Gospel Story Finder

As a new convert and student at Brigham Young University-Hawaii, Elder Chi Hong (Sam) Wong gained much more than an education—he gained a sure knowledge that there is a God who knows “the details of our lives.”
A year later, on July 9, 1983, he married Carol. They moved to Laie, Hawaii, USA, so he could attend school. Because he was on a student visa, Elder Wong could work only 20 hours a week. “We had to really exercise our faith and prayers,” he said of what it took to sustain his family.
He worked hard to earn a scholarship, then he took as many credit hours as the university would allow. “It wasn’t easy,” he recalls. “Once we had that experience we knew we could always rely on the power of heaven.”
The Wongs were sealed in the Laie Hawaii Temple on August 9, 1984, and their first child was born; three more children would eventually join the family. “Those years were very special, very sacred,” Elder Wong said.

For some, the suffering is extraordinary. In the early days of the Church Stillman Pond was a member of the second quorum of the seventy in Nauvoo. He was an early convert to the Church, having come from Hubbardston, Massachusetts. Like others, he and his wife, Maria, and their children were harassed and driven out of Nauvoo. In September 1846 they became part of the great western migration. The early winter that year brought extreme hardships, including malaria, cholera, and consumption. The family was visited by all three of these diseases.
Maria contracted consumption, and all of the children were stricken with malaria. Three of the children died while moving through the early snows. Stillman buried them on the plains. Maria’s condition worsened because of the grief, pain, and the fever of malaria. She could no longer walk. Weakened and sickly, she gave birth to twins. They were named Joseph and Hyrum, and both died within a few days.
The Stillman Pond family arrived at Winter Quarters, and like many other families, they suffered bitterly while living in a tent. The death of the five children coming across the plains to Winter Quarters was but a beginning.
The journal of Horace K. and Helen Mar Whitney verifies the following regarding four more of the children of Stillman Pond who perished:
“On Wednesday, the 2nd of December 1846, Laura Jane Pond, age 14 years, … died of chills and fever.” Two days later on “Friday, the 4th of December 1846, Harriet M. Pond, age 11 years, … died with chills.” Three days later, “Monday, the 7th of December, 1846, Abigail A. Pond, age 18 years, … died with chills.” Just five weeks later, “Friday, the 15th of January, 1847, Lyman Pond, age 6 years, … died with chills and fever.”
Four months later, on May 17, 1847, his wife, Maria Davis Pond, also died. Crossing the plains, Stillman Pond lost nine children and a wife. He became an outstanding colonizer in Utah and later became a leader in the quorums of the seventy. Having lost these nine children and his wife in crossing the plains, Stillman Pond did not lose his faith. He did not quit. He went forward. He paid a price, as have many others before and since, to become acquainted with God.

The other student President Holland told about that day was Sauan Sukhan. He was not as old as Lyle McDonald; he was only thirty-five years old. But that same day he received
A Ph.D. degree in sociology. There is nothing very startling about that except he . . . has a personal story of valor and triumph in which private or public challenges have been overcome.
Sauan was born in a remote village in Thailand some 350 miles northeast of Bangkok. To say his parents, and indeed his entire village, were poor is to pathetically understate the case. Their home was a shelter of bamboo and grass. At three years of age Sauan was working full days tending water buffalo and cultivating rice paddies. To this very day there is still no such luxury in that village as running water or electricity. The closest hospital is a hundred miles away—four days by foot and ox cart, the only available means of transportation. It is something of a miracle that Sauan survived the myriad childhood diseases so common to that country. Eight of his fourteen brothers and sisters did not, and he watched his devout Buddhist parents bury them one by one.
At his village school there were no textbooks, no library, not paper or pencils. Two teachers helped 400 children practice their lessons on slate or dry clay. Only four years of even that rudimentary education were available in their small village. But like . . . you, Sauan wanted knowledge—as much as he could get. So from grades five through ten he walked fifteen miles to a school in the neighboring village. That was, he says, three hours each way in the dry season, but considerably more than that when it rained. Later, his parents spent virtually all of their savings (which, as you might guess, wasn’t much for a family whose income bought Sauan a secondhand bicycle) so that his quest for an education might not be so burdensome.
They gave him everything they had; when that was gone, they gave him encouragement.
But after the tenth grade there was no money for him to go to the city. So, like untold generations of his ancestors before him, he returned to the water buffalo and rice paddies that would forever mark the dimensions of his very narrow world. But even in the remote reaches of rural Thailand the Spirit of the Lord bears sway. In a story too long to tell here, Sauan did, with the encouragement of these destitute but faithful Buddhist parents, get to the city briefly. And in the most providential of moments, he opened his door one day to two young Americans who had short hair, wore white shirts, and spoke impeccable Thai. The rest is history—sweet history.

The concept of being filled with light and truth became particularly important to me because of an experience I had many years ago. I attended a meeting where members of the Young Women general board taught about creating spiritually strong families and homes. To visually demonstrate this, a Young Women leader held up two soda cans. In one hand she held a can that was empty and in the other hand a can that was unopened and full of soda. First, she squeezed the empty can; it began to bend and then collapsed under the pressure. Next, with her other hand, she squeezed the unopened can. It held firm. It didn’t bend or collapse like the empty can—because it was filled.
We likened this demonstration to our individual lives and to our homes and families. When filled with the Spirit and with gospel truth, we have the power to withstand the outside forces of the world that surround and push against us. However, if we are not filled spiritually, we don’t have the inner strength to resist the outside pressures and can collapse when forces push against us.

The first time I saw my wife Pria was at a Church dance. She was a new convert of a couple of weeks and she caught my eye. Now to have any hope of getting beyond just thinking she was pretty, I had to act and push beyond my nerves and insecurities. So, I crossed the dance floor and boldly invited her to dance in the hope she would accept. She did. While dancing I tried to start a conversation, but the music was too loud and all Pria would do is nod her head, I suggested we move to the back of the hall, away from the speakers, she nodded her head again, so, I proceeded to move through the crowd thinking she would follow. When I turned my head to make sure she was behind me, she was bolting in the opposite direction. I had struck out.

The next time I saw Pria was as she was walking out of church a few Sundays later. I moved towards her to try and start a conversation (I was the ward YSA rep and wanted to invite her to an activity), as soon as she saw me approaching there was an abrupt 90 degree turn, and Pria walked off the path and up a grassy hill in her high heels, sinking into the sod as she went. Needless to say, I was a little perplexed, but the message was clear.

I didn’t know what had happened at the time, and I later learned that Pria had not heard a word I had said on the dance floor and thought I had just walked away from her in the middle of a dance. I had messed up.

Pria proceeded to avoid me for the next three months.

Fortunately, a perceptive Ward Mission Leader intervened. He asked that I join him to give a blessing to Pria’s flatmate who was also a new covert. Pria was at home so after giving her flatmate the blessing I proceeded to act again; I invited her to join the ward YSA in attending an upcoming regional YSA dance, I thought I was doing my calling, she thought I was asking her on a date. As you can tell, our courtship was clearly not smooth; I had a lot of work to do on my communication skills and, at times, still do.

I took a chance and acted in the hope of something good. It didn’t pay off initially, and I got another chance, acted again, and the rest has become history. The point is, I acted. Good things in life require us to act in faith or in hope of that future goodness.

Other preparatory episodes in his life show divine design. Not long after young Elder Faust’s arrival in Brazil, Elder Wm. Grant Bangerter, his second missionary companion, welcomed Elder Faust at a time when missionaries were having very little success. The senior companion watched young Elder Faust boldly approach one of his first houses. Elder Bangerter skeptically thought he wouldn’t be able to converse enough to do any good. Elder Bangerter even turned his back on Brother Faust to emphasize that the contact was Brother Faust’s, not his! But young Elder Faust’s conversation with the woman at the window led to the Dedo-Valeixo family’s joining the Church (see Ensign, October 1986, page 6).

When I was seven years old, my friend and I were playing with our dolls. We decided to take them swimming with us. I didn’t have my doll’s swimsuit with me. My friend thought my doll could just swim in her bikini. I remembered that when my mom and I had bought the doll, we’d agreed that the bikini was only for wearing under her clothes. I decided to go home and get her one-piece swimsuit. When I came back, my friend and I had a great time. I’m glad that I chose the right.

Theresa also has had a special experience. Soon after she was baptized, Theresa began preparing to go to the Tokyo Temple to perform vicarious baptisms for her deceased ancestors, who did not have the opportunity to receive the fulness of Christ’s gospel in this life. Through the efforts of those around the world doing indexing of public records, and with help from ward members and the missionaries, Theresa was able to find long lost information about her father, who died when she was young. This was such a blessing, as many family records were destroyed by bombings during wars in Sierra Leone. The database was updated just before her baptism. She was then able to prepare his name, her grandmother’s, and others to receive baptism and other temple ordinances.

Walnetta Broederlow McCall was only nine years old when a missionary asked if anyone could play piano for their fledgling congregation. “I gingerly put up my hand!” she recalls. The missionary, Elder Charles W. Ashman, was not deterred by her age or inexperience. He gave Walnetta hymns to practice, and the following week, she became the pianist for their meetings.
Over the years, Walnetta has served in many other callings and enjoyed those experiences too. Today, she feels just as privileged to provide prelude music in her current Taupo Ward, to invite the Holy Spirit and set a reverent tone for their sacrament meetings. Reflecting on her love for her calling, she is so grateful for the gift that Elder Ashman gave her all those years ago when he asked for a volunteer pianist. “His invitation to play for our meetings and [his] confidence in me has blessed my life,” she says.

I’m so thankful for the spirit my parents cultivated in our home. I thank both of them for the difference it has made in my life to have them share and nurture a sense of humor, a spirit of optimism, and a cheerful disposition. Another time I can share more about my father, but for now I have a few more things to say about my mother, who is close to 90 years old.

One of Mom’s most wonderful qualities is her ability to laugh at herself. Eleven years ago she suffered a major stroke. This affected her in many ways, including her speech, reading, and writing. Just four months after the stroke, she gave a talk right here in the Marriott Center at women’s conference. One of the things she said in her halting way was not to wait to have a stroke—that you could probably enjoy it more if you had it when you were younger. She felt she had waited too long.

One time in her hospital room, my brother Frank and I were watching as she went to the mirror to brush her teeth. She picked up the tube of toothpaste and stood looking at it. Then, very carefully, she put a little dab on her finger. We kept watching, not wanting to interrupt and trying not to laugh. She looked in the mirror and down at her finger, and then she began to rub the toothpaste on her nose. That did it. We started laughing, and she laughed harder than we did. Frank commented that she wouldn’t be getting any cavities on her nose!

When I was very young, I loved to play ball, any kind of ball. As I grew older, it became obvious that the Lord had given me a special talent in athletics, and of all the sports in which I participated, I was most attracted to basketball. I came from a relatively poor family, so when I was old enough to throw a ball through a hoop, my folks couldn’t afford the hoop or the ball. I found an old tin band from a wooden barrel and nailed it on the side of a building. Then I got some rags and tied them together until I had a good-sized rag ball. Every night after school I would go outside and shoot that rag ball through the hoop. Many times, I would have to climb up on the garage to straighten the band because it would bend from the rag ball hitting it so often. I could hardly wait to get home in the evening so I could start shooting my rag ball through the hoop.
It was during my 13th year when Dad took me aside one day and said, “Bobby, how would you like to have a real basketball hoop?” He had made one out of a rod of iron, had made a backboard, and had attached the hoop to it. I could hardly believe my eyes! Dad and I mounted it on the back of the building. He then gave me my first rubber basketball. Boy, was I excited! Night after night, as soon as I got home from school, I practiced.
In my mind I would always picture myself as one of the great ball players of the day. I always pretended I was in the national basketball finals with just a few seconds left in the game. I had the ball and the score was tied. I would run down the basketball court, shoot a long shot, and as it went through the hoop, I would sense the feeling of being a hero. I won more national titles than you can ever imagine. I could see it in my mind’s eye. I thought about it a lot. I knew I could do it. I practiced and practiced. I also dreamed of one day playing in a famous sports arena. It was the most famous basketball arena in the world at that time. There was no other place like it.
When I graduated from high school, I accepted a basketball scholarship to Utah State University in Logan, Utah. During my junior year, we were invited to Madison Square Garden to play in the first holiday festival tournament ever held there. My dream had come true! I had seen it! I had worked hard for it. Along with Utah State and other teams from the United States, the two top teams in the nation had been invited to the tournament. Our team played the number two-rated team the first night, and the game was really close, but in the last seconds, we won. I was highest scoring man and played one of my best games ever. The next night Utah State played another great team, and again it was a close game. We won, and once more I was high-point man.
Our team was now in the finals against the number one team in the nation. It was a tough and close game. We were never separated by more than four points. As we approached the final two minutes of the game, Utah State was leading by four points. We had the ball and had planned to use up some time but our opponents gained possession of the ball and one of the players stole a pass and went down and scored. Now Utah State had only a two-point lead with about a minute and a half to go. We came down the floor again and worked around the court until an open shot came. One of our players ran in and missed the shot our opponents got the ball again and scored. Now the score was tied with a minute or less to go. We had the ball, came down the court, and missed our shot, and did not get the rebound. Now they had the ball with about 35 seconds to go. We didn’t dare foul them. What a terrible position to be in! At times like that, you wonder why you ever took up the sport. They worked the ball around until there were about 10 seconds left, and then the player who had been scoring all night went to the basket and shot. I can still see that ball as it rolled around the rim but finally fell off. One of our players pulled down the rebound and threw it to me. I came down the side of the court and let the ball fly from about 30 feet out. It was a score! The final buzzer rang, and we had won the national holiday festival tournament! As that buzzer went off, I thought to myself, “I’ve done this before.” I had. In my mind’s eye and in the backyard, I had done it hundreds and hundreds of times. I had practiced and practiced. I had worked for it. Because of my faith and work, the Lord blessed me.

Shelly loved to skip. She skipped to the park. She skipped to school and home from school. She skipped next door to visit Sister Jones. She skipped so much that her friends and family called her “Skipper.”
One day, though, she trudged home from school. She didn’t feel like skipping. Her legs felt heavy as she climbed the porch steps and opened the front door. She found Mother sitting at the kitchen table, paying bills.
“Hi, Skipper! How was school today?” Mother asked, pausing to lick an envelope.
Shelly didn’t say anything. She felt tears pressing her eyes. Oh, no, she thought, I’m going to cry again.
Mother licked some stamps and pressed them on the envelopes. Then she turned to Shelly. “Skipper, what’s wrong?”
As Mother hugged her, Shelly felt tears roll down her cheeks. “Oh, Mom! Some of the kids at school say I’m stupid! Am I?”
Mother hugged Shelly tighter. “No, Skipper! You’re not stupid.”
Shelly leaned back and looked at Mother. Mother had a way of looking into Shelly’s eyes that made her feel understood. She knew that Mother loved her. “Then why is everything so hard for me? I’m always the last one finished with math or spelling, and I still get more wrong than everybody else.” Mother handed her a tissue. Shelly sniffed. “I really try, Mom! I really try! And you help me study every night. So why is it so hard for me?”
Mother pulled Shelly close again and answered her with a question. “Skipper, what is the greatest talent anyone can have?”
Shelly thought. She remembered how well her teenage brothers played their violins. They played with the high school orchestra. “Is it to play the violin?”
“No,” said Mother. “Playing the violin is not the greatest talent. Think again.”
Shelly thought about how well Dad did woodworking. Shelly liked to watch him as he built beautiful furniture. “Is it to build things with wood?” she asked.
Mother shook her head. “No, woodworking is not the greatest talent. Think again.”
Then Shelly remembered how she loved to have Mother sing Primary songs to her at bedtime.
Sometimes, if Shelly wasn’t too tired after studying, they sang together. Mother led the singing in Primary. Shelly liked learning the new songs with her mother. “Is singing the greatest talent anyone can have?” Shelly asked.
“No, Shelly. Talent in music is a wonderful talent, but it isn’t the greatest talent.”
Shelly thought about her friend Aubree. Aubree usually finished her math and spelling before anyone else in the class. Aubree didn’t have to study after school, so she took dancing lessons several afternoons a week. She could do ballet and tap dance. On Saturdays, Shelly liked to visit Aubree. Aubree would let Shelly wear one of her beautiful costumes and would teach her some dancing steps.
“Is the greatest talent dancing?” Shelly asked.
“No, Shelly, it isn’t dancing. Think very hard.”
Shelly thought. Then she remembered how hard it was for her to read. Sometimes the letters seemed to flip over or even disappear. “Oh, Mom,” she gasped, “it isn’t reading, is it?”
Mother gave her a squeeze. “No, Skipper, it isn’t reading. Dancing, singing, woodworking, reading, and playing instruments are all great talents, but they aren’t anything compared to the best talent. And, Skipper, you have the best talent.”
Shelly was surprised. “No, Mom. I don’t do anything really well.”
“Oh yes you do, Skipper. You try to make people happy. You stop to visit Sister Jones on your way home from school. She’s lonely living alone, and you cheer her up. She’s often told me how much she looks forward to your visits.”
Shelly smiled. She liked Sister Jones. Sometimes she played her harp for Shelly. Sister Jones even said that she’d teach Shelly to play one when Shelly’s arms grew a little longer.
Mother gave Shelly another squeeze. “And, Skipper, when our doorbell rings, you’re the first one there. You greet everyone with a smile. Even when my friends come, you want them to leave with a cookie, and you always tell them to come again. That makes them very happy.”
Mother is right, Shelly thought. I do like to make people happy.
“Skipper,” Mother said, “your talent is the best talent of all. Can you guess what it is now?”
Shelly still shook her head.
“Skipper, your talent is love. You know how to love others, and that is the best talent. That’s what Jesus taught. All those other talents—singing, dancing, woodworking, playing instruments, even reading—don’t mean very much if you don’t know how to love.”
Shelly thought some more and nodded her head. She gave her mother a kiss and a big hug. Then she skipped down the hallway to change into her play clothes.
The next day just before the bell rang at the end of school, a boy in Shelly’s class started teasing her again. “Shelly, you’re so dumb!” he said. “You read slower than my pet turtle walks.”
Shelly smiled at him. “I might not be as smart as you,” she answered, “but I can love you anyway. Jesus said that loving is the best thing of all, and that means I’m not so dumb.”
Then Shelly put her math and spelling books in her book bag and skipped all the way home.

I was born on a farm in Iowa, USA. When I was three, my parents traded some old windows and doors for two goats. The goats were so small. A woman brought them to my house in a dog crate. They were beautiful. I named the white, black, and red one Alice. My mom named the tan and black one Tawny.
Mom and Dad helped the woman load the doors and windows into her truck. She was going to turn them into artwork. I watched the goats nervously look around our yard. All of a sudden Alice took a running leap and jumped right over our pasture fence. Tawny looked from us to Alice and decided to leave too. She sprang over the fence like she could fly!
We tried to round them up by bribing them with sweet feed. But the two goats just trotted down the road. They disappeared into a cornfield. We were all scared that they wouldn’t be able to find their way back to their new home. I thought they would be lost in the hundreds of acres of corn that surrounded our house.
I told my mom that we should pray. We had read in the scriptures where Amulek said to “cry over the flocks of your fields” (Alma 34:25). I knew Heavenly Father was watching over our goats.
After I took a nap, I woke up and looked in our yard. Alice and Tawny were there. They had found their way back! I know Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers. Sometimes it’s even quickly and in the way we hope!

Among the material things of the past—things that I treasure for sweet memory’s sake and because of pleasant association in bygone days—is a lamp. …
The lamp of which I speak, the student lamp of my school and college days, was one of the best of its kind. I had bought it with hard-earned savings; it was counted among my most cherished possessions. …
One summer evening I sat musing studiously and withal restfully in the open air outside the door of the room in which I lodged and studied. A stranger approached. I noticed that he carried a satchel. He was affable and entertaining. I brought another chair from within, and we chatted together till the twilight had deepened into dusk, the dusk into darkness.
Then he said: “You are a student and doubtless have much work to do of nights. What kind of lamp do you use?” And without waiting for a reply, he continued, “I have a superior kind of lamp I should like to show you, a lamp designed and constructed according to the latest achievements of applied science, far surpassing anything heretofore produced as a means of artificial lighting.”
I replied with confidence, and I confess, not without some exultation: “My friend, I have a lamp, one that has been tested and proved. It has been to me a companion through many a long night. It is an Argand lamp, and one of the best. I have trimmed and cleaned it today; it is ready for the lighting. Step inside; I will show you my lamp; then you may tell me whether yours can possibly be better.”
We entered my study room, and with a feeling which I assume is akin to that of the athlete about to enter a contest with one whom he regards as a pitiably inferior opponent, I put the match to my well-trimmed Argand.
My visitor was voluble in his praise. It was the best lamp of its kind, he said. He averred that he had never seen a lamp in better trim. He turned the wick up and down and pronounced the adjustment perfect. He declared that never before had he realized how satisfactory a student lamp could be.
I liked the man; he seemed to me wise, and he assuredly was ingratiating. “Love me, love my lamp,” I thought, mentally paraphrasing a common expression of the period.
“Now,” said he, “with your permission I’ll light my lamp.” He took from his satchel a lamp then known as the “Rochester.” It had a chimney which, compared with mine, was as a factory smokestack alongside a house flue. Its hollow wick was wide enough to admit my four fingers. Its light made bright the remotest corner of my room. In its brilliant blaze my own little Argand wick burned a weak, pale yellow. Until that moment of convincing demonstration, I had never known the dim obscurity in which I had lived and labored, studied and struggled.
“I’ll buy your lamp,” said I; “you need neither explain nor argue further.” I took my new acquisition to the laboratory that same night and determined its capacity. It turned at over 48 candlepower—fully four times the intensity of my student lamp.
Two days after purchasing, I met the lamp peddler on the street about noontime. To my inquiry he replied that business was good; the demand for his lamps was greater than the factory supply. “But,” said I, “you are not working today?” His rejoinder was a lesson. “Do you think that I would be so foolish as to go around trying to sell lamps in the daytime? Would you have bought one if I had lighted it for you when the sun was shining? I chose the time to show the superiority of my lamp over yours, and you were eager to own the better one I offered, were you not?”

Several years ago, my family and I decided to hike a mountain trail in Iceland to see a famous waterfall. We had never been on this mountain. We were uncertain about the trail, and we are not experienced hikers.
We watched others start up the trail and followed. Soon, they were out of sight, and so was the trail. We looked carefully and noticed piles of intentionally placed rocks, called cairns, at regular intervals marking the path to the waterfall. We became confident that if we could find the cairns, they would lead us to the waterfall.
Patches of ground near the trail featured white, fluffy cotton grass,1 which grows in marshy terrain. Stepping into the cotton grass always left us with muddy, water-filled shoes. We learned that the cotton grass marked a path we did not want to follow.
The trail was not easy. Sometimes it was steep, and we became tired. But we persisted, paying careful attention to the cairns and avoiding the cotton grass. Finally our efforts were rewarded. We reached the magnificent waterfall and enjoyed the view from the mountaintop and the refreshment of the water.
As we trekked down the mountain, we saw dangers we had not seen before. The cairns had helped us avoid deep pools of water and steep cliffs. We were grateful those cairns led us safely to our goal.
On our summer hike, we were free to choose a different path to the top of the mountain, but a different path might not have, and likely would not have, led to the waterfall. We could have been delayed because we were stuck in the mud, been stymied by dangerous cliffs, or given up because of tiredness. Staying on the path provided the most direct and sure route to our destination.

Sixteen-year-old Steven D. McKell of Salt Lake City, who was kidnapped at gunpoint but was able to free himself, received Scouting’s Medal of Merit for his bravery.
The FBI report of the incident reads:
“While alone at his home, Steven was confronted by a person who represented himself as a deliveryman. The man at the door had a truck-type dolly with a large cardboard box on it.
“The man indicated he had a document that Steven should sign as a receipt for the package. As the youth started to do this, the deliveryman pulled out a handgun, held it against Steven’s cheek, and forced him into the house.
“The man placed leg irons and handcuffs on Steven and forced him to lie on the floor. Steven’s mouth was then stuffed with a bandanna, and the bandanna was taped in place. Pads of cotton were placed over his eyes and taped closed. A nylon stocking was pulled over his head to keep the bandanna and pads in place.”
Steven was told to get inside the carton, which was then hauled out of the house on the dolly and lifted into the van, which was driven to a location about 10 minutes away.
The boy was led into an old rabbit hutch where boards were nailed over him. He was told by his captor not to try to escape since someone would be watching him.
“I didn’t believe him,” said Steven, “so when I heard him drive away, I began kicking my feet until I could get out of the frame. In my efforts to get free, I felt a nail against my nose and used that to pull the blindfold off.”
Steven was still gagged and cuffed hand and foot, but he could see and move. He made short jumps toward the road and attracted the attention of a jogger, who removed his gag and carried him over his shoulder to a nearby home. From there, Steven called his father, allowing enough time for the local police and the FBI to set a trap for the kidnapper, who was caught, convicted, and imprisoned.
Steven received the national Scouting office medal at a court of honor. He is a member of the Butler 12th Ward, Salt Lake Butler Stake.

Nearly a half century ago, just prior to my missionary experience in Australia, I had the great blessing to work for about four years in a golf shop for an extraordinary Scottish golf professional. His name was Alex McCafferty. He was not of our faith, and though he had lived among Latter-day Saint people for well over 25 years, he did not really understand our doctrine or the gospel. He was a splendid man to work for, and I will be ever grateful for his generosity and his many kindnesses. His patient tutoring in the fine points of the game of golf helped me become successful in some of my youthful competitive experiences and also allowed me to enjoy a lifetime of recreational golf. On occasion his language, wrapped in a very heavy Scottish accent, could be just a little bit colorful. When my work didn’t meet Alex’s expectations or when I made a mistake in serving a patron, he would, in a very soft but very firm Scottish voice, utter an expletive followed by the same question: “David, my boy, will you ever make something of yourself?”

I still remember the exact words Alex used when I finally gathered the courage to inform him that I had accepted a call from a prophet of God to serve for two years as a missionary in Australia; hence, I would be leaving his employ. On this occasion his response was preceded by several expletives and then the declaration, “David, my boy, you’ll never make anything of yourself by fluttering around the world speaking about religion.”

A day or two before I departed for my mission, I stopped by to say good-bye to my good friend Alex. As I shook his hand and offered expressions of appreciation, he drew me close and placed in my hand an envelope. We both had a tear or two in our eyes as I quickly walked to my car. I drove for just a few minutes to a nearby park where, in the solitude of the surroundings, I read his note and found he had placed a goodly sum of money in the envelope to help me finance my mission.

About one year later, while I was serving in Adelaide, Australia, I received a note from Alex. The note said: “David, my boy, they tell me a missionary needs a new suit after one year. Please, with this money, buy you a suit made of the finest Scottish wool.”

A few days after returning from Australia, I stopped by the golf course to renew our acquaintance. Alex asked if I was ready to play golf. I told him my days of serious golf were over, as I had sold my clubs and car to help defray the costs of my mission and, in addition, it was long past time when I really needed to get serious about my education.

He replied, starting with the usual expletive: “David, my boy, you will never make something of yourself if you don’t play golf. You go right into that golf shop and pick out a set of clubs of your choice.”

I did just that, and after nearly 50 years I still have those clubs. Of course I didn’t appreciate Alex’s colorful language, but I will ever be grateful for the lessons of honesty, integrity, and generosity that I learned while in his employ.

Most of you know that despite his close supervision of he building of the St. George Temple, he was not its designer and in fact disliked acutely and vocally the small original tower, which offended his carpenter’s eye as badly out of proportion. He did not embarrass the local craftsmen by directly insisting on a change, but on August 16, 1878, about one year after Brigham’s death, his voice seems to have been heard. The tower was struck by lightning and, though the temple was miraculously preserved from burning, the tower was badly damaged—and was replaced by a much larger one.

My name is Avery, and I am 13 years old. Even though I am still too young to go to seminary, my friends and I have found a fun way to prepare for it.
Every weekday morning, I wake up and get ready for school. Then I walk across the street to my friend’s house, and I meet up with two of my friends. Next we walk a little up the street to my Young Women leader’s house. We meet up with a few other friends, and we begin our walk over to the bus stop.
“OK,” I say, “today is my turn.” I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket and read it out loud. On it is a scripture I copied down the night before. I read it and ask my friends what they think it means. We talk about it until we reach the bus stop. We each take a turn during the week looking up a scripture or a quote.
I enjoy doing this every morning because it helps me in many ways: (1) I learn more about the terms and meanings in the scriptures, (2) I learn to ponder about the things I have read, and (3) I am able to use the things I learn every day.
We also challenge each other to read the Book of Mormon and to learn about the lives of the prophets. Even if you don’t go to seminary yet, there are still many ways to start your day off with the Spirit.

When I arrived in Natchez to accept a job with the U.S. National Park Service, I entertained doubts and fears. I had left all that was comfortable and familiar to me in Utah, and as I took up residence in this new and seemingly foreign city, I felt lost and alone.
On my first day of training, the supervising ranger began by taking me through the park’s Civil War-era mansion and demonstrating the type of guided tour I would soon be expected to conduct. By the time we had finished exploring the first floor, I was already having a hard time remembering all of the details. From the French rococo revival furniture to the English porcelain china, the ornate home embodied Southern prosperity—and thoroughly overwhelmed me. Realizing that we had yet to see the second level of the home, I was overcome with a feeling of frustration and a longing for home.
As we climbed the grand staircase, an oil painting of a townscape caught my attention. I had never seen it before, yet there was something familiar about it. My eyes were drawn to the depiction of a large building atop the town’s bluff, and I recognized the sweeping curve that the river made around the city. Could it really be what I thought it was?
I asked if the painting was a depiction of Nauvoo. My supervisor, startled by my question, replied that indeed it was. I soon learned that the painting had been purchased by one of the home’s later owners because presumably it had been painted during the mid-19th century and the river scene coincided nicely with the Natchez landscape.
The Saints who passed through Natchez amid persecution must have felt a great sense of relief and gratitude when they finally arrived at Nauvoo. Similarly, I felt comforted when I saw the painting of Nauvoo in the mansion in Natchez. Seeing the painting helped me know that Heavenly Father was aware of my situation and would bless me with the strength to overcome my homesickness, fear, and doubts. I knew that the painting of Nauvoo was a tender mercy of the Lord.