Gospel Story Finder

For example, when the Richinses arrived in Jamestown, Tennessee, an eighty-five-year-old man, Mr. Miller, lived behind them. One day Mr. Miller walked over to the Richins’ apartment and asked if he could borrow their landlord’s ladder so someone could fix his leaky roof. But no one ever came to borrow the ladder. After several weeks Elder Richins put his work clothes on, picked up the ladder, and was halfway up to the roof when Mr. Miller came out of the house.
“What are you doing, preacher?” he called.
“I’m going to fix your roof.”
When he was through, Mr. Miller opened his wallet and pulled out a couple of twenty-dollar bills. “I want to pay you for the work.”
“I’ll tell you how you can pay me,” said Elder Richins. “Say thanks. That’s all the pay I want. We Mormon ‘preachers,’ as you call us, don’t take money for doing the Lord’s work.”
Mr. Miller insisted. But Elder Richins said: “No, I did it as a friend. I did it because we love you.”
“But I don’t belong to your church!”
“You’re still God’s child, same as the rest of us.”
Several weeks later a non-Mormon grocer told Elder Richins the rest of the story. Mr. Miller’s minister accosted him in the grocery store and reprimanded him for not attending church lately. The old man took the rebuke mildly, but got angry when the minister began criticizing his Mormon neighbors:
“Listen here,” he reportedly said, “don’t you ever say anything about that Mormon preacher. He fixed my roof after I had tried for months to hire somebody from your church to do it. But the Mormon preacher did it, and he did it by himself.”
“Yes”, returned the minister, “but what’d he charge you?”
“Oh, he won’t take money for doing the Lord’s work!”
That experience—and others like it—were talked about all over town, and people felt willing to invite the Richinses into their homes. The Richinses were the first missionaries in Jamestown for four months because antagonism had been so strong, but within three months, they had met every minister in town, and anti-Mormon propaganda ceased as they made friendly contacts with the radio station managers and other town leaders.

Your challenge may be as ordinary as one I had not long ago. I had bought a new high-speed modem for my computer, but when I hooked everything up according to the directions, it did not work. I went through the troubleshooting instructions, reconnected everything, and called the help desk of the manufacturer, but still it didn’t work. The equipment was even tested at the store where I bought it, and they couldn’t find anything wrong. So I took it back home. But this time I remembered to pray. That was the only thing I did that was different. This time the equipment worked, and it still works.

Recently I had a visit from a young Catholic priest. He came with a stake missionary from Colorado. I asked him why he had come, and he replied, “I came to see you.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “I have been searching for certain concepts that I have not been able to find. But I think I am finding them now in the Mormon community.”
That led to a half-hour conversation. I told him, “Father, when your heart begins to tell you things that your mind does not, then you are getting the Spirit of the Lord.”
He smiled and said, “I think that’s happening to me already.”
“Then don’t wait too long,” I said to him.
A few weeks later I received a telephone call from him. He said, “Next Saturday I am going to be baptized a member of the Church, because my heart has told me things my mind did not know.”
He was converted. He saw what he should have seen. He heard what he should have heard. He understood what he should have understood, and he was doing something about it. He had a testimony.

Mom laughed. “Well, we don’t have any of those. But we do have other awesome ancestors who did pioneering things. Like your Great-Grandma Luisa.”
Gabby smiled. “I love hearing stories about your grandma! She grew up on a farm in Spain, right?”
Mom nodded. “Then she moved to Argentina and started her own business. Even though she never had a chance to finish school, she made sure her children got a good education.”
As the sauce simmered, they sat at the kitchen table, and Mom told Gabby more stories about Grandma Luisa. She was a gardener and talked to her flowers. Whenever she went on a trip, the flowers would wilt a little, just because they missed her.
“And the most important thing to remember about Grandma Luisa is her faith,” Mom said. “She would pray out loud as she did dishes, as she cooked, as she gardened … she loved talking to God!”

“I’ll never understand why Dad had to accept a teaching position in this town,” muttered eight-year-old Ann angrily to herself. “They certainly must need teachers in places that have grass and trees and paved roads instead of dirt ones that turn into muddy rivers whenever it rains. If we hadn’t moved, I could have been baptized in a pretty place with carpeting on the floor and a white tile font.” Memories of her old stake center and meetinghouse crowded her mind. Angrily she pushed them back. Today of all days she didn’t want to cry.
“Honey, you’ll have to get your own breakfast this morning,” her mother called from behind the old sewing machine. Mother was busy transforming snowy linen into the dress Ann would wear for her baptism later that day.
Mom’s working hard to have something nice for me to wear, Ann thought, but who besides the sagebrush is going to see it? Her cousins had told her all about their baptisms, and Ann knew hers wasn’t going to be anything like theirs.
Ann walked dejectedly across the gravel-filled yard to water the four struggling fruit trees behind the house, then started to pull out some of the tumbleweeds so that the prettier golden orange poppies would have a better chance to grow. A welcome breeze carried the sound of the rustling cottonwoods by the irrigation ditch, reminding her of the rushing streams in the canyons.
“So that’s where you are, Pumpkin,” Ann’s father said when he found her. “We’ve been looking all over for you. It’s time to get ready. If you don’t hurry, we’ll leave without you,” he teased. He looked at her more closely. “You do want to go, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, only …” Ann’s voice faded. That was just it—inside she just wasn’t sure anymore. Ever since she could remember, she had looked forward to being baptized—but not in a pond in the middle of the desert! Her mother had tried to make her feel better by telling her about the people in the Book of Mormon who had been baptized in the wilderness. But it had only helped for a little while. Now the day was here, and she still didn’t have that warm, excited feeling she longed for.
Ann threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Oh, Dad! I wanted it to be so beautiful, and it isn’t going to be. And oh … you just don’t understand.”
Her father held her tight and brushed the hair back from her hot forehead. “Maybe it’s you who doesn’t understand, sweetie.” He swept his arm in a half circle toward the desert. “All this doesn’t matter. Today is a very important day in your life. By getting baptized, you show that you truly want to become a member of the Lord’s church and that you want to keep His commandments. That’s an important step to take, and we are very proud of you. It will be all right, you’ll see. You’d better go inside now and put your baptismal dress on. Your mother must be wondering what’s keeping you.”
From the backseat of the moving car, Ann watched the sagebrush turn into silver gray clumps. It was not long before Dad pulled off the two-lane highway onto a dirt road leading to the pond. The slow-moving waters were fed by a natural spring. Old poplars clustered around the pond as if to protect it from the harsh sun.
Ann’s bare toes sought the cool shadows of the trees as she waited. Finally her name was called.
Dad smiled at her, this time without the usual mischievous twinkle in his eyes. A sob that wouldn’t go away caught in Ann’s throat. She looked around at her family and realized that she’d been so selfishly concerned about her surroundings that her family’s love for her had gone by almost completely unnoticed. She had almost forgotten the real significance of this day. How grateful she was now for a chance to change.
Slowly she stepped toward the edge of the pond. Her father was there, waiting. As he tenderly lowered her into the water, the rays of the sun seemed to turn the water into liquid gold.

Black clouds piled up in the west as I fastened my seat belt and Mom started the car. My mood was as dark as those clouds. Why did Mom always tell people I would play a musical number on the piano whenever anyone asked me? I was only 12, but I was often asked to play for church programs and in other wards. Bishop Bowen had asked me to play a musical number in his ward’s sacrament meeting this evening. We used to live in his ward.
“Why do I have to play?” I asked Mom. “I like to practice at home, but I don’t like to play in public. Some of my friends will be there and they’ll make fun of me. They all know I play the piano and they tease me about it.”
“You have a special gift for music, Kent,” Mom said. “You need to share your talent.”
I dug my hands deeper into my pockets and didn’t say anything else.
When we got to the church, Mom parked the car. The wind was blowing hard as we hurried into the building.
Sitting in the chapel, I flattened my hands over my shaky knees to quiet them. Mom patted my shoulder and smiled at me. I pulled away and swallowed hard.
After the sacrament, Bishop Bowen announced the rest of the meeting. He said who would be the first speaker, and then he said, “We’re so happy to have Kent back with us this evening. He will play a musical number for us.”
A lady sitting behind us leaned forward and patted my shoulder and smiled. “Why do my friends tease me so much, but the adults always like to hear me play?” I wondered.
I heard the wind howling outside. My throat was dry. Too bad I couldn’t get a drink of water. My fingers were stiff so I rubbed them.
The first speaker finished his talk. Ready or not, it was my turn. My stomach churned as I stared at the keys. I felt like striking them with all my strength. Too bad I wasn’t playing my favorite song, “The Storm.” A storm raged inside me as well as outside.
A minute passed as I sat there trying to compose myself, but it felt like an eternity. Finally, I raised my hands and let them fall gently on the keys. The soft chords dropped from my fingertips and quieted the storm inside me. I pictured a bright moon in the sky making a stream of light on ripples across a lake. My fingers rippled over the keys like the moonlight over the water. I felt like I was playing at home. I loved every minute of it.
When I finished, I slipped into the pew beside Mom. She put her arm around my shoulders, and I heard rain spattering against the windows. A sudden flash of lightning jarred the quiet congregation.
The second speaker stood up to give his talk, but I could only hear the rumbling thunder and the pounding rain outside. A sudden blinding flash seemed to almost come right into the building, followed by a loud crash. All the lights went out in the chapel! The speaker continued his talk even though it was hard to hear him without the microphone. Babies cried. Kids wiggled. Everybody was whispering.
When the speaker finished, Bishop Bowen stood up and spoke loudly. “Our meeting is finished except for the closing prayer. But we surely can’t go out into this storm. Kent, will you please play your musical number again?”
I was shocked. How could I quiet all that confusion and fear? I felt my way to the piano bench in the darkness and found middle C. Then I knew I would be all right. I had never felt such peace as the memorized notes blended into each other. The nervous confusion in the chapel stopped and everyone seemed to be concentrating on the music.
The congregation was silent as the last tones died away. The storm outside had calmed down. Someone offered the closing prayer, and then everyone began to leave, finding their way carefully in the dark. Some of my friends were waiting for me in the foyer.
“Hey, Kent, how did you do that? Your music took away the scare,” one said.
“I wish I could play like that,” said another.
No one made fun of me. What a relief! A woman touched my elbow and said, “Tonight you used music for a great purpose. You gave us calmness over panic. I’ve never felt more uplifted and I couldn’t hold back the tears. Please don’t ever stop playing.”

Ulisses’s naturally good heart blossomed as he learned the ways of the Lord. “I grew up in the Church following the light of my parents,” Elder Soares says. As he followed that light, his testimony grew stronger despite opposition.

“I was the only member of the Church in my school, and the other boys were always trying to drag me down and push me to do things that were wrong,” he says. “I had to learn to defend myself in these challenges, but I always trusted in the Lord with all my heart to help me succeed. I learned as a young man that if you do your part, the Lord will do His. But you have to hold tight to His hand and to His gospel.”

First, an honored and respected name. I will be eternally grateful to a father who thought enough of me to give me his name. It was a name of honor and respect in the community in which I grew up. It carried before it the title of bishop from the time I was six months old until just a few months before I left to go on my mission. How proud I was of his service. I was pleased that he had the patience to involve me in his responsibilities. Working on a welfare farm, cleaning the chapel, balancing ward financial records, carrying a sack of flour to a widow, etc., were a part of my early life. I was with him so much I received the nickname of “Bishop.” I attempted to wear it with pride and honor. It had the effect of making me reach a little higher. I wanted to try to be on the same plane as my father. Should not every child have the same opportunity?

Fathers, is it not your obligation to give your children an honored and respected name?
Second, every child needs a sense of security. I often think of the security of our old family home. It was a fortress against the adversary. Each morning and evening it was blessed by the priesthood as we would kneel in family prayer. That power was also manifest as my father blessed his family in time of need.
Fathers, is it not your obligation to give your children a home blessed with the power of the priesthood?
Third, an opportunity for development. My children taught me a great lesson one day. We had moved from California to New York where I had accepted an employment opportunity and we were in the process of finding a new home. We started close to the city, but each day that passed we would move further out to find a home more suited to our needs. In Connecticut we found just the one. It was a beautiful home nestled in New England’s radiant forests. We were all pleased with the selection. The final test before making an offer for purchase was to ride the train into New York to check out the commuting time. I made the trip and returned very discouraged. The trip required an hour and a half each way. I returned to the motel where my family was waiting for me and gave them the choice of having a father or this new home. Much to my surprise, they said, “We will take the home. You are not around much anyway.”
The shock of that statement was overwhelming to me. If that statement was true, I needed to repent fast. My children deserved a father. Is it not our obligation as fathers to spend as much time as possible with our children, to teach them honesty, industry, and morality?
Fourth, give your children the opportunity of having a joyful, happy childhood. The priesthood manual a few years ago quoted a story written in 1955 by Bryant S. Hinckley. It is as follows:
“‘Three hundred twenty-six school children of a district near Indianapolis were asked to write anonymously just what each thought of his father.
“‘The teacher hoped that the reading of the essays might attract the fathers to attend at least one meeting of the Parent-Teacher’s Association.
“‘It did.
“‘They came in $400 cars and $4,000 cars. Bank president, laborer, professional man, clerk, salesman, meter reader, farmer, utility magnate, merchant, baker, tailor, manufacturer, and contractor, every man with a definite estimate of himself in terms of money, skill, and righteousness. …
“‘The president picked at random from another stack of papers. “I like my daddy,” she read from each. The reasons were many: He built my doll house, took me coasting, taught me to shoot, helps me with my schoolwork, takes me to the park, gave me a pig to fatten and sell. Scores of essays could be reduced to “I like my daddy. He plays with me.”’
“Not one child mentioned his family house, car, neighborhood, food or clothing.
“The fathers went into the meeting from many walks of life. They came out in two classes: companions to their children or strangers to their children.
“No man is too rich or too poor to play with his children.” (The Savior the Priesthood and You, Melchizedek Priesthood Manual, 1973–74, p. 226.)
I am aware how concerned we each are with the leadership we find in the world today. To change the head of a nation, state, or community towards righteous leadership may require our earnest efforts for years. But there is something we can change today to make the world a better place in which to live. Husbands and fathers, the power is within you as bearers of the priesthood. Enjoy the inspiration of God, our Eternal Father, to lead, guide, and direct your families in righteousness. You stand at the head of the only organization I know of that can be eternal. Should not that charge and responsibility receive top priority in your life?
God bless you to understand your duties and responsibilities to be righteous husbands and fathers, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.
My young friends, I hope you’ll be wiser in talking to your guides than I was on that occasion. That smart-aleck idea that I knew everything really wasn’t worthy of me, nor is it worthy of you. I’m not very proud of it, and I think I’d be ashamed to tell you about it except that telling you may help you.
Those ahead of you in life have probed about the water holes a bit and raise a voice of warning about crocodiles. Not just the big, gray lizards that can bite you to pieces, but spiritual crocodiles, infinitely more dangerous, and more deceptive and less visible, even, than those well-camouflaged reptiles of Africa.
These spiritual crocodiles can kill or mutilate your souls. They can destroy your peace of mind and the peace of mind of those who love you. Those are the ones to be warned against, and there is hardly a watering place in all of mortality now that is not infested with them.
On another trip to Africa I discussed this experience with a game ranger in another park. He assured me that you can indeed hide a crocodile in an elephant track—one big enough to bite a man in two.
He then showed me a place where a tragedy had occurred. A young man from England was working in the hotel for the season. In spite of constant and repeated warnings, he went through the compound fence to check something across a shallow splash of water that didn’t cover his tennis shoes.
“He wasn’t two steps in,” the ranger said, “before a crocodile had him, and we could do nothing to save him.”
It seems almost to be against our natures, particularly when we are young, to accept much guidance from others. But, young people, there are times when, regardless of how much we think we know or how much we think we want to do something, that our very existence depends on paying attention to the guides.
Now, it is a gruesome thing to think about that young man who was eaten by the crocodile. But that is not, by any means, the worst thing that could happen. There are moral and spiritual things far worse even than the thought of being chewed to pieces by a monstrous lizard.
Fortunately there are guides enough in life to prevent these things from happening if we are willing to take counsel now and again.
Some of us are appointed now, as you will be soon, to be guides and rangers. Now, we don’t use those titles very much. We go under the titles of parents—father and mother—bishop, leader, adviser. Our assignment is to see that you get through mortality without being injured by these spiritual crocodiles.
All of the training and activity in the Church has as its central purpose a desire to see you, our young people, free and independent and secure, both spiritually and temporally.
If you will listen to the counsel of your parents and your teachers and your leaders when you are young, you can learn how to follow the best guide of all—the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. That is individual revelation. There is a process through which we can be alerted to spiritual dangers. Just as surely as that guide warned me, you can receive signals alerting you to the spiritual crocodiles that lurk ahead.
If we can train you to listen to these spiritual communications, you will be protected from these crocodiles of life. You can learn what it feels like to be guided from on high. This inspiration can come to you now, in all of your activities, in school, and dating—not just in your Church assignments.
Learn how to pray and how to receive answers to your prayers. When you pray over some things, you must patiently wait a long, long time before you will receive an answer. Some prayers, for your own safety, must be answered immediately, and some promptings will even come when you haven’t prayed at all.
Once you really determine to follow that guide, your testimony will grow and you will find provisions set out along the way in unexpected places, as evidence that someone knew that you would be traveling that way.
The basic exercise for you to perform in your youth to become spiritually strong and to become independent lies in obedience to your guides. If you will follow them and do it willingly, you can learn to trust those delicate, sensitive, spiritual promptings. You will learn that they always, invariably, lead you to do that which is righteous.
Now, my young friends, I would like to make reference to another experience, one I think of often but one I seldom talk about. I shall not mention it in detail; I only want to refer to it. It happened many years ago when I was perhaps not quite as young as you are now, and it had to do with my decision to follow that guide.
I knew what agency was and knew how important it was to be individual and to be independent, to be free. I somehow knew there was one thing the Lord would never take from me, and that was my free agency. I would not surrender my agency to any being but to Him! I determined that I would give Him the one thing that He would never take—my agency. I decided, by myself, that from that time on I would do things His way.
That was a great trial for me, for I thought I was giving away the most precious thing I possessed. I was not wise enough in my youth to know that because I exercised my agency and decided myself, I was not losing it. It was strengthened!
I learned from that experience the meaning of the scripture: “If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed;
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:31–32.)
I have not been quite as frightened of spiritual crocodiles since then, because I have been alerted on many occasions as to where they were lurking.
I have been nipped a time or two and on occasion have needed some spiritual first aid, but have been otherwise saved because I have been warned.
Fortunately, there is spiritual first aid for those who have been bitten. The bishop of the ward is the guide in charge of this first aid. He can also treat those who have been badly, morally mauled by these spiritual crocodiles—and see them completely healed.
That experience in Africa was another reminder for me to follow the Guide. I follow Him because I want to. Through the other experience I came to know the Guide. I bear witness that He lives, that Jesus is the Christ. I know that He has a body of flesh and bones, that He directs this Church, and His purpose is to see all of us guided safely back into His presence.

At our local grade school the vast majority of our childrens' teachers have been at the A and B-level. However, in two different years, two of our children were placed in classes with D-level teachers. The D-nature of each teacher manifested itself quite quickly. It was clear that these teachers did not like teaching and did not like children, often doing cruel things to them. My wife is intolerant of "C" and "D" level teachers assigned to our children. When the principal would not or could not move our children to another classroom and teacher, my wife pulled the children out of the school and placed them in a distant school less convenient to our family. The inconvenience of driving them to the other school was a small price to pay for the life-impacting benefits gained from the better teachers that our children received, in those instances.

They first met the Prophet as he was chopping wood with his brothers-in-law in the forest behind Newell K. Whitney’s store, where Joseph and Emma were then living. To find a prophet thus employed assured much more than it surprised a hardworking man like Brigham. The visitors were invited to stay for supper and for a gathering of some of the brethren that evening. Heber much later remembered that they “had a glorious time; during which brother Brigham spoke in tongues before brother Joseph, it being the first time he had heard any one speak in tongues. We had a precious season and returned with a blessing in our souls.”4 Brigham himself recalled, “We tarried about one week in Kirtland, held meetings nearly every night, and the blessings of the Lord were extensively upon us. I baptized one man while in Kirtland, by the name of Gibson Smith, the father of Newell K. Whitney’s wife, who had just come from Connecticut to learn the things that were being revealed. Being convinced of the truth of the work, he requested me to go into the waters with him.”5

I’ve been on my mission for over a year now. Every P-day I’ve written two letters home. One to Mom and Dad and one to Gus. I’ve received a letter every week from Mom or Dad, but Gus has never written. Not one letter! I can’t believe it. We were so close. Mom tells me what he’s doing, but I want to hear from him. They say he hasn’t been to church since my farewell.
I tell them about my experiences, and I bear testimony of the gospel in each letter. Mom said Gus reads them.
That’s all there is to Gus’s story. I wish there were more to tell. I want it to have a happy ending.
I’m going to stop writing now. I feel a real need to pray. I’m a little discouraged. The Jones family won’t make a commitment, and Gus won’t write to me. They will both be in my prayers tonight.
I received a very special letter from Mom. She said she caught Gus crying as he read my letter about the Jones family.
I can’t believe Mom’s letter today!
She said she’s not sure, but she thinks Gus is actually reading the Book of Mormon (in secret of course).
I hope so. It would help him so much.
She also said she hasn’t found any cigarettes in his pockets when she washes his clothes.
If he could just stop smoking! He still doesn’t know we know.
A letter from Mom. No doubt about it—Gus has stopped smoking. But the secret’s still on.
Dad wrote. He invited Gus to go to church with Mom and him, like he always does, and Gus actually went! Only he insisted on following Dad’s car on his Harley-Davidson.
During Sunday School he didn’t know where to go for the Young Adult class, and the teacher for the 14- and 15-year-olds (about 4 boys and 3 girls) didn’t show up. Two of the boys had seen Gus drive up on the Harley D. and asked him to show it to them. Before long most of the class was out in the parking lot admiring the Harley D. He even flipped “wheelies” for them. He’s such a show-off.
The Sunday School president had a conniption when he caught them.
The kids all wanted to sluff sacrament meeting and go motorcycle riding, but Gus calmed them down and got them reverently into the chapel for the meeting. It’s great!
Dad wrote again. Last Sunday Gus was ready for church before he and Mom even woke up.
When they arrived at church (this time Dad made him leave the Harley D. at home), the panic-stricken Sunday School president confronted Dad and Gus and begged them to substitute teach the 14- and 15-year-olds because the teacher didn’t show up again. Dad accepted and was surprised to hear Gus accept.
When they got in the class, Dad couldn’t get the kids to pay attention, so Gus stood up and there was total silence.
Then Gus told of a certain friend of his (he gave no name) who had started smoking when he was 14 and who was completely addicted by the time he was 24. He told how his friend couldn’t stop smoking, no matter how hard he tried, until he went to the Lord in prayer. And then his friend was given the strength to quit. Then Gus bore testimony of the Word of Wisdom.
Dad said it was the best impromptu lesson he’d ever heard. The kids loved it. He said he’s proud of Gus.
Now I just wish Gus would write. What’s going through his mind?
My eyes are full of tears as I write this evening. I received a letter from Gus. It’s the very first since I’ve been out.
He began by apologizing for never writing. He confessed he used to smoke. He said he’s never told anyone but the bishop and me. He asked me to never tell Mom and Dad because they’d be so hurt. If he only knew.
He told me he has fallen in love with the ward and never misses church. He and the bishop have had many talks, and Gus feels he has found a new friend.
He announced he has read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover. He bore testimony of its truthfulness and expressed his appreciation for the gospel of Jesus Christ.
He says he’s trying to get his friend Rod to talk to the missionaries.
And the most special news is that my big brother Gus will be ordained an elder this coming Sunday by my Dad.
The Lord answers prayers.
Gus has shaved his beard and cut his hair! Mom sent me a snapshot of him. He looks so funny! I’d forgotten what a baby face he has without whiskers.
Another letter from Gus! He says even though he’s 25 years old, he thinks about serving a mission once in a while.
He said he would probably go anywhere in the world but Japan, because, though he loves the people and culture, he is still not sold on Japanese motorcycles.
I almost can’t believe I’m writing this! Gus talked to our stake president! The missionary papers have been submitted. He’s actually waiting for his call. He says he’s going crazy waiting. I can relate. I’ve been there.
He’s really going on a mission. Gus, a missionary!
A telegram from home! Gus is going to Japan. That’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
They’re not giving him much time. He enters the MTC December 3rd. I’ll barely miss seeing him. I don’t get released until December 20th. That’ll make four years before we see each other. Four years! I’ll go crazy. A guy could get married in four years! Kids, college, we’ll be strangers.
But you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A letter from Gus. He’ll sell his gas station and the great and irreplaceable Harley D. to pay for his mission. What a sacrifice! I’m so proud of Gus.
And get this! He says he’s going to try to save money so when he gets back he can buy a Kawasaki motorcycle. He calls it “cultural appreciation.”
Mom wrote. Gus’s farewell testimonial was great. She said at least 20 platinum blondes were in attendance.
His testimony brought tears to many eyes. What really humbles me is Mom says he told everybody he loved me and expressed thanks for my example.
Gus. His story is a miracle.

In this childhood setting—one he later often called “ideal”—Ezra Taft Benson learned how to sacrifice to reap a spiritual harvest. He was just twelve when his father, George Benson, was called to serve an eighteen-month mission in the midwestern United States. There were seven children in the Benson home when their father left for the mission field, with the eighth soon to be born. And Ezra, as the oldest son, had to carry much of the responsibility for the farm. One of President Benson’s most vivid memories of his father’s absence was of gathering around the kitchen table to hear his mother read her husband’s weekly letters. “There came into that home a spirit of missionary work that never left,” recalled President Benson. All eleven Benson children later served missions.

I remember coming to know Mr. Herb Cummings, of Phoenix, Arizona, and former owner and CEO of Sara Lee foods. Mr. Cummings was born in Canada to a Russian immigrant Jewish family.

When asked how he learned to become a great philanthropist, he told us that he first learned and practiced the principle of philanthropy in the home of his grandmother.

Every Thursday, his grandmother would contact all of the married children in their family and invite them to prepare for the Sabbath, by coming to her home on Friday night for Sabbath dinner. Herb said that he never remembered a Friday night, as they began their Sabbath, that his grandmother had not found a homeless immigrant Jewish man or woman on the streets of Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada and brought them home with her.

As she would contact her family for the Sabbath meal, she would ask one family for an extra pair of shoes, a shirt, pants, money, or for knowledge of where there might be a job.

She would feed, clothe, house and then find gainful employment for these immigrants. She sometimes cared for them up to eight weeks, as their self-esteem was built and made strong. Mr. Cummings saw hundreds of these people helped by his grandmother. "I just grew up understanding that I had a responsibility to take of my surplus and help someone else less fortunate." "I have just always practiced philanthropy."

Now Herb Cummings was very wealthy. He did wonderful things with his material wealth in the true spirit of philanthropy. What about the rest of us? Can we be philanthropists? What about his sweet grandmother? Was she a philanthropist - a lover of mankind?

Years ago, one of our daughters when she was seven years old was playing with her twin brother in an empty field. As they enjoyed their innocent childhood games, they found an unopened bottle of beer lying in the hot sun. As children will do, they threw rocks at it hoping to see it shatter.

After a number of failed attempts to hit it, our daughter found a steel bolt and innocently knelt by the bottle and struck it with a decisive blow. Indeed the bottle broke, but the hot sun had transformed it into a small explosive device and as it shattered, the glass flew outward and upward striking her in the face and, most seriously, lacerating her eye. The flying glass also opened a large wound on her lower eyelid and down her beautiful little face.

Her brother helped her back to our home and her mother rushed her to the emergency room. The doctors gave some hope that her eye could be saved and that the wound on her face would heal with minimal scarring.

However, we were disappointed to learn that rather than healing as we had hoped, her injuries developed excess scar tissue that eventually destroyed her eye and developed a significant scar under her eye and down her face. Over the next ten years, she underwent a number of surgeries to recover as much as possible. As parents we provided love, faith, prayers, and support the best we could.

One of the greatest challenges we faced as parents was to see her go into the bathroom before going to school, lock the door, and, at least in our minds, imagine her staring at herself in the mirror wondering how she could ever get through the day. She grew out her hair and had very long bangs to try to cover that one side of her face and she wore glasses not only to protect her eye, but to also try to mask the scar on her face.

The good news is that over time a talented physician performed a miracle and helped her recover in a remarkable way. If you saw her today you would probably not detect any trace of what I have described. As parents it was difficult to see any particular good that would, or could, ever come from what we considered a tragedy that befell an innocent seven-year-old girl. Today, this young woman is the mother of four beautiful children, full of faith, devotion to God, and a wonderful, caring, kind, and generous person.

It wasn't until last Christmas that we sensed in our daughter's life the fulfillment of the scripture that, "all things work together for good to those who walk uprightly." At our annual family adult Christmas party, each of our children and their spouses were asked to consider a challenge they had in life which seemed difficult at the time, but that has been a blessing as the years passed by. When it was this particular daughter's turn to share, she certainly remembered the accident as a very challenging time. She recalled the worries and concerns about going to school and facing her friends, teachers, and other students.

She recalled that often she did go into the bathroom before school and look into the mirror, but she related something even more important. She said that in the morning she also went into her bedroom and knelt down in prayer and asked Heavenly Father--even pled with Him--to help her face other students and more importantly to endure her own feelings of hurt and embarrassment. She simply said about those days, "God answered my prayers. I did make it!"

It was difficult for her. She said that it was only with God's help that she could face each day. He blessed her with loyal friends and a twin brother that always had her back and a future husband that could totally look past her perceived defects and totally love the lovely woman that she was and is. She ended her story that Christmas evening by quoting part of the poem, "Invictus," that ends with, "I am the master of my fate and the captain of my soul!" It was a very moving experience to hear her tell of how this seeming tragedy had somehow also been a remarkable blessing to her.

This experience that seemed so unfair and painful at the time became a foundation of her faith that God would help her with other challenges throughout life. Her example also blesses her family and those who know her well.

Perhaps the greatest blessing coming from this experience is that her four beautiful children see their mother as a pillar of faith, strength, and determination. Her example and teachings will help them prepare for life and live more productive, rich, and rewarding lives.

A lovely lady of more than 90 years visited with me one day and unexpectedly recounted several regrets. She mentioned that many years earlier a neighboring farmer, with whom she and her husband had occasionally disagreed, asked if he could take a shortcut across her property to reach his own acreage. She paused in her narrative and, with a tremor in her voice, said, “Tommy, I didn’t let him cross our property but required him to take the long way around—even on foot—to reach his property. I was wrong and I regret it. He’s gone now, but oh, I wish I could say to him, ‘I’m so sorry.’ How I wish I had a second chance.”

Two years ago, Sister Nelson and I visited Samoa, Tonga, Fiji, and Tahiti. Each of those island nations had experienced heavy rains for days. Members had fasted and prayed that their outdoor meetings would be protected from the rain.

In Samoa, Fiji, and Tahiti, just as the meetings began, the rain stopped. But in Tonga, the rain did not stop. Yet 13,000 faithful Saints came hours early to get a seat, waited patiently through a steady downpour, and then sat through a very wet two-hour meeting.

We saw vibrant faith at work among each of those islanders—faith sufficient to stop the rain and faith to persevere when the rain did not stop.

The next faculty account I share deals with a much more serious act than barn burning. It has to do with forgiving someone who killed a wife and a child. Though the heinous act did not contain the element of intention inherent in the sin we call murder, the result was the same: a loving husband lost his companion and infant daughter, and a four-year-old son was robbed of a mother and baby sister. A colleague who now serves as a campus bishop shared his story in these moving words:

In a late evening of August we were beginning an eleven-hour drive from Cody, Wyoming, to Salt Lake to support our mother who was worried about my father’s open-heart surgery; we were close as a family and felt a strong need to be together.
My older brother was driving, his wife was sitting next to my youngest brother, who occupied the front window seat. My wife was behind my driving brother, holding our eighteen-month-old daughter, and I was on the opposite side with our four-year-old son stretched out on the seat, his head in my lap.
I awoke from a half-sleep to see headlights crossing the road to our side, my brother swerving to avoid head-on contact. Swerving helped, but there was contact, nonetheless, and it changed my life and my son’s life forever.
The left side of the car had received the most damage, my wife and daughter having absorbed the major portion of the shock. Although my daughter died later that night in the hospital, my wife took an entire week before she could finally go.
Everyone was hurt but me. While I was alone and assessing the damage, praying for a saving car to happen by in the loneliness of the Wind River Canyon, and then walking toward the other damaged car, I was immediately offended by an overwhelming stench of alcohol. I briefly checked and found the nineteen-year-old driver of the other car incoherent from drink, but otherwise unharmed. I was later told, after the police finally arrived, that he had tried to find me to fight me, since he thought I would be angered by what he had done. Eventually, he did find me and drunkenly asked me to forgive him for what he had done that night.
I certainly had not prepared myself for such a request. My immediate thought was that if I did say that I would forgive him, I would have to do it, since I would not play games with my mind and my heart, given the incomprehensible changes of my newly defined life.
I could not say no. I told him flatly that I forgave him, and I meant it. In honesty, I must say that I have never wanted to be his buddy or pal. Indeed, I cannot even remember his name, nor do I know where he is now. But I will be eternally grateful for his asking for forgiveness that Saturday morning before dawn, because in complying I was freed from the thrall of anger and hate that otherwise could have brought even greater sorrow into my life. From this tragedy I think I learned something new: Forgiveness brings true and genuine freedom, often to the forgiven, but always and without exception to the forgiver.

This fine brother shared with me his conviction that he never would have been called as a bishop had he refused the invitation to forgive. How could he speak on behalf of the Lord’s church and bear testimony to penitent ward members that they were forgiven if he himself had never been willing to forgive? The drunken driver in this story was, of course, tried in a civil court and will one day stand accountable before God for his actions.

“It’s just like eating an elephant, Jerry,” the bishop said.
“What do you mean? I don’t get it.” Jerry brushed some lint from the sleeve of his navy blue suit, which he had unwillingly but obediently donned for his annual interview. He was trying to look as dignified as he could, but here was the bishop talking about elephants!
Bishop Lambert leaned forward and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Planning your life is like eating an elephant,” he repeated. “Play along with me for a minute and you’ll see. Assume you really like the taste of elephant meat. You don’t have to eat it all in one meal. It would be possible to eventually eat the whole elephant, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“You probably wouldn’t walk up to the side of a live elephant and take a bite would you? How would you go about it?”
Jerry was starting to relax a bit. Maybe this interview was actually going to be fun. “Well,” he said, “I’d have to shoot it first. Right between the eyes with an elephant gun.”
“And then?”
“I’d have to skin it and quarter it, and then cut it into pieces small enough to roast in the oven. And I’d probably have to rent a freezer big enough to store the meat until I could eat it.”
“But over a period of time, you could actually eat it, right?”
“Right,” Jerry grinned. “But I’d have to develop a liking for elephantburgers.”
They both smiled. Jerry was curious as to what this was all about.
“That’s the same way you’re going to get to the celestial kingdom,” the bishop said. “Or at least the idea is similar.”
“Huh?” Jerry shook his head.
“Pull your chair over here by the desk, and I’ll show you what I mean. What’s the most important goal you have right now?”
Jerry straightened his six-foot-four-inch frame. “To win the game tomorrow night. It’s the championship!”
“That is important to you, isn’t it? I think we’ve got a good shot at it. But what I mean for right now is, what’s the most important thing you want out of life?”
Here comes the serious part, Jerry thought. “I want to get to heaven, I guess.”
“Will you be satisfied with just ‘heaven’?”
Jerry brushed his carrot-red hair back from its perpetual resting place across his right eyebrow. “Well, I really want to be in the celestial kingdom, in the highest degree of glory.”
The bishop handed him a triple combination. “Moses 1:39,” he said. “The Lord seems to have the same goal that you do.”
Jerry cleared his throat and read outloud, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.”
The bishop pointed at the scripture with his pen. “Is there anything you can think of that is more important than that?”
“You mean immortality and eternal life?”
“Right.”
“I guess not.”
“How close are you to it?”
“I’m pretty far away.”
“But you just told me it was your most important goal. Aren’t you working toward it? Didn’t you say that’s your real mission in life?”
“I never thought about it like that: It’s so far off.”
“Ah. You’re looking at it like you were looking at the elephant. As though it were just too big to eat.”
The bishop pulled a piece of paper from his desk and clicked his pen.
Gerald Allen RogersMission in life:to gain the celestial kingdom
He finished writing and looked sincerely at Jerry. “That’s the elephant,” he said. “It includes everything else you want to accomplish in life. It’s the most important of all.”
“I see the idea now,” Jerry said. “From here we’ve got to break it into smaller pieces, right?”
“You’ve got it,” the bishop said, his glasses slipping down again. “Now let’s look at it again for a minute. We said the celestial kingdom includes both immortality and eternal life. What’s the difference?”
Jerry was glad he knew that one. “Immortality is living without death as a resurrected being, and eternal life is, well, it’s life like Heavenly Father’s life, with the power of creation and all that.”
“Very good. Why don’t we have to worry about immortality?
Jerry knew that one, too. “It’s a free gift through Christ’s resurrection, free to all people, good or bad.”
“I see you’ve been paying attention to Brother Jensen’s seminary lessons,” the bishop said. He pushed his glasses back up again and shifted his place in his chair. “Now, think about your major objectives in life. What are the things that will help you achieve eternal life?”
Jerry thought for a second, then his blue eyes brightened. “Well, one would be a mission, wouldn’t it?”
“I think it would. Let me give you a good reason why. A very high percentage of returned missionaries are married in the temple. Why do you think that would be important?”
“Because you can’t become like Heavenly Father without a temple marriage.”
“Why not?”
“Well, no eternal wife, no eternal life!” He’d heard that somewhere and thought it was pretty clever. But he rephrased it seriously. “Without a wife sealed to you, how can you have spirit children?” Jerry was feeling pretty good about his ability to answer the questions.
“That’s a key objective in achieving your life’s mission, then, isn’t it? What’s another major objective?”
“Well, I want to graduate from seminary.”
“Why?” The bishop wanted Jerry to put it in his own words.
“It’s a good way to learn about the gospel.”
The bishop nodded. “You’re planning on college, too, aren’t you? Do you want to graduate from the institute of religion?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like seminary, only on a college level.”
“I guess so. I hadn’t thought about it.” Jerry felt a bit sheepish. He looked at the bishop in his well-pressed suit, white shirt, and tie, and wondered if he would ever feel as in control of his life as the bishop seemed to be.
“There’s another good reason for graduating from seminary and institute,” Bishop Lambert continued. “Besides learning the gospel, I mean. A very high percentage of people who graduate end up getting married in the temple—more than 90 percent. That would improve your chances of fulfilling that key objective quite a bit, if you ask me.”
The bishop was writing again, “Now you’ve got several major objectives listed. Any more?”
“You talked about college. I still want to go to dental school.”
“Excellent! Why don’t we write that your objective is to someday establish a successful dental practice.”
“Okay,” said Jerry, silently appreciating the bishop’s clarification.
“Now, you may have several additional major objectives, like raising a family or building a home. But let’s not worry about all of them right now. You can do that later. At this point you could say you’ve quartered the elephant. Now we’ve got to cut the quarters into elephant roasts.”
“How do I do that?”
“By setting specific, measurable goals that you can achieve by a certain date. That gives you control. Numbers and deadlines tell you precisely where you want to go on your way to achieving major objectives.
“Wait a minute,” Jerry said. “I’m getting lost again.”
“Okay, let’s take an example,” the bishop said, pulling out another sheet of paper. “Pick one of your major objectives.”
“How about my mission?” Jerry figured that was the one the bishop really wanted him to pick, since he talked about it all the time.
“Good. What’s a goal that will help you prepare for it?”
“To earn some money, I guess.” Jerry brushed his hair back again.
“That’s part of it. Let’s start a new list.”
Major objective: Mission
Goals:
(1) Earn money
“Now, what else would help?”
“I could study my scriptures and learn the missionary discussions.”
“What else?”
“How about learning to cook?”
“Good. You’re good at this. You’ve got four already. You might want to get your patriarchal blessing, too, or work with the full-time missionaries here once in a while. All right. Let’s go back to the first goal and translate it into goal language. How much does it cost for a mission?”
“Brother Pederson told us in quorum meeting that right now the average cost is about $4,300, not counting pre-mission expenses. That’s a lot of money.”
“You’re right. Is it your goal to earn $4,300?”
“Well, dad said he’d help, but I’d sure like to do as much as I can.”
“Okay.” The bishop took off his glasses and laid them on the desk. “But do you remember what I said about goals being specific?”
“Yes, numbers and deadlines.”
“Why do you think a deadline is so important?”
“It kind of pushes you into doing it?”
The bishop looked pleased. “Jerry, you’re doing great. See how goal setting works? It’s just a matter of planning. And planning is simply careful choosing. It’s really just common sense, but very few people go to the trouble of doing it. Writing it down on a monthly or weekly or daily basis helps you reevaluate and stay committed. Can you put a deadline and an amount on your money-earning goal?”
“How about $3,600 by my 19th birthday?”
“Fine. When is it?” The pen was poised.
“November 13, 1982.”
“How much money have you already saved?”
Jerry tugged a bit nervously at his tie as he thought about all the money he’d been pumping into his car. “I think I have about $200 in the bank,” he finally said. “I’ve been spending some on my car, but it’s working good now.”
The bishop assumed a businesslike attitude. “That leaves you $3,400 to raise in about three years, or about $100 per month. What are you making now?”
“About $150,” Jerry said. He noticed that the bishop was pinning him down to exact figures.
“Now be practical and realistic. Can you honestly get by on the $50 a month you’d have left? Don’t forget tithing, school, and gas. Can you do it?”
“It would be hard, but I could do it.”
“Let’s write down that after your newspaper collection each month, you’ll put $100 in the bank. With the interest and with help from your dad, that should do it.”
The bishop put down his pen, then looked Jerry right in the eye. “I want you to know I think your goal is admirable. I know the Lord will help you accomplish it if you keep thinking about it and working on it. Pray about it, too.” He rose to his feet. “I hope you’ve learned something. Planning is a key to success in life.”
“Thanks, bishop. I think I’ll go write down some other goals. You’ve shown me some good ideas.”
“Just remember not to let the size of your mission scare you. I’ll have some more ideas for you next time we talk. Let me know how you like elephantburgers!”
Jerry shook hands, opened the office door, and waved good-bye. Halfway across the foyer he started talking to himself. “Let’s see, a goal has to have numbers and a deadline. … I wonder how many elephantburgers I can eat by Friday night?”

It’s not a real mission, but it is missionary service. And it’s for four weeks instead of two years. But it does bless and change lives.
Every year around Easter, people of all ages are called to serve in the Mesa Arizona Easter Pageant.
Performed on the grounds of the Mesa Arizona Temple, the pageant tells the story of the Savior’s birth, life, death, and Resurrection. The production requires hundreds of volunteers to design and sew colorful period costumes, build stages and props, write original music, and perform for an audience of approximately 150,000 during the month.
While a production as demanding as the Easter pageant might burn out the normal volunteer, the youth who participate tell of a different attitude. These 132 young volunteers say they are changed forever by the strong spirit that fills the temple grounds, and they want to return to the pageant again and again.
Before and after each performance, 425 cast members step out of their biblical characters to become real-life missionaries. Their job is to mingle with the crowd, greeting visitors and answering their questions about the pageant and the Church.
“One night, I was talking to some people in the audience and started talking to a family,” says Preston Merchant, 12. “I had a good discussion with them and really felt the Spirit. I thought, ‘This is what the Easter pageant is all about!’”
Participants promise to obey certain simple rules:
Never miss even one rehearsal or performance;
Attend the evening devotionals;
Pray often;
Read your scriptures every day;
Tell your friends and neighbors about the pageant;
Be a good representative of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in every way.
Full-time missionaries from the Arizona Tempe Mission met with cast members to teach them how to answer questions about the Church and how to give away a Book of Mormon.
“I loved bearing my testimony to the audience,” says 14-year-old Connie Fairbanks. “After our performance, we talked to the people in the audience. It was really neat to see how the Spirit had touched them.”
The youth aren’t the only ones getting into the act. Entire families participate in the pageant, either as members of the cast or part of the crew. One family, the Nielsons, voted to audition for the pageant together. “My family said either everyone’s in or no one is. Majority rules,” says David Nielson, 14. “So we all went as a family and tried out—and we all made it!” David played a beggar and a member of the mob in the pageant.
Telicia, David’s 12-year-old sister, played a child in the multitude, but she’s also a gymnast, so she was worried about the time commitment. “I love gymnastics,” she says. “And I knew if I got a part, I wouldn’t be able to work out [in the gym] for a whole month.” But Telicia says she doesn’t feel bad about her choice to miss gymnastics because she gained a stronger testimony of the Savior and His sacrifice.
“I invited my gymnastics coach and several of my teammates to come to the Easter pageant,” she adds. “They’re not members, but they said they would come. I was so excited!”
Kristin, 17, Telicia’s older sister, played an angel. The angels dance and sing on a platform high above the stage, which is pretty scary for Kristin. But she says she felt peaceful and closer to the Savior when she and the other angels sang about His birth. “Not only have I drawn closer to my Savior, but my family became closer to each other,” she says. “For one month, we dropped all our other activities and spent every night together. It was the neatest experience ever!”
The best part about the pageant is the spirit that surrounds it. Eighteen-year-old Janna Halcomb’s brother encouraged her to try out for the pageant with him just before he left on his mission to Hungary. “That year we were able to be angels together,” she says. “It was such an incredible experience. The Spirit on the temple grounds is so strong, and as we bore witness of the Savior and His life my testimony was strengthened.”
Many of the youth describe the mood of the pageant and on the temple grounds as a sweet feeling that seems to envelop them and anyone else who comes. “The many witnesses of Jesus Christ that I have received have been incredibly worth my time and sacrifice,” says 17-year-old A. J. Wilcox. “This has been great preparation for my mission.”
Dayton Rohner’s mom thought it would be a good idea for her family to volunteer for the pageant. At 17, Dayton wasn’t so sure. But now he’s grateful to his mom. “Being in the pageant helped me feel what others might have felt when the Savior healed the sick and taught through example what we should do in our lives. Through this experience I now have a better understanding of our Lord and His sacrifice.”
These young volunteers say they want to be a part of the pageant again; it’s such a great experience. Sister Nanci Wudel, director of public affairs, has heard similar comments. “The young men and women tell me they do better in their schoolwork, on tests, at sports, and in their lives altogether during the month of the pageant. They believe they really are blessed for participating,” she says.
Two years ago, the Pace family was able to bring a part of the Easter pageant home with them. A pure white baby lamb, needed for a scene where Adam offers a sacrifice, didn’t have a mother, and many worried the lamb might die.
“When my mother noticed the lamb,” Kelsey Pace, 14, remembers, “she told the owner that I had raised lambs on a bottle before. So the lamb became my responsibility. I had to feed her every four hours, even in the middle of the night, with extra-large bottles of powdered goat’s milk and sometimes medicine, too.
“We prayed for her every day. She is now healthy, and she’s even in the pageant again as one of the sheep with the shepherds who hear the angel tell of the birth of Jesus.” The lamb, now a family pet, lives in the Paces’ backyard.
“A few weeks after my family tried out for the pageant, we each got letters telling us that we all made it. My dad was assigned to be Joseph in the scene of 12-year-old Jesus in the temple, my mom got to be Mary, and I played Jesus. When I looked at our letters again, I couldn’t believe it! I know Jesus lives and the Church is true, and I’m glad I got to be a missionary by being in the Easter pageant.”–Tyler Starr, 12
“Being cast as Eve alongside my brother, Trevor, who played Adam, was the best thing that could have happened to me. Every time I watched the scenes of the miracles Jesus performed so long ago, I received such a strong confirmation from the Spirit! I know He suffered and died for us. I know He did that so I could repent of the bad choices I’ve made. That piece of knowledge is priceless to me.”—Casey Gorton, 17