Gospel Story Finder

The morning of 18 May 1980 stands out vividly in Elder Shirley Dean Christensen’s memory. It began as a beautiful, sunny spring day. But by noon the skies over Royal City, Washington, were black, and the once-green fields and orchards were covered in ash. Mount Saint Helens, about 150 miles (240 km) west of Royal City, had erupted.
During the next few days, Elder Christensen watched in horror as the ash-laden trees in his orchards dropped much of their precious fruit. He thought the impact of the catastrophe on his apple-growing business would be devastating.
But the remaining apples were of excellent quality, and the thinning of the fruit had actually benefited his crop. “The Lord really did protect our crop,” he says. “That turned out to be one of the most productive years we’ve ever had.” He links that blessing to his family’s faithful payment of tithing and to their desire to obey the Lord’s commandments. The experience also taught him that adversity sometimes brings blessings in unexpected ways.

One day my father, who was bishop of our ward, left my brother and me to do some work. We thought he would be gone for some time doing his church work. But he returned sooner than we had expected and found us riding calves.
When he called us over, I will never forget how he looked at me and said, “My boy, I thought I could depend on you!”
That was a great lesson, a severe punishment, to me. I made up my mind then that neither he nor anyone else would ever have reason to say that again to me as long as I lived.

Shortly thereafter I contacted another friend in Utah, Dennis Hill, with whom I had worked. I told him I was now attending his church. He said he was going to send me a book, even though I tried to convince him that I was attending only because I liked the people.
The book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder by LeGrand Richards, came after our second visit to the little church. I set it aside to read “sometime later.”
The third Sunday we decided we were too tired to go to church. No one called to ask “Where were you?” and we were disappointed.
But Monday night the telephone rang. It was the missionaries!
“We missed you at church Sunday.”
“Yes, but you know how it is.”
“Yes, we do.” A pause. “We promised you six lessons; we would like to begin them soon.”
“Fine! How about tomorrow night and every Tuesday thereafter?”
That was the beginning of a very fine friendship. The children loved these two young men who exuded faith and happiness.
I cooperated with their attempts to use psychology on me because I felt they needed the practice; however, I had to set the limit when they invited me to offer prayer at the opening and close of these meetings. I was happy to have them or anyone else offer the prayer, but I would have felt hypocritical praying to a God whose existence I wasn’t sure of.
The next Sunday was stake conference in Jacksonville, Florida, and the speaker was to be none other than Elder LeGrand Richards. I grabbed my book and started reading. (If I’m going to listen to a speaker, I want to know as much about him as possible.) When the day came, I managed to sit way up in the balcony where I could hear and see well. This man’s keen mind impressed me; but I was even more moved by his sincerity, conviction, and faith.
The missionary lessons continued, and we began to acquire a better comprehension of what the gospel was all about. About the fourth lesson we began to realize that these missionaries were planning to finish this by inviting us to be baptized.
I won’t do that! I told my wife. “I don’t even trust myself in a thing so simple as prayer. I’m not going to do all of that.” She agreed.
The missionaries finally mentioned it by telling us that a date had been selected for baptism. Would we like to go? “No,” I told them. “I don’t feel the urge.”
“Well,” they continued, “this Friday we are going to baptize two others. Would you like to come and observe?”
“Where?”
“A block from here—in the ocean.”
“The ocean!” gasped my wife. “That’s too cold this time of year.”
“Yes, we know.” Missionaries always seem to be undisturbed.
We went. After the baptismal service, the missionaries asked us, “Doesn’t that make you want to be baptized next time?”
“No!” I answered. And I meant it.
All of this time the elders had been teaching another family, a beautiful young couple by the name of John and Louise Hatch.
We had met the Hatches only briefly at Church, but were impressed by their vibrance and sincerity. At the time of our sixth and final lesson, the elders told us that John and Louise had elected to be baptized the following Friday, which happened to be Good Friday. The thought occurred to me that that would certainly be the ideal time to be baptized, that it would be a kind of “thank you” to Christ to commemorate that particular day with one’s own baptism. Nonetheless, I felt no urge to do so. I was still looking for that burning bush.
But as the elders prepared to leave following our sixth lesson, they asked, as was their custom, if I would like to offer the prayer. To my amazement, I heard myself agree; after my benediction, two somewhat astonished missionaries congratulated me. I was deep in thought when that beautiful evening ended.
The next day before I left for work, I gathered my courage, took a deep breath, and told my wife I had decided to be baptized on Friday and wanted her to join me. She would have been just as surprised if the roof had blown off or if Florida had begun to slip slowly into the sea.
“You can’t do this to me!” she said.
“Why not?”
“The ocean is too cold!”
“I know, but I’ve decided. With or without you, I’m going to do it. Think about it and let me know tonight because I’m going to call the missionaries tomorrow and tell them so they can get me some special clothing.”
I kissed her and left her standing in the doorway. But I couldn’t leave her in suspense all day, so I called her later.
“Have you decided?”
“I’m not going to let you do it without me!”
“Fine. I’ll call the missionaries tonight. Ask the kids if they want to join in, and let me know after work.”
The two older boys elected to join us. (The two younger children were still too young.) We were baptized on Friday; and I have not doubted since coming up from the water that I made the right decision.
Why did I suddenly decide to be baptized? Because I realized the night of the sixth lesson that a burning bush was not the right thing to look for. I realized that by looking for a burning bush I was missing something just as important. Perhaps the answer lay in the simple things that had been happening to me.
I thought back to the week before we had decided to be baptized. We had once again arrived late to Church. To dispel the awkwardness of the situation, a very young man, Eddie Markle, had welcomed us with a simple handshake. At that moment I sensed in him a faith so strong that I was deeply impressed. It was the kind of faith spoken of by Jesus to Thomas: “Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed; blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” (John 20:29.) I decided I wanted that kind of faith.
I realized my previous experiences had impressed me in a similar way, but, because of my desire for a miraculous conversion, I had failed to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. My encounters with members of the Church had not been spectacular, but yet they had been very significant.
Each person had—in his own way—displayed a strong yet simple faith: Dick Reisner had planted the seed; Dennis Hill had sent the book; the missionaries had knocked on my door; President Pressler had waited for us that first Sunday; Elder Richards had delivered an inspiring message; Eddie Markle had eased an awkward moment with a handshake. Each person—through his example—had let the powerful light of his testimony shine forth. And to me, having been in darkness, each example was as “the bright shining of a candle” (Luke 11:36), bringing me to a testimony of the truth.
The Mormons love their families and I love them for that. As a religious group they are, in fact, a family themselves—with all the love and learning that implies. Yet through it all one fact never changes: they have the gospel of Jesus Christ. A burning bush is not the answer. We have free choice—we can choose a darkness devoid of faith or we can light it brilliantly and forever with our belief. The Mormons believe! And so do I.

Listen to the experiences of those couples who have gone forth to serve.Quoting a few lines from a letter recently received in the Missionary Department from the president of the Oklahoma Tulsa Mission, we read: “The Wilsons, who recently returned home, did an outstanding job in reactivating the membership. They were able to see two couples go to the temple, have eighteen baptisms, increase ward activity from an average of 136 to over 180 during just the year that they labored in the Nevada Ward. When they came into the mission field, they had just purchased a new truck. During their mission, they put 29,000 miles on the vehicle. This couple was truly dedicated to strengthening the Lord’s work in this area. Now they are retired, living in St. George, and would like to go on another mission in the near future.”
The letter continues:
“Brother Williams is the branch president in the Lebanon Branch. President and Sister Williams have done an outstanding job in reactivating members and also getting a genealogical library going in the town.”
Sister Williams writes: “I am so proud of my husband. He really helps the young elders a lot. He gives them the support they need. President Williams is in the height of his glory when he can take them out on a discussion.
“Since we opened our new library, I have been just overwhelmed with the work, with both nonmembers and members. The local Genealogical Association (all nonmembers) meets once a month in our chapel, holding their genealogical meetings. They have all become interested in our new library and the wonderful research tools we have. I have trained each staff member as completely as I can so they will have full knowledge of all we have in the library since, alas, I will have to go home someday. Darn it!”
In another letter, from the Prices, who served in Australia, they write:
“I admit it is hard to leave growing and changing grandchildren, but we share the joys of our missions with our families. Knowing that our children and our little grandchildren are praying for us every night is a sustaining and inspiring feeling each day. And besides, it is all for our Father in Heaven, who has promised us that our family bonds will never be broken if we serve Him.”

Fourth, give your children the opportunity of having a joyful, happy childhood. The priesthood manual a few years ago quoted a story written in 1955 by Bryant S. Hinckley. It is as follows:
“‘Three hundred twenty-six school children of a district near Indianapolis were asked to write anonymously just what each thought of his father.
“‘The teacher hoped that the reading of the essays might attract the fathers to attend at least one meeting of the Parent-Teacher’s Association.
“‘It did.
“‘They came in $400 cars and $4,000 cars. Bank president, laborer, professional man, clerk, salesman, meter reader, farmer, utility magnate, merchant, baker, tailor, manufacturer, and contractor, every man with a definite estimate of himself in terms of money, skill, and righteousness. …
“‘The president picked at random from another stack of papers. “I like my daddy,” she read from each. The reasons were many: He built my doll house, took me coasting, taught me to shoot, helps me with my schoolwork, takes me to the park, gave me a pig to fatten and sell. Scores of essays could be reduced to “I like my daddy. He plays with me.”’
“Not one child mentioned his family house, car, neighborhood, food or clothing.
“The fathers went into the meeting from many walks of life. They came out in two classes: companions to their children or strangers to their children.
“No man is too rich or too poor to play with his children.” (The Savior the Priesthood and You, Melchizedek Priesthood Manual, 1973–74, p. 226.)

Paul’s counsel, “Be thou an example of the believers,” applies equally to members. Most have not been and may never be full-time missionaries. But all can be member missionaries. That statement reminds me of a report of a humorous event. On a large playing field at a missionary training center, a sign was posted. It read, “Missionaries Only!” People who also wanted to play on that field posted a new sign of their own. Their sign read, “Every Member a Missionary!”

Each member can be an example of the believers. Brethren, as followers of Jesus Christ, each of you can live in accord with His teachings. You can have “a pure heart and clean hands”; you can have “the image of God engraven upon your [countenance].” Your good works will be evident to others. The light of the Lord can beam from your eyes. With that radiance, you had better prepare for questions. The Apostle Peter so counseled, “Be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you.”

Let your response be warm and joyful. And let your response be relevant to that individual. Remember, he or she is also a child of God, that very God who dearly wants that person to qualify for eternal life and return to Him one day. You may be the very one to open the door to his or her salvation and understanding of the doctrine of Christ.

After your initial response, be ready to take the next step. You may invite your friend to attend church with you. Many of our friends do not know they are welcome in our Church buildings. “Come and see” was the Savior’s invitation to those who desired to learn more about Him. An invitation to attend a Sunday meeting with you or to participate in a Church social or service activity will help to dispel mistaken myths and make visitors feel more comfortable among us.

As a member of the Church, reach out to those you do not know and greet them warmly. Each Sunday extend a hand of fellowship to at least one person you did not know before. Each day of your life, strive to enlarge your own circle of friendship.

You can invite a friend to read the Book of Mormon. Explain that it is not a novel or a history book. It is another testament of Jesus Christ. Its very purpose is “to the convincing of the Jew and Gentile that Jesus is the Christ, the Eternal God, manifesting himself unto all nations.” There is a power in this book that can touch the hearts and lift the lives of honest seekers of truth. Invite your friend to read the book prayerfully.

The Prophet Joseph Smith said “that the Book of Mormon was the most correct of any book on earth, and the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book.” The Book of Mormon teaches of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and is the instrument by which God will fulfill His ancient promise to gather scattered Israel in these latter days.

Many years ago two colleagues of mine—a nurse and her doctor husband—asked me why I lived the way I did. I answered, “Because I know the Book of Mormon is true.” I let them borrow my copy of the book, inviting them to read it. A week later they returned my book with a polite “Thanks a lot.”

I responded, “What do you mean, ‘Thanks a lot’? That’s a totally inappropriate response for one who has read this book. You didn’t read it, did you! Please take it back and read it; then I would like my book back.”

Admitting that they had only turned its pages, they accepted my invitation. When they returned, they said tearfully, “We have read the Book of Mormon. We know it is true! We want to know more.” They learned more, and it was my privilege to baptize both of them.

Another way that you can share the gospel is to invite friends to meet with full-time missionaries in your home. Those missionaries are called and prepared to teach the gospel. Your friends, in the comfort of your home and with your constant reassurance, can begin their journey toward salvation and exaltation. The Lord said, “Ye are called to bring to pass the gathering of mine elect; for mine elect hear my voice and harden not their hearts.”

Scripture tells us that “there are many yet on the earth … who are only kept from the truth because they know not where to find it.” Isn’t that your opportunity? You can become their own disciple of discovery!

Now in this day of the Internet, there are new and exciting ways you can do missionary work. You can invite friends and neighbors to visit the new mormon.org website. If you have blogs and online social networks, you could link your sites to mormon.org. And there you can create your own personal profile. Each profile includes an expression of belief, an experience, and a testimony. Because this is a new feature, most of these profiles are available in English. Profiles in other languages will follow.

These profiles can have a profound influence for good. Two months ago a young man named Zac—a freshman in college—saw an ad for mormon.org on television in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He connected with the website and was intrigued by the profiles of Church members. At our website he found the link that informed him where he could attend church. The next Sunday, dressed in a white shirt and tie, he attended church, was introduced to members of the ward, and enjoyed all three hours of meetings. He was invited to a member’s home for dinner, followed by his first missionary lesson. In less than two weeks, he was baptized and confirmed as a member of the Church. Welcome, Zac! (He is listening.)

Each exemplary follower of Jesus Christ can become an effective member missionary. Members and full-time missionaries may walk arm in arm in bringing the blessings of the gospel to cherished friends and neighbors. Many of them are of Israel, now being gathered as promised. This is all part of the preparation for the Second Coming of the Lord. He wants each of us truly to be an example of the believers.

I know that God lives. Jesus is the Christ. This is His Church. The Book of Mormon is true. Joseph Smith is its translator and the prophet of this last dispensation. President Thomas S. Monson is God’s prophet today. I so testify in the sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.

As a Montana rancher for most of my 70 years, I treasure the parable of the good shepherd, found in John 10:1–18, for I have lived it. The following experiences were particularly powerful in bringing this parable to life.
In biblical times each shepherd vocally summoned his personal flock from the many herds pooled together into a nighttime sheepfold (see vv. 3–4). Likewise, whenever I move my sheep, I simply call, and they follow.
Years ago my spry 96-year-old neighbor, Alice, who also raised sheep, became ill during lambing season, so I offered to do her night lambing. When I entered her lambing shed my first night “on duty,” Alice’s nearly 100 ewes were peacefully bedded down for the night. Yet when I appeared, they immediately sensed a stranger in their midst. Terrified, they instantly sought safety by huddling together in a far corner (see v. 5).
This continued for several nights. No matter how quietly I entered, the sheep panicked and fled. I spoke soothingly to the newborn lambs and ewes as I tended them. By the fifth night they no longer stirred as I worked among them. They had come to recognize my voice and trust me.
Sometime later I told Alice I would feed her dozen or so bum lambs their bottles. (A bum lamb is one whose mother has died or cannot produce enough milk.) Imitating Alice, I called to her lambs, “Come, BaBa! Come, BaBa!” I expected the lambs to hungrily stampede me as they did her. But not a single lamb even glanced up. Alice then stepped out her kitchen door and called. Hearing her voice, they eagerly rushed toward her, clamoring for their milk.
Intrigued, Alice and I conducted an experiment. Standing in my corral, Alice mimicked my call: “Here, lamby, lamby! Here, lamby, lamby!” and received no response whatsoever. But when I called with the exact same words, my sheep quickly surrounded me. Even though the words we used to summon the sheep were identical, our unfamiliar voices went unheeded. The sheep loyally heard only their true shepherd (see v. 4).

I knew before the race started that it would be tough—a four-mile cross-country trek through the sandhills. There were plenty of ups and downs, and several places where your feet sank into the sandy soil and slowed you to a walk.
I knew it would be hard, because I’d helped my dad mark out the trail two days before. He’s the gym teacher at my school. It’s his job each fall to choose and mark out the route for the divisional cross-country races.
“I want it tough, David, but fair,” he said to me as we tied up small blue ribbons to mark the route. “There’ll be good runners as well as some who race just to get an afternoon off school. I want the course tough enough to challenge the serious runners.” He grinned at me and said, “You wouldn’t want it too easy, would you?”
I grinned back and shook my head. This was the first year I could be in the race. Each year I’d heard Dad talk about it, and I’d heard the older kids at school say it was really tough. I was eager to compete in it.
I’m in fine form, I thought. I’d been practicing for six weeks, and my legs and lungs felt ready. In gym class I easily beat the other boys at two miles, but we’d never run the whole four miles. That, plus all the hills, might make a difference. And, of course, kids from five other schools would be in the race too. I’d heard rumors that one of the other schools had a really good runner in my division.
When we lined up for the first race of the meet, I knew who it was. His classmates called him Mike, and urged him on. I was determined to beat him, even though he was a good six inches taller than me. That meant his legs were a lot longer—I’d probably have to take four strides to cover the same distance he did in three!
The route began with a really steep hill with stunted oak trees scattered over it. “Why did you put the start here?” I’d asked Dad when we set it up. “Do you want to scare everybody at the start?”
“That’s the idea!” He grinned, then explained that the actual reason was to make the runners spread out instead of bunching together. “They’re less likely to bump into each other that way.”
Now, racing up Heartbreak Hill, I saw what he meant. Everyone was soon walking, including me! At the top I resumed running. Only one runner—Mike—was ahead of me as I followed the course-marking ribbons down the other side. I didn’t try to catch him. This side was much shorter, but steeper, so I was careful to keep my legs under control.
At the bottom, the trail flattened out and wound through poplar trees. Then it took a sharp right turn through an open wire gate before twisting alongside a creek for half a mile or so. By the time we turned away from the creek, Mike was about a hundred yards ahead, going at a steady lope. The rest of the runners were so far behind that I couldn’t see anyone else.
We were more than halfway there, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d be able to catch Mike. My legs were straining on “automatic,” but his long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly up the hills. Even the sandy places didn’t slow him down much.
My breath was getting ragged. I thought about walking for a while, but I didn’t want to let Mike increase the distance between us. My classmates were counting on my winning, and even Dad had hinted that it would be nice to see my name on the trophy. I forced myself to keep running.
Then Mike suddenly slowed and turned his head from side to side as if he were lost. He’s right where the trail branches, I thought. He can’t tell which way to go.
The trail was marked to turn right, but he turned left and picked up speed again.
I’ll catch him! was my first thought. Then, Why didn’t he follow the ribbon?
In a moment I was up to where he’d turned off. There was no ribbon visible, though I’d seen Dad put one there. I took a few strides in the right direction, and there it was, fallen to the ground, and half hidden by grass.
He’ll soon figure out that he’s wrong, I thought and took a couple more strides. But it was almost as if I could hear Dad’s voice: “Winning is important, but it’s not the most important.”
I stopped running. “Mike!” I called loudly. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Is this a trick?” he shouted, turning back.
“No trick,” I called. “See? Here’s the ribbon.” I held it up and tied it to a branch for the later runners to see.
I waited for Mike to pass me, and when he was a hundred yards ahead again, I started running. Even so, I figured I’d gained a small advantage, since I’d had a short rest and hadn’t gone quite as far. My breathing was easier, and slowly I managed to lessen the distance between us.
Mike went up and over the last hill. In the distance I heard a cheer as the crowd sighted him. I topped the hill and saw that he wasn’t more than fifty feet ahead.
I’m going to catch him, I thought. He was almost staggering, and I urged my legs to move faster.
The gap closed. Mike glanced back, saw me coming, and made one last effort. With two feet to spare, he crossed the finish line ahead of me.
I walked around slowly to catch my breath. Dad was standing near the finish line, recording names as later runners crossed, and he gave me a thumbs-up signal. I knew that he didn’t mind that my name wouldn’t be on the trophy—but it sure would have been nice.
When I saw Mike recovering, I went over to congratulate him. “Good race,” I said, “but just wait till next year!”
He gave me a funny look. “Why’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me back to the trail. And then give me a head start.”
I shrugged. “It was only fair,” I said. “You were ahead, and the ribbon had fallen, but I knew where to go.”
“But you’d have beaten me.”
“It wouldn’t have been right,” I said. “Not that way. You’d have done the same thing.”
“I don’t know, really,” Mike said, his smile uncertain. “What I know for sure is that I hope I would have.”
“What I know,” Dad said, coming up to us, “is that you’re both winners in my book!”

In the islands of Tahiti, it’s difficult for the mission president to keep track of his missionaries all the time because he sends them to far-reaching islands. Missionaries were often left on their own, so our mission president needed to know he could trust them.
One experience that stands out to me occurred when the mission president called me into his office one day and said, “Elder Kacher, we have all these islands in the Marquesas where there are no members of the Church. I want you and your companion to get on the cargo ship that takes supplies to all the little islands. Then, when you stop at each port, I want you to go out for however long you have before the ship leaves and bear testimony of the Restoration of the gospel. I want you to do this for the next 30 days.”
The cargo ship would stop at two or three different ports on each island and stay there anywhere from half an hour to a day, depending on the size of the town. I was honored that my mission president would ask us to do that, but I remember getting to the first port and feeling fear, anxiety, and great responsibility. I wondered how we could do what he asked.
At first we kind of fumbled along. We were really unsure of how to proceed and didn’t do very well at the first port or two. But then we had a feeling that we should do something else. We felt inspired to use the notebook of pictures the Church had just introduced of the Restoration and other gospel topics.
As we would go to shore, my companion began opening his notebook of pictures. The Polynesians loved the pictures, and as they swarmed around him to look at them, we would teach and testify to them.
We did that for 30 days, village after village. I don’t know how many times we taught lessons and testified, but after those 30 days, I came to understand what it meant to be guided by the Spirit, and I no longer had any fear.
If somebody made fun of me—and many people did—it didn’t matter. I knew I was doing God’s work and that He was watching over us. My ability to feel and act under the influence of the Spirit grew, as did my confidence. I was never the same after this experience.
During those 30 days, we made several visits to the six habitable islands of the beautiful Marquesas. Today, where the Church once had no members, we have branches.

Last year one of my grandsons took his wife to New York City with their parents to attend the beautiful new Manhattan temple. The hustle and bustle and noise of the thousands of people outside was deafening. As the taxi pulled up in front of the temple, Katherine, my grandson’s wife, began to cry. Even on the outside of the temple she felt its sacredness. They entered, left the noisome world, and worshiped in the house of the Lord. It was a sacred and unforgettable experience for them.

For a number of years he pursued his goal of working for President Heber J. Grant, whom he had known and admired as a boy in the Salt Lake business community. It was not an easy pursuit. President Grant was a “rapid-fire speaker,” and few secretaries had been able to record his sermons in shorthand. Undaunted, Joseph sat in the audience during a Sunday talk in the Tabernacle to take down the President’s remarks. A little later he recorded another of President Grant’s talks given in the Assembly Hall, at the request of the President who had been impressed by Joseph’s minutes of the earlier talk. “He surely gave me the drilling of my life. He was a fast speaker.” Illustrations, stories, poetry, quotations went by “like a threshing machine.” Afterwards, Joseph felt a little dejected, but his wife encouraged him to go to the library and copy some of the President’s references and quotations.

On 1 February 1922, Joseph Anderson became private secretary to President Grant, beginning an intimate association that would last twenty-three years. The firm, monumental figure beloved by the Church became Joseph’s personal friend. “Generosity,” replies Elder Anderson when asked which of President Grant’s qualities he remembers most. “I kept his accounts. I know of the many times he helped those in need, even paying off mortgages of widowed friends from his own pocket.”

President Grant was always ready to give. After an energetic conference talk in San Diego, the President invited Joseph to play golf with him. “I had never played golf, … but I couldn’t very well turn him down,” Elder Anderson reminisced. The President arranged for a lesson and a pail of golf balls to practice with, and then they played a number of holes. The next day in Los Angeles President Grant suffered a debilitating heart attack. On the way to the hospital, he whispered, “‘Joseph, you made some very good strokes yesterday.’ I said, ‘Yes, President, I’m afraid you’ve converted me. I will have to get some clubs and get busy.’ ‘Don’t you worry about the clubs,’ he said, ‘I’ll take care of that. I’ll buy them.’”

Fortunately, the President recovered to live five more years, although his life was very much endangered. From his sickbed, he insisted that every well-wishing card and gift of flowers be acknowledged, and, though barely able to move his hand, signed his name to every response. “He was the kindest of men,” says Elder Anderson. A day or two before his death at 88, President Grant met with his faithful secretary for the last time. “Joseph, have I ever been unkind to you?” he asked. His secretary was happy to be able to say, “You have never said an unkind word to me.”

Ammon Arvidson and Brooke Noble, two youth from the Maitland Ward, Newcastle Australia Stake, were chosen to represent Port Stephens, Australia, at the first World Child Summit, held in Kushiro, Japan, last summer. The theme was “The Natural Environment and Our Future.” To be chosen, they each had to present a 10-minute speech on the environment of Port Stephens, the problems facing the habitat, and their role in protecting the natural beauty of the world.
“It was so amazing to see another part of the world,” said Brooke, 15. “The people there were so kind, and it helped me to see my Heavenly Father’s love for us.” Brooke added that being so far away from home also strengthened her testimony of the gospel: “It really helped me to know that the gospel goes with you wherever you go. It was such a comfort to be able to kneel down and pray to my Father in Heaven.”

Dear New Era:
After reading about keeping a journal in the FYI section, I decided to make writing in my journal every day a goal. I started out slow but steady, and within a few weeks it became a habit. And do you know what? Just yesterday, I filled the last page in my journal. If it wasn’t for the magazine, my journal would still be full of empty pages. I can’t wait to start my next journal.
Thanks so much!
Nancy FowlerCheyenne, Wyoming

“Sixteen-inch walls.” Ephraim Hanks whispered the words and the sound was lost in an icy wind. It had been summer when he built the walls, and now it was winter. Now there was a deep, penetrating, cold wind that reached through his clothes with frozen, burning fingers, and even his bones ached from its touch. Now he wanted to get out of the wind, to find shelter from it; but the thought of the walls kept him going.
The low winter sky was darkening. The wind grew strong into a steady, unbroken gust and raised up a fine mist of crystal spray across a vast rolling ocean of moon-white hills. A dark curtain of tattered storm clouds blew along the horizon. Hidden behind the clouds the sun was setting, and night, a cold liquid blackness, was coming fast.
At night, with the wind, Ephraim knew it would get cold enough to kill a man without shelter. His instincts told him to stop, to bury himself wrapped in buffalo robes under the snow. He had been caught in cold before, many times, and it was his instinct, his will for survival, that had kept him alive. But now there was something else, something deeper, something he trusted more; and the walls, memory of the walls, stood a fortress between that and the powerful wind instinct.
His horse, a big-boned black, slipped, suddenly plunging forward and down into the snow. Catching its balance it stood breathing heavily, then staggered on through the knee-deep snow. It was a powerful animal with great endurance, but it had been going since morning and was wearing down. Ephraim knew it wouldn’t last much longer.
It would be better to stop, he thought, better for the horse.
He lifted his head into the wind, searching the horizon. Somewhere ahead, somewhere along the Sweetwater River (Wyoming), he had heard a large band of Sioux were camped for the winter.
If I can reach the village, he thought. But why now? Why tonight? Even if I found the village and they would help, it would be impossible to get back until late tomorrow. It would be better to stop now and look for the village in the morning. A couple of hours, even a half a day, won’t matter to the men.
He thought of them, behind him 20 miles, 30, 40—it seemed an endless distance back through the snow, waiting for him, counting on his help. If he didn’t make it back …
Ephraim stopped his horse. It was dark. He had to stop. He clasped his gloved hands together and whispered a prayer. His frozen breath steamed up white in the cold air.
He finished. Inside, deep, distant and close, the voice, if it could be called a voice (it was more like fire) whispered for him to keep going.
The horse started again.
Ephraim remembered seeing a man die in the snow. The man just gave up, lay down, and stopped living. The man had been strong and healthy. Ephraim had seen that in another way in other men, good men who laid down what they believed in.
The wind blew wraiths of snow around and against Ephraim. It made a soft, flutelike sound. His mind seemed to dull with the sound, and his thoughts moved like the mists the wind blew across the hills.
He was bent over in the saddle with his head down. His fingers and cheeks were numb, and the numbness spread gently around, covering his neck and arms, burning flesh yielding to anesthesia. It slowly moved inward. A drowsy warmth spread over his body. He had seen this happen to other men in the cold. Soon it would be too late. Soon he would slip into a warm, comfortable sleep. There was a drifting, falling sensation.
“Sixteen-inch walls,” Ephraim formed the words in his mouth. The cold burned his face around his lips. It was winter again, but there was still the orange light.
Light from inner fires made the tepees glow in the night and washed across the hollow, the small village spread across with a pale orange. Somewhere below Ephraim, in the village, the sharp yelp of a dog broke the night silence. More dogs followed the first, and this chorus was mixed with the soft sound of human voices.
Ephraim stopped his horse in a circle of tepees. The air smelled of burning pine. He waited on his horse, as was Sioux custom, to be invited to step down. Several dogs, growling and crouching low, moved close, smelling and threatening.
An old woman came from a large tepee and motioned Ephraim to follow her. The dogs cowered back.
Inside the tepee the woman pointed to a pile of buffalo robes and disappeared through the entrance. Ephraim sank onto the robes. A fire near the center of the tent threw waves of heat against him. The warmth brought feeling back to his skin. It throbbed with pain and blood. There was smell of wet leather and smoke. Smoke hung low in the tepee and curled up slowly through a hole in the top. Ephraim’s clothes thawed and steamed.
After awhile an old man with bowed legs and a seamed, leather face came in and sat cross-legged opposite from Ephraim. A large, lanky dog followed and sprawled next to him on the floor.
The fire slanted shadows of the old Indian’s form against the tepee wall. He rested his right hand on his left and silently studied Ephraim with strong, unyielding eyes. His eyes were large and brown with small flecks of yellow around the edges, and the large, dark irises reflected the flames from the fire. Below the eyes a scar ran jagged down his face to his neck. The old Indian’s face was as expressionless as stone.
More Indians came until there was a circle of them around the fire.
The old Indian lifted his shoulders back. His hair shone silver in the firelight. He looked around the circle and back to Ephraim.
“Who are you? What do you want with us?” He spoke English.
Ephraim looked directly into the old Indian’s eyes. Only the crackling of the fire was heard.
“I am Ephraim Hanks, and I have come as a friend. My people are the people who pulled the carts across the prairie.” Ephraim waved his hands up to emphasize his words.
“Our leader is Brigham Young, who speaks with the Great Spirit.”
The old Indian suddenly stood. The eyes of all the Indians in the circle followed him up and then went quickly back to Ephraim, glaring. Their eyes looked fierce in the firelight.
Ephraim felt a weight in the pit of his stomach, and the muscles on the back of his neck stiffened. His heart pounded in his chest. The old dog lifted his head, sniffing the tension in the air. The fire popped loudly and made gooseflesh on Ephraim’s arm. He felt for his knife handle under his shirt.
Ephraim calmed himself. He wouldn’t fight unless he had to.
The old Indian narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Do you also speak with the Great Spirit?”
Ephraim nodded and relaxed.
“Do you have the power of the Great Spirit?” the old Indian asked.
“Yes.”
The old Indian leaned down and said something Ephraim couldn’t hear. Two Indians left the tepee, and the rest talked excitedly among themselves. The old Indian’s eyes studied Ephraim even more intently. Outside the tepee the eternal night wind blew. The fire flared up and died to glowing coals. An Indian carefully placed more wood on it.
The two Indians came back through the entrance carrying a litter and laid it in front of Ephraim. On it lay an unconscious boy. His closed eyes were sunk deep in his skull. Skin was stretched pale and loose over his skeleton frame. The boy’s chest rose and fell with desperate breathing. He smelled of death.
“My grandson was injured several moons ago when his horse fell during a buffalo hunt. He has not moved or spoken since. You have the power of the Great Spirit.” The old Indian was looking into the fire.
Ephraim nodded his head.
“I do.”
“Will you ask the Great Spirit to make my boy well?”
Ephraim nodded again.
He took a steer horn flask he carried hung from his waist and uncorked it. Ephraim knew if he failed, there would be no help. If the boy dies tonight … He thought again of the walls. I’ve come this far. I won’t stop now.
The olive oil poured liquid gold in the fire’s light. Ephraim anointed the boy the way the boy’s own people had done in another time and place with the same power. The prayer came suddenly. Ephraim knew a few Sioux words, and now they flowed in a gushing stream. The fire flared bright and glowed on faces. The old Indian’s eyes swam brilliant in tears. A fire burned in Ephraim and cooled. The prayer was finished. The boy opened his eyes. He sat up weakly, looked at Ephraim, and then threw his arms around the old Indian.
It was morning. There was an autumnlike mist on the ground. The sky had cleared during the night. Pools of sunlight slanted between the tepees. The air smelled of sunshine and melting snow. The old Indian’s eyes were bright.
“Stay with us awhile,” he said.
“I can’t,” Ephraim answered. “My people need help. They need food. They were caught with wagons in the heavy snow 30 days ago. Can you help?”
The old Indian turned from Ephraim.
“Buffalo are scarce this year, and the snows are deep. My people are on the edge of starvation. Our children cry at night. If we give any of our food we will die. No, we cannot help. I am sorry.” He turned toward Ephraim but didn’t look directly into his eyes. “Ask the Great Spirit to bring us buffalo, and then we will both feast.”
The fire burned again in Ephraim. “The Great Spirit led me to you for help. If you will help us now and trust the Great Spirit, there will be many buffalo come through your lands in three days.”
The old Indian shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “Our children cry in the night for food. My people would starve if the buffalo did not come. There will be some who will die as it is.” He shook his head again. “You ask too much of me.”
He turned and walked slowly away.
Ephraim swung up onto his horse. The old Indian turned and watched him disappear over the white hills. Ephraim reached the wagon train before dark that night.
The sun settled the snow the next day, and the going was easier for the wagons. Ephraim was driving the lead wagon. The day was quiet. The only sound was the noise of the mules’ hooves in the snow and the rattle of the wagons. The men were silent. Ephraim had been their last hope for food.
As they came over the crest of a small swale, the Indians came down suddenly and formed a double line along the trail. The men raised their guns ready to fight. Ephraim leaned over and waved his hand back at them. He drove forward.
As he passed through the line, the braves each handed him a large bundle of dried buffalo meat. The old Indian was last in the line. He handed Ephraim his bundle, smiled, turned his horse and rode away. The others followed.
Months later, in the spring, Ephraim Hanks and Feramorz Little were making a return trip from Independence, Missouri, to Salt Lake City when they met an old trader on the trail.
“Hey, Ephraim, what did you do to get them Sioux all stirred up?” he asked. “They been ridin’ all over the country lookin’ for you. They said something about some buffalo. Didn’t make any sense. They said the buffalo came in three days.”
Historical note: During the Utah War, Federal troops were ordered to Utah. In an effort to keep news of the order from reaching Utah, mail service to Salt Lake City was stopped. When mail failed to arrive in Salt Lake, the U.S. Postmaster gave Ephraim Hanks and Feramorz Little a special commission to carry mail east to Independence, Missouri. After receiving a special blessing from the First Presidency of the Church, Ephraim and Feramorz left on December 11, 1856.
When they crossed over the continental divide and came to Ash Hollow, they found the Majors and Russel freight teams stranded in the snow. They had been there for over 30 days, and their food supplies were dangerously low. Ephraim and Feramorz offered to help the men. Ephraim set out alone looking for food while Little stayed to help with the wagons.
Hanks and Little reached Independence on February 27, 1857.

My wife and I kept seeing the missionaries and asking them many questions. They told us about the Word of Wisdom and about how we should obey it. In the Navy I flew airplanes. Once my plane went down into the water. The water was cold, and when I was fished out, I was offered an alcoholic drink. I simply said, “No thank you. I don’t drink.” At that moment I realized that accepting the gospel would change my life for the better.

I decided that it was important to my growth to fast again soon, and not wait for a whole month. This time I fasted and prayed about a decision I was having difficulty making. The pros and cons of the major alternatives seemed nearly equal, and I had been puzzling about it for several weeks. After fasting and praying about it, I suddenly knew what to do, and there was never another moment of wondering if it was the best choice.

On 10 January 1969, my life abruptly changed. I certainly hadn’t intended to make any changes. I was not active in the Church and was a heavy smoker and drinker; in fact, I had reached the point where I felt unable to function without alcohol. I enjoyed the companionship of my drinking buddies, and the alcohol numbed my senses, making it seem easier to deal with life’s challenges.
But on that January day I did some quick reevaluation of my life. At work I was removing the rind from slabs of bacon with a five-inch boring knife and accidentally sliced a deep cut in my thigh. I started for the door, trying to remove my belt and cutting tools, and fainted before doing either. Co-workers carried me out to the loading dock, placed me in the company truck, and sped off to the hospital. I was losing a great deal of blood, and one man rode in back with me, applying constant pressure to the cut.
Midway to the hospital, we passed over a rough section of railroad tracks, and he was thrown down. By the time he regained his footing and could assist me again, we were both sure I was going to die. Although I was alert, I became extremely cold. I felt and saw a blackness settle over me, and I became very frightened.
I’m dying, I realized. I thought of my wife and children. I can’t die now. I have too much to do.
Right then I determined that if I were spared, I would repent and set my life in order. Immediately the cold I felt was replaced by a satisfying warmth in my body. The darkness fled, and I drifted into sleep. I later learned that more than once I came close to dying on the operation table, yet the doctors were able to save me and my leg.
When I awoke that night, I saw the moon shining through the window. I wept as I thought of my second chance. I felt a strong desire to pray—a foreign feeling to me. I couldn’t kneel, but I poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father. I thanked him for all he had given me and for his patience and mercy.
With the help of a supportive wife and an outstanding bishop, I began making changes I’d never imagined I would make. After being released from the hospital, I attended church with my family. I studied the scriptures and read other Church books as well.
I was ordained a priest and then an elder. Eventually our family went to the temple, where we were sealed for time and eternity.
Other blessings followed. My wife, who had battled with cancer, rheumatic fever, and several other debilitating health problems, felt better than she had felt in years. I had suffered from a hearing loss for most of my life. After much fasting and prayer, I underwent surgery that restored most of my hearing.
My whole life became more peaceful, more enjoyable, more worthwhile. The more I learned and grew, the more I prayed, thanking God for the most fortunate accident of my life.

When the current edition of the LDS hymnbook was printed, the author of “There Is Beauty All Around” was unknown—neither composer nor author is listed. President David O. McKay, a great admirer of this hymn, asked J. Spencer Cornwall, who was then a member of the Church Music Committee, to find the name of its author.
Soon afterwards while Brother Cornwall was traveling on assignment to Montana, he heard on the car radio a male chorus singing “There Is Beauty All Around.” Reaching his destination he called the station to ask the name of the author and was referred to a station in New Jersey where the program had originated. He wrote that station and was promptly sent a pamphlet stating that John Hugh McNaughton was both the author and composer of “There Is Beauty All Around.”
This information was conveyed to President McKay who remarked that he was sorry it had not been written by a member of the Church but that he was very pleased to know, however, that those lovely words had been written by a Scotsman. (Personal reminiscence of J. Spencer Cornwall.)
SONG: “There Is Beauty All Around.” (Hymns, p. 169; male chorus and tenor solo.)

When stake missionary Paul Stanfield of the Lakeland Ward, Tampa Florida Stake, travels on speaking assignments as part of his calling as a seventy, he often invites a guest speaker to come with him. The guest is his son Rod, 17, who shares some of his missionary experiences as the only LDS teenager at Kathleen High School.
Participating alongside his parents isn’t a new experience for Rod, who, beginning at age seven, got up at 6:00 A.M. every Sunday for two and one-half years to attend stake missionary meetings with his mother and father, and who placed figures on a flannel board as his parents taught missionary lessons in their home.
“I want to let young people know how great the Church is,” Rod says. “I want them to know they can be proud of it, that they can get along without the bad things a lot of kids think they need to have fun.”
Rod’s commitment is apparently evident to his classmates, who elected him school chaplain. “It’s an office in the student council,” Rod explains. “I help to provide a moral voice for school officers and can also counsel students who come to me for help or advice.”
It isn’t hard for the other students to recognize the chaplain; he’s active in many other school activities as well. These have included playing defensive end on the varsity football team for the past three years (he’s the team member who makes a point about not swearing and the one for whom the coach made sure there was root beer in the locker room cola machine). He attended Florida Boys’ State and was one of 17 finalists out of 600 Florida applicants for Boys’ Nation. He was one of 12 high school students on a panel for the local chapter of Women for Responsible Legislation, a movement to combat the Equal Rights Amendment. He’s the president of the National Honor Society in his school, vice-president of the art club, a member of the lettermen’s club, and the one who presented a paper about Joseph Smith’s accomplishments as his English class project.
Rod’s post-high school plans include a full-time mission and then continuing his education at BYU.

The family finally arrived at the refugee camp in Batdambang, but because it was located in Cambodia, Brother Thach requested that they be transferred to safer refuge at Panat Nikom, Thailand, where they arrived in May, two months after leaving Vietnam. From Thailand, they relocated to the United States where Minhdan Thach was baptized. She now serves as a Relief Society counselor in the Taylorsville 40th (Vietnamese) Branch, Taylorsville Utah Central Stake. Brother Thach, second counselor in the branch elders quorum presidency, is now an electronic test technician with a national engineering and research company with a manufacturing plant and offices in Utah.