Gospel Story Finder

Listening to the rapid, incomprehensible buzz of Spanish that permeated the hot, stuffy confines of the Tres Estrellas bus, Elder Terry Richards gulped and stared straight ahead, straining to visualize his first city. All he knew of Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico, was that the bus depot was across the street from the city jail; therefore, when the bus entered a strange city and made a routine stop in front of a large baleful structure resembling a medieval stone fortress, he knew he had arrived.
He shuddered as he stepped from the bus into the sweltering Guaymas heat. All he had as security was the address of the elders’ quarters scribbled on a scrap of paper clutched in the sweating palm of his hand. His bags were piled at his feet, his scriptures tucked under his arm, and his face pinched with indecision and trepidation.
Suddenly a man approached and accosted him with a barrage of Spanish. The words were so unlike anything Elder Richards had ever heard that all he was capable of doing was to stare mutely and nod his head.
The man snatched his bags and began carrying them off. Panic stricken, Elder Richards tried to call out, but nothing in the Mission Training Center had prepared him to halt a robbery. “Hey, wait!” he finally managed to gasp. The man didn’t stop. “They’re mine!” He shook his head in frustration. “I mean,” he called hoarsely, “Estos … son … míos.”
The man grinned, nodded his head, and began cramming the bags into the trunk of a dent-covered car. Only then did it occur to Elder Richards that this was a Mexican taxi. He fumbled with the scrap of paper in his hand and thrust it toward the man. He wanted to say something—anything—but his mind was a perplexing blank.
The driver rambled while he drove. Elder Richards struggled to snatch a familiar word here and there, but most of the driver’s monologue was a verbal blur. Finally out of utter exhaustion he stopped listening altogether, dazed by this language, this seeming babble of tongues. Plagued by a terrible uncertainty, he asked himself, “What will I ever be able to do? What good will I be?”
The taxi left him on a narrow side street in front of an old two-story building, cracked, pocked, and sandwiched between a bakery and a small drugstore. He had hoped the elders would be there waiting, but it was Saturday afternoon. The doors were locked; the building, deserted. All he could do was huddle in a narrow bar of shade and wait. He sank down on his bags, exhausted and confused.
“Elder!” a voice called enthusiastically. He looked up into the smiling face of an older man. The man grabbed his hand and began pumping his arm furiously, at the same time pulling him toward the front door where he escorted him inside.
Hermano Marcos, who had come to prepare the building for the Sunday meetings, introduced Elder Richards to his new home. The building doubled as the branch casa de oración and the elders’ quarters. Two large rooms on the ground floor served as the chapel. They were filled from wall to wall with gray folding chairs, all of them facing two small tables, one obviously the podium and the other the sacrament table. The only other furniture was an old battered and scarred piano.
After Hermano Marcos’s short welcome and tour, he turned to his work, sweeping and mopping the floors and wiping the dust from the chairs and tables. While Hermano Marcos worked, Elder Richards wandered about, trying to imagine holding a church meeting in such humble circumstances, so unlike anything he had ever experienced. A flood of loneliness swept over him, leaving him groping for something to lend him stability. The only thing in these strange surroundings that had any semblance of the familiar was the old battered piano standing forlornly against the wall.
Now in Guaymas, lonely and somewhat dejected, he gently ran his fingers along the chipped and broken keyboard. A wan smile touched his lips. “It would take more than a pianist to get music out of you,” he whispered. He began to walk his fingers across the keys, listening to the sharp ping of the falling notes.
A worn hymnbook lay on one of the folding chairs. He reached for it and turned to “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” It was the first hymn he had ever learned to play. He studied the notes for a moment. When he was convinced he could, he sat down and began to play. His fingers were terribly awkward. The piano needed tuning, and several keys were broken. At times it was difficult to determine whether he or the piano was making the mistakes. But he labored through the hymn, once, twice. He played until the music, if not entirely melodious, was at least recognizable.
It was late when Elder Becket, Elder Richards’s new companion, and Elder Cole found him upstairs lying on their cot asleep.
The next morning as Elder Cole was preparing the sacrament and Elder Becket filled out a mission report, Elder Richards strolled to the old piano. “Who plays this old box?” he asked with a grin.
Elder Becket looked up and laughed. “That, Elder, isn’t just an old box. To the members here, it’s the most precious thing in Guaymas.”
“This?” Elder Richards asked with surprise. Elder Becket nodded. “Why? Did Cortez bring it over from Spain or something?”
“It’s a piano. There are a few of them in town, but you certainly don’t find them in every house for the kids to climb on and kick around. Some of the newer members haven’t even heard this one played, and none of the members have heard it played very well. An Elder Fisher, who could play a few hymns with one hand, was here about a year ago, a few months after they bought it. The members almost made him a saint. They made him play his hymns every Sunday. Finally he jokingly told the mission president he was going home if he had to play those hymns another time.”
“It’s seen better days,” Elder Richards commented. “It could sure use a tuning job.”
“You play?” Elder Becket asked.
Elder Richards laughed and shook his head. “I can make noise, pretty bad noise at that, but I don’t play. My mother thought I had musical talents, but after five years of lessons and no noticeable improvement, even she gave up.”
“If you had lessons for five years …”
“I didn’t learn anything.”
“If you played that long, you can play as well as Elder Fisher.”
Just then President Perales and his family arrived and the piano was temporarily forgotten, but just before sacrament meeting, President Perales approached Elder Richards with a hymnbook and spoke, pointing to the piano. Grinning and shaking his head, Elder Richards said shyly, “No, no puedo … tocar.”
President Perales motioned for Elder Becket to come over. “Hermano Marcos said he heard you playing yesterday,” Elder Becket said.
“Yesterday?” he gasped. “I was just fooling around. I can’t play.”
“You sure impressed Hermano Marcos.”
“Elder, I haven’t played for over three years. Yesterday was the first time—I mean the very first time—I’ve even sat down to a piano for over three years. I was just …”
“Play what you were playing yesterday.”
“I can’t,” he insisted, but the protest was to no avail. With his face burning with embarrassment, Elder Richards retreated to the piano. Never had he played in front of a group. At home when the bishop had asked him to play in priesthood, he had adamantly refused.
When it came time for the first hymn, he huddled morosely on the piano chair and braced himself for the shame. Even had the piano been a good one, he would have battled to coax music from it. With his fingers trembling and his eyes frantically searching the keyboard, he began to grope through “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” He managed to get through all three verses, but it was torture for him. Later he played the sacrament hymn, and at the conclusion of the meeting he played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Sensing that all eyes were on him, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head. He wanted to race from the building and hide himself, and the thing that was so utterly frustrating was that he was forced to endure his shame in silence. There was absolutely no way he could explain in Spanish that it had been years since he had last played, that he had never learned properly in the first place, that this whole thing was a terrible mistake.
As soon as the benediction was said, he stood, planning to sneak from the room and hide from the members’ questioning stares, but before he took three steps a sister had him by the arm and was speaking to him, tears glistening in her eyes. The only words that had any meaning for him were her often repeated, “Muchisimas gracias!” Two more sisters approached and then a brother. Soon it seemed as though the entire branch crowded around him, many with tears in their eyes, each trying to shake his hand.
He saw Elder Becket and searched his face for an explanation. Elder Becket smiled and called, “They loved it. If the Church sainted people, you would be the first Mormon saint in Guaymas.”
“For what?” he asked, completely bewildered.
“For playing their piano.”
“That wasn’t playing. That wasn’t music.”
“You’ll have a hard time convincing them. They want you to play again.”
“Now?”
“But I can’t. It’s been …”
“That might have worked back home, but not here. Look at them, Elder. They’re all but begging.”
Elder Richards was touched. He felt a twinge of shame, a gnawing guilt. Suddenly he wished he could play like his mother had always dreamed of him playing. He offered a silent prayer, pleading for help, not to shelter him from shame and embarrassment but to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands so that through his neglected talent he might give these special people the joy and satisfaction they sought.
It was almost an hour later before the last of the members left the building and Elder Richards made his way with his companions up to their room. “I can’t believe they could even listen to that, let alone enjoy it,” Elder Richards commented.
For a long while Elder Becket didn’t reply; then he shook his head and asked, “Where are you from, Elder?”
“Logan, Utah.”
“Have you ever been to a chapel that didn’t have a piano?” Elder Richards shook his head. “Well, most of these people have never heard the hymns played on a piano. The elders have taught them the melodies. Before today, when they sang “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning,” it was the way the elders had taught it. Not more than a handful of them have ever sung that hymn accompanied by a piano. “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” is a hymn that many of them have wanted to sing accompanied by a piano, but they’ve hardly dared hope that it was really possible.”
“I’m no musician,” Elder Richards said, “but I can hear the difference between noise and music.”
“Maybe two years ago I would have felt the same, but this morning that sounded pretty good, even to me.”
“Where did they get the old box anyway?”
“In Logan,” Elder Becket chided, “that’s an old box. Here it’s a treasure. They bought it from the Baptists. They had a special dinner to raise the money. Everybody donated food and then paid outlandish prices to eat it. All the money went for the piano. Someday, when the chapel’s built, they’ll have a new one, but right now they have to make do with that. The members are proud of their piano. Even though no one can play it and even though it might be out of tune, that’s one of the most important things in this whole building.”
“If it’s so important to them, why don’t they tune it?”
“No money. Right now they’re trying to raise money so they can start building their chapel. Every extra peso goes for that.”
The rest of the day, as Elder Richards followed his two companions, he couldn’t forget the old piano. When they returned to the building that night, it was late and Elder Richards was tired, but before going to bed he went down to the old piano and played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” The timing was off, and the notes didn’t come through as smoothly as they did when his sisters or mother played, but for the first time in his life he really tried to make music and not merely put in time.
The next day he wrote a short note to his mother: “Mom, I would appreciate it if you would sell my stereo and send me the money. Ted Roberts said he’d buy it if I ever wanted to sell. There’s this piano here that needs tuning, and the members don’t have the money to get the job done. I’d like to help them out. I figure I owe them something after wasting all those piano lessons. And, mom, thanks for making me practice the piano.”
When the letter was addressed and sealed, Elder Richards stood and started down the stairs to the chapel below. “Where are you going?” Elder Becket asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll go down and beat on that old box. I mean, I figure that as long as I’m going to be the new branch pianist, I should give the members something they can be proud of, not just a lot of noise.”

It doesn’t take expensive gifts to make Christmas meaningful. I am reminded of a story told by Elder Glen L. Rudd, who served as a member of the Seventy from 1987 to 1992. One day before Christmas a number of years ago, while he was managing a bishops’ storehouse, he learned from an ecclesiastical leader about a needy family that had recently moved to the city. When he went to visit their small apartment, he discovered a young single mother with four children under age 10.
The family’s needs were so great that the mother could not buy treats or presents for her children that Christmas—she couldn’t even afford a tree. Brother Rudd talked with the family and learned that the three little girls would love a doll or a stuffed animal. When he asked the six-year-old son what he wanted, the hungry little boy replied, “I would like a bowl of oatmeal.”
Brother Rudd promised the little boy oatmeal and maybe something else. Then he went to the bishops’ storehouse and gathered food and other supplies to meet the immediate needs of the family.
That very morning a generous Latter-day Saint had given him 50 dollars “for someone in need.” Using that donation, Brother Rudd bundled up three of his own children and went Christmas shopping—his children selecting toys for the needy children.
After loading up the car with food, clothing, gifts, a Christmas tree, and some ornaments, the Rudds drove to the family’s apartment. There they helped the mother and her children set up the tree. Then they placed presents under it and presented the little boy with a large package of oatmeal.
The mother wept, the children rejoiced, and they all sang a Christmas song. That night as the Rudd family gathered for dinner, they gave thanks that they could bring some Christmas cheer to another family and help a little boy receive a bowl of oatmeal.1

Recently our seven-year-old son, Wade, had his appendix rupture. The infection had spread throughout his abdomen, yet from outward appearances nothing seemed seriously wrong. Without proper medical care and attention he would have surely died. Like a person who has a serious physical illness, the spirit cannot heal itself after a major transgression without confession. The spirituality of a person can only remain weak, somewhat hesitant in fulfilling its immortal purpose, and could even wane and die.

Perhaps a point can also be made that as we do not visit a doctor for every little scratch, also we should not confess every “minor” sin to the bishop. President Brigham Young counseled, “Do not tell about your nonsensical conduct that nobody knows of but yourselves” (in Journal of Discourses, 8:362). The key is that we must be able to honestly differentiate between major transgressions and “nonsensical conduct.”

I remember the privilege of performing a sealing ceremony in the temple for a family I had known for many years. The scene was tranquil. The cares of the outside world had been temporarily discarded. The quiet and peace of the house of the Lord filled the heart of each one assembled in the room. I knew that this particular couple had been married for eighteen years and had never before been to the temple. I turned to the husband and asked, “Jack, who is responsible for bringing this glorious event to fulfillment?”
He smiled and pointed silently to his precious wife who sat by his side. I seemed to sense that this lovely woman was never more proud of her husband than at that particular moment. Jack then directed my attention to one of the brethren serving as witness to this ceremony and likewise acknowledged the great influence for good that he had had upon his life.
As the three beautiful children were sealed to their parents, I could not help noticing the tears which welled up in the eyes of the teenage daughter and then rolled down her cheeks, finally tumbling upon clasped hands. These were sacred tears, tears of supreme joy, tears that expressed the silent but eloquent gratitude of a tender heart too full to speak.
I found myself thinking, Oh, that such men and women would not wait eighteen long years to receive this priceless blessing.

In the performance of our responsibilities, I have learned that when we heed a silent prompting and act upon it without delay, our Heavenly Father will guide our footsteps and bless our lives and the lives of others. I know of no experience more sweet or feeling more precious than to heed a prompting only to discover that the Lord has answered another person’s prayer through you.
Perhaps just one example will suffice. One day just over a year ago, after taking care of matters at the office, I felt a strong impression to visit an aged widow who was a patient at St. Joseph Villa here in Salt Lake City. I drove there directly.
When I went to her room, I found it empty. I asked an attendant concerning her whereabouts and was directed to a lounge area. There I found this sweet widow visiting with her sister and another friend. We had a pleasant conversation together.
As we were talking, a man came to the door of the room to obtain a can of soda water from the vending machine. He glanced at me and said, “Why, you are Tom Monson.”
“Yes,” I replied. “And you look like a Hemingway.” He acknowledged that he was Stephen Hemingway, the son of Alfred Eugene Hemingway, who had served as my counselor when I was a bishop many years ago and whom I called Gene. Stephen told me that his father was there in the same facility and was near death. He had been calling my name, and the family had wanted to contact me but had been unable to find a telephone number for me.
I excused myself immediately and went with Stephen up to the room of my former counselor, where others of his children were also gathered, his wife having passed away some years previous. The family members regarded my meeting Stephen in the lounge area as a response by our Heavenly Father to their great desire that I would see their father before he died and answer his call. I too felt that this was the case, for if Stephen had not entered the room in which I was visiting at precisely the time he did, I would not have known that Gene was even in that facility.
We gave a blessing to him. A spirit of peace prevailed. We had a lovely visit, after which I left.
The following morning a phone call revealed that Gene Hemingway had passed away—just 20 minutes after he had received the blessing from his son and me.
I expressed a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for His guiding influence which prompted my visit to St. Joseph Villa and led me to my dear friend Alfred Eugene Hemingway.
I like to think that Gene Hemingway’s thoughts that evening, as we basked in the Spirit’s glow, participated in humble prayer, and pronounced a priesthood blessing, echoed the words mentioned in the hymn “Master, the Tempest Is Raging,” which I cited at the beginning of my message:
Linger, O blessed Redeemer!
Leave me alone no more,
And with joy I shall make the blest harbor
And rest on the blissful shore.

One morning a family gathered to study the scriptures as usual. As they gathered, the father felt a negative spirit: some members of the family did not look very excited to participate. They had family prayer, and as they started to read the scriptures, the father noticed that one of the children did not have her personal set of scriptures with her. He invited her to go to her room and bring her scriptures. She reluctantly did so, and after a period of time that seemed like an eternity, she returned, sat down, and said, “Do we really have to do this now?”
The father thought to himself that the enemy of all righteousness wanted to create problems so that they would not study the scriptures. The father, trying to stay calm, said, “Yes, we have to do this now because this is what the Lord wants us to do.”
She responded, “I don’t really want to do this now!”
The father then lost his patience, raised his voice, and said, “This is my home, and we will always read the scriptures in my home!”
The tone and volume of his words hurt his daughter, and with her scriptures in hand, she left the family circle, ran to her bedroom, and slammed the door. Thus ended the family scripture study—no harmony and little love being felt at home.
The father knew that he had done wrong, so he went to his own bedroom and knelt down to pray. He pleaded with the Lord for help, knowing that he had offended one of His children, a daughter whom he truly loved. He implored the Lord to restore the spirit of love and harmony at home and enable them to be able to continue studying the scriptures as a family. As he was praying, an idea came to his mind: “Go and say, ‘I’m sorry.’” He continued to pray earnestly, asking for the Spirit of the Lord to come back into his home. Once again the idea came: “Go and say, ‘I’m sorry.’”
He really wanted to be a good father and do the right thing, so he stood up and went to his daughter’s bedroom. He gently knocked on the door several times, and there was no answer. So he slowly opened the door and found his girl sobbing and crying on her bed. He kneeled next to her and said with a soft and tender voice, “I’m sorry. I apologize for what I did.” He repeated, “I’m sorry, I love you, and I don’t want to hurt you.” And then from the mouth of a child came the lesson that the Lord wanted to teach him.
She stopped crying, and after a brief silence, she took her scriptures into her hands and started to look up some verses. The father watched as those pure and delicate hands turned the pages of the scriptures, page after page. She came to the verses she sought and started to read very slowly with a soft voice: “For the natural man is an enemy to God, and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever, unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man and becometh a saint through the atonement of Christ the Lord, and becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.”1
While he was still kneeling next to her bed, humility overcame him as he thought to himself, “That scripture was written for me. She has taught me a great lesson.”
Then she turned her eyes to him and said, “I am sorry. I am sorry, Daddy.”
At that very moment the father realized she did not read that verse to apply that scripture to him, but she read it applying it to herself. He opened his arms and embraced her. Love and harmony had been restored in this sweet moment of reconciliation born of the word of God and the Holy Ghost. That scripture, which his daughter remembered from her own personal scripture study, had touched his heart with the fire of the Holy Ghost.

“I have a secret, Lisa,” Katie said after she finished her milk. She put her glass on the kitchen table and swung her legs.
“What is it?” Her sister stopped eating her cereal.
“It’s something that you can see,” Katie said, swinging her legs faster.
Lisa looked all around. “I don’t see a secret. What is it?”
Katie shook her head. She slid off her chair and hopped around the table. “Dad, I have a secret.”
Dad looked up from feeding the baby and smiled at Katie. “Give me a clue.”
“It’s something that you can see.”
Dad looked really hard at Katie. He wrinkled his brow. “You grew ten inches?”
Katie laughed.
“No. Look again.”
“I can’t see your secret,” said Dad. “You’ll have to tell me.”
Katie shook her head. She ran around the table to her mother. Mother put her arm around Katie and kissed her. “I have a secret,” said Katie, bouncing up and down on her toes.
“That white mustache?” Mother asked, dabbing Katie’s mouth with a napkin.
“No. Something else. Something that you can see.” Katie looked down at the floor.
“We will have to guess later, Katie,” said Mother. “Now, let me tie your shoes so that you can go to preschool.”
“No thank you,” said Katie.
“Do you want me to tie your shoes?” asked Lisa.
“No thank you,” answered Katie.
“Shall I tie them?” asked Dad.
“No thank you, Dad.” Katie giggled.
“Someone will have to tie them, Katie. You can’t go with your shoes untied,” Mother said.
Katie jumped up and down, then held up one foot so that everyone could see her shoe. “That’s my secret. I tied them all by myself!”

My next year at Utah State I experienced another defining moment. I met a tall, handsome, returned missionary and we fell in love. He proposed and together we picked out a ring. With his entire savings he paid cash for the diamond.
On a clear Sunday evening in January we drove to the grounds of the Logan Temple where we intended to become formally engaged. The white gold diamond ring slipped from between the pages of Sections 131 and 132 and fell into the freshly fallen snow. We searched for hours beneath the moonlight, alternately weeping and praying. Finally, we huddled in one of the temple wall alcoves, and fervently prayed for the ring's recovery. We promised the Lord that we would consecrate our lives to him. We promised to attend the temple monthly, pay our tithing, and fulfill our callings. The hour was late and we sadly returned to our apartments.
The miracle was not that it didn't snow that night, nor that the next morning a friend plucked the diamond from the snow, just a foot away from where we had searched. The miracle was that the Lord gave us an transforming opportunity to identify the kind of lives we would live and solemnly promise to be obedient.

Painting the house was the biggest job. It was a project that lasted two months, two of the best months of summer, and involved everyone in the family. When we—I had six brothers and sisters—became old enough and careful enough we would be given the honor of doing the actual painting. This honor was bestowed with great ceremony. The night before the painting started, a large bonfire was built and then with the entire family watching my father would tap the shoulders of the honored person with a paintbrush.
“I knight you into the royal order of the paintbrush of the Madison family,” he said in his deepest and most ceremonious voice.
Afterward we celebrated with a banquet of fried chicken, potato salad, homemade root beer, and cake. A feast, of course, fit for a king. Toasts were made with the root beer and songs were sung, all directed to the new knight. It was great fun. The knights being initiated into King Arthur’s round table probably felt no more honored than we did when we became knighted into the royal order of the paintbrush.
Unfortunately for me, the year I became old enough to paint was the summer I became interested in baseball. The day painting started was also the day my team had its first practice game.
My mother wouldn’t let me get out of painting to go to the game.
“The house and the family are more important than anything else,” she said.
I knew my team wouldn’t have a chance without me, so while everyone was busy working, I painted my way to a far corner of the house and made a run for it. I reached a row of trees growing on the edge of our property and waited. I watched for a few minutes. No one was following me, so I hurried to the game.
It was the second inning. The other team, the North Side Wolves, had scored four runs. No problem. My team didn’t have anything to worry about. It was my turn to bat.
I stepped up to the plate, ready to hit the first home run of what was going to be an illustrious career of home runs. The pitcher hunkered down, spit, fleered his lips back, and gave me his fiercest scowl.
I just scowled back at him, swung my bat a couple of times for practice, and then to strike terror into the hearts of the outfielders, I casually pointed my bat at the church which was more than half a mile away. Several of them backed up. The pitcher, his face stone hard, swung his arms over his head, beginning the windup.
Just then a dark shadow came over me.
“Must be a cloud passing in front of the sun,” I thought, concentrating on the pitcher. Then I noticed the pitcher had stopped his windup and was backing up.
It was George, my oldest brother. George is big, six foot four, and he has this mean look on his face, the kind of look you see on a mad zoo gorilla. George makes most guys my age a little edgy, but not me. I knew what my mother would do to him if he hurt me.
“Let’s go,” George said. George never says more than he has to.
“After I hit a couple of homers,” I replied casually. I knew everyone there would be impressed with my bravery.
“Hey, let’s play ball!” the pitcher yelled.
George looked at him again and then tightened a hand into a fist. The pitcher dropped the ball and backed up several steps. His face was pale, just like he’d looked death in the face.
George looked at me, shook his head, and then reached for me. I sat down on home plate.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
George shook his head again.
“Dumb.”
He reached down, grabbed my leg, and started for home, dragging me behind him.
He let me walk part of the way after I promised to go along peacefully.
My mother was waiting at the house with my paintbrush and a bucket of paint.
“You do your work here,” she said, “before you do anything else.”

There was a time when I thought about leaving the Church. It was right before I went to my first FSY conference. During that time, I got a strong feeling to ask some people about how to come closer to Christ and how to get a patriarchal blessing. A good friend of mine told me you just have to tell your bishop that you want a blessing, and he will help you.
At first I thought, “That feels so weird having a blessing that covers your whole life.” But I just felt like I needed to get mine. I did some scripture study with my dad, and we talked about patriarchal blessings and when he got his.
The feeling I had when I got my blessing was really strong. I could feel the presence of the Holy Ghost and even my grandparents on the other side. One thing I would say to my younger self now that I have my patriarchal blessing would be to think about life with an eternal perspective. If a year or a day or a week doesn’t go your way, that’s fine. You have eternity ahead of you. It doesn’t feel easy, but we can do everything through Jesus Christ and our Heavenly Father. They truly love us, and They’re going to help us to achieve our goals and become the best versions of ourselves.
I really encourage anybody who is thinking of getting a patriarchal blessing to do it, because it really helps you.
Without getting my blessing, I think I would have left the Church. I would be in deep waters. I wouldn’t be thinking about serving a mission. I might not even be alive, to be honest. It has helped me in so many ways. I really encourage anybody who is thinking of getting a patriarchal blessing to do it, because it really helps you.

In 2018, Latter-day Saint Robert Opiyo joined the only ice hockey club in East-Central Africa, the Kenya Ice Lions. At the time, there were fewer than 30 ice hockey players in all of Kenya, and 17 of them (15 men and 2 women) were members of the Ice Lions team.
Today, there are over 40 adult players and 40 youth players who practice at least twice a week. Robert used the skills he learned on his mission in Melbourne, Australia, as one of the team’s executive members.
Brother Opiyo dreams of the Olympics someday but is also content to be part of this pioneering endeavor. “Slowly more people hear about our desire and want to help us get there,” he said. “I’m grateful to have been a part that set the foundation for future generations.”

Cesar began looking for the gospel without really realizing it. Although he was already active in a church, Cesar became interested in other religions and started taking his first baby steps toward the truth.

“I would read literature from other churches and I would then pray to Father in Heaven saying, ‘If this is the true church, send your servants to me and have them teach me.’”

Cesar started his search, he says, without even really thinking about what a huge change it would be in his life. But not long after Cesar started praying for an answer, one came.

Cesar’s last name is Gaspar. Fortunate for him, his name fell right after Betty Garcia’s on the alphabetical seating charts for most of his junior high school classes. Since they sat next to each other most of the school day, they became friends, sometimes studying together after school.

“One day she mentioned that she was a member of the Church,” says Cesar. “I got very interested and started asking her what her beliefs were, what her principles were.”

Soon Cesar knew he needed to know more. His thirst for knowledge led him to follow Betty’s brother home from school one day so he would know where her family lived. After working up the courage to knock on her door, Cesar was invited into the house, and Betty and her family had a long talk with him about what it meant to be a Latter-day Saint.

But it was another name that led him to find the family’s house in the first place.

“When I was first learning about the Church, the thing that impressed me the most was its name. There was something very special to me about the fact that the Church had Jesus Christ in its name. It has a very spiritual and good feeling.”

Soon Cesar had a copy of the Book of Mormon—compliments of the Garcia family—and lots of questions.

Attending sacrament meeting for the first time was a real switch for Cesar. It wasn’t anything like the meetings he was accustomed to.

“There was a man carrying the bread and water trays. He was very busy fixing the microphone and saying hello to everyone. There were so many people there, I wondered if they would all fit in the church! It seemed funny that the man fixing the microphone was the bishop.

“It was also a real change to be in church for three hours; that seemed like a long time. I still remember that first Sunday School class. We talked about the birth of Jesus Christ, and I asked a lot of questions. After class, Betty’s brother, Isaac, helped me find the missionaries. I didn’t go to priesthood meeting that day; instead, I had my first discussion with the missionaries.”

That discussion led to more discussions during the week. By Thursday, he had had an interview with the bishop, and the following Sunday—exactly one week after his first attendance at Sunday meetings—he was baptized.

“It was pretty fast,” Cesar admits, “but by that time I had already read the Book of Mormon. Before meeting the missionaries, I had also read Doctrines of Salvation, Truth Restored, and The Miracle of Forgiveness. I had started reading Jesus the Christ. I felt I was ready.”

That was two years ago. Cesar is the only Church member in his family, and it would be easy for him to maybe skip church once in a while, or decide against important programs like seminary—especially since he almost always has to walk to get there! But he doesn’t even think about that. Instead, he thinks about who sees what he does.

“I have to be an example to my family,” he says. “I really try not to make mistakes and to be as perfect as I can because I know they’re watching me.”

As any convert knows, joining the Church can be a big change. Cesar was no exception.

“The Church is more than principles. It’s a way of life,” he says. “The Word of Wisdom, the blessing of the food at every meal, prayer morning and night, early-morning seminary—that was a big change! And there are other things, like studying the scriptures on your own and getting up early for church on Sundays.”

But after two years, Cesar seems comfortable with all those changes. He’s so comfortable, in fact, that he will share the gospel message with anyone who will listen.

“I try to be very careful about comments I make to my friends so that I can teach them about the Church without offending them,” he says.

Although he’s still relatively new in the gospel, you’d never know he hasn’t been a member all his life. Part of it can probably be attributed to the fact that Cesar’s a quick study and that he has a great desire to know the truth. But Cesar says that there’s another, more important reason he’s learned so much so fast.

“When I was reading the Book of Mormon, before I joined the Church, I came to the part about Jesus Christ in America, and I knew it was true,” says Cesar. “At the time, I didn’t really know that it was the Holy Ghost, but I felt very peaceful. That moment was a new beginning in my life. I felt like I could start all over and do things in a different and better way.”

And that strong prompting has translated into bold action. It’s the secret to Cesar’s great energy in living and sharing the gospel, despite the usual obstacles and weaknesses that he, like most people, has to overcome. Cesar keeps a journal to remind himself of, and to eventually share with others, the reasons he lives the gospel. It helps him keep his spirits up when the going gets tough.

“Being an example and writing in my journal will help me leave a legacy. When they read what I have written, my children and grandchildren will know that being the only member of the Church in my family isn’t easy at all, and I have had to work very hard.”

They’ll know a lot of other things about him, too—like the fact that he loves his calling as a stake missionary; that he loves to be around other Church members, especially the young men and women in his ward and stake; and, most important, that he has a testimony.

“I’ve noticed that many people think I’m not old enough to know or to receive an answer about something important, like religion. But I have a testimony that no matter your age, if you have a sincere heart and if you ask, you will receive an answer for sure,” says Cesar.

Cesar hasn’t ever sung the lyrics “Pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked, and walked,” but when he hears those words, his eyes light up, and he says with a smile, “That’s my song! I walk a lot.”

There are differences, of course, between Cesar and the pioneer children of old. Cesar walks through the busy streets of Guadalajara, not the open plains. And Cesar doesn’t gather fuel for the evening’s fire or feed livestock at the end of the day. But he, too, is a pioneer.

One day his children and grandchildren will talk about their ancestor Cesar Gaspar and how he loved to gather friends together and give them the wonderful gospel message. And they’ll talk about the fact that, even though he had to walk most of the places he wanted to go, he was always singing a song—even if you couldn’t hear it. It was a song about how happy the gospel made him and how strong his testimony was. He may or may not have even been much of a singer, but it was a tune he loved to carry.

Right in his heart.

The winter of 1979–80 was more severe than usual in our area, and the heavy snowfall in the mountains collapsed the roof on a friend’s cabin. The entire roof system, all the way down to the concrete footings, needed rebuilding. I was hired to do the job.
The cabin is located in a very secluded spot in a nearby canyon, nestled among majestic pine trees along the bank of a stream. It is so beautiful and peaceful there that it almost seems as if it doesn’t belong on this telestial earth.
Because of the lovely setting and the peace I felt every time I went there, I decided to do the work myself rather than subcontract it out, as I often did. My brother Rusty helped me, and we started tearing down the damaged structure in the latter part of April, as soon as the snow melted enough for us to get to the cabin.
As the weather gradually got warmer, I started taking my little son Kenny with me every day. He was two and a half years old at the time and really enjoyed going to work with his dad. He would entertain himself all day, exploring everything in sight. He was fascinated by all the new-found beauties of nature—especially the squirrels, chipmunks, and birds—and he spent hours playing near the stream, throwing rocks and sticks into the fast-moving water. Often he would curl up and take a nap under the protection of a shady pine tree.
This went on day after day. He took many minor falls and got a few scratches and scrapes during his adventures, but I seldom went to his rescue because I could see the growth he was experiencing. As he became more familiar with these new surroundings, he developed confidence in himself and his abilities. Nevertheless, I was very careful to keep a close watch on him because he was so young and small, and especially because of the nearby stream which had grown deeper and swifter with the melting snow. He showed surprising common sense, never getting close enough to the water to fall in; but I noticed that each day he felt more confident about edging closer to the bank of the stream.
One night, after taking Kenny with me for four or five weeks, I had a terrible dream. I woke up in a cold sweat after dreaming that he had fallen into the rushing water and drowned. It was so real and scared me so badly that I sat up in bed and found myself shaking.
I couldn’t go back to sleep. I spent the rest of the night trying to calm myself and thoughtfully considering the frightful images that kept turning over and over in my mind. I had the distinct feeling that this dream was a warning not to be ignored. At the same time, I wondered how I could tell little Kenny that he wouldn’t be able to go with me to work on the cabin again. I was concerned about hurting his feelings because I knew how he loved to go to the mountains to work with his dad.
The next morning I told my wife, Georgia, of the experience and of my feelings, and she agreed that I had better not take him with me to the cabin anymore. But she, too, was concerned about how he was going to handle the disappointment.
Kenny got up early that morning, and as usual, started to dress himself. He came into our bedroom and sat on my lap, and as I was helping him put on his shoes and socks I was still trying to figure out how to tell him he couldn’t go with me anymore.
All of a sudden he said, “Dad, I can’t go to work with you today.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“Because I will drown in the river,” he said.
Tears of joy came to our eyes as we realized that Kenny had received the same warning that I had that night. A strong feeling of peace came over us, knowing that our Heavenly Father had given us this inspiration to protect our son and save him for his mission in this life.

Richard and Carol had been married for 20 years. When they first came to see a counselor to resolve their marital difficulties, Carol complained that Richard was cruel, manipulative, thoughtless, and ill tempered. The counselor turned to Richard, expecting to hear a different story, and was surprised to hear him agree with Carol. He later learned that Richard had low self-esteem and compensated for it by trying to control Carol and their children. Richard acknowledged that he needed help and said that he was eager to change.
Over the next year, the counselor watched Richard gradually become kinder and more thoughtful. Happy with the changes he was making, Richard felt good about himself. Nevertheless, Carol filed for divorce. While it was true that Richard had treated Carol poorly in the past, he had repented and changed. But the hurt Carol felt ran deep, and she was unable to forgive him.
The story of Richard and Carol is not unusual. Many couples hold grudges for years, sometimes using the memory of hurts as justification for punishing each other. Their unwillingness to forgive stifles communication, and their interaction becomes strained.

I was very excited when I found out that my friend Hilary was going to stay with our family for eight days while her parents were on a trip. We always have lots of fun playing with dolls, riding bikes, and playing together in the backyard.
One morning when Hilary was staying with us, my mom read us the words of King Benjamin for scripture study. He said that we should “love one another, and … serve one another” (Mosiah 4:15). That afternoon after school, Hilary and I made a plan. We decided to surprise my family by showing them love and service.
We got up early the next morning and set the table for breakfast. Before we jumped back into bed, we laid out our clothes to wear that day and the clothes for my two younger brothers.
When it was Sunday, we emptied the dishwasher, cleared and washed off all the breakfast dishes, and swept the kitchen floor. Then we went straight to my room and got into our Sunday clothes. My mom was afraid that we’d be late for church with an extra person to get ready, but we helped her so much that our family arrived at sacrament meeting ten minutes early!
The last day of Hilary’s stay, she did all my kitchen jobs for me and helped my mom with my little brother, Grant. I secretly packed up her suitcase and gathered together all the things she needed to take home. Then I set the table for dinner, put clean towels in the bathroom, set out everyone’s toothbrushes, and straightened up the family room. I didn’t want to stop! My mom was really happy about everything we had done, and we felt very, very good inside.
Hilary and I decided that showing love and giving service to each other and to our families is just as much fun as riding bikes and playing with dolls.

Sometimes the administering elder is inspired to reveal important information. This was so in the case of President George Albert Smith. When he was thirteen years old, he was very ill, and the family felt that if he lived very long at all, he would be a sickly person. At this time a family friend, Zebedee Coltrin, who happened to be a patriarch in another stake, came to visit. He gave a blessing to Brother Smith. This was not a patriarchal blessing, but it was recorded by his mother, and when recently discovered it was turned over to the Church Historian’s Office. Some marvelous statements were made concerning his future.

“… and thou shalt be wrapt in the visions of the heavens, and thou shalt be clothed with salvation as with a garment, for thou are destined to become a mighty man before the Lord, for thou shalt become a mighty apostle in the Church and kingdom of God upon the Earth, for none of thy father’s family shall have more power with God than thou shalt have, for none shall excel thee.”

Now this was a remarkable promise, and a daring thing for a man to say to young George—unless he were speaking under inspiration. You see, the father of this sickly child was John Henry Smith, second counselor to President Joseph F. Smith. George’s grandfather was George A. Smith who had been first counselor in the first presidency to Brigham Young. So if this blessing were to be fulfilled, George Albert Smith would have to become president of the Church someday long after that blessing was given. And we all know that the day came when indeed he was sustained as president and prophet of the Church.

The next few days were very long for Sarah. She did everything that she could think of to make the time go faster. One morning, when she was returning from taking a basket of scones to Mrs. Root, who was sick, she saw Elder Kimball on the path to town. She ran the rest of the way home to tell her family. In a short time, they were back in town, ready for a meeting. This time so many people had gathered that they met outside. Elder Kimball stood on a stone wall and preached to the people, and it was just as before. Sarah felt the Holy Ghost tell her that he spoke the truth.

Sarah and her parents were baptized that night. What a good feeling it was to know that they were all members of Christ’s true church. She felt clean and right.

Several years ago I installed a stake president in England. In another calling, he is here in the audience today. He had an unusual sense of direction. He was like a mariner with a sextant who took his bearings from the stars. I met with him each time he came to conference and was impressed that he kept himself and his stake on course.

Fortunately for me, when it was time for his release, I was assigned to reorganize the stake. It was then that I discovered what that sextant was and how he adjusted it to check his position and get a bearing for himself and for his members.

He accepted his release, and said, “I was happy to accept the call to serve as stake president, and I am equally happy to accept my release. I did not serve just because I was under call. I served because I am under covenant. And I can keep my covenants quite as well as a home teacher as I can serving as stake president.”

The snows stayed late in the highlands that spring and gave Jamie great cause to worry. Fiona, his very own ewe, would probably need help with the birthing of her first lamb. What would happen if she stayed too long in the highlands and became trapped by the sudden fury of a late storm? She and her lamb might die.
“Grandfather,” Jamie began over breakfast, “I’ll carry feed to the sheep today. There’s time before school this morning.”
Grandfather poured milk onto his porridge. “We’ll not be carrying feed up the hill any more this spring,” he said. “There’s work to do below—the fields must be readied for sowing.”
“But, Grandfather, the sheep could go hungry, especially …”
“Especially those heavy with lambs,” Grandfather finished. He wiped his gray mustache with a thick cloth. “I know that’s what you’re thinkin’, lad. But they’ve only to scratch through the snow and find spring timothy grass for food now. It’s in their nature to know these things.”
“But Fiona …”
“Jamie, if she gets caught in the hills when her time comes, she’ll take shelter and give birth the way it’s always been done. When you’ve learned more about crofting (farming), you’ll find that it’s hard, hard work. There’s no room for soft feelings for just one sheep.”
Jamie opened his mouth to speak again but stopped at Grandfather’s look. His eyes were the shivery blue of a November sunrise, his face a craggy reminder of Aberdeen’s moors. Jamie could not speak again, not in the face of Grandfather’s wintry look.
Had Grandfather never felt the warmth of the work he was doing? Would he, Jamie, lose the tender feelings he now held for all the living, breathing things on the croft? Would he, one day, become like Grandfather? Once, he wanted to be just like him. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Take up your books now, lad,” Grandfather said. “I’ll take up my plow.”
Jamie hurried through the soft fields that were waiting for the seeds of oats and barley. They were the staple of life for those on this land. Without them Grandfather could not keep his croft. So Jamie knew that the planting must be done on time and that the sheep must look after themselves.
But Fiona … Fiona was different. Jamie knew that too. He paused and looked to the low hills beyond the meadows. This summer they would be covered with the lavender glow of wild heather, but now they were dull with patches of spiny gorse (a shrub) and dirty snow. Fiona was up there somewhere, waiting.
At school, Jamie’s books lay open to the thoughts of Robbie Burns and the deeds of past Highlanders. But his mind stayed with Fiona and with remembrances of past lambing snows. It was during the lambing snows two years ago when he’d first seen her trembling legs take a step towards him and he’d touched her still-damp wool. Her mother had died with milk sickness, so Jamie had bottle-fed Fiona until she could join the other spring lambs dancing in the fields.
But she always remembered him and waited for his visit. Then she cavorted around and around on sturdy legs as they traveled the craggy paths together. And she still hurried over to him when he managed to find chores to take him her way.
The day was as gray as slabs of cold porridge when school ended. Jamie hurried along the pathways, eager to be home. Despite Grandfather’s words, surely he would give Jamie time to carry a basket of feed to Fiona. Surely there would be time for that much.
But the milking had to be done, the hens fed, and the fires tended in the cooking stove. And then it was dark and a cold wind blew. Before they’d finished supper, rain clawed at the windows with sharp, scraping sounds.
Sometime in the night Jamie awoke to a great silence. The storm had moved up to the highlands, and he knew that when he looked in the morning, he would see new scarves of snow tossed over the hills. Fiona was up there, waiting for him to come.
At first light Jamie dressed in his thickest woollies and set out for the feed shed. He filled a basket with grazing supplements and began the long walk to the hills. As he climbed, he burrowed deeper into his mackintosh and hood, glad for the Wellingtons that kept his feet warm and dry.
Soon he saw the sheep lying in the snow in soft, lumpy clutches. Fiona was not among them.
“Fiona,” Jamie called.
The wind carried his voice away from the hills toward Grandfather’s house below, where a light now shone in the kitchen window. Jamie hurried on, his heart cold with what he might find. He called again: “Fiona.”
He stopped where the snow drifted against the stone fence. Should he follow the fence line or climb over it? Every moment counted. Decide quickly, he told himself.
Fiona, in her heaviness, could not climb over the fence, he knew, so she would stay on this side. But which way had she gone? There were no prints in the snow, nothing to show that she’d ever been here. There were only the drifts, as smooth as the icing on the tea cakes in Mrs. MacCrae’s bakeshop window—except for that one small place where the snow mounded in a small, round hump.
“Fiona!” He ran, dropped on his knees, and pawed away the snow until he found her lying still and quiet. Was there breath left in her? There’d not be much air under the snow.
Then he saw and understood. Her small muzzle was tucked into a crack between the stones in the fence. There she’d found air to keep her alive.
She pulled her soft, woolly face away from the fence, and something stirred against her. Jamie saw then that her lamb had only just come, looking as trembly and damp as Fiona had when she’d been born in the lambing snows. Bent beneath the lamb were tender shoots of timothy grass. Air and food. Fiona had known just what to do after all.
Jamie looked up to see Grandfather standing next to him. “You were right, Grandfather. She doesn’t need me any more.”
“But I do,” Grandfather said, “to remind me about the way of crofting that I’d almost forgotten.” His eyes had lost their shivery blueness and were warm and caring.
Grandfather carried Fiona, and Jamie carried her lamb down to the warmth of the house below.

Eight-year-old Betsy left her home on the Indian reservation to live for the school year with a white family. There was much for Betsy’s new family to learn about her and her Indian ways, and there was much for Betsy to learn too. Her new white sister understood Betsy best, even though some children at school were unkind to both of them.

After a few months Betsy unexpectedly had to return to her Indian family because they needed her. No one knew if she would ever return to her white family, but eventually Betsy let the white sister know of her love.