Gospel Story Finder

Alison Numkena and Jandi Hernandez want to set the record straight.
The girls, both Laurels in the Pinetop-Lakeside Arizona Stake, speak perfect English (in fact, it’s really the only language they speak). They watch television, go to regular high school, and when they attend stake dances, they don’t ride horseback to get there.
“It’s funny what people think about us sometimes,” says Jandi. “Since we’re Native Americans and we live on the reservation, people sometimes get funny ideas about what we’re like. But I think we’re pretty much like everybody else.”
And just like many young women in the Church, Alison, Jandi, and the rest of the girls on the Fort Apache Reservation look forward to girls’ camp in the summer.
However, for a long time, these girls had to wait two years between camp experiences. The stake hosts girls’ camp every other summer, and in the alternating summers, girls attend camp with their own wards and branches. But with just a small handful of active LDS girls, the reservation branches never had enough people for individual camps. Until this year, that is. By combining the girls from all three branches on the reservation, there was a large enough group for a small camp. So the girls and their leaders made it happen.
At the age of 18, Olivia Nez has been around the longest of any of the girls in the Young Women program on the reservation. She has played a large part in helping to plan this first girls’ camp, working closely with the leaders to make sure that all the girls had the equipment and skills necessary to have a great time. Even though her senior year was chock-full of activities, including being the student body president, Olivia made time to act as the youth camp director.
“Since I just graduated [from high school], this is my first and last camp with our branches,” she says. “The girls in my branch and the other branches face a lot of challenges, and this is a good opportunity to learn more about the gospel and recommit ourselves.”
Jandi and Alison, who are also Laurels, wanted to make a meaningful contribution to camp too. Jandi’s mom, Glenda, is the camp director, so she had plenty of things they could do to help out, including setting up camp and helping organize and execute a fund-raiser. They also put together binders for each girl containing information about each day’s activities, words to campfire songs, and camp certification information. Even with a relatively small group coming to camp, it was a big job.
“We worked right up to the last minute,” says Jandi. “The day camp started, we were still putting some of them together. We finished just in time!”
Many of the most important aspects of camp are the same for the girls on the Fort Apache Reservation as for young women anywhere else. Like any girls’ camp, there is a mixture of learning camping and hiking skills and learning about the gospel. There were afternoon workshops—many taught by the girls themselves—on the common challenges of keeping the Word of Wisdom, chastity, and church activity. Many of the other activities and campfire speakers also focused on these topics.
“Sometimes you get intimidated by an older person telling you what you need to do,” says Jandi. “Learning it from a friend is different; it’s easier to hear.”
There are differences, too, things that make this camp unlike any other. These girls are proud of their Native American heritage and have found ways to incorporate it into their camp experience. Most evenings there is something to eat that is unique to this camp—fry bread and Navajo tacos, for example, or a special cornbread that requires all the girls to help mash several ears of fresh corn and then take turns cooking the pancake-like bread over the fire.
But it’s not just the food that’s unique. One night’s campfire features several of the older leaders telling stories of their younger days on the reservation and of their conversion to the gospel. There is an emphasis on feeling good about being LDS and being a Native American and finding ways to make the two work together.
“Prayer is an important part of our culture, both as members of the Church and as members of the Apache tribe,” says Jandi. “It’s in our blood to pray morning, noon, and night. Heavenly Father and Jesus are important in our culture. Our tribal chairman and our tribal council often ask us to pray. You hear it in the Church and out.”
When camp ends, there are the usual comments about being eager to get home and have a hot shower, eat twig-free food, and sleep with something other than a rock for a pillow. As the girls take down tents and roll up sleeping bags, they talk about what was great about camp (seeing a baby elk from a distance of just a few feet) and what could be improved next time (more blankets for the near-freezing nighttime temperatures). But mostly they talk about how grateful they are that they were able to come to camp at all.
“We’ve gotten closer at this camp than we’ve ever been,” says Taren Webster, a Beehive. “Camp gives us time together away from home. I think that’s really important.”
Next year the girls from the reservation will join the other girls in their stake for camp. And the year after that? This group is still small, but they pulled it off once, so the next time should be a little easier. They’ll build on traditions they started this year, and maybe even come up with a few new ones. Just like this year, they’ll have a great time getting to know each other, becoming better campers, and learning about the gospel.
And that makes them pretty much like young women everywhere.
Are you heading off to girls’ camp soon? If so, you probably already know what to bring, and the activities are probably planned. Here are a few last-minute tips from the girls in Fort Apache for making a good camp great:
Be ready to share your talents, your ideas, and your testimony. Most camp activities require lots of group participation. Remember you’re among friends, so don’t be shy.
Maintain a cheerful attitude. Some parts of camp probably won’t be as much fun as others (being on dish-washing duty, for example), but putting a smile on your face and being a good sport make the time go quickly.
Look for opportunities to be kind. Does your tent mate need help with a certification skill? Is there a first-year camper who is homesick and could use a shoulder to cry on? Find people who need help and help them.
Remember what you’ve learned. At camp you often draw closer to the Lord, as well as to the other members of your Young Women group. Instead of letting those good feelings fade, build on them throughout the year.

Perhaps he feels such missionary zeal because the gospel has so deeply changed his own life. Masao Watabe was born to Japanese parents in the An-Tung Province of China, and he belonged to one of the sects of Shintoism. He was an intelligent young man with an interest in languages. After graduating from college, he married and was sent by the Japanese foreign office to study the Mandarin language in Peking. He worked at the Japanese embassy in Peking and at the Japanese foreign office in Tokyo.
An idealistic young man, Masao Watabe had had a lifelong dream of unifying the nations of the world. Then World War II began, bringing death, devastation, and defeat. A year before the war ended, young Masao was drafted into the Japanese army. The experience of war plunged him into a period of despair. “Life was like wandering in the darkness with no hope or purpose,” he recalls.
After the war, Masao was transferred to the city of Sendai, Japan. There he met a Catholic priest who introduced him to Christianity. “When I talked to him about the religion of Jesus Christ,” Brother Watabe remembers, “I felt good in my heart. I asked many questions about Christianity. As I listened to his answers my heart, which had been struggling in the darkness, gradually became enlightened, and it seemed to me the Lord’s voice began to whisper to it.”
After a short time, Masao became disillusioned with Catholicism. He sought out a Bible class at a local university, which he attended for a year. His teacher, the wife of a Methodist minister, took him to church. She and her husband encouraged him to be baptized into the Methodist church. Because he had unanswered questions about that faith, he hesitated.
While he was still considering becoming a Methodist, one of his students told him that two American missionaries had begun boarding at his house. Masao was eager to meet them, and the next day the student brought them to school. “As I shook hands with them, I had a very good feeling,” says Brother Watabe. When he attended Sunday School with them, he was impressed with the simplicity of the services and the sincerity of the people.
A missionary pamphlet, Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story, fascinated him so greatly that he read it all night. But it was the Book of Mormon itself that rekindled the hope he had lost during the war. When he first read the prophecy contained in 1 Nephi chapter 10 [1 Ne. 10], concerning the scattering and gathering together of Israel, his heart was filled with joy. All his life he had yearned to help bring about unity in the world. He was also excited to learn that his deceased ancestors could receive baptism and other saving ordinances.
Ever since that cold day in November 1949 when he was baptized in the Hirose River, Brother Watabe has dedicated himself to sharing the joy he has found in the gospel. He was able to baptize his wife, Sister Hisako Watabe, in July of the next year. Their oldest son, nine-year-old Masahisa, was baptized that same day. And he has baptized their two younger sons, Masaji and Masakazu, and two daughters, Seiko and Yasuko, at age eight.

As a young teen growing up in Santiago, Chile, Andrea González never had much except for a dream—a university degree that would allow her to support her family if necessary.
To get there, she hoped to graduate from seminary, get good grades at school, and score high enough on her college placement exam (PSU) to go to a university where she could study engineering.
But by the time she had started her final year of high school in preparation for the PSU, she started to wonder if any of that was possible. “All my goals seemed impossible to achieve,” she recalls.
Andrea was trying to break into a competitive and male-dominated field of study. Because of the competition, the top universities were looking for extremely high scores on the math portion of the PSU, scores usually earned by those who could afford to attend private schools.
To try and overcome these obstacles, Andrea kept a daunting schedule her final year. She was up early and studying after school until late, eating when she had a free moment and squeezing in seminary four nights a week.
“It was discouraging sometimes,” she says. “I had to sacrifice a lot. I don’t know how many times my friends heard me say, ‘No, I’ve got to study’ or how often I’ve been teased for being smart.”
But she knew she couldn’t give up if she wanted to secure her future.
Her sacrifices paid off. On the math section of the PSU, Andrea was one of 200 students in the country to earn a perfect score of 850 and one of only two girls from public schools to do so.
She also graduated from seminary, got the good grades she studied so hard for, and was named by her classmates as the year’s “Best Friend” because of all of the time she spent helping others with their own studying.
But Andrea believes her success has less to do with how much she knows than it does with what she knows she must do. In other words, blessings come from following the Lord’s counsel, not our own (see 2 Nephi 9:28–29). “It’s not worth anything to be smart if we ignore God,” she says. “You always have to put God first.”
Learning that principle as she studied for her college entrance exam was critical to the other test Andrea was taking—the test of life that everyone must take.
The Lord Himself explains this test in the scriptures: “We will prove them herewith, to see if they will do all things whatsoever the Lord their God shall command them” (Abraham 3:25).
“Heavenly Father tests us to see what we will do,” Andrea says, thinking back on the difficult schedule she had to keep and the teasing she sometimes had to endure. “To pass life’s test, we have to be obedient,” Andrea says.
And not just when things are going well but during the hard times too.
“The great test of life,” said President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, “is to see whether we will hearken to and obey God’s commands in the midst of the storms of life.”1
Often her two tests collided. That’s when Andrea learned that putting God first was the secret to passing both tests.
Many times she had to choose between Church activities and school activities, between studying the gospel and studying for her test. She says she learned early on that she felt better if she chose Church first. It strengthened her testimony that Heavenly Father would help her with her concerns if her first concern was Him.
These experiences also taught Andrea another important lesson. “He is capable of helping me with the tests He has given me,” she says.
Or as one of her heroes, Nephi, said, “I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
Andrea knows that even though she has passed her first test, there is a lot she must learn before she’ll feel ready to pass the next. But she knows if she puts God first, He’ll help her pass that test too.

Why are we taking all this good stuff to other people?
Because it’s a wonderful way to celebrate Christmas. Jesus spent His whole life giving, and it’s very important that we learn to give too.
Are we giving to that man, Daddy?
Shhhhh. No, sweetheart, we don’t know that man.
Did Jesus only give to people He knew?
Well, I think maybe He sort of knew everybody.
Does He know that man?
Yes He does.
Sir, I hope you’ll accept this little gift from our family. Merry Christmas.
Thank you. Merry Christmas to you.
Giving feels good, doesn’t it, Dad?
Yes it does.

I remember as a young boy feeling carefree as I walked to the church for a Primary meeting. When I arrived, I was surprised to see all of the parents there for a special program. Then it hit me. I had a part in this program, and I had forgotten to memorize my lines. When my turn came to say my part, I stood in front of my chair, but not one word came from my mouth. I could remember nothing. So I just stood there and then finally sat down and stared at the floor.

After that experience, I made a firm resolve never to speak in any Church meeting again. And I held to that resolve for some time. Then one Sunday, Sister Lydia Stillman, a Primary leader, knelt down at my side and asked me to give a short talk the following week. I said, “I don’t give talks.” She responded, “I know, but you can give this one because I’ll help you.” I continued to resist, but she expressed so much confidence in me that her invitation was hard to refuse. I gave the talk.

That good woman was a messenger from God, who had a work for me to do. She taught me that when a call comes, you accept it, no matter how inadequate you might feel. As Moroni did with Joseph, she made certain that I was prepared when the time came to give that talk. That inspired teacher helped save my life.

As a boy I loved to play soldier. I imagined myself as a great hero, and my fantasies included ceremonies of pomp and grandeur during which my country decorated me for courageous feats. As I grew older, I graduated from college and from Army ROTC. I was commissioned as a second lieutenant. I began to realize I might actually be placed in situations that would demand courage, and my hopes of becoming a hero grew and grew.
I attended helicopter pilot training and won my silver wings. I served 22 months in Europe. Then I was assigned as a medical evacuation helicopter pilot in Vietnam. As I waited for the actual transfer orders, my desire for greatness became an obsession.
I soon learned that the real experience of war wasn’t anything like the battlefields of my childhood imagination. The sight and stench of combat made me ill. My inner courage wasn’t as strong as I had thought, and I often found myself scared beyond any fear I had previously known. I sought the Lord as a source of strength, promising that if he preserved my life, I would spend my remaining days serving him in whatever manner he desired.
I still retained a vain hope that somehow I might earn the coveted Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) without serious injury to myself or my crew. The DFC is the mark of an aviator’s display of valor above and beyond the call of duty while under hostile fire. I dreamed of having the medal pinned on my chest.
Three months after I arrived in Vietnam, just about dusk one evening, a radio call came in to the operations office requesting a patient pickup at an insecure landing zone (meaning our forces were still in contact with the enemy).
As our helicopter followed a river through the Tuy Hoa Valley into a mountain pass, we were enveloped in torrential rain. It was extremely difficult to locate the landing area. Soldiers on the ground directed us with a flashlight beam.
We wanted to land up the slope from the casualty to allow those transporting him more clearance from the rotor blade. Turbulent winds whipped across the uneven terrain, causing the chopper to fishtail wildly and aborting our first landing attempt. This also meant the enemy had seen our landing spot and would be preparing to fire on us. A lull in the wind allowed us to land, and enemy tracers ripped like fiery baseballs through the night.
Our friendly forces returned fire. We made a hasty pick-up of the wounded and asked for flares to be shot into the sky to illuminate the surrounding mountains as we departed through lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. A few bursts of enemy ground fire bid us farewell.
As a result of this action, I was recommended for a DFC. But the recommendation was reviewed and downgraded to an Air Medal with a “V” for valor. I was disappointed, but remembered my promise to the Lord and was satisfied that my life had been spared.
About a month later, my crew made another perilous medical evacuation, this time on the side of a 60-degree mountain slope under a double canopy of foliage. This meant that we had to maneuver our helicopter down through the first cover of branches and leaves and over to an opening in the lower canopy of foliage where a hoist could lower a litter for the wounded soldier. Our rotor blades were literally inches from the branches, and the rotor wash of air bouncing off the foliage made hovering critically unstable. Despite these obstacles, the mission was successful, and the crew felt it deserved special recognition. We were once again recommended for the DFC, but again it was lessened to an Air Medal.
I was furious! “Do those people know what it’s like to put your life on the line every day?” I fumed. “They must be crazy to think this kind of flying is part of normal duty!” But in the quietness of my quarters, I remembered the words of my patriarchal blessing, which reminded me that the Holy Ghost would guide me. I thought, “That’s right. The Spirit made this mission and all the other missions, as hazardous as they may have been, possible for me.” And I knew Heavenly Father had protected me. No crew members who had flown with me had ever been harmed. I realized I had a great deal to be thankful for.
With only three months left on my tour of duty, I was called on another hoist rescue. This time it was in the Ashau Valley. Two casualties had to be moved from a dangerous location in another double canopy area. Once again we hovered between the trees like a sitting duck, protected only by cover shots from our troops but threatened by incoming enemy fire. Things went well until we started to bring the second patient up through the lower canopy.
Rifle fire sprayed around us. The crew chief was going to cut the cable, dropping the wounded man back to the ground and to possible death. “No!” I yelled. “Tell me when he’s clear of the trees.” The crew chief kept the litter bearing the wounded man coming up and yelled, “Clear!” as soon as it got above the trees. I moved the helicopter up, then forward, while the wounded man dangled below, slowly being drawn into the cargo area. Finally the terrified soldier was inside and we were on our way back to the base. What an experience! What excitement!
Back on the ground, the crew hugged each other. We were grateful to acknowledge that we were delivered by the power and mercy of God. We also felt sure we would merit a DFC. The recommendation was written up and submitted with assurance that it would be approved.
The awards ceremony was scheduled for July 8, 1968, two days before my departure from the country. I didn’t have to fly any more combat missions, and I had been informed that the DFC had been approved. I was going home and would be a hero, finally receiving the award I had longed for for so long.
Since many of the officers were receiving decorations, the first sergeant was left in charge of the awards formation. Those of us who were recipients were out in front of the other men. I was second in line, next to the detachment commander, who was also receiving a DFC. This was the moment of glory I had been waiting for since childhood. This was the ceremony of grandeur envisioned in the dreams of my youth.
The commanding general’s helicopter touched down. His aide-de-camp scurried from the craft to talk to the first sergeant, as the first sergeant called us all to attention. The two men exchanged comments, then the sergeant took several steps and stood right in front of me. He saluted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but your DFC has been downgraded. Take your place as fifth in formation.”
Pow! My dream was shattered. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I had to bite my lower lip to make sure I was in the real world and not having a bad dream. I was angry and hurt. Was this the type of gratitude bestowed for dedicated service which I considered above and beyond the call of duty? I did an about face, took two steps forward, made a right face, and moved to my new location as fifth in formation.
As the detachment commander had his Distinguished Flying Cross pinned on his pocket, I had to fight back the tears. I was happy for my boss and his deserved recognition, but I was disappointed at my own situation. When the general came to me, I snapped a salute. He returned it and pinned another Air Medal with a “V” for valor onto my shirt, saying, “Captain, this represents a lot of flying. I respect you for your contribution and congratulate you.” My heart was filled with resentment. How could he do this to me? I choked out a half-hearted “Thank you, sir.” We saluted and he moved on.
As I stood there with those mixed up feelings, I asked the Lord why this had happened. Surely there must be a mistake! It wasn’t fair! Then my spirit became calm as the words of my patriarchal blessing came to mind once again, telling me not to let Satan keep me from growth and development, telling me that the Lord would try me to prove my worth. The Spirit spoke to my soul, telling me that God had kept his promise to me—I was returning to my loved ones unharmed, I still had work to do in this life, and God had preserved my life. “Seek not after your own heart,” the Spirit whispered, “for the praise and rewards of men.”
I have reflected upon these thoughts over the years as I have tried to keep my end of the bargain—that I would serve the Lord with all my heart. I realize that the Savior provided temporal and spiritual rescue for us all, and his reward was a wooden cross and a crown of thorns, with no “V” for valor. What right, then, did I have to feel disappointed that I hadn’t received earthly recognition for saving the lives of a handful of men and women? I am now satisfied that the opportunity to repent of my sins and work out my mortal probation is reward enough for anything I do in this life.

Twenty-year-old Elaine Jack of Livingstone Ward, Scotland, found this to be so. “Not only was I the only LDS student at school where religious beliefs were mocked, but I was also the only active youth at church,” she says. “Now that I’m older, I don’t mind being different, but as a teenager I wanted so much to be accepted. Between ages 15 and 17 I stayed away from church. Until then I had relied on my parents’ testimony. This was not enough.

“It wasn’t until a caring Primary leader asked me to help with the children,” continues Elaine, “that I slowly began attending church again. I was still ready to find fault with everything. Then I studied the Book of Mormon in institute. That completely turned me around. By then I was ready to reach out and learn. The last three chapters of Second Nephi became especially significant to me.”

I speak tonight especially to the 12- to 25-year-olds who hold the priesthood of God. We think about you a lot and we pray for you. I once told the story of our four-year-old grandson giving his little brother a strong push. After consoling the crying child, my wife, Kathy, turned to the four-year-old and thoughtfully asked, “Why would you push your little brother?” He looked at his grandmother and responded, “Mimi, I’m sorry. I lost my CTR ring, and I cannot choose the right.” We know that you try hard to always choose the right. We love you very much.

In our afternoon sessions, we had been working on the second movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. The notes on the page seemed deceptively simple, but it never felt quite right when I played it.
“This time, Maria,” he said, “don’t hang on the notes like you own them. Let them sing through you. Pathetique doesn’t mean ‘pathetic,’ like in English. It means great, powerful emotion. Listen as you play. This second movement is flooded with hope. Remember, you and the piano are the instruments for the master.”
After that speech, what could I do? I thought of the master Beethoven penciling in the notes; then I closed my eyes and began. The feel of this movement had always eluded me. But this time the sounds told my fingers how to play, and the music shimmered in the room forming a momentary blanket against the coldness in other parts of my life. When I finished, I looked at Todd. A tear trickled down his cheeks.
“I can’t tell if that was for the master of the universe or from him, Maria.”
The Master he was talking about wasn’t Beethoven. I remembered Papa’s pain and said, “If you mean God, it was neither.”
“Then you know nothing of gifts,” he said.
“I know there is no God.”
He hesitated before he spoke. “Can I share something?”
“If it’s more of your Mormon religion, I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
I told him about Papa, about his singing, about his pain.
“Perhaps Mormon missionaries can help—him and you,” he said.
“Don’t count on it.”
Sunday evening Todd showed up with two college-age young men. I didn’t think Todd and his friends could help Papa, but after our visit in the music room the day I mastered the Pathetique, I was willing to try. Todd talked that day of what he called eternal things, and although Todd’s words were strange to me, they were full of hope. Even if there was only a slight chance they could help Papa, I wanted to try. I had not told Papa, though. I was afraid he’d say no if I asked.
I let Todd and his friends in, and Papa entered from the kitchen, two drinks already down and another in his hand.
“Papa, this is Todd. I’ve told you about him. He helps me with my music.”
“Ah,” Papa said, crossing the room to shake hands. “You are the boy with fingers of gold, Maria says.”
“She’s kind. But she has gold of her own, Mr. D’Alesso.” Todd stepped back. “Mr. D’Alesso, this is Elder Sals and Elder Warran.”
“What, you have the same funny first name?” Papa asked, grinning.
“No,” Elder Sals smiled. “That’s what missionaries in the Mormon church are called.”
Papa’s lips tightened. “You have a business here? In my home?”
Todd looked at me.
“I forgot to tell you, Papa. I invited them over to talk to us about their church.”
“They go.” Papa turned, and over his shoulder he said, “Now,” and walked back to the kitchen.
I apologized to Todd and the elders, and they left.
Papa came back into the room. I wanted to yell at him for being so rude, but I knew most of it was my fault for not telling him.
“These boys. They fill your head with the funny ideas, and you believe them. Then you find out the truth, and you be bitter. Eh, I know. You listen to your Papa. There is no God. You stay away from that boy and his friends.”
“Okay, Papa. I won’t talk religion with him.”
“No. No more practice with him. He’s bad.”
“No, Papa. I can learn more from Todd in one afternoon than I can from Mrs. Talesworthy in ten years. I won’t quit my lessons.”
“You will stay away,” he shouted. “Final.”
“Please, Papa.”
“Final!” he screamed.
Where my relationship with Papa had been cool and distant before, it now became icy. To disobey Papa was unforgivable, to not work with Todd on my piano, unbearable. In the evenings I went to the library, to a friend’s house, or I occupied myself in my room doing homework or reading.
A few weeks passed, and Pauly came home from college for the weekend. We ate a quiet dinner where Papa asked questions, the same questions Papa always asked—How’s school? You keeping your grades up? You don’t do nothing to let them take your scholarship away? Then later, alone, I told Paul what had happened.
“Papa chooses to pine away his life,” Paul said. “We buried our mother; he buried his joy. Do what you have to do to live your life, Maria.”
Monday, as we walked together between classes, I told Todd I was ready to start piano lessons again.
“Did your father say it’s okay?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what my father says. It’s my life.”
“You should obey your father.”
“Then I’m destined to take lessons from Mrs. Talesworthy for the rest of my life.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yeah,” I smiled, “like watching you sight-read Chopin without even one mistake.”
“Oh, there are mistakes. You just don’t hear them, yet. But your ear’s improving. Look, there has to be a way to reach your father. I feel responsible for bringing up the idea of talking religion to him in the first place. Maybe I should visit him, apologize, tell him I won’t discuss religion with you, and ask him to let us work together again.”
“No. That’s hopeless, and maybe unwise—especially if you came when he was drinking.”
“Is he mean then?”
“No, not really. Just more stubborn.”
Todd seemed stumped. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “If it’s supposed to work out, it will.”
I stopped walking and grabbed his arm. “People can’t just hope things will work out. They have to do something, Todd.”
Todd turned to face me. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Men!” I said and whacked him on the shoulder.
We both laughed, but I knew he was right about obeying Papa.
The warning bell rang, and Todd started to walk away, then turned around. “You might pray,” he grinned, and was off.
The thought that I could pray had never occurred to me. I’d only seen it done by preachers on TV, or in the movies. I had to do something, though. I thought about Todd’s suggestion the rest of the day and decided I would try it.
That night I poured out my heart at my bedside and after a half-hour climbed in bed. There was no flash of light, no inspiration, no singing angels, nothing. But the melody of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata playing in my mind and an understanding that I must do something.
I stared at the dark ceiling and made a mental list of my options. I could try to persuade Papa to see a doctor. That hadn’t worked before; perhaps, though, it was worth another try. I could leave things as they were and hope that in time he’d heal. But Papa was growing more sullen each week. I could talk to Uncle Ricard and ask him for help. But he was a thousand miles away. I could let Todd talk to Papa, but that hadn’t gone over too well before. I had tried to bring Todd’s name up on two occasions since the missionaries’ visit, and Papa got angry. I told him I wanted to know more about what Todd believed, and he didn’t like that.
Of course I could confront Papa and insist that we either work together or threaten to move out. Chances were, though, I’d end up on the street. And if he threw me out, I didn’t know what would happen to him or me. What I really wanted to do was take responsibility for my own life, let Papa do with his what he would, and secretly start lessons with Todd again.
But that’s not what I did.
It was after dinner the next evening. We had eaten and cleaned up, mostly in silence. When we were through, Papa headed for the bottle of scotch and the TV.
“Papa?” I said.
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” His eyes grew darker.
Oh, how I longed to see the brightness in them again. Why did Mama have to go? “Papa, I’m dying.”
“What? You make a joke?” His eyes widened.
“I don’t have a disease or anything, but I’m dying. My music is dying, and so are you.”
“Look. I don’t need you to tell me what I am doing.”
“Papa, I remember one spring afternoon when we were barbecuing and Pauly asked you to sing. You opened your mouth, and the notes came out like the Creator himself had touched your voice. And the world stopped to listen. I asked you that day if you had always sung. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Mama.”
“There is no Mama for you, Maria; no wife for me.”
“Papa, you said that you thought God sent music to give us joy and Mama to show us he loved us. Do you remember?”
Papa lifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “I remember.”
“I don’t know why she died, but you mock her life with your constant self-pity.”
He raised his voice. “I lost my wife.”
“And I lost my mother,” I shouted. “And now I’m losing you.”
“You will not talk to me like that.”
“Why not? If it’s not like this it won’t be at all.” I pounded the table. “The only talk you do these days is to the TV and your bottles of scotch.”
“You give your dad some respect. Hear?” He rose off his seat, his face flushed, and I knew I was close to a point of no return. I could stop now, and in a few days things would be more or less frigid normal. If I pushed him too far, I could lose him as surely as I had lost Mama.
“Papa, what if Todd is right? What if there is a God, and what if Mama is alive, living with him in another world, waiting for you? What if your being with her again depends on what you do here? What if your selfishness and self-pity kept you from being with her after you die?”
He looked as if each word was a well-aimed bullet. He sunk back in his seat. After a moment of silence, he said, quietly, “No one can know about these things.”
“Todd says he and a lot of other people do.”
For the first time in my life I saw Papa as a little boy, a frightened child who had lost hope.
“Father, may I play you a song?”
“You hate me, Maria?”
“No, I love you, Papa. Please, may I play for you?”
He nodded his head and followed me into the living room.
“Sit down, Papa, and listen.”
I closed my eyes and, this time, pictured the Master, like in a picture Todd had shown me. And Mama stood beside him.
I began the second movement of the Pathetique. When I finished, I looked at Papa, deep in his chair, and he said with a softness to his face, “You play like you want God to hear you.”
“I do, Papa. I want to play so well that he will tell Mama how beautiful it is.”
Papa came over and stood behind me. He put his strong hands on my shoulders. “This Todd. He taught you to play like that?”
“No, Papa. You did.”
I felt his hands tremble against my shoulders, and he said, “Tonight, you play for me, Maria, and inside I sing again.”

One winter was particularly bad for the Young family, and in early March they found themselves without food. John sent his two older boys, Phineas and Joseph, to find work anywhere to exchange for food, corn, or whatever, and he kept Brigham and Lorenzo in the cabin with him.
John Young had tapped the maple trees on his farm and boiled down the sap and made maple sugar. As they finally came to the end of their food supply, he told Brigham he was going to exchange the sugar for food. He said, “Now you stay here, Briggy, and tomorrow morning get out and work all day clearing the brush and chopping what you can. And Lorenzo, you stack the brush. It’ll take me all night and tomorrow to get there and back, but I’ll be back the next day.”
So early that next morning, strapping on his snowshoes and leaving about 300 grams of sugar for the two small boys to eat as best they could, he put on his pack and left.
Brigham and Lorenzo worked all that day, as they had promised they would, and at about four o’clock they started for home. As they were walking along they heard a robin sing. They stopped and finally located the robin on a bush some forty or fifty meters away. Brigham said to Lorenzo, “Now you watch. I’ll run around and get the gun ad we’ll have some supper.” So he circled around to the cabin and got the gun and ran back.
The gun must have weighed nearly seven kilograms, but Brigham managed to aim it. He pulled the trigger and shot it. They ran over and got the bird, skinned it and cleaned it, went to the cabin, and put the bird in a kettle on the fireplace with a little water and began to cook it. They tipped the flour barrel and beat on the bottom, catching what they could in the pan, and managed to get half a cup of flour. They thickened the stew with that and had bird stew and sugar for supper. The next night, John returned home bringing some corn meal and pork, and they were able to survive.

When I was a teenager, I was rummaging in the attic one day and came across a pile of dusty boxes. I discovered a clarinet, a saxophone, a violin, and a trumpet. After asking my dad about them, I learned that these were some of the instruments he played. He had a band when he was in high school in Boise, Idaho, USA. He was a talented musician who deeply loved music and making music. His band played at major social events in Boise and even on a cruise ship that sailed to Asia. After he moved to Southern California, USA, in 1928, the band reorganized and became very popular.
In 1931 he married my mother, Clara Jeffs. They wanted to have children. He felt that for him the demands of the entertainment world were inconsistent with the meaningful family he wanted. So one day he put all the instruments in their cases and carried them to the attic. Save for rare family events, he never played them again.
I never realized what a sacrifice he had made until later. In 1993 he moved from his Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, home to an apartment in downtown Salt Lake City, near his office. During the move we came across the instruments again. I asked him if he would like to give them to the Church because of the important part they played in his young life. His answer took me by surprise: “Not yet. I can’t part with them now.” Although Dad knew he would never play them again, he could not bear the thought of giving them up. It was only then that I realized what a great sacrifice he had made.

Elder Andrew Ballantyne’s excitement bounced in his throat. The cloud cover at Inverness Airport blocked all views of Scotland’s Highlands, but it didn’t matter. He was nearly home—home, family, and Gemma. For the first time in two years, he allowed Gemma fully into his thoughts. They’d agreed not to write after he’d been away 12 months. It became easier then to give his whole attention to the work.
“Are we there, young man?” His thinking was interrupted by an elderly lady in a tweed skirt occupying the next seat. She had awakened with a start as the flight attendant announced, “Fasten your seat belts.”
“We certainly are,” he smiled. “Inverness at last.” He gave a long sigh of satisfaction, settling back once more to dreams of Gemma, brown hair waving across her face; eyes, large and laughing.
“My, oh my! Have I slept all the way from Heathrow?” the lady peered at Andrew as if seeing him for the first time. Her face looked weatherworn and inquisitive.
“You a visitor then, young man? I’m Mrs. McKivett by the way. I cannot quite place your accent.” She pushed her glasses firmly on her nose, squinting more closely.
Andrew, with his cropped black hair and square-faced good looks, had a certain air of authority about him, a sense of purpose, reassuring and calm. “Not exactly a visitor,” he chuckled. “I’ve been in Switzerland for two years doing missionary work for my church. I expect my accent’s a mixture of German, French, American, and Scottish by now.”
She smiled back, nodding slowly. “Ahh … that explains everything.”
Before he could ask what everything meant, they were taxiing to a halt, and the confusion of disembarking began.
He saw them as soon as the baggage cleared. His parents; 16-year-old Adam, now taller than himself at six feet; and 11-year-old Beth, grinning widely, skipping around the three of them. With a lump in his throat he reached out to meet their embrace. Looking from face to familiar face and swiftly absorbing the changes that had taken place, he felt complete—like his mission had crowned them all with a circle of love. But part of the circle was missing.
“Is Gemma working or something?” he asked his mother as soon as the barrage of questions and answers quieted.
Andrew thought he saw an expression of dismay before she glanced away. He caught his breath. “Let’s get home first, dear,” she whispered gently, “then we can talk properly.”
The drive to Relkennan seemed to take forever. Andrew scarcely noticed as they sped over bridges and down winding roads. The view of the firth, reappearing now and again between frosted hills, then slithering down to the sea, was shrouded in a mist, as cheerless and chilling as his thoughts. His replies to the family became more automatic than interesting.
“Don’t worry, son,” his father leaned across, patting his arm. “You must be exhausted. We’ll get you in the house; then you can get some sleep before tonight’s social.”
But Andrew’s mind was racing too fast for sleep. As soon as he unpacked, he went looking for his mother, following his nose and smells of fresh baking. Her face shouted bad news before she spoke.
“I’m sorry, dear,” her placid features broke into small lines of worry as she struggled to find the words.
Andrew felt suddenly weak. “Is she … she’s not ill, is she?”
“No. It’s not that. Gemma’s … that is … we would have written but didn’t want to spoil things for you before your return.”
“She’s found someone else, hasn’t she?” Andrew stared out of the window, desolation sweeping all else aside. Then clearing his throat, “Is she happy? What’s he like? Is he a member? How long … ?”
“It’s best you see for yourself tonight,” Sister Ballantyne said, putting an arm around her son. “Go and rest, Andrew. You’ll feel better after a nap.”
But sleep was now further away than ever. His future looked bleak. It had always held Gemma. Even though she had stayed in a distant corner of his thoughts for two years, he could not imagine the future with anyone else.
It was as though his thoughts turned into prayer and a hymn began playing through his mind. They’d sung it at the last zone conference, and it was the first time Andrew had even noticed it in the hymnbook. Now here was number 336 in clear replay. He could even see his companion up there conducting with resolute conviction. “School thy feelings, O my brother; Train thy warm, impulsive soul. Do not its emotions smother, But let wisdom’s voice control …”
Jumping off the bed, Andrew rummaged through his backpack until his fingers touched the familiar worn covers. As the pages flipped open to exactly the right place, a sheet of paper dropped out. The mission president had given everyone the same quote that day: “What man thinks in his heart, he advertises on his face.”
With a rueful grin, Andrew decided, there and then, he would not spoil this homecoming for anyone. Somehow he would smile at them all. He sighed, then fell into a fitful sleep.
The meetinghouse was full. Members, family, and old school friends, everyone. “Well, young man,” a familiar voice piped up, as he worked his way around the congregation after the formal welcome. “I thought I’d find you here. Remember me?”
“Of course,” Andrew blinked in amazement at the elderly lady from the plane, still in the same tweed skirt. “I had no idea you were LDS.”
“LDS? Never heard of it. I think they called me an investigator last week. Prefer to be called Eva McKivett actually, but not to worry.” Hooking her hand through his elbow, she steered him towards a seat at the back of the hall. Andrew’s stomach knotted as he saw where they were heading. There was no way out. Next to the empty chairs sat Gemma and her boyfriend.
“I have great respect for you young elders,” Eva continued. “Taught me a few things this past month. Must say I like what I hear and feel.” She gazed unwaveringly at Andrew.
“Now then,” she eyed his missionary badge, “now then, Elder Ballantyne, please point out your family to me. Done a good job bringing you up, they have. And then tell me which of these pretty lasses has been waiting for you to come home.” Her blue eyes twinkled knowingly behind the glasses as she tapped his arm.
By now Andrew was squirming in discomfort. He had caught Gemma’s eye before sitting down, but on hearing her gasp, didn’t dare turn in her direction.
“My parents are over there … by the bishop,” he stammered. “Would you like to come over and meet them?” He half stood, hoping she would follow.
“No, no, my dear, not yet. Only just sat down.” She pulled him back into the chair. “So which one … ?” Eva began a survey of the handful of young women scattered around the hall.
“Excuse me.”
Andrew let out his breath with a relief at the interruption. Then he realized it was coming from the young man next to Gemma.
“Gemma made me come tonight. We might as well get this over with. Glen’s the name, Glen Munroe,” he said, extending one hand to Andrew and slapping him on the back with the other.
While Andrew introduced Mrs. McKivett, he took stock of Glen out of the corner of his eye. The light red hair and fair complexion, so typical of Highlanders, gave Glen a distinctive air.
He turned at last to Gemma. As their eyes met, he was puzzled by what he saw, but the look was gone in a second. Her smile was warm as she held out her hands. “Welcome home, Andy. It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you. But it’s gone quicker than I expected.”
Andrew swallowed hard. This didn’t feel right. He wanted to give her a hug, sit down, and talk and talk. “Yes … quicker than you’d ever imagine,” he said, deciding the cool approach was his only option.
“Okay, Gemma,” Glen grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. “That’s about as much missionary talk as I can take for one night. No offense, Andrew, but you’d never catch me taking off for two years.” He pulled Gemma to his other side, away from Andrew. “Wouldn’t go and leave a beautiful girl like this floating about waiting to be snapped up by someone else.” He laughed as they moved away.
Andrew caught a glimpse of Gemma’s blush as she bit her lip with embarrassment. His stomach churned, but he gave her a quick wink, shrugging his shoulders, and raising his eyebrows in defeat. He felt someone poking him in the back. He’d forgotten Mrs. McKivett.
“Ah ha!” she said, head nodding vigorously. “So that’s the one.” She pulled the back of Andrew’s jacket until he sat down again.
“I think it’s time to turn the tables. Let me be a teacher for a moment, and you can be … what’s the word, an investigator?” Her voice sounded bossy, but her kindly smile said otherwise.
Andrew winced. “Whatever you say.”
“Do you love this young lady?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you going to do about it?”
He looked grave for a moment. “For the sake of her happiness, I guess I could go away, far away. Back to Switzerland maybe.”
“Is that what you really want?”
“Of course not.”
“Is that what she really wants?”
“Er … I don’t know.”
“Are they engaged?”
“Don’t think so. I couldn’t see a ring.”
“Then what are you waiting for? My father always said, ‘If what you want is right, then don’t give up until it’s yours.’”
“Sounds like he should have been a missionary,” said Andrew with a fleeting grin.
“And that’s another thing, young Andrew. When I came to this church, the first thing I asked the elders for was a hymnbook. Music’s been the joy of my life. In there I found this hymn, number 336 I think it is. You go and read verse four. Then find that lass before it’s too late.”
She shooed him away before easing herself to her feet and making her way over to his parents.
It was an hour later before Andrew could escape the crowd and find a peaceful moment on his own in the chapel. Sinking quietly into a seat in the corner he shut his eyes and leaned back. It was good to be home, but he missed having a companion when it came to talking things through.
What if Mrs. McKivett is wrong? he thought. Suppose Gemma really loves Glen? I can hardly go all out to break up a relationship that could bring her happiness.
He reached for a hymnbook, but his thoughts continued. It’s odd, Eva McKivett finding that song, he thought. As he was carefully reading verse four, he became aware of someone entering the chapel.
When Gemma whispered, “May I join you?” he raised his head. For a second he didn’t know if he wanted this conversation or not. Then Mrs. McKivett’s parting remarks echoed in his mind. His smile of welcome advertised a wealth of feeling far deeper than he intended.
“I … I’m sorry about Glen, Andrew.”
“You don’t need to apologize. You’re a free woman. Always were.”
“When you and I stopped writing, he was constantly around. He is very persuasive you know.”
“I noticed.”
“We got engaged last week.” She looked down at her fingers. “No ring yet. Glen couldn’t afford one.”
Andrew turned away. With his heart sinking, he made quick mental reminders to keep cool, keep smiling, let her think he didn’t mind.
“But,” she went on with a rush, “I only agreed because he said I owed it to him after all this time. I guess he convinced me that I did owe him.”
“Do you mean you don’t really love him?” Andrew’s voice rose a pitch as he stared at Gemma.
“I don’t know. I thought I did,” she looked pleadingly at him. “I don’t expect you to understand. And I don’t expect us to be back where we were before. I simply want you to know that Glen and I are no longer a couple, as of 10 minutes ago. He’s so angry he scares me right now.”
“Gemma, listen to me.” Andrew spoke softly. “We’ll deal with Glen. I’ll be right there for you. Right now I want you to know something.”
She watched his face anxiously.
“The things I felt for you before I left have increased a hundred times.” Andrew paused, watching Gemma’s frown turn into a smile of relief. “It’s as if,” he concluded, “as if someone’s fine-tuned the strings and an amazing song is about to begin.”
For Andrew, his homecoming circle could not have been more complete.

Anyone who’s been a Boy Scout can tell you that becoming an Eagle is no simple task. But for Ryan Scholes, a member of the Basalt Ward, Firth Idaho Stake, becoming an Eagle Scout was an extra-special achievement.
Because Ryan has Down’s syndrome, earning merit badges, learning Scouting skills, and organizing his Eagle project were all more challenging than usual. Other members of his troop helped him with some of the more difficult tasks, but little by little, Ryan became a true Scouter on his own.
The day before Ryan turned 18, he completed his project of collecting more than 700 food items for needy families in his troop area. And, although it may have been a little harder for Ryan to achieve the rank of Eagle, he’s proud that in his troop he’s just “one of the boys.”

Elder Carlos E. Asay, an emeritus member of the Seventy, shares an experience he had as a missionary with this gift. He and his companion visited a branch torn by divisions. His companion was asked to speak at the meeting held to deal with the conflicts. After fasting and prayer, his companion “stood with confidence and worked the miracle. He spoke with the tongue of an angel. That young, inexperienced elder’s words healed wounds festering in the hearts of men much older than he, prompted confessions, and literally saved a branch of the Church” (Ensign, April 1988, 17).

When Goethe wrote his Faust, I believe he was inspired to utter some truths about the method of attack by the enemy of our souls. You recall that the man Faust, an old man, was anxious to be made a youth again. He prayed for such a transformation. But the thing he sought for was unlawful, and the Lord had no answer for him. But he persisted in his prayers, and when we persist, not willing to say “Father, thy will, not mine, be done,” it is quite possible that the devil may answer us, as he did Faust. And so the devil said: “I will do this thing for you. I will make you a youth, and when you are a youth you will want a maiden.” And a vision of the beautiful Marguerite was shown. “But if I do this for you I want you to sign a contract that when you are done with this body your spirit belongs to me.”

It is not bodies, it is immortal spirits that the devil wants. And he tries to capture them through the body, for the body can enslave the spirit, but the spirit can keep the body a servant and be its master.

So the contract is entered into. Then as Faust is made a young man he remembers the promise of the virgin, the maiden, and the two go in search of her. They find her as she enters the church. Suddenly Faust rushes forward to seize her, but the devil holds him back and says: “Not so fast, not that way.” Here is a truth. The devil cannot capture any man or woman that way. He cannot suddenly sweep them off their feet and bind them as his slaves against their wills. The power is given to every man and woman that lives to speak as Christ did: “Get thee hence, Satan;” and he will leave you as quickly as he left the Master. He cannot capture a single soul unless we are willing to go. He is limited. He must win men and women.

So with Marguerite. He must win her. They study her and find her weakness. She is a chaste, virtuous, wonderful girl, yet she has a weakness. It is vanity. So they play upon that weak link. Jewels are placed in the garden, and with them the mirror. She discovers these things. Vanity prompts her to put the jewels on and suggests she look in the mirror and see how beautiful she is. At the psychological moment the tempter appears and offers them as a gift from her would-be lover. She is prompted to keep them.

The lovers spend the afternoon together, and the mother’s voice is heard calling Marguerite to come in from the garden, but she is loath to leave her new-found lover. Again at the psychological moment the tempter, the devil, appears, placing a pill in the hand of Faust with the assurance that if this is placed in the mother’s evening drink the mother will soon be asleep and the lovers will be undisturbed. As I have listened to the sad stories of more than one girl who has stolen away from her mother’s influence and come to sorrow and distress, I wonder why the warning is not sufficient to give every girl the assurance that the safest place in the world for her is as close to her mother as she can get.

The mother takes the potion and goes to sleep. The lovers spend the night together. Early morning brings the brother Valentino upon the scene, and he finds his mother dead—for it is the sleep of death—and a stranger in the house with his sister Marguerite. A quarrel follows, and a duel is fought in which Valentino, the brother, is slain. Now Marguerite comes to an awakening sense of her full situation and the consequences of her own act. She has slain her mother, brought the death of her brother, and—worse than her own death—she has lost her virtue. She is next seen weeping and tearing her hair, and the devil comes laughing upon the scene. He has captured another soul. Strongly fortified as she was, she had one weakness, and through that the enemy entered her citadel and she fell.

Alasdair sat up straighter in his red velvet chair as the lights began to dim. The people in the theater stopped chatting and looked up at the stage. Alasdair’s sister, Sutton, folded her program. Then she caught his eye and smiled. “Ready, Al?” she asked.
Tonight was Alasdair’s first time at the theater. His parents loved to watch plays, and when Sutton turned 10, they started taking her with them. Now Alasdair was finally old enough to go too!
The orchestra began the overture. Then the actors walked out on stage and the show began.
Alasdair loved the play. It had adventure, mystery—and even some great jokes! When the show ended, all the actors came out for their curtain call. As Alasdair joined the applause, he had a good feeling, like he sometimes got in Primary. Was he feeling the Holy Ghost? It can’t be. I’m not at church! Alasdair thought.
Overture—music at the beginning of the play
Curtain call—when the actors take their bow at the end of a play
On the way home, Alasdair sat by Sutton on the subway. “Did you like the play?” she asked as the train rattled through the dark tunnels.
Alasdair nodded. “I loved it!”
“Me too,” Sutton said.
Alasdair thought about how good he had felt during the play. “Sutton,” he said, “when we were watching the play, I felt happy, sort of like I do at church. But the play wasn’t about the gospel!”
“That was the Holy Ghost,” Sutton said as the train stopped and they followed their parents onto the platform. “He can tell us what’s good for us to be around and what isn’t. Did you think the play had a good message?”
“Yes,” Alasdair said. “It was about being kind to other people.”
“Right!” Sutton said as they climbed up the escalator behind their parents. “The Holy Ghost is always there to tell us when things are good for us to be around—not just when we’re at church. We just have to listen.”

I hope I can convey to you the humility with which I approach this calling. I’ve just recently been released as a second counselor. What does one say, when one day you are the second counselor of the Bountiful Thirteenth Ward bishopric, and the next day you’re the Second Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric. In the Regional Representatives’ seminar Friday morning, Elder Russell M. Nelson reminisced that last year he was sitting in the Regional Representatives’ seminar—sitting very inconspicuously in the back, and very comfortably. Later that day he received an interview which turned his life upside down.
Last Friday I was in the Regional Representatives’ seminar, but my ticket wasn’t stamped “Regional Representative”; it was stamped “Invited Guest.” By four o’clock that afternoon, I had received a letter signed by President Hinckley telling me I was to speak for thirteen minutes in the Sunday afternoon session of conference.
My first question to President Hinckley wasn’t “What should I say?” It was “How do I get in?”
As late as last Wednesday night, I was rehearsing for a ward play. (By the way, Sister Lalli, wherever you are, I’m sorry I wasn’t to play practice yesterday morning.) I was released from the bishopric in January after serving for four years. How I loved that calling, and the brethren with whom I served—Bishop Lee J. Lalli, and his able and dedicated first counselor, D. Ray Alexander—Lee J. and Ray, as I affectionately called them.
Since my release I’ve been traveling extensively, and therefore have been without a calling for two months. At that play practice Wednesday, I sent a signal to the new bishop, Russ Herscher, that I was ready to reenter the “job market.” I hope you won’t feel that I’m an aspiring person, but I told the Primary president, Susan Mabey, I wanted to teach Primary—ideally my seven-year-old daughter’s class. I know sanctification comes not with any particular calling, but with genuine acts of service, often for which there is no specific calling.
Now, despite the humility with which I approach this call, I have full confidence in my ability to perform. This, however, is not self-confidence, but confidence in the fact that the Lord makes every man and woman equal to the assignment that he or she is given. Therefore, I state clearly but humbly, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.” (1 Ne. 3:7.)
Brothers and sisters, I have never been a bishop. Since Friday afternoon I have felt puzzled, almost bewildered and overwhelmed, at how a man could be called to be a member of the Presiding Bishopric without having had the experience of being a bishop. I agonized for twenty-four hours until yesterday afternoon, when President Hinckley laid his hands upon my head and ordained me a bishop. I heard the voice of the Lord say in my heart, “No, Glenn, you have never been a bishop, but now you are a bishop, and always will be.”
Several years ago, I made a covenant with the Lord. I promised to give him anything he should require of me, and prayed this gesture might warrant forgiveness of my transgressions. Yesterday I gave the only thing I had left. It was something I cherished. I held on to it until the very last moment. I never thought of it as a selfish possession. That of which I speak flew out the window of my home when I turned on the television to watch the news and saw my picture on the television screen. I speak of my prized remaining possession—anonymity.
How I love not to be noticed! I don’t want to sit with the General Authorities in the “fishbowl” at the BYU football games in my dark blue suit! I want to sit in the stands with my father, wearing an obnoxious T-shirt which reads: “BYU #1. Enough said!” I have license and credentials to be obnoxious! I was born and raised in Provo, Utah. I attended school at Provo High School. I received my bachelor’s and master’s degrees from BYU. I’m a member of the Church, and I even work for the Church. My credentials are impeccable. I want to go berserk in the upper tier of the San Diego Stadium as I have the last four years at the Holiday Bowl—with the exception of Ohio State [which soundly beat BYU’s team in the bowl game], when I went into deep depression. I still have one faint hope—perhaps the Brethren will let me sit with Elder Perry at the ball games. Nevertheless, I give up my prized anonymity, just as I will give up my life if it is required of me.
I love the Lord Jesus Christ. I love the transformation his atonement has wrought in me. Earlier speakers have spoken of him with such eloquence. How I wish I had command of the language which would enable me to express my feelings on this Easter afternoon. May I add my simple testimony to those who have spoken articulately. I once was in darkness, and now see light. I once lost all of my confidence, and now know all things are possible in the Lord. I once felt shame and now am “filled with his love, even unto the consuming of my flesh.” (2 Ne. 4:21.) “I am encircled about eternally in the arms of his love.” (2 Ne. 1:15.)
I express my deepest loyalty to Bishop Hales and his First Counselor, Bishop Eyring. I will not betray their trust. I express my love and loyalty to the First Presidency, the Council of the Twelve Apostles, the First Quorum of the Seventy, and those I love most—the rank-and-file members of the Church. I express my love to my wife; without her love and understanding, I literally would not be standing at this pulpit today. I love my children, who must also give up their anonymity, as well as some time with their father. How I wish I could embrace my oldest son, who is serving a mission in the Cook Islands!
I thank God I was born of goodly parents. I begged my mother not to stand and take my picture as I came to the stand for the first time yesterday morning! But what would I have done if, during my formative years, she had not demonstrated that same pride and enthusiasm for everything I accomplished, however small. My father, Bishop Kenneth L. Pace, was the bishop of the Bonneville Ward in the East Provo Stake during my teens. He remains uppermost in my mind as exemplifying the pure love of Christ throughout his life.
Finally, I share the prayer of my heart with you at this time. May I display in my service the courage of my convictions in a manner like unto that displayed by Bishop Victor L. Brown. May I acquire the inspired, objective judgment of Bishop H. Burke Peterson. And may I acquire the open, warm, Christlike personality of Bishop J. Richard Clarke. May I exhibit the love and loyalty to Bishop Hales taught to us so beautifully by Joseph’s beloved brother, Hyrum. And lastly, may we as a Bishopric acquire the same love, respect, and unity I felt in the bishopric of the Bountiful Thirteenth Ward with Bishop Lee J. Lalli and D. Ray Alexander, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I heard a recent experience that reminded me of such love. When all Church meetings were suspended due to the COVID-19 pandemic, a ministering brother accepted an assignment from his elders quorum president to bless and administer the sacrament to a sister he ministers to. When he called her to offer to bring the sacrament, she accepted reluctantly, hating to take him out of his own home in such a dangerous time and also believing that things would quickly return to normal.

When he arrived at her home that Sunday morning, she had a request. Could they walk next door and also have the sacrament with her 87-year-old neighbor? With the bishop’s authorization, he agreed.

For many, many weeks, and with very careful social distancing and other safety measures, that small group of Saints gathered each Sunday for a simple sacrament service. Just a few pieces of broken bread and cups of water—but many tears shed for the goodness of a loving God.

In time, the ministering brother, his family, and the sister he ministers to were able to return to church. But the 87-year-old widow, the neighbor, out of an abundance of caution, had to remain home. The ministering brother—remember that his assignment was to her neighbor and not even to this elderly sister herself—still to this day quietly comes to her home each Sunday, scriptures and a tiny piece of bread in hand, to administer the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.

His priesthood service, like mine that day in the care center, is given out of love. In fact, the ministering brother recently asked his bishop if there were others in the ward he could care for. His desire to magnify his priesthood service has grown as he has served in the Lord’s name and in a way known almost exclusively to Him. I don’t know if the ministering brother has prayed, as I did, for those he serves to know of the Lord’s love, but because his service has been in the Lord’s name, the result has been the same.

In school, if the children had been well-behaved, the teacher might reward them by having a railroad spelling bee after the afternoon activity time. All the children lined up next to the wall. One day little Mary was at the front of the line, so she could spell any word that she wanted to. She correctly spelled cat. Then Charles, who was next in line, had to spell a word beginning with t, the last letter in Mary’s word. He spelled tail. Laura was next, and she had to spell a word beginning with l. She slowly spelled, “l-i-v-e-l-e-e.” Then, because she had misspelled lively, she had to sit down. The game continued as Henry correctly spelled a word beginning with y.
All too soon the railroad spelling bee ended—it was time for the children to go home. But the next day they would return to the one-room schoolhouse to study and play again.

I roped one of my older brothers into going with me so I wouldn’t have to sit alone. I don’t remember the meeting at all. I just remember thinking, “Everybody must be looking at me and saying, ‘Look, Gretchen is at church. I wonder why.’ ” I was so uncomfortable by the end of the meeting that I planned a quick escape as soon as the closing prayer ended.
That’s when something happened that changed my life forever. Four girls I remembered from Primary ran up and surrounded me. They were so happy to see me at church, and I felt their sincerity. They asked if I would come back later that night to a youth fireside. I agreed and then left for home.
I talked my brother into going with me again. At the fireside, a man stood to speak and said he felt impressed not to give his prepared talk but to share his testimony and then let us do the same. All of a sudden, my whole being felt on fire. I don’t know how long it took me to get up, but I stood and bore my testimony that now I knew why I had been feeling unhappy and lost. It was the gospel that was missing in my life. I knew I needed to make some changes.
Now, almost 30 years later, I am still grateful to those young women who didn’t let me escape the chapel that day. I later met and married a returned missionary in the Idaho Falls Temple. We have four children, three of whom have married in the temple. Our oldest son served a mission, and our last is now planning to go on his. I have served in the Young Women program of the Church. Each time I teach a lesson on service, I share my life-changing experience in hopes that the same will be done for others as was done for me.
I believe my simple prayer was answered on that mountaintop. Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers. And my prayer was answered because four girls chose the right. They put their arms around a lost soul and invited her back. There are Gretchens out there who need to be brought back. You never know whose life can and will be changed forever if you will just reach out and be a loving, caring friend.