Gospel Story Finder

As the soft, gray drizzle grew into a steady downpour, Mackinzee Waters pushed a damp wisp of hair from her eyes and quickly finished filling the bucket with wild blackberries. She pulled her shawl tighter about her and glanced up at the steely sky. Huge black clouds were unfurling, and thunder boomed like Civil War cannons. The weather seemed much like her life—harsh and indifferent, even though her family was trying hard to live by God’s commandments. Sure, she sometimes argued with her older brother, Chase, or did her chores begrudgingly, but were those offenses worthy of all the misfortune that had befallen her family?
Lightning seared through the dark day, its crooked fingers of white clawing the heavy air. It had been lightning that burned down their prairie home just two years before.
Mackinzee and her family had been in church at the time. Why would God let such a thing happen while we were worshiping? she wondered now as she hurried back toward the sod house built in the face of the small hillock by a stand of cottonwoods. Was he punishing us for something, or had he somehow completely forgotten us?
She paused by a small grave under a scraggly willow and gazed at the little headstone:
Eric Waters
Born December 15, 1867
Died May 22, 1869
Her baby brother had passed away the year before, stung to death by a swarm of bees. Why? Why did God let it happen?
Distracted by the sound of someone’s knuckle tapping at a window, she glanced at the sod house. Papa was beckoning through the rain-smeared glass. He was lying in bed as he had been since being mauled three months ago by a grizzly that had wandered down from the timber. Doc Gunnerson had said that it would be another three months before Papa’s leg would be mended enough for him to go back to the fields. It had been a real struggle for Mama and fourteen-year-old Chase and herself to manage without him.
Mama met her at the door. “You’d best get out of those wet clothes, honey, before you catch your death.”
Mackinzee set the pot of berries down hard on the table. “Why should I expect anything different, Mama, after everything else that’s happened to us?” She turned abruptly and disappeared into a small adjoining room, the door closing behind her with a bang.
Chase looked up from a boot he was polishing with soot from the bottom of a stove lid, shook his head, and chuckled to himself. “She sounds more growly than a hungry bear.”
“She has been awful moody lately,” Papa admitted.
On Monday, Chase dragged the big black washtub into the yard and fetched water from a nearby stream. Mama heated water in a kettle on the stove, and Mackinzee carried it out and poured it into the tub until there was enough to do the laundry.
The washing took most of the day. Finally mother and daughter hung out the wet clothes on a rope stretched between two trees. As they did, Mama paused and glanced over at Mackinzee. A gentle breeze tugged at the young girl’s auburn hair that glowed in the sunlight like rusty gold. She was a pretty girl. “As pretty as a spring fawn,” Papa often commented, “with a gold-dust shine that could dazzle the hardest of hearts.”
But today that simple loveliness was overshadowed by lines of deep despair. This wasn’t the first time Mama had observed her daughter’s unhappiness. But whenever she had asked about it, Mackinzee always smiled and shrugged it off.
“What are you staring at, Mama?” Mackinzee asked, at the same moment realizing she had just given her mother an opportunity to enter her most guarded thoughts. Mackinzee was attempting a quick evasive smile when her mother stroked her cheek.
The gentle gesture broke the barrier that held back a sea of pent-up hurt and anger, and she broke into sobs.
Mama quickly pulled her close. “What’s the matter, honey,” she soothed. “What’s been tearing at you so?”
Papa pulled back a curtain by his bed and squinted out through the weather-streaked glass. “Do you know where your sister and your mama are, Chase? I saw them hanging out clothes about an hour ago. Now they’ve disappeared.”
Chase splashed water on his face and neck and rubbed them vigorously to get off as much sweat and field dirt as he could, then turned to his father. “When I came in from the field just now, I saw them sitting on the big log by the creek. They looked to be deep in talk.”
Papa gazed back out the window and nodded. “Good,” he said quietly. “Good.”
Out in the field, Mama put her comforting arm around Mackinzee. “I don’t expect there’s anything sadder than a body keeping a world of heartache to herself, honey, unless it’s thinking that she must.”
Mackinzee rubbed at a hot tear that oozed from a swollen eye. “I didn’t want to add to your or Papa’s worries by—”
Mama placed a gentle finger across her daughter’s lips. “Do you think your papa and I haven’t been concerned over not knowing what’s been troubling you? It’s a lot easier to puzzle out a problem once you have all the pieces before you on the table, right?” At Mackinzee’s slow, tentative nod, Mama continued, “And now let’s try to do that, shall we?”
Mackinzee agreed, but her first question almost caught in her throat. “Why does God allow bad things to happen to us? Is he punishing us?”
“Sometimes he allows misfortune to befall someone because of wrong choices. For every one of our actions, there is a consequence.”
Mackinzee’s eyes dropped. “Sometimes I haven’t done my chores with a good heart, Mama. And Chase and I get in arguments. Maybe Heavenly Father—”
Mama squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Shame on you for being normal,” she chuckled. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t believe that even bad experiences are wasted. Most can be for our profit and learning. It’s all in the way we accept them. And in how we deal with them.”
“Then you don’t think God has forgotten us?”
“If he counts every sparrow that falls, like the scriptures teach us, it’s a sure fact that he keeps track of the rest of us.” Mama’s eyes misted. “It’s in me to know that he keeps company with the afflicted,” she added with a granite conviction.
“Then why … ?”
Mama regarded her daughter with a look that was so profoundly reverent and alive with testimony that it made Mackinzee pause. “How do you suppose one would get to the top of that mountain over there?”
Mackinzee gazed off at the purple form that rose and fell at the bottom of the sky. “By climbing it, of course.”
“Yes. And always remember that heaven is up too. By climbing the mountains of adversity in our lives, we can develop our spiritual muscles. Doctrine and Covenants 136:31 [D&C 136:31] says that the Lord’s people ‘must be tried in all things, that they may be prepared to receive the glory that [he has] for them.’”
As Mackinzee thought about this, Mama reached down and picked up a shiny river rock. “We must learn to let the waves that beat upon our shores wash away the weaker parts and leave in its wake a stronger man or woman.” She stood and went over to a wild rose plant and plucked a blossom with its stem. “If rain can make the flowers grow, then why not the rest of us?” She ran a finger lightly across a large barb on the stem. “This thorn flower can teach us a valuable lesson, honey,” she counseled gently. “A rose without a thorn is only half a rose.”
A slow smile rippled across Mackinzee’s face. She would learn to be happy, even when it rained.
Mama pinched off the thorn with her thumbnail, then put the rose in Mackinzee’s hair. The girl stood and took her mother’s hand, and they started toward home.

I remember on one occasion when I was a young boy, my dad sitting us down as a family and saying, “Kids, I got a job at Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. It’s a Church school, so I’m gonna need your help to stop swearing!”

Now, I don’t remember my dad cussing a lot, but he was a cowboy, and occasionally, when he was working with his horses or mules, they’d get the best of him, and he’d let a few choice words fly. Even though it was not a big issue to us, it was still important to him that he work on refining himself in that way. And he doesn’t have mules anymore, so that has helped.

It hadn’t been that way with Tessie. She was as awkward in her world as he was in his, new in California after being given to her mother in a messy divorce settlement. He remembered the first day she’d moved into the neighborhood, lost in the shuffle of refrigerators and dining room tables. She had sat in the branches of the birch tree between his house and hers, thin legs dangling, her big eyes solemn. His heart had gone out to her as he watched from beneath his car, where he’d given up on his drive shaft to watch the scene next door.

He had worked on his car a lot back then, where he could be alone and not worry about being the life of the party or what to say when the best-looking cheerleader in the school said hello to him. Tessie had watched him from high in the birch tree, never saying a word, just watching him work. It had bothered him at first, like having a shadow looking over his shoulder, and then he’d grown to like it. It was comforting to have her there, and lonely when she wasn’t.

It was almost Christmas when David had come home late one night from a date with Sherri Gilbert. Sherri was cute, and a lot of guys liked her, so when Hank had excitedly told him that she was looking his way, well, it had only seemed right to ask her out. He hadn’t known then that the movie would be boring, the hamburgers cold, and that she would talk about nothing but her summer in France with her cousin Louisa. He had been ready to swear off women forever when he’d turned the corner and seen Tessie sitting on her front porch, her head on her knees.

She’d heard the car and looked up as it turned into his driveway. He’d cut the engine and waited a few minutes before slowly climbing out.

“Past your bedtime, isn’t it?” He’d glanced at his watch and seen that it was almost midnight. “My name is David White.”

“Hello.” She’d lifted her head slightly and peered through her bangs. “How come your car’s always broken?”

“Broken?” He’d grinned. “I don’t know. Maybe I never fix it the right way.” He’d glanced at it in the driveway. It certainly didn’t look like much, one side stripped down to primer, waiting for its paint job. “Maybe if I had somebody to help me, I could talk it over and do a better job.”

She’d hesitated a minute. “Maybe I could help. I used to help my dad with his car.”

“Hey, I’d like that. I don’t suppose you have a name?”

“Tessie Tobin.” He’d thought he’d seen excitement in her eyes. “I’m only seven, and everybody tells me that I’m too little to do anything, because I’m the shortest girl in my class, but that doesn’t matter, does it?”

He’d hidden a smile. “I don’t think so. I like short people just as much as the tall ones.”

And that had been the beginning. She’d kept her promise and left the birch tree to become his first-class mate, always ready with a wrench or rag or sometimes just a glass of lemonade.

My name is Micah Bybee. I’m a fourth grade student at Millville Elementary School in Millville, Utah. My teacher, Mrs. Bartelt, asked for volunteers to work as peer tutors in her classroom. She explained that she needed them to teach a few students who needed extra practice in reading. I like reading, and I wanted to help other children have fun reading. My parents gave their permission for me to be a peer tutor in my classroom every morning for twenty minutes.
It took Mrs. Bartelt about four days to train me to be a peer tutor. I learned how to teach a special reading assignment to a girl named Erica Bothwell (a fictitious name)* who has a learning disability. Most of the time it was fun and exciting to be a peer tutor. But it also took a lot of hard work to help her learn how to read words that I thought everyone knew.
I taught Erica how to sound out letters and to read words from a workbook and some other books. Afterward, she read her lessons to Mrs. Bartelt. It was exciting to hear Erica say the sounds and words that I had taught her. She and I were both excited when our teacher placed a special marker on the bulletin board after Erica had completed her first workbook. I invited her over to my house after school, and we celebrated by eating ice cream!
Erica worked very hard during our tutoring sessions, and we enjoyed being together every morning, sitting at a separate table where we reviewed words. She was patient with me, and I learned to be patient with her. Words that came easily to me were often very hard for her to learn. She was often frustrated because she couldn’t learn as fast as most of the other students. But whenever she was discouraged, we worked even harder to learn new words. I brought some stickers from home to give to her whenever she passed off a chapter in her workbook with Mrs. Bartelt. Sometimes after school, Erica and I would practice her reading assignments and do math homework too.
I felt like a real teacher as I tutored, and I noticed that my own schoolwork improved. I concentrated more during school, and I studied harder. Before I became a tutor, I didn’t like doing my homework. Now I do it because I understand how valuable it is to try hard and to learn new things. I was able to practice my own reading skills, too, which made me a better reader. I am more accepting now of children with handicaps. My mother said that I’ve become more tolerant of my sisters’ behavior at home too. Now I accept them for their own personalities and abilities and try not to be critical of their imperfections.
Erica hadn’t liked reading because it was so difficult for her, and she’d felt embarrassed when she tried to read in front of others. The tutoring taught her reading skills and gave her confidence to read more difficult words and stories. She began to feel the joy that comes from being able to read an entire story and understand its meanings.
Erica and I became good friends, and I learned that people who have handicaps like to do many of the same things that I do. I also better understand that we are all children of our Heavenly Father and that we should respect and love each other. We have differences, but we are more alike than we realize. For example, Erica and I both enjoy riding our bikes. We watch TV together and go to swimming lessons on Saturdays. We even practiced reading the Book of Mormon together. I’m so glad that I had the chance to be her tutor. I think that she’s glad too.
I worked with Erica for the whole year, and the time went very fast. It wasn’t very long before she started checking out books from our school library. Her mother and dad were excited to hear Erica reading to her brothers and sisters.
When the school year was over, I wondered who learned the most—Erica or me.

I would like to share another experience of faith. Being the only child, Elder Hermelindo Coy said good-bye to his mother and left for the first time in his life his small village in the mountains of Senahú, Guatemala. He entered the Missionary Training Center the 14th of March 1991. Although he had been a member of the Church for only two years and was very timid about talking to people, his determination to serve was great. His formal education was less than five years of elementary school in his native language of Kekchí. Spanish, the official language of Guatemala, was foreign to him.
During his mission he learned to live with pain in his leg. He rarely complained. In August 1992 he noticed, in addition to the increase in the pain, something abnormal about his knee. The diagnosis was bone cancer. A more careful exam revealed cancer in the liver, lungs, and lymphatic system; in other words, his illness was terminal. He did not understand the nature of the illness nor its seriousness. With the help of a translator and using examples from the farm life with which he was familiar, he came to understand that he had little time to live.
He never asked, Why is this happening to me? He did not lament nor express negative feelings. He was obedient to all that was required of him. He was asked if he would like to return home, but he asked to remain in the mission and serve as long as possible, even until his death.
By October he walked with difficulty, requiring the use of a cane. He could only work a few hours each day. By December he was unable to walk. For the first time he was discouraged because he could not proselyte. His worry was always who would take care of his mother after he died.
In one of his visits, the mission president asked him to teach more of the basic doctrine to his mother, who, along with mission nurses, was providing 24-hour care. When he taught the plan of salvation to his mother in his native tongue, his face radiated assurance and light. Elder Coy was understanding with power and conviction what he was teaching.
As his strength declined, he placed his complete trust in the Lord. On one occasion when the pain was very strong, he expressed in prayer, “Heavenly Father, I do not know the day nor the hour that I will die, but I want to know soon from thee about my new assignment.” He died in February 1993. His death blessed all the missionaries, leaders, members, and even nonmembers who learned of his courage to serve and endure to the end. His faith was so simple that it was contagious. He never feared death. He strengthened all who knew him.

But getting to Palmyra took more money and effort than Lucy had planned. When there were only two cents left she began trading material and household goods and clothing to pay for food and lodging along the way.
“I wish we’d never decided to move to Palmyra!” Sophronia cried. “We’ve had nothing but trouble all the way.”
Young Joseph thought about what his big sister had said. It was true about the trouble. It had been dogging their heels ever since they left Sharon, Vermont. But this was the last day of their journey. Palmyra was almost at hand.
Outside, the sky was overcast. The woods were breathing deeply in the wintry wind. Joseph shivered as a blast whipped his coat and trousers against his body.
When the wagon was reloaded, Joseph noticed his brothers, Alvin and Hyrum, talking to Mr. Gates whose family had been traveling in sleighs along with the Smiths.
Alvin called to Joseph, “I’ll lead out with our wagon. Mother and Sophronia and the littlest children will ride with me. Mr. Gates and his boys will follow with their sleighs. He says you can ride in the last sleigh, Joseph.”
After Joseph climbed into the sleigh, the Gates boy clucked to the team and they pulled off down the road. Joseph was too excited about seeing his father in Palmyra that night to notice the frown on the boy’s face.
Joseph was aware of how much this boy and Mr. Howard had enjoyed tormenting him throughout the trip. However, with Mr. Howard gone, Joseph had hoped the meanness would stop.
“I’m glad to be able to ride. I had an operation on my leg and it’s still a little weak,” Joseph explained.
“I heard about that,” the boy answered, scornfully. “I think you use it for an excuse.”
Joseph gazed steadily at the boy. “It’s the truth.”
The boy threw a long, hard look at his companion, then with a quick glance ahead to make sure no one could see, he knocked Joseph off the moving sleigh into the road.
When Joseph regained consciousness, he raised up on one elbow, and tried to get up, but a sharp pain knifed through his side. He eased back into the snow, red-stained with his blood. What will I do? Joseph wondered, looking up into the branches of a tall maple tree, dried and frayed as a brush broom. It swept the sky and sent a dusting of snowflakes down upon his face. He gulped back the fullness that pained his throat. No tears would drown his hopes of their promised land.
Joseph wasn’t sure how long he lay in the rutted road before help came. But when he opened his eyes again he was looking into a bearded face.
“What happened to you, boy?”
“I fell off a sleigh. Can you take me to Palmyra?”
“That’s just where I’m heading.”
“My father is there … Joseph Smith … and my family.”
“Say, I know him. I can take you right there!”
After checking Joseph over, the man carefully lifted the boy into his wagon and covered him with a quilt.
“After your ma fixes that cut and you have a chance to warm up a bit, you’ll feel good as new.”
He was right. They met Joseph’s mother and father on the road, anxiously looking for him. Then it didn’t matter that the journey had been long and painful or that they had arrived with only two cents in cash. All was forgotten in the joy of reunion with his father.

I have met some people who have been interested and puzzled why a young man would do what I do. I spend most of my time cleaning the headstones, so that I can read them and take photos, or hacking my way through overgrown grass and weeds. One time I found a small headstone beside a big tree near a footpath, that had been lost in the undergrowth, and completely hidden from view. I cleaned it up and removed the holly bush, other weeds and grass that were hiding it. It was a grave of a five-week-old baby boy, Tony Hamilton, lost from view and forgotten. Now, since I cleared it, someone has mowed around the tree and the grave, so hopefully he will not be lost again.

One cold, dark, winter day, I was waiting at the exit from the subway station in Moscow to meet two members of the Church whom I had never before met. I told them to recognize me by my missionary badge. The members were late in arriving. I stood there for about half an hour, watching many hundreds of Russians leaving the subway on their way home to their apartments after a day’s work. I looked into the faces and eyes of the people. I saw no smiles. I saw people who appeared to be depressed, angry, and burdened with all the world’s problems and harshness. I thought deeply about this. I was troubled and saddened to see the people that way. I wanted them to have what we have. I wanted them to be able to feel the joy of having the gospel, to understand the plan of salvation, and to have the love of the Savior in their lives. Suddenly, as I was thinking about these people, the two members of the Church exited the subway. They had big smiles on their faces. I recognized them immediately. To me, it was like two light bulbs came walking through the door. Their expressions portrayed the brightness and joy that they were experiencing in their lives. Of course, they had challenges in their lives, but because they were keeping the commandments, they had the joy of the gospel too, and they radiated this joy.

I believe that we also experience the miracle of forgiveness. Once a couple drove all the way from one of the central California stakes, came to my office, and said, “We just need half an hour with you.” The husband continued, “At conference you mentioned that every single major transgression must be confessed. Monday after conference my wife and I were sitting at home for home evening, and not a word had been spoken. Then my wife said to me, ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ And I said, ‘Yes, I think I am.’ She said, ‘How soon should we leave?’ And I said, ‘Why not right now?’” So they had climbed into their car and driven the sixteen hours to the Church Office Building.
The man went on, “We have come to confess a major transgression. Forty-three years ago, before we were married, we committed fornication once. My father was the bishop of the ward, and so he didn’t ask us the questions, but just signed our temple recommends. We went to the stake president and he saw that they were signed, so he didn’t ask the questions. We went to the temple unworthily.
“While we were out on our honeymoon we decided that we would make it up to the Lord. We would give every particle of energy all of our lives in order to repent: he couldn’t ask us to do anything we wouldn’t do. We’d pay more than our share of tithing, more than our share of building fund. We would go forth and really serve. We wouldn’t go to the temple that next year because we weren’t worthy.” It was almost a self-imposed restitution program.
“We’ve done that,” he said, “I’ve been a bishop and I’ve been on two high councils. My wife has been stake Relief Society president for six years. We know now—and I guess we’ve known all along, although we have repented—that we still had to confess.”
Normally we send people back to their bishops or stake presidents for such confessions; they do not need to come to the General Authorities, because every single member of the Church has a priesthood leader. But General Authorities are common judges, and so I called President Kimball on the phone and said, “President Kimball, I have this lovely couple in my office.” I explained to him the story of this couple and said, “I feel that they’ve repented. Would you feel all right if I exercised my common judgeship and simply closed this case for these two wonderful people, so they will not have to drive the sixteen hours back to California just to go through this experience again?”
He asked, “Are they still in your office?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Would you bring them right up?”
I know that it shocked me. I said yes, hung up the phone, and said to them, “President Kimball would like to see you in his office right now.” The blood drained from their faces.
I took them up to the twenty-fifth floor, where his office was at that time, and we walked back through the reception area to Arthur Haycock’s office, where Brother Haycock said, “The President is expecting you.”
The President got up from his desk and came to the door to meet us. I introduced him to this lovely couple and said, “President, I need not stay. I’ll run back downstairs. When you’re finished, call me and I’ll come right back up and get them.”
He said, “Bishop, I want you to come in, too.”
I went into his office along with the couple. We sat down in front of his desk, and he went around behind the desk. Then, for three or four minutes, he visited with them tenderly and sweetly about the things he had in his office. Then he turned to the man and said, “Bishop Featherstone has told me about this condition. Have you suffered equal to the transgression?” In other words, “It has been a major transgression; have you suffered?”
Tears came to this brother’s eyes, and he said, “President, we think we have suffered many times more.”
President Kimball asked, “Have you prayed for forgiveness?” The man said, “I have prayed for forgiveness, and my wife has. We haven’t offered a prayer in forty-three years in which we haven’t asked for forgiveness.”
Let me digress here just to say this: Do you know that the President of the Church is the only man on the face of the earth who can actually forgive on behalf of the Lord? The rest of us who are common judges forgive on behalf of the Church, as the Lord’s agents. President Kimball has said that he never uses this authority unless he really knows.
After talking to them and counseling with them, he said finally, “Would you feel all right if I came around and knelt down and had a prayer with you?” He came around from behind his desk. The couple knelt, and we knelt facing the couple. President Kimball offered the prayer and said these words in the very beginning: “Heavenly Father, we love thee.” he said “We love thee” in a way I have never heard it said before. Tears came to my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. I could hear them dropping on the carpet, and they sounded like thunder, to me at least.
He continued to pray; and I understood a little better then what an advocate is, because he pleaded for this couple. He felt that they had repented, but he needed to know.
Finally, as he concluded his prayer and stood up, he came over, put his arm through my arm, pulled me close to him, and asked me a question. Do you know, I still do not know what the question was? I never did answer it. All I know is that I turned to him with tears in my eyes and said, “President Kimball, I love you.” And I did—every particle of my heart and soul loved the man President Kimball.
He then went over to this man and said to him, as he shook his hand, “I want you to forgive yourself, and I want you to forgive your wife. I don’t want you ever to think about it again. You are forgiven.” The man put his head down on President Kimball’s shoulder and sobbed. In a few moments President Kimball walked over to the woman, took both of her hands in his, and said, “I want you to forgive yourself. I want you never to think about it again. You are forgiven.”
I could not have had that experience except for the fact that I had tried to walk in the Savior’s footsteps. Every one of you who has had similar experiences has had them because you have tried to walk in his steps.

Brothers and sisters, the decisions we make in this life greatly affect the course of our eternal life. There are both seen and unseen forces that influence our choices. This point was brought home some five years ago in a way that almost cost me dearly.
We were traveling with family and friends in the south of Oman. We decided to relax on the beach along the coast of the Indian Ocean. Soon after our arrival, our 16-year-old daughter, Nellie, asked if she could swim out to what she thought was a sandbar. Noticing the choppy water, I told her that I would go first, thinking there might be dangerous currents.
After swimming a short while, I called to my wife, asking if I was close to the sandbar. Her response was, “You have gone way past it.” Unbeknownst to me I was trapped in a riptide1 and was being pulled rapidly out to sea.
I was unsure what to do. The only thing I could think of was to turn around and swim back toward shore. That was exactly the wrong thing to do. I felt helpless. Forces beyond my control were pulling me farther out to sea. What made matters worse was that my wife, trusting my decision, had followed me.
Brothers and sisters, I thought there was a high likelihood I would not survive and that I, because of my decision, would also cause my wife’s death. After great effort and what I believe was divine intervention, our feet somehow touched the sandy bottom and we were able to walk safely back to our friends and daughter.

Let me give another example from these very valleys:
Some time ago I was assigned to a conference in northern Utah in June. As I drove through Cache Valley on Saturday, I was struck by the beauty of that peaceful green valley. I marveled at the temple in Logan—such a serene, peaceful beacon in so many ways. As I continued north on that clear summer day, I was impressed with the green fields so rich with a variety of crops. I particularly noticed the great number of alfalfa fields and the constant activity in nearly all of them. What a pleasing sensation it was to smell that freshly mown hay and to see the straight rows and the orderly cutting of those meticulously groomed fields.
I pulled the car over to the side of the road at the top of one of the hills and got out. I found myself absorbed right into that beautiful valley. As far as I could see was a whole panorama of the same activity in every direction—hay being mowed and stacked and hauled.
I finally drove on to the stake where we had a wonderful conference.
My parents live in southeast Idaho, and since I was already more than halfway there, I decided to drive up Sunday afternoon to visit them before returning home.
So, after conference I started north through the rest of Cache Valley. Within a few miles I was in Idaho, but the scenery and feeling were just the same. I again became absorbed in the beauty of the green fields and the smell of fresh hay all around. Again, I stopped at the top of one of the hills and got out and looked as far as I could in all directions. It was just as beautiful—if not more so—than the day before. “Yes, even more beautiful,” I thought, “but why?” The sun and sky and the clouds and the fields were all the same. Why this deep feeling that this sight this Sunday afternoon was even more beautiful than the day before?
What was the difference? I noticed in the distance a small LDS chapel and a few cars starting to pull up to it. Then it struck me, rather peacefully but very effectively: “There is the difference. No one is mowing or hauling hay today.” I looked as far as I could and saw hay fields everywhere, tractors stopped, mowing machines idle, and trucks resting in the fields, but no one working—for it was the Sabbath and this was Cache Valley and these were largely good Latter- day Saint people.
As I continued north, I saw everywhere hay to be cut and stacked and hauled and equipment and weather to do it, but no man or woman in the fields. The people of this valley were observing a higher law, and the Sabbath was being kept holy in Cache Valley.
I went by dozens, even hundreds, of farms with machines waiting in the fields—left Saturday evening by God-fearing men waiting for Monday to come and the whine of activity to resume. I wondered to myself, “Will someone break this spell, will someone be out in his fields working?”
Each time I rounded a corner or came to the top of a hill, I would look and look and then breathe a sigh of relief—no one working.
I went farther and farther north, realizing I was near the end of this beautiful valley. “Would anyone break the spell? Could it be a whole valley so dedicated to God that no one would work on the Sabbath?” The suspense became almost unbearable. Each curve I rounded or each hill I came over found me looking in almost fearful anticipation, then smiling as the same peaceful scene continued.
Finally I came to the last curve and the confluence with the main road that marked the end of Cache Valley. I looked and looked, but all was peaceful and quiet. I was so excited, I pulled the car over, got out, and in almost a Toyota-like jump I raised my hands and shouted, “You did it, Cache Valley. You did it! I have traversed your length. You didn’t know I was looking, but you did it—not one field being mowed, not one tractor at work, not one truck hauling. You did it!” (I recognize that I had been through only the northern end of the valley that Sunday, but it was still Cache Valley.)
I instinctively looked heavenward and said, “Did you see that? Did you see Cache Valley this Sunday afternoon?”
Even though I didn’t hear anything, it was as though I sensed a response saying, “Yes, we know. We see everything.”
I had such a joyful feeling—almost ecstasy—as I drove north to a wonderful meeting with my parents before returning home.
For some time after that, I couldn’t get that Sunday afternoon off my mind. I kept feeling, “You have observed and witnessed something very special, something truly significant: an entire valley keeping His Sabbath holy.”
It caused me deep reflection then and many times since, but like so many things it was moved further and further to the back of my mind with the press of many current problems. Winter came, and for all intents and purposes it slipped from my conscious memory.
I continued to travel each weekend to various parts of the world. Many months later, I was assigned to a conference in a city noted for its particularly flagrant violations of God’s laws. The Saints there were wonderful, but oh, the decadence and debauchery that seemed to be all around them.
As I returned from the especially hectic weekend, I began reading in the scriptures. I thought about Sodom and Gomorrah. Could they have been much more wicked than this? And yet the Lord promised to spare them for fifty righteous souls—or even down to ten—but they were not found.
I let my imagination go and seemed to see a band of destroying angels loosed from heaven—thundering across the land. And even before I had time to think about the situation, I seemed to see myself standing in front of these determined destroyers, declaring, “Hold, hold, hold”; and they held. “Go back,” I said: and their horses reared, their eyes flashing in impatience. The destroyers’ anxiousness showed, but they held.
The leader looked me squarely in the eye and challenged, “By what right do you ask us to hold? Have you not seen the evil of the land?”
I replied, “Yes, I know of the sordidness of the world. I see the constant mocking of God’s laws, the merchandising on his holy day, the constant breaking of his commandments. I see the evil that exists almost universally. Yes, yes, all these things are true, still …” Then I became concerned. What right had I to ask them to hold?
My eyes began to fall from his penetrating gaze, but something inside kept searching, searching, until finally a laserlike beam locked onto a misty memory made many months ago and faithfully filed away for such a time as this. A vista of a beautiful green valley passed before me and moved to the front of my consciousness.
I raised my eyes and met his as he again said, “What right do you have to ask us to hold?”
Then with the confidence of sure knowledge and spiritual direction, I replied, “You must hold, for you see, I have been through Cache Valley on a Sunday afternoon.”
There was no hesitation, no anger, no look of surprise, no disappointment, only obedience; and he turned and rejoined his group, and they left.
Oh, my dear brothers and sisters, there is power in keeping the Sabbath day holy—power to help others as well as ourselves. If we would have God’s blessings and protection as individuals, as families, as communities, and as nations, we must keep His Sabbath day holy.
May we all live that someday, someway, somewhere, somehow, as we face that which is very serious, we may be able to say, “Hold, hold, hold”; and, when challenged as to why (even by ourselves), be able—through obedience and the confidence of the Spirit—to say in our own way, “For I have been through Cache Valley on a Sunday afternoon,” I do humbly pray in the name of our Savior, who lives. I know he lives, even Jesus Christ, amen.

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.”

When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of discussion with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend.
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgement. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were good.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet fights Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with the discovery of living “… for the Lord gives unto the faithful line upon line, precept upon precept to try you and prove you herewith.” (see D&C 98:12). Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was cruel to me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, at each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant friend, on a bookshelf or in a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but that is only part of the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic artwork, though it is rough.
The Janet series is vigorously continuing in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages.

Bishop Edgley has told you a basketball story. I think I’d like to tell you a baseball story. I was reminded of it while watching a program on the Public Broadcasting System one evening not long ago. It was a program on baseball, once the great American pastime.
I recognize that baseball has little interest for people in most nations of the world, but I speak of it to highlight a principle that has meaning for people everywhere.
The event of which I speak occurred in the World Series of 1912. It was an eight-game series because one of the games was called at midpoint because of darkness. Playing fields were not electrically lighted at that time. It was the last game and the score was tied 1–1. The Boston Red Sox were at bat, the New York Giants in the field. A Boston batter knocked a high-arching fly. Two New York players ran for it. Fred Snodgrass in center field signaled to his associate that he would take it. He came squarely under the ball, which fell into his glove. It went right through his hand and fell to the ground. A howl went up in the stands. The roaring fans couldn’t believe it. Snodgrass had dropped the ball. He had caught hundreds of fly balls before. But now, at this crucial moment, he dropped the ball. The New York Giants lost. The Boston Red Sox won the series.
Snodgrass came back the following season and played brilliant ball for nine more years. He lived to be eighty-six years of age, dying in 1974. But after that one slip, for sixty-two years when he was introduced to anybody, the expected response was, “Oh, yes, you’re the one who dropped the ball.”

“Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.” I had seen this little sign a million times and never thought anything of it. It was only one of many strategically placed thoughts and quotes that dotted the walls of our home. This one happened to be in the best location of all—right above the kitchen table.
When friends came over, we naturally congregated in the kitchen. Dates, late night movies, and quick lunches almost all involved the kitchen. Mom knew this and planned her attack accordingly. Years later I realized what a direct hit Mom had scored.
I was blessed with a lot of friends who are also members of the Church. We went to church and school together, and most of us went on missions at about the same time. However, there was one who was not exactly like the rest of us. His parents were divorced, and he was shuffled between their homes and the homes of friends. As a result, I think he always felt a little isolated and alone. He wore his hair long and always had at least one earring. Regardless, we loved him, and he was one of us.
During high school we witnessed him change; it was great. A short time after his 19th birthday he submitted his mission papers and received a call. A couple of months later we really understood the significance of this event.
The realization came on a cold, crisp Sunday in January. My friends and I had gathered to hear this young man speak in sacrament meeting. I had been invited to perform a musical number, so I sat on the stand. As I gazed over the crowd, I saw all of our friends, as well as my family; it was a wonderful sight. As my friend ventured to the pulpit, his eyes were a little red.
His talk opened with a question: “Do any of you know why I am here? Well, it is really very simple. I am here because of the many meals eaten at a friend’s table, a table with a sign above it that reads, ‘Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.’ I want my friends to know that without their influence and love I wouldn’t be here today.”
As I looked down into the crowd, I saw my mother with tearful eyes and a smile.
From that day on, I have also thought about the effects my friends have had on my life. I don’t know if I would have served a mission without their example. I don’t know what kind of a person I would be today if it hadn’t been for the strength and love I received from such wonderful people. For that, I will be forever grateful, both to them and to my Heavenly Father.
I know that no one has forgotten the message shared from that pulpit. I also know that that sign, to this day, still hangs above our kitchen table.

“Our Area Presidency has challenged us to read the Book of Mormon before stake conference. Will you try?” my dad asked me. “I’ll try,” I said reluctantly. I was reluctant because I had recently been in a bicycle accident and had received a serious concussion. I remember the exact date of my accident—27 July 1993—because it was my younger brother Brent’s 12th birthday.
The morning of Brent’s birthday, I did not have a present for him, so I decided to ride my bicycle to a store to find something. The store was not far away, but getting there required riding along a busy state highway. Thinking I would be safer, I rode on a seldom-used sidewalk that ran by some condominiums not far from my home. Toward the bottom of a hill, the sidewalk became uneven and was covered with sand, dirt, and plants. The sidewalk was not easily seen from either the highway or the condos. I headed down the hill, picking up speed as I went, but my trip didn’t take me where I had planned to go. I ended up in the hospital instead.
I have no memory of what happened. All I remember is the pain. I later learned that two teenage boys found me. They contacted a neighbor, who called my mom and the paramedics.
Five days later, I was still delirious. I had more than 40 stitches over one eye and on my chin, and bandages covered other cuts and scrapes. While I was in the hospital and at home, many loving people in our ward visited me and brought me gifts—although I can’t remember most of it.
Later, when I was feeling better, my parents had a speech pathologist test me. The tests showed moderate to severe impairment of my ability to retrieve general information, organize thoughts, and speak intelligently. My mental age had dropped. Although I was nearly 15 years old, I was performing at a 12-year-old level.
One of the most frustrating consequences of the accident was not being able to read. I could see the words, but my mind couldn’t process them. It was almost as if I had forgotten how to read. So my dad’s request that I read the Book of Mormon within a two-month period would be an immense challenge.
That night, I knelt by my bed to pray to Heavenly Father. During my prayer, I felt strongly that if Heavenly Father wanted me to read the Book of Mormon, He would help me. After the prayer, I got up, sat in bed, and opened the Book of Mormon to the first page. I slowly looked at the words in front of me and began: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents …” I was reading! I could actually understand the words! Part of me was totally amazed and excited. Yet part of me wasn’t surprised at all. Somehow I had a complete assurance that I would be able to read the Book of Mormon if it was the Lord’s will and if He was helping me.
After only one month, I finished reading that great book of scripture. The Lord and the Book of Mormon had taught me how to read again. More important, my faith in Heavenly Father increased, as did my testimony of prayer and the scriptures. That faith and testimony sustained me years later as I served as a full-time missionary in the Korea Seoul West Mission.
I’m grateful my dad challenged me to read the Book of Mormon. Because of that challenge, I was able to understand that Heavenly Father can bless us in our trials. I’m also grateful for miracles—not only for the miraculous coming forth of the Book of Mormon and the miraculous Restoration of the gospel, but also for miracles that happen today to people like me.

A few years ago, my son was getting ready to leave on his mission. He went through the Payson temple in August 2020—a time you will all recognize as being in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. At that time there was so much we didn’t know. We didn’t know how long the pandemic would last, we didn’t know when we would be able to resume normal lives, and we didn’t know who might be next to get sick. It was a time of uncertainty and distress for so many of us.

Because our visit was during the pandemic, we were only allowed a limited number of family members in the temple. It was a unique experience as we put on our masks and went inside. I didn’t see anyone else in the temple aside from the temple workers. It was as if we had the whole temple to ourselves. It was also the first time that all our children were able to be in the temple together with us. Words cannot describe the peace and comfort I felt to be surrounded by my family in the house of the Lord during a time of turbulence and uncertainty. The temple can be a place of peace in our most difficult times.

A few years ago, Rachel and Melissa were both at home on a Saturday afternoon. The doorbell rang, and Rachel greeted two nicely dressed young men at the door. She thought they were salesmen. Their dad, Gerry, agreed to chat with the young men, who were actually full-time missionaries. Life in the Clancy home changed forever when the girls and their father were baptized.

The Clancy girls soon discovered that living their new religion meant having most of their friendships with people of other faiths, a role that both missionary-minded girls embrace. But where does their strength come from? Some comes from a handful of LDS friends and leaders, but most of what makes these girls strong is what happens within the walls of their home.

This family knows how to work together. Rachel handles laundry, including ironing, while Melissa helps with some of the outside chores, like mowing the lawn. They both look after their younger brother and sister, Matt and Stefany, while their dad is at work or handling Church responsibilities.

The Clancys know how to play, too. In fact, both girls say that most of their best gospel learning experiences come from conversations during fun times with the family jumping on the trampoline, hiking, or swimming.

“This year Dad and Matt and I spent several days hiking at a place called Ayers Rock,” says Rachel. “I like hiking but I’m afraid of heights and this was a really steep hike. We stopped and said a prayer and I felt better. When we got to the top there was a beautiful view. My dad and I talked about how it was a lesson about enduring to the end. It’s my favorite memory from that hiking trip.”

“No one sits alone” also means no one sits alone emotionally or spiritually. I went with a brokenhearted father to visit his son. Years earlier, the son was excited to become a new deacon. The occasion included his family buying him his first pair of new shoes.
But at church, the deacons laughed at him. His shoes were new, but not fashionable. Embarrassed and hurt, the young deacon said he would never go again to church. My heart is still broken for him and his family.

Mandy opened her eyes. It was morning, and there was something outside, scratching at her window. “Whoooo,” it called. She quickly got out of bed and put on her clothes. It sounded to Mandy like a very large owl. “Whoooo,” it said again.
She tiptoed from her room and then ran to the kitchen. “Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “I think there’s a large owl outside scratching and blowing at my bedroom window.”
Mandy’s mother laughed. “That’s the wind,” she said, “and not an owl at all. It’s just air that moves very fast and makes the bushes rustle and scratch at your window.”
“Can I go out and see it?” Mandy asked.
“You can look for it, but I don’t think you’ll find it,” Mother said with a smile. Then she gave Mandy her sweater and a piece of hot buttered toast. “Now you won’t be cold or hungry while you hunt for the wind,” she told her.
Opening the door, Mandy stepped out into the backyard. There was a dry, sweet smell in the air. She licked her lips. They felt dry too. A gust of wind brushed across her cheek and was gone. Then another, much harder than the first. “Whoooo!” it said.
Mandy blinked her eyes and looked around. Large golden and orange leaves were falling from the maple tree. They touched the ground and danced together, round and round, like whirlpools of colored paper. The wind is finger painting, Mandy thought. It’s drawing leaf pictures with little fingers of air.
Cleeter, Mandy’s dog, barked loudly and pounced onto a pile of crisp brown leaves, crushing them into thousands of coppery pieces. But Tom, the cat, just put his nose in the air and sniffed. Then he curled his tail around himself and sat very still. Mandy reached down and put her hand on Tom’s soft fur.
POP! The fur crackled under Mandy’s fingers. Tom’s back curved up into a fluffy arch, and the fur crackled again.
Mandy heard something rustle. It was a piece of newspaper standing on edge. It balanced a second, then danced across the lawn like a kite trying to fly.
Suddenly a great gust of wind rushed around the house. This time it said, “Wheeee!” Mandy’s hair blew into her eyes so she couldn’t see. She put her hands out to push the wind away, but it kept right on coming. The leaves fell faster all around her. Yellow and gold and scarlet and orange leaves whirled and whirled.
“I’m in a leaf storm,” Mandy said. “If I don’t do something quick, this wind might blow me away.” She reached out and grabbed the rough, dusty trunk of the maple tree. Then she put both arms around the tree as far as they would reach. The wind blew and blew.
“Wheeee!” it sang, pulling at Mandy’s sweater until it puffed out and made her feel like a balloon.
“Help!” called Mandy, but no one heard her except Cleeter, who was playing in the leaves, and Tom, who stretched and yawned. Then he walked slowly toward the house.
If Tom can do that, thought Mandy, so can I. So she released her hands from the tree, pulled her sweater tightly around her, and walked right into the face of the wind to the back door. It pushed her hair straight back and almost took her breath away. But it made her feel clean and fresh all over.
“Well,” said Mother, when she and Tom were sitting at the kitchen table, “did you find the wind?”
Mandy nodded her head. “You can’t see it,” she explained, “but you can feel it and you can hear it and you can smell the things that fly with it. You can’t reach out and touch it, but it can touch you. It touched me so hard, I thought I’d be blown away. But I like windy days!”