level more high spots and fill in holes and depressions. They also had to widen the walls to enable wagons to pass through. In order to avoid a very steep grade near the river, they constructed a wooden track on the north side of the crevice. To do this they blasted and drilled holes and then placed sturdy posts into the holes into which horizontal beams were attached.

Once the passageway was cleared they had to lower the wagons down to the banks of the Colorado River. Wagons were heavily roped and teams of both oxen and men pulled back on the wagons to slow their descent as they traveled to the valley floor.

They then ferried their wagons and livestock across the 300 foot wide river. Continuing to build a trail beyond the river, took another 10 weeks, because of one roadblock after another, to reach the bottomlands along the San Juan River where they established a new colony which they called Bluff.

David Miller, a historian at the University of Utah, wrote about their accomplishment in his book, Hole in the Rock, in these words:

“In all the annals of the West, replete with examples of courage, tenacity and ingenuity, there is no better example of the indomitable pioneer spirit than that of the Hole-in-the-Rock Mission. No pioneer company ever built a wagon road through wilder, rougher, more inhospitable country, still one of the least-known regions of America. None ever demonstrated more courage, faith and devotion to a cause than this group.”

Through all of their challenges and trials they carried on, determined to accomplish the charge that had been given them. They accomplished the impossible and endured to the end because they kept their eyes single to the glory of God.

Sam Walker of Shelley, Idaho, had been a missionary in Argentina for two weeks when he decided to accept the challenge in Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]:
“I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
He waited until his companion was asleep, and then he went into the bathroom to pray in private.
“I wore my overcoat over my pajamas because our bathroom had no roof,” says Elder Walker. “I can still remember kneeling down on the hard, damp floor. As I prayed, I listened intently for that still, small voice. When I felt my knees could take no more, I closed my prayer and went back to bed.”
Elder Walker continued to pray for a “sure testimony” of the Book of Mormon, but without the results he wanted. One day, he and his companion were teaching an elderly gentleman.
“An extraordinarily sweet spirit began to fill the room as my companion taught this man about the Book of Mormon,” remembers Elder Walker. “Suddenly my companion stopped and looked at me. I knew it was my turn to bear witness of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. I don’t remember my exact words, but I do remember the warmth of the Holy Ghost bearing testimony to me. It grew stronger as I bore testimony to our friend that the Book of Mormon was true. At last I felt the sure knowledge of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon I had been seeking.”

I sat at the table in my new apartment and glared at my noodles. It was raining, and it was Monday. I had just gotten the results back from a biology test and was not very pleased with myself. Furthermore, I had tripped in the crowded library as I was running to my next class. Now I was eating the last thing I had in the cupboard—bland noodles.
This is not the college experience I had imagined, I thought. I had pictured myself as a triumphant Joan of Arc figure, out to rid the world of injustice. At the end of my first month away from home, I was feeling like the noodles in my bowl of soup, tangled and limp. I was just one in a sea of thousands of college students, and I could not help but feel a little alone.
“Package!” my roommate yelled as she came in with the mail. I looked up to see a brown box flying across the kitchen.
Someone is sending me a package? It wasn’t my birthday. I curiously opened the package and found a note and a small rectangular object wrapped in one layer of colorful paper and then wrapped with a solid layer of tape. I read the note first. Written in 10-year-old cursive, the note read, “I hope you will enjoy your present. This is a short letter, but I miss you. Love, Maria.” As if on second thought, “Maria” had been crossed out several times and the “anonymous” sender instead had carefully drawn a heart with a question mark inside. I unwrapped the colorful rectangle and found a candy bar—my favorite kind.
I sat at the table and studied the note, realizing that I wasn’t just another face. Far away from my college dorm room, I had a sister who knew who I was, who missed me, and who loved me. She cared how I was feeling and sent me a reminder that I was important.
She now became a reminder to me of the power of service. This simple, thoughtful act had changed my entire attitude that afternoon and had a tremendous impact on my week. As I sat at the table, her example spoke of the blessings that come to both the doers and the receivers of service. I felt loved, and my sister was coming to know the Savior.