Gospel Story Finder

Thousands of years ago, glaciers pulverized rocks and scooped through the landscape outside what is now Buffalo, New York. The ice rivers left behind a series of soft-shouldered mounds called drumlins, hills that are today rich in foliage and equally rich in memories. It was in one such hill many miles to the east, Cumorah, that Moroni buried the plates of gold. It was in 1820, in a grove surrounded by drumlins, that Joseph Smith kneeled in prayer.
It was also in these hills that members of the Iroquois confederacy—the Cayugas and the Senecas, the Mohawks and the Tuscaroras, the Oneidas and the Onondagas—once hunted and fished and dwelled as part of nature. It was here these Indians joined in council as they ruled a vast region, including the upper Mississippi.
Now it is January in the land of the drumlins. On one of the highest hills, at the top of a country lane called Zoar Road, whitewashed rocks mark a dirt driveway leading to the home of a modern-day Indian family, the Monty Campbell family. Normally at this time of year, snow is so deep that drifts cling to barns and smother trees. But this year, snowfall has been negligible. In fact, this morning is like a spring morning, even though it’s the middle of winter. And that’s fine with Phil Campbell, 17, and his younger brother, Joe, 13. They’ve got chores to do before school, and it’s easier to do them when the weather’s warm.
A casual observer watching them would be impressed to see other children joining them in their farm tasks. Jabez, age 7, and Nicholas, 6, for example, help mix slop for the pig. Christine, 16, Lynn, 11, and Julie, 10, are glad to feed the horse or keep a lookout for the school bus that only stops once on its way to Gowanda, the nearest town.
It isn’t until Sister Campbell steps to the door and calls everyone inside for prayers that the visitor would suddenly realize that all those children loving each other and working together aren’t just neighborhood acquaintances. They are brothers and sisters, part of a family of 11 brothers and sisters. With mom and dad, that means 13 Campbells under the same roof. And the Campbells are a family proud of being a family, proud of their Lamanite heritage, proud of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the joy that comes from living Christian principles. They are a family that knows what a deep experience sharing can be.
A few years ago, the Campbells lived on Chestnut Street in town. Their home was spacious and it had a swimming pool. The Campbells had two sons, but were told by doctors that because of medical complications it was unlikely Sister Campbell would have any more children. So the parents decided to continue their family anyway—by adopting.
“We feel as though we’ve always been a family,” Phil said. “Some of us just took a little longer to get here. First came Mike (who is 19 and currently serving in the Washington Seattle Mission), then myself. Then we adopted Lynn. Then we decided Lynn needed a sister, and Julie was adopted. Then the agency called and asked if we would like another girl, and Christine joined us. Then we wanted Jabez (“J.J.”) to even up the boy-girl ratio.
“Dad and mom prayed and prayed about having another child of their own but had nearly abandoned hope, even though they felt the Lord would bless them. Then miraculously Sam was born without any problems. It surprised everyone, since we had figured J. J. was the caboose! Then when Joe (“Little Bear”) was adopted, he filled in the space between Christine and Lynn. Then we wanted another girl, but Monty Jr. (“June Bug”) needed a home, and we all fell in love with him.
“We thought that was it, but then the agency called and asked mom and dad if they wanted two more!” So Nicholas and Doug joined the family. Now the roll call at the dinner table reads like this: Mike (he’s always remembered, and sometimes his letters are read aloud), Phillip, Christine, Joe, Lynn, Julie, Jabez, Nicholas, Sammy (5), Doug (4), and Monty Jr. (2). “That makes 11,” Sister Campbell said, smiling. “And now we figure one more would be perfect.”
Sister Campbell explained that she and her husband are the only Indians listed with the adoption agency, and that because they have such a positive record, the local magistrate (himself one of 11 children) is eager to help. “It’s our experience in family court that we don’t find too many happy occasions such as this,” Judge Victor E. Manz said. “At a time when people say the family is falling apart, this family is a true inspiration.” Although the children come from various tribes, they are all adopted into the Cayuga tribe when they join the family.
“Kids at school ask me how big my family is, and when I say 11 kids, they say ‘Wow!’” Lynn said. “They want to know if it takes two cars to get us around.”
“People are surprised that we left a newly remodeled home and moved into a house that’s cold in the morning and that we’re improving on our own. They wonder why we gave up what we had, when with fewer people we could have more money,” Phillip said. “I tell them we’re richer now because we have more brothers and sisters. And I think maybe we’re closer to the Lord, too, because we’ve had to sacrifice to be together.”

Let me tell you of one of the goals that I made when I was still but a lad. When I heard a Church leader from Salt Lake City tell us at conference that we should read the scriptures, and I recognized that I had never read the Bible, that very night at the conclusion of that very sermon I walked to my home a block away and climbed up in my little attic room in the top of the house and lighted a little coal-oil lamp that was on the little table, and I read the first chapters of Genesis. A year later I closed the Bible, having read every chapter in that big and glorious book.
I found that this Bible that I was reading had in it 66 books, and then I was nearly dissuaded when I found that it had in it 1,189 chapters, and then I also found that it had 1,519 pages. It was formidable, but I knew if others did it that I could do it.
I found that there were certain parts that were hard for a 14-year-old boy to understand. There were some pages that were not especially interesting to me, but when I had read the 66 books and 1,189 chapters and 1,519 pages, I had a glowing satisfaction that I had made a goal and that I had achieved it.
Now I am not telling you this story to boast; I am merely using this as an example to say that if I could do it by coal-oil light, you can do it by electric light. I have always been glad I read the Bible from cover to cover.

After recovering from three major surgeries which have prevented me from speaking in the past two general conferences, what a joy it is to be able to stand in this beautiful Conference Center today to teach and bear testimony to those who desire to hear the word of the Lord.
In the past two years, I have waited upon the Lord for mortal lessons to be taught me through periods of physical pain, mental anguish, and pondering. I learned that constant, intense pain is a great consecrating purifier that humbles us and draws us closer to God’s Spirit. If we listen and obey, we will be guided by His Spirit and do His will in our daily endeavors.
There were times when I have asked a few direct questions in my prayers, such as, “What lessons dost Thou want me to learn from these experiences?”
As I studied the scriptures during this critical period of my life, the veil was thin and answers were given to me as they were recorded in lives of others who had gone through even more severe trials.
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high” (D&C 121:7–8).
Dark moments of depression were quickly dispelled by the light of the gospel as the Spirit brought peace and comfort with assurances that all would be well.
On a few occasions I told the Lord that I had surely learned the lessons to be taught and that it wouldn’t be necessary for me to endure any more suffering. Such entreaties seemed to be of no avail, for it was made clear to me that this purifying process of testing was to be endured in the Lord’s time and in the Lord’s own way. It is one thing to teach, “Thy will be done” (Matt. 26:42). It is another to live it. I also learned that I would not be left alone to meet these trials and tribulations but that guardian angels would attend me. There were some that were near angels in the form of doctors, nurses, and most of all my sweet companion, Mary. And on occasion, when the Lord so desired, I was to be comforted with visitations of heavenly hosts that brought comfort and eternal reassurances in my time of need.
The experiences of the last two years have made me stronger in spirit and have given me courage to testify more boldly to the world the deep feelings of my heart. I stand before you today with a resolve to teach the gospel principles like the prophets of old—without the fear of man, speaking clearly with plain talk, and teaching simple gospel truths.

Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward was thrilled with the prize he’d won. Although he’d only been a Church member for just under a year, he’d managed to win a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart immediately turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo Temple, but is now preparing to go in Pôrto Alegre.

As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to be opened, they will be ready to enter.

When the Angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet about the marvelous restoration that was about to take place, quoting from Malachi:
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (see JS—H 1:38–39).

This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says São Paulo Temple President Barbour.

Take 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas and Suelen Alexandre (15), José Meirelles (18), Priscila Cavalieri (18), Carlita Fochetto (14), and Carolina (16), Christiane (15), and Carlos Rodriguez (12), of São Paulo (pictured above). These young people volunteer in their family history centers for 10–20 hours each week, assisting Church members in their research, entering extracted names into the computer system, and searching for names of their own ancestors.

These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

I have three younger sisters and a baby brother who can get restless during sacrament meeting. One Christmas I asked for Mormonad cards. I put them in a little photo album that would fit into my purse, so I could take them to church with me. When my sisters start to get noisy, I pull out the Mormonads and they look at the pictures quietly. I also plan to add pictures of the temple, my family, and Jesus with little children.
Olivia Q., 14, California, USA

For example, I like to wake up early before my wife and kids are awake and go for a run. I almost always listen to something on my phone to help occupy my mind. Some days I might listen to a podcast or music, but there are times where I’ve listened to the Book of Mormon. In fact, I finished the entire Book of Mormon last year, start to finish, while running.
This was a significant experience for me. At first it was hard to focus my mind on the scriptures, I had to from time to time stop and rewind the audio because I realized I was zoning out, but each day got a little easier to focus and train my thoughts, and I got to where I couldn’t wait for the next day’s run. That’s been rare for me; a lot of the time I’ve read my scriptures out of obligation, but the Lord helped me change that obligation to a desire.

When I graduated high school and left my home of Hawai’i to come to the continental United States for college, I did not anticipate how difficult the transition would be for me. I was always excited to leave home and explore the world outside of what I had always known, but it did come with a lot of growing pains, especially during my first winter.
The first time I saw snow fall was both magical and awful. It was apparent how much I was not mentally or physically prepared for the cold when my mind and heart could not escape the sadness I felt. When I talked to my mom about my depression, she reminded me of my courageous and faithful Hawaiian ancestors who left their homes in the Pacific to come to Utah to participate in and receive the blessings of the temple.
Iosepa Colony was established in 1889 by Hawaiian and Polynesian members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There in the desert of Skull Valley, Utah, USA, my ancestors built and beautifully crafted their new home and faithfully journeyed to Salt Lake City often to do temple work.
My mom asked me what I thought our ancestors felt in their first winter. I imagined how difficult and trying that season would have been for them. I am blessed with heaters, access to warm clothing, buildings that are well insulated, and much more, but this was not the case for the Iosepa Saints.1
As I thought about what their experience might have been like, I felt less alone in my depression, and I also became curious. I knew that if my ancestors could survive and thrive in challenging and unfamiliar surroundings, I could too.
But remembering my ancestors’ story affected me beyond just helping me get through that winter. Although I don’t have personal records of what my immigrant Iosepa ancestors experienced in their first winter, I used my imagination and humanity to guide me to believe that they were helped. I know that there were people that looked out for my family and were kind. I imagine that these acts of goodness buoyed the Iosepa Saints even under the climate, social, and political stresses of their time. Now I ask myself: “How can I be more loving to those who are in need around me?”
When I see others who are experiencing their own winters of the mind and heart, I am reminded of my experience of being depressed, and I am moved to help as best as I can through love and service. I am especially moved when I see immigrants in my country who are here to try to make a better life for themselves. Now more than ever, I feel responsible to love and support them just as I hope others did for my ancestors.

The year before my mission, the bishop called me into his office and extended a call for me to teach the seven-year-old Primary children. I accepted the call, excited to teach. At the same time, I also had a good job at a local supermarket.
Not long after I was hired, the manager and assistant manager of the supermarket informed me that I would have to work on Sundays. The manager said, “I am not going to schedule around the Mormons or anyone else.” To keep my job, I would have to give up my calling and break the Lord’s commandment to keep the Sabbath day holy. My manager wouldn’t discuss it any further.
I explained the situation to my bishop. I wasn’t sure I would go on a mission. But if I did go, I would need a job to earn the money to pay for it. However, I also wanted to keep the Sabbath day holy, attend church, and teach Primary. After a long discussion with the bishop, I decided to quit my job. Not long after that, I found a job that gave me Sundays off. I kept my calling, and for the next several months I helped the children prepare for baptism.
One day I was looking at the missionary discussions, and it suddenly became clear to me why it had been so important for me to teach Primary. The discussions taught about Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, the Book of Mormon, the First Vision, faith, repentance, baptism, and the gift of the Holy Ghost—the same principles I had been teaching my Primary class. I decided to pray about a mission. I was soon called as a full-time missionary.
Some people might wonder why I quit my job, especially when someone else could have easily taught that Primary class. But giving up my job in order to keep the Sabbath day holy and teach Primary helped me prepare for my mission and resulted in great blessings for me.

Benson, where are you? It’s time for bed.
I don’t want to go to bed.
Why not?
Because there is a ghost in my room.
There is not a ghost in your room.
Are you sure?
I promise.
Dad, what is the Holy Ghost?
That’s a good question.
The Holy Ghost is a member of the Godhead. His job is to help us feel what Heavenly Father wants us to know and do.
Is He scary?
No, the Holy Ghost isn’t scary at all. We don’t see the Holy Ghost, but we feel Him near. He helps us feel happy.
All right, now close your eyes. It’s time to go to sleep. I love you.
I love you too. And I think I feel the Holy Ghost.

“I guess I thought that the Good Fairy would wash the milk pail,” Paul grumbled sleepily to himself the next morning when he found the unwashed bucket where he had left it in the sink. He scrubbed the bucket and strainer until they were as clean and shiny as Grandma had left them, then headed out to milk the cow. He breathed deeply the fragrant early morning air as he walked and thought how very different Sunday was here than at home. A cow that had to be milked and livestock requiring feed and water every day made some changes in even the most carefully planned “day of rest.”
Paul milked with hands still sore from the night before, but at least Clarabelle cooperated a little better. She stepped around some, but she didn’t step on him or kick the bucket. “Someone should invent a cow that you don’t have to milk on weekends,” Paul told her as he turned her loose into the horse pasture.
“Since the calves are a pretty good size now,” Grandpa had explained, “they get the morning milk, and we get the night milk.” So Paul fed the cats meowing around his feet, then divided the remaining milk between the two red calves. With an eye on his watch, he hayed them and grained the pigs and made sure that all the animals still had water.
The horses came when he whistled. Ginger was limping, and one knee was swollen, but she really didn’t look too bad, considering how she had looked just a few hours before.
He detoured to open the chicken coop door on the way to the house. This time he washed the milk pail right away and set it in the dish drainer.
Since he had neglected his bath the night before, he took one now, then dressed in his good clothes. He had time for a leisurely breakfast and was on his second bowl of cold cereal when Grandma called.
After she told him that Grandpa had reacted badly to the anesthetic the doctors used when they set his leg, Paul decided not to tell her about the horse just yet. She asked him to bring her a change of clothes and her scriptures after church and told him where to look. He couldn’t find the blouse that she had described, so he picked one that he liked and put all the items into a paper sack.
He was sitting on the front porch in the sunshine, the sack beside him and his scriptures in his hand, when Brother Ross arrived. This, he thought, is hardly how I expected my first Sunday in Wyoming to be.
There were a few faces that he recognized from visits other summers, but mostly he was surrounded by strangers as he entered the chapel. He was welcomed warmly, however, and it felt good to be where he knew he should be.
He watched with interest as the deacons passed the sacrament. This was the first time all year that it wasn’t his responsibility, and, fleetingly, he felt a little left out. A number of people stopped him in the hall between meetings and afterward to ask about his grandfather.
He and Brother Ross stopped at the hospital after church, and Paul gave the sack to Grandma. She looked inside briefly, nodded, and thanked him. Paul thought that she looked as tired as he felt—if that were possible.
Grandpa, pale and groggy, lay with his stiff, cast-covered leg propped up on a pillow. He squeezed Paul’s hand, smiled at him, but had little to say.
As they walked down the hall later, Grandma explained, “The doctor says that when he gets over the problem from the anesthetic, he should recover quickly. We think he’ll be home in a few days.” She hesitated, then said almost pleadingly, “If you’re going to be all right, I’ll stay here until his mind is clear enough for him to fight his own battles.”
“Everything’s under control,” Paul assured her. “He needs you worse than I do—at least until the roast runs out,” he added with a grin.
Grandma chuckled and gave him a hug.
“My family’s gone and I’m a lousy cook, or I’d invite you to dinner,” Brother Ross explained as he took Paul home.
“That’s OK. Why don’t you come have a roast beef sandwich with me? There’s a big roast in the refrigerator, and I was too tired last night to make much of a dent in it.”
After Brother Ross left, Paul carefully put away his good clothes and flopped across his bed. Despite the bright sunlight in the room, he slept until nearly chore time.

One night Joseph and Emma stayed up late to take care of the babies, who were both sick. A mob of angry men came into the home. The men grabbed Joseph and carried him away from the house.
The wicked men hurt Joseph and poured hot tar on him.
When the mob left, Joseph was very weak. He crawled back to the house. When Emma saw Joseph hurt, she fainted.
Joseph’s friends carefully washed him.
Sunday morning—the next day—Joseph preached to the congregation as usual. Some of the men from the mob came to listen.

When I was a boy, my family had a small farm with cows and fields. Growing up on a farm was hard work.
One hot summer day, my brother and I were working in the field. The wind was blowing hard, and there was a lot of dust in the air. I had bad allergies, and the dust from the hay sometimes made me sick. My eyes were watering. It was hard to breathe. My nose even started to bleed because I’d rubbed it so much.
When my mother came out to the field and saw me, she told me to come inside the house. She had me lie on the couch with a wet cloth on my face. A few minutes later, she came back with two farmers. They were wearing overalls covered in hay dust.
The farmers were members of our ward. They placed their hands on my head and started to give me a blessing. My dad wasn’t a member of the Church then, so he didn’t hold the priesthood. But I’ll never forget the feeling I had as those other good men blessed me. It was warm, peaceful, and calming. And I didn’t feel so sick anymore.
Later in life, I realized that feeling was the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost is sometimes called the Comforter. I like that name because it was the Holy Ghost that brought me comfort. It made me feel better on the outside and on the inside.

The day after his arrival in the valley, after a restful night in the home of the Edward Stratton family, friends of the Blairs who had immigrated a few years before, William sought out a cobbler. As he waited for his boots to be mended, he relaxed and played merry tunes on his tin whistle, tunes he had undoubtedly played many times while crossing the plains.
When the cobbler finished, he handed William the old boots made new and asked, “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Didn’t you just arrive?”
“Yes, sir. How much do I owe you?”
“There’ll be no charge; just play me another tune on your whistle.”
William gratefully placed the handkerchief of money back in his pocket, the money his mother had so delicately given him many, many nights ago, and played the whistle like it had never been played before.

After the martyrdom of the prophet, the Lord took the Church to a new frontier almost as immediately as he had introduced the Restoration itself. A new prophet was called, with a new voice and different gifts. And just like in Kirtland, the Saints were again asked to leave behind what had only just become familiar and comfortable. Newly constructed homes, meetinghouses and businesses would soon be left abandoned. I marvel at the words of pioneer sister Bathsheba Smith who described what she left behind in Nauvoo: My last act in that precious spot was to tidy the rooms, sweep up the floor, set the broom in its accustomed place behind the door. And then with the emotions in my heart . . . I gently closed the door and faced the unknown future.

You come home from school and ask your mom what’s for dinner. She tells you it’s soup and bread, and she asks you to hang up your jacket. You’re about to go out with some friends when she reminds you that you need to practice the bodhran for a while.
Have you stepped into a parallel universe? Is this some kind of weird dream? What in the world is a bodhran?
It’s all part of daily life for the Bigney brothers of Woodland Hills, Utah, because their family’s Celtic music group is a priority, and the boys have to practice.
Alex, Sam, and Simeon Bigney, ages 18, 16, and 14, respectively, make up the group Kirkmount, and though their music isn’t exactly the stuff you hear on the radio, it definitely appeals to a lot of people.
“Our music is interesting because it spans a generation gap,” says Alex. “Old people like to listen to it, but kids our age come out and think it’s really cool, too.”
Part of what makes it “cool” is that the three boys do all the music themselves. Alex plays the harp and the bones (and yes, the “bones” are exactly what they sound like they are); Sam plays the fiddle; and Simeon plays the cello and the aforementioned bodhran (pronounced “bow-run”), which is a sort of Gaelic drum.
Whatever happened to the piano, or the guitar, or even the clarinet?
“We’re not aware of any other group anywhere that has this particular arrangement of instruments,” Alex says. “But they’re all very traditional Celtic instruments.”
“Celtic,” by the way, is pronounced with a “K” sound at the beginning, and it refers primarily to the region of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Bagpipes are a Celtic instrument you may have heard before, and Enya is a popular Celtic musician.
Aside from the choice of instruments, Kirkmount differs even from other Celtic groups because of their music—they write most of it themselves.
“It’s not extremely common for groups to write their own music,” says Sam, who does most of the writing for Kirkmount. “Some people will write a tune or two, but not a lot.”
Sam’s first tune was called “Late Summer Aire.” He first got a taste of fame when he and his brothers attended a fiddle camp—yes, a fiddle camp—in northern California, and the whole camp wound up playing his song. After that, the boys were hooked.
What brought them to a fiddle camp in the first place? That’s where the family ties come in. The boys’ grandfather used to invite them frequently to go to a Scottish fiddling camp with him, but they always declined.
“But one year, our grandparents were going to Ukraine on a mission. We weren’t going to see them for a while, so we decided we’d better go to the camp,” says Alex. “We went and really enjoyed the music, and that’s how we got started.”
The boys’ parents, Alex and Marilyn, began hiring professional musicians to come do workshops at the Bigney home. About 20 or so have been through, and many of them have done shows with the Bigneys afterwards, the money going to help pay for expenses. (The income from Kirkmount’s two CDs helps cover costs, too.)
It’s really a family affair. Sister Bigney says her husband “knows how to critique. He critiques the boys, and he listens, and he knows enough about Celtic music to help them. He has an exceptional ear.”
What about Mom? She supports. “I took them to their lessons for quite a few years,” she says. “I’m a great expert—on paper. I’m a great appreciator of music.”
Eventually, even the boys’ younger sisters, Miriam and Falcon, will get in on the act, as they are learning to play the viola and guitar.
“It would be really great to have a whole family thing,” Sam says. “It’s not something many people do as a family.”
How strong are the family ties with the Bigneys? Well, they practice about two hours a day together on the average, but sometimes it’s as much as eight hours. And they don’t really get tired of each other.
“We have our small quarrels,” Sam says, “but I think even the music helps us to solve those and come to an understanding of each other. I think music can touch people in ways that words can’t.”
The name Kirkmount is the name of the small village in Nova Scotia where their grandfather grew up. (Their great-great-grandfather, Simeon Bigney, was one of the first members of the Church there.) The covers of their CDs are collages of old family photos. Their ancestors were Celtic and played many of the same tunes that the Bigneys play now.
“We’re carrying on a tradition,” Alex says.
And Sister Bigney adds, “It’s important for people to find out what their traditions are, and music is one of those important things that helps you understand how your ancestors felt, what they did for entertainment, all the emotions they had. Music is a language.”
Alex says, “This music helps us get closer to our grandparents. They come to many of the shows, whenever they can, and they’ve supported us all through our musical experience.”
This family is tied together so much that Sam and his grandfather are even home teaching companions.
Obviously, the group has a strong interest in genealogy and family bonds. Sam explains that one of the highlights of his musical career so far has been playing his fiddle at the graves of some of his ancestors in Nova Scotia.
Furthermore, the group’s travels have taken them to Boston, where their father lived as a youth. Simeon (whose name is pronounced like “Simon”) says seeing where his dad went to church “was a good experience,” as was spending so much quality time with his brothers.
The Bigneys’ music doesn’t have any lyrics, so it’s difficult to express any kind of particular message in a song. But their music is expressive in its own way, creating moods and feelings pretty well. The music makes you feel like you’ve been taken back in time, and taken to Ireland. And since the gospel should be part of everything we do, the Bigneys manage to tie it all together.
“We don’t say onstage ‘Yes, we’re LDS,’ but I think people know,” Alex says. “Since we come from Utah, there have been people who come up and say, ‘Are you Mormon?’”
Sam adds, “We try to set a good example for people. The music helps us realize that God gives us talents, and we hope we can use them to our best abilities and share them with other people.” The Bigneys feel they must rely on the Lord when they perform.
“As we’re playing the music, we really become aware of whether the Spirit is with us or not,” Alex says. “If we don’t have the right spirit with us, we know we don’t play as well.” As a result, the group always has a prayer before they perform.
“You have to realize where the talents are coming from,” Alex says.
But it’s not all play and no work for Kirkmount. The boys practice every day, and while they enjoy all the regular teenage boy stuff—basketball, hiking, reading, and what-not—sometimes the music has to take them away from those things. They’ve sometimes missed ward basketball games and Boy Scout campouts because they had performances.
“But our Young Men and Young Women groups are pretty supportive,” says Sam. “They’ve come to our shows before.”
And so in the end, it’s all worth it. The stronger love for their immediate family, the more powerful connection to their grandfather and distant ancestors, the satisfaction they get from using the talents God has given them to uplift others—all that makes everything worthwhile. “The music helps me to know who I am,” says Sam, “and to express myself in a way that words can’t. We want to help, not only ourselves, but other people gain a testimony as well. Music can touch hearts.”

I have spent much of my life either on a construction site building or teaching about construction processes. I come from four generations of builders. As a young boy I remember my grandfather, who was a retired builder, coming to our home early in the morning to take me along with him to visit construction sites. We would sit together on the tailgate of grandpa's pickup truck watching some of the big buildings in Salt Lake being built. Just like a big-screen action movie, we watched together the heavy machinery digging and lifting and the workers moving up higher and higher, week after week. My father, also a builder, took me along at an early age to clean up job sites and then to work along with his construction crews. I grew up loving construction.

Here is another example from my own experience. More than a decade ago I was watching an NCAA basketball tournament game. The house was quiet because the young children were asleep and the older children were waxing responsible and attacking their homework. I thought, This is great! A free night! No interruptions! Such are the feelings of one whose heart gets too easily set on the things of the world. The game was going magnificently. With 2:08 minutes left in the first half, one of my high school daughters came downstairs and made a request: “Dad, I’m stuck on this math problem. Could you help me?”

At that moment I was struck by a very human feeling. The feeling was inescapable. If put into words it would be something like “I believe helping her is the right, fatherly, responsible, loving, committed thing to do.” I simultaneously betrayed that feeling. The next few moments were predictable. I looked pained. I whined some question to my daughter like “Do you have any idea how often I get to watch a playoff game?”

She was unmoved: “Well, it shouldn’t take too long, if you would just . . .”

I interrupted her.
Terry: “Have you worked out the sample problem they give you at the beginning of the chapter?”
Daughter: “Well, no, but . . .”
Terry: “Well, how do you expect me to help if you haven’t even tried? Do you want me to do your work for you?”
Daughter: “Not exactly, I just . . .”
Terry: “When is this assignment due, Kathie?”
Daughter: “It’s due tomorrow, and . . .”
Terry: “How many times have I told you not to leave things until the last minute?!”

By this time her lower lip was starting to curl out in a sort of defensive martyrdom. She withdrew, haughtily enough that I could comfort myself by saying that if she really were responsible she would have tried harder before asking me.

Such are the feelings of the self-deceived. Like the high school student who couldn’t concentrate on lettuce and avocados anymore because of his violation of conscience, so I didn’t concentrate on the game much. My eyes were on the screen but I wasn’t seeing anything. I was muttering in my mind, something I’ve come to see is typical when we are hard-hearted or when we knoweth to do good and doeth it not. I was rehearsing thoughts about why I was right and why my daughter was wrong.

The apostle John had me pegged:

He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is in darkness even until now.
He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him.
But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in darkness, and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness hath blinded his eyes. [1 John 2:9–11]

I was as blind in that moment as I had been with my other daughter and the stain. Now, lest you think I walk in darkness all the time, and thereby give you an excuse to use my behavior as an excuse for when you do as I have done, I must say I also have seen, honored, and walked in the light—and did in both of these situations. I sought out my preschooler and asked her forgiveness. I went upstairs after my math daughter retreated and offered help and an apology.

When Dinah Boitumelo Rakwela received word that her brother was going to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she felt confident in her opinion that the Church was false. Over the years she had visited many churches—where she received brochures about Joseph Smith—and she believed their negative information. Convinced of his error, she went to see her brother to talk him out of his decision.
With her brother, she discussed until midnight the “mistake” he was about to make. Finally, he said, “It is too late to discuss this anymore, but I need to tell you one thing.” He bore his testimony and said: “This is the Church of Jesus Christ and I do not want to join any other church.” She felt defeated; she knew that he had made up his mind. He gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon. She didn’t want anything to do with it and when she returned to her home, she put it on the highest shelf in her bedroom—a place where she could ignore it.
Dinah has always loved reading, and one day—a few years later—she needed a book. As she was searching her bookshelves, the Book of Mormon fell off its upper shelf and landed open at Chapter 10 of Moroni. She read the open page and was struck by Moroni’s words. This caused her to read the entire book of Moroni and then to start at the beginning in 1st Nephi. She read steadily for two days, and when she finished the book, she knew that it was the word of God.
By this time, her brother was serving as a missionary in the Cape Town South Africa Mission. She called his home ward bishop—whom she had met before his departure for his mission—and when she told the bishop that she wanted to join the Church, he insisted that she needed to be taught the lessons. But Dinah did not want the lessons; she just wanted to be baptized!
So following this bishop’s counsel to be properly taught by the missionaries, she and her mother—whom she had also convinced to read the Book of Mormon—traveled eight hours each weekend from their home in Serowa (Botswana) to Gabarone (Botswana). There they were taught by the missionaries and attended church services before returning home. In due course, both Dinah and her mother were baptized.
Despite having no organized branch or ward in their village, they met and studied with other members. Together they regularly fasted and prayed for a branch to be organized. Eventually, a member of the Church who held the Melchizedek Priesthood moved to their village and a branch was formed. She considers this a miracle, explaining, “Everything is possible with God.”
Today, Sister Rakwela is a member of the Mochudi Ward in Botswana and serves as a Sunday School teacher. And her brother—the one who joined the church despite her efforts to dissuade him—is Elder Clement Matswagothata, who currently serves as an Area Seventy in the Africa Southeast Area.

From our youth many of us may remember the story of a very young boy who was abducted from his parents and home and taken to a village situated far away. Under these conditions the small boy grew to young manhood without a knowledge of his actual parents or earthly home. Within his heart there came a yearning to return to that village called home.

But where was home to be found? Where were his mother and father to be discovered? Oh, if only he could remember even their names, his task would be less hopeless. Desperately he sought to recall even a glimpse of his childhood.

Like a flash of inspiration, he remembered the sound of a bell which, from the tower atop the village church, pealed its welcome each Sabbath morning. From village to village the young man wandered, ever listening for that familiar bell to chime. Some bells were similar, others far different from the sound he remembered.

At length the weary young man stood one Sunday morning before a church of a typical town. He listened carefully as the bell began to peal. The sound was familiar. It was unlike any other he had heard, save that bell which pealed in the memory of his childhood days. Yes, it was the same bell. Its ring was true. His eyes filled with tears. His heart rejoiced in gladness. His soul overflowed with gratitude. The young man dropped to his knees, looked upward beyond the bell tower—even toward heaven—and in a prayer of gratitude whispered, “Thanks be to God. I’m home.”

It was a hot summer day as Tyler made his way toward the big fields a short distance from his house. As he tromped up the dirt road, he looked at the tall yellow weeds on either side and pretended for a moment he was a Nephite warrior, hidden by the high weeds as he crept up on the enemy.
Earlier that morning, his father had talked about heroes in the scriptures who performed great deeds to help others. He had said that everyone could perform noble and honorable acts of service. They didn’t have to be big or brave acts to be important, he had explained. “In Heavenly Father’s eyes, any act of selfless service is of much worth.”
“I want to do noble things, too, Dark,” he confided to the big black German shepherd that walked along beside him, dragging a small dog sled (travois). Tyler’s father had helped him make it. It consisted of two poles tied together at one end, which were placed over the dog’s back and secured. The opposite ends of the frame trailed along the ground behind the dog. The load to be hauled—in this case, a box filled with empty jars—was fastened between the poles.
When Tyler had walked deep into the field, he stopped, removed the sled, and lifted one of the jars from the box. He walked toward a jumble of brush on the ground, pulled it away, and stared down with surprise. Where was the old ladder he had hidden there? The ladder helped him climb out across the blackberry bushes and reach the berries that were otherwise impossible to reach.
“Who could have taken it, Dark?” he asked. “Who could have—?”
Suddenly he spied the ladder, laid out across a large bush. A closer look revealed that whoever had used the ladder had picked almost all the berries.
“Madden!” Tyler breathed angrily. “He knows I’m saving up to buy those cowboy chaps.” Tyler could already envision wearing the leather pant legs over his jeans—then he’d look like a real cowboy.
He sat down beside his dog. “Madden did it just to get even, boy, just because I told Mr. Ruggles I saw him swipe that ice cream bar from the store. I couldn’t lie to Mr. Ruggles when he asked me.”
He gazed at the sparse bushes. His family didn’t have a lot of money since Dad had gotten laid off from his job. If Tyler couldn’t make enough money from selling blackberries, he wouldn’t be able to buy the chaps. “There’s only one pair left, Dark,” Tyler murmured.
For a good part of the day, Tyler worked feverishly to fill the jars, not even stopping for lunch. As he reworked the already picked-over bushes, it took him a long time to fill each jar.
A while later, he looked up and noticed Madden pulling a wagon behind his bike. It was filled with cans of blackberries. He was selling them to Tyler’s regular customers! Tyler hurried even faster, dropping one of the jars and losing all the berries from it inside a huge bush. He wiped sweat from his hands onto his pant legs and fumed at Madden.
Dark lifted his head from his cool place in the shade as Tyler placed the final filled jar in the wooden box. He quickly attached the sled to the big dog. “Mrs. Gregory will buy all these jars of berries,” he realized excitedly. “Madden doesn’t know about her because she hasn’t lived here very long.” Mrs. Gregory loved blackberries and always paid Tyler 50 cents a jar. “I’ve got eight jars, Dark. If I add that to what I already have, I’ll be able to buy the chaps!”
As Tyler walked down the rutted dirt lane, his excitement grew. He turned a corner and stopped. Someone was helping Mrs. Gregory sit on her porch swing, and she looked very sad. There were four other cars parked in front of the weathered two-story house and almost a dozen people mingling about. If it was a family reunion, it must be a sad one, he thought. “Maybe we had better come back tomorrow, Dark,” he said.
“Something’s wrong down at Mrs. Gregory’s place, Mom,” Tyler said when he got home. “There’s a bunch of people there, and—” His mother’s serious face made him pause.
“One of Mrs. Gregory’s sons died. They’re having a memorial service at her house, then they’re going to the cemetery.”
“I was going to sell Mrs. Gregory my blackberries today so I could buy those chaps. But …” His voice trailed off. Then an idea came to him. It was something his father had said about doing honorable acts of service for others. At first he tried to ignore the thought, because he so wanted to buy the leather cowboy chaps.
His mother eyed him. “A penny for your thoughts?” she said.
“I couldn’t charge you for that, Mom,” he said, “any more than I can charge Mrs. Gregory for the blackberries.” Tyler stepped to the window and gazed out. “Don’t people usually come back to the house to eat after a funeral?”
“Often that’s the case,” his mother answered. “Why?”
“Well,” Tyler said, “there were a lot of people at Mrs. Gregory’s place. I know she isn’t going to feel like fixing a bunch of food. She’ll probably have help, but I’d like to help her, too.” He turned and faced his mother. “Mrs. Gregory likes blackberries even more than I do. I want to make blackberry pies for her and all those people.”
His mother’s eyes welled up with tears. “I know how badly you want those cowboy chaps. You’re willing to sacrifice them?”
“I want to be like the heroes in the scriptures, Mom, and help somebody.”
Tyler’s mother hugged him.
“If I squeezed a blackberry as tight as you’re squeezing me, Mom,” Tyler grunted, “it would be squished to bits.”
Tyler’s mother laughed. “Would you like a little help making those pies?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Tyler said.
Three hours later, Tyler stood before Mrs. Gregory’s door.
“Hello, Tyler,” she greeted, her voice warm but weary.
Tyler pointed to three freshly-baked blackberry pies in the wooden box on the dog sled. “I picked some berries, and Mom and I made some pies.”
Tears gathered in the old woman’s eyes. “How kind of you, Tyler. Just a moment, let me get my purse.”
“Oh, no,” Tyler blurted quickly. “They’re free, Mrs. Gregory. I just want to help.”
Mrs. Gregory bent over and hugged Tyler. He could feel her tears on his cheek. She didn’t say anything, just patted him on the back.
As Tyler walked down the dirt lane from the little two-story house nestled in the big trees and the evening shadows, he felt a feeling he had never felt before. It was warm, different from the warmth of the summer night.
When he finally had saved enough money to buy the cowboy chaps, they were gone—but the good feeling from having done a kind deed stayed.