Gospel Story Finder

When we choose the right, we are sometimes rewarded in our Primary by Officer Charles Theodore Rigatoni (his initials spell CTR!). He comes to Primary with a set of heart-shaped handcuffs and searches for the person who was “caught choosing the right” that week. He presents the person with a shiny gold or silver badge and then tells everyone about the good things he was caught doing. Sometimes it is making his bed, helping to fix dinner without being asked, or sharing toys with friends.
One day I was waiting to get my hair cut. A younger boy tried to knock the book I was reading out of my hand. I tried to ignore him, but he kept pushing me. Finally, I looked him right in the eye, pointed to my CTR ring, and said, “Choose the right!” He backed away and didn’t bother me again. Officer Rigatoni heard about this and gave me a badge. I am glad to have a friend like Officer Rigatoni to help me remember to choose the right.

May I underscore this call to action by discussing a concept I was reminded of recently while watching a basketball game.
In that game, the first half was a seesaw battle, back and forth. Then, during the last five seconds of the first half, a guard on one team made a beautiful three-point shot. With only one second left, his teammate stole the inbound pass and made another basket at the buzzer! So that team went into the locker room four points ahead with a palpable surge of momentum. They were able to carry that momentum into the second half and win the game.

Over a hundred and eight years ago, some parents in Farmington, Utah, were worried about their children. They wondered how they could help them understand the gospel so that they would live happier lives.
Bishop John Hess was concerned about some of the children in his ward who were staying out late at night, and some who were behaving rowdy. He called a meeting of the mothers in the ward and talked about the importance of guiding the minds of young children.
Sister Aurelia Spencer Rogers was one of the mothers in the Farmington Ward. Aurelia loved children and wanted them to live the gospel. She thought about the things Bishop Hess had said.
Sister Rogers recorded in her journal: “I had reflected seriously upon the necessity of more strict discipline for our little boys. … What will our girls do for good husbands, if this state of things continues? … I had children of my own, and was just as anxious as a mother could be to have them brought up properly. But what was to be done? It needed the united effort of the parents.”
One day Eliza R. Snow, the General President of the Relief Society, had been to a conference in Farmington. The train back to Salt Lake was not due for some time, so Sister Snow decided to visit her friend Aurelia.
Sister Snow had no children of her own, but she had a great interest in them. She was a poet and a teacher and had written songs and stories for little children. She was pleased with Sister Rogers’s idea about an organization for little boys where they could be taught everything good, and how to behave. Sister Snow agreed to discuss the matter with the First Presidency, who later gave approval. A letter was written to Bishop Hess, asking for his permission to organize the children in his ward.
After Bishop Hess received the letter from Sister Snow, he talked with Sister Rogers and asked if she would be willing to preside over an organization of the children. Sister Rogers said: “I felt willing, but very incompetent. From that time my mind was busy thinking how it was to be managed … As singing was necessary, it needed the voices of little girls as well as boys to make it sound as well as it should.” Sister Snow agreed with Sister Rogers. “‘We must have the girls as well as the boys—they must be trained together.’” She suggested that the organization be called “Primary.”
On August 11, 1878, Bishop Hess set apart Sister Rogers and her two counselors, Louisa Haight and Helen Miller. He suggested that they visit every home in the ward during the next two weeks, which they did. They took the names and ages of two hundred twenty-four children and invited them to the first meeting.
The first Primary meeting was held on Sunday, August 25, 1878, in the rock chapel in Farmington.
Sister Rogers said, “Imagine our feelings as we stood before an audience of children who had come there to receive instructions from us. We were very weak indeed, but felt to lean upon the Lord.”
The meeting began with prayer; then the children were given instructions and taught to sing.
The children were asked to “see how much they could do for their fathers and mothers without grumbling.”
Children were also asked to not quarrel with brothers and sisters. Little boys were instructed to not go into orchards and melon patches that weren’t their own, and little girls were told to not hang on to wagons, a practice not only wrong but dangerous.
The reason for Primary is still the same: to help every child learn how to be happy by living the gospel of Jesus Christ. As we radiate the light of the gospel, the world will see how happy we are and want to live the teachings of Jesus too.
Happy birthday, Primary! We are glad to celebrate with eight hundred seventy-five thousand boys and girls everywhere.

Suppose someone living in Salt Lake City, or Provo, or Phoenix, or Washington, D.C., or Beverly Hills, happened one day to open the Bible and by that mysterious process known only to angels, chanced to read these verses in the Gospel of Luke:
Then saith he also to him that bade him, when thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbours; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee.
But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind:
And thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just. [Luke 14:12–14]
Suppose that man concluded that these words, probably spoken in Aramaic long ago, were just as applicable in the 1980s. Suppose that person believed that the blessings Jesus mentioned were worth having and decided to claim them. Suppose he had the courage and the love that would be required to take Jesus at His word. What do you think would happen?

One bitterly cold night, when the city was covered with a blanket of snow and ice, a man sat alone in his home. The house was very comfortable; . . . a crackling log fire in the fireplace threw dancing shadows on the paneled walls. The wind outside was moaning softly like someone in pain, and the reading lamp cast a soft warm glow on the book this man was reading.
He was alone, for the children had gone out and his wife had retired early. He read the passage of Luke, and then could read no more. Somehow he could not get away from those simple words. He had read the Bible often, for he was a good man, but never before did the words seem printed in flame.
He closed the Bible, and sat meditating, conscious for the first time in his life of the true challenge of Christ. He felt as though someone were standing behind him; he knew he was no longer alone. What strange fancy was this? Why was it that he kept hearing—in a whisper—the words he had just read?
“I must be sleepy and dreamy,” he thought to himself. “It is time I went to bed.” But it was long before he fell asleep, for still the voice whispered, and still he was conscious of the feeling of a Presence in the room. He could not shake it off. Never before had he been so challenged. He thought of the dinners and parties that they had given in this beautiful home. He thought of those whom he usually invited. Most of them were listed in “Who’s Who”; and there were those whose names were household names in business, finance, clubs, and in government circles. There were men with the power to grant political and social favors. But they were not poor . . . or maimed . . . or lame . . . or blind.
What had put this absurd thought into his head anyhow? He tried to sleep, but somehow he could not close the door of his mind to the procession that shuffled and tapped its way down the corridors of his soul.
There were beggars with trembling lips. There were sightless eyes that stared straight in front and faces blue with cold. There were sticks tapping on the pavement. There were crutches that creaked with the weight of a twisted body.
As he watched them pass, he felt his own heart touched. He whispered a prayer that if the Lord would give him courage, he would take Him at His word and do what He wanted him to do. Only then did he find peace and fall asleep.
When the morning came, his determination gave him new strength and zest for the day. He must begin his preparations and he was impatient to go downtown. His first call was on the engraver, who knew him well. At the counter he drafted the card he wished engraved, chuckling now and then as he wrote, his eyes shining.
The clerk who read the card looked somewhat puzzled but made no comment. The card read:
Jesus of Nazareth Requests the Honor of your presence at a banquet honoring The Sons of Want on Friday evening, in a home in this city Cars will be waiting
Then, printed at the bottom of the invitation:
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. [Matthew 11:28]
In the engraving room, they did not know what to make of it; but the conclusion they reached was that someone has more money than sense, but that it was none of their business.
A few days later, with the cards of invitation in his hand, he walked downtown and gave them out, and within an hour there were several people wondering what could be the meaning of the card that a kindly, happy, well-dressed man had placed in their hands.
There was the old man seated on a box trying to sell pencils, and another on the corner with a racking cough and a bundle of papers under his arms. There was a blind man saying over and over to himself, “Jesus of Nazareth requests the honor of your presence.” A fellow who was fingering a gun in his pocket and bitterly thinking of suicide wondered whether he should wait until night.
At six o’clock, a strange group of men stood waiting at the appointed corner, talking softly together.
“What is the catch in this, anyhow?” asked one cynical fellow.
“What’s the game?”
“Who’s throwing this feed? Anybody know the bird what gave out the tickets?”
“Well, what difference does it make? I’d stand almost anything for a feed.”
And the blind man, with a little boy at his side, ventured to remark: “Maybe it’s part of the government welfare program.” And the cynic was saying, “Aw, somebody’s kiddin’ us, as if we weren’t wretched enough already.”
Just then someone came over and announced that the cars were there. Without a word, they got in.
Perhaps there was something strange about it all, seeing these men, clutching their thin coats tightly around their thin bodies, huddling together, their faces pinched and wan, blue with cold and unshaven, toes sticking out of shoes—climbing into two shiny limousines. It was touching to see the lame get in, dragging one foot, swinging up with a twitch of pain; and to see the blind man fumbling for the strap. At last they were all inside, and the cars glided off with the strangest and most puzzled load of passengers they had ever carried.
When they dismounted, they stood gazing at the house, its broad steps and lamps, its thick-piled carpets. They entered slowly, trying to take it all in. They were met by the host, a little nervous, but smiling. He was a quiet man, and they liked him—these guests of his whose names he did not know. He did not say much, only, “I am so glad you came.”
By and by, they were seated at the table. They had looked at the tapestries that hung on the walls. They had seen the illuminated pictures in their massive frames, and the huge crystal chandelier, the concert grand piano that stood across the hall, the spotless linen, and the gleaming silver on the table. They were silent now; even the cynic had nothing to say. It seemed as if the banquet would be held in frozen silence.
The host rose in his place, and in a voice that trembled slightly, said: “My friends, let us ask the blessing.” He prayed—
If this is pleasing to Thee, O Lord, bless us as we sit around this table, and bless the food that we are about to receive.
Bless these men. You know who they are, and what they need.
And help us to do what you want us to do. Accept our thanks, in Jesus’ name. Amen.
The blind man was smiling now. He turned to the man seated next to him and asked him about the host. “What does he look like?” And so the ice was broken; conversation began to stir around the table, and soon the first course was laid. “My friends, I hope you will enjoy the dinner. I would suggest that we waste no time, for I have no doubt that you are hungry. Go right ahead.”
It was a strange party, rather fantastic in a way, thought the host, as he surveyed his guests. There they were—men who otherwise might be still loitering on the back streets of the city, crouched in doorways or huddled over some watchman’s fire. What an amazing thing—he didn’t know the name of a single man! His guests had no credentials, no social recommendations, no particular graces—so far as he could see. But, my, they were hungry!
As he sat there talking, the stories in the Gospels kept coming back to him, and he could almost imagine that the house was one in Jerusalem. It seemed to him that these men would be the very ones that Jesus would have gathered around Him—the legion of the world’s wounded, a group of friendless pieces of broken human earthenware.
He remembered what his family had said, how they had insisted on demanding, “Why? Why are you doing such a thing?” Well, why was it, anyway? Wasn’t it plain? His reason was the same glorious reason that Jesus had for every miracle, for every gesture of love, for every touch of healing. It was simply because he was sorry for these people, and because he wanted to do this one thing on an impulse of love. Yet there was not a trace of condescension in his attitude. He was treating them as brothers, talking to them as though they had a right to be sitting where they were. It was a grand feeling. Never before in his life had he felt this way. These men could not pay him back! What had they to give him?
He watched each plate and directed the servant with a nod or a glance. He encouraged them to eat; he laughed at their thinly disguised reluctance, until they laughed too. As he sat there, it suddenly occurred to him how different was the conversation! There were no off-color stories, no whisperings of scandal, no one saying, “Well, I have it on good authority.” They were talking about their friends in misfortune, wishing they were here too . . . wondering whether Charlie had managed to get a bed in the charity ward, whether Dick had stuck it out when he wanted to end it all, whether the little woman with the baby had gotten a job.
Wasn’t the steak delicious! And they marveled that they still remembered how different foods tasted. They wondered, most of them, who this man was, and why he had invited them all here.
When the meal was over, there was music. Someone came in and sat down at the piano. He began to play softly, familiar melodies, old songs; and then in a soft but understanding voice, he began to sing. They listened to “Love’s Old Sweet Song,” “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” and then a march by Sousa, and then “Traumerei,” and then “The Sidewalks of New York.”
Someone else joined in—a cracked, wheezing voice, but it started the others. Men who had not sung for years, men who had no reason to sing—there they were, joining in. Now some old favorites: “A Bicycle Built for Two,” “Suwannee River.” Soon they began to request this and that, and before they knew it, they were singing hymns: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
The pianist stopped, and the guests grouped themselves in soft, comfortable chairs around the log fire. The host moved among them, smiling, his eyes shining. Then when he had settled himself again, and his guests were comfortable, he said: “I know you men are wondering what all this means. I can tell you very simply. But, first, let me read you something.”
He read from the Gospels stories of One who moved among the sick, the outcasts, the despised, and the friendless; how He healed this one, cured that one, spoke kindly words of infinite meaning to another, how He visited the ostracized and what He promised to all who believed in Him.
“Now I haven’t done much tonight for you,” the host said, “but it has made me very happy to have you here in my home. I hope you have enjoyed it half as much as I have. If I have given you one evening of happiness, I shall be forever glad to remember it, and you are under no obligation to me. This is not my party. It is His! I have merely lent Him this house. He was your Host. He is your Friend. And He has given me the honor of speaking for Him.
“He wants you all to have a good time. He is sad when you are. He hurts when you do. He weeps when you weep. He wants to help you, if you will let Him.
“I’m going to give each of you a Bible, His book of instructions. I have marked certain passages in it that you will find helpful when you are sick and in pain, when you are lonely and discouraged, when you are blue and bitter and hopeless, and when you lose a loved one. He will speak a message of hope and courage and faith.
“Then I shall see each one of you tomorrow where I saw you today, and we’ll have a talk together to see just how I can help you most. I have made arrangements for each one of you to get back to your homes, and those who have nowhere to go I invite to spend the night here.”
They shuffled out into the night, a different group from what they had been. There was a new light in their eyes—a smile where there had not been even interest before. The blind man was smiling still, and as he stood on the doorstep, waiting, he turned to where his host stood. “God bless you, my friend, whoever you are.” A little wizened fellow who had not spoken all night paused to say, “I’m going to try again, mister; there’s somethin’ worth livin’ for.” The cynic turned back and said, “Mister, you’re the first man who ever gave me anything. And you’ve given me hope.”
“That is because I was doing it for Him,” said the host, and he stood and waved good night as the cars moved off into the darkness.
When they had gone, he sat again by the fire and looked at the dying embers, until the feeling became overwhelming again that there was someone in the room. He could never tell anyone how he knew this, but he knew that He was smiling and that He approved. And that night, this good man smiled in his sleep. And One who stood in the shadows smiled too, because some of the “least of these” had been treated like brothers for His sake. (Adaptations from a story by Peter Marshall.)

Of course, that never happened. It is only a piece of imagination. But why shouldn’t it happen? in Salt Lake City? in Washington, D.C.? on Park Avenue in New York City? at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah?

His contribution to the Reader’s Digest, where he casts himself as the sailor, reads in part:
“The Right Time at Home:
“One evening in Albany, New York, I asked a sailor what time it was. He pulled out a huge watch and replied, ‘It’s 7:20.’ I knew it was later. ‘Your watch has stopped, hasn’t it?’ I asked.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m still on Mountain Standard Time. I’m from southern Utah. When I joined the Navy, Pa gave me this watch. He said it’d help me remember home.
“‘When my watch says 5 a.m. I know Dad is rollin’ out to milk the cows. And any night when it says 7:30 I know the whole family’s around a well-spread table, and Dad’s thankin’ God for what’s on it and askin’ Him to watch over me … ,’ he concluded. ‘I can find out what time it is where I am easy enough. What I want to know is what time it is in Utah.’”

“Now then, girls, as we visit the Art Institute, always carry your folding stool over your left arm, walk in pairs, and absolutely no gum chewing!” There were guilty looks as the gum quickly disappeared, and the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake Mia Maids grinned as they reminded each other that the stools were to be carried over left arms, not right. (Carrying them on the left arm avoids bumping valuable paintings as tour groups move down the right-hand side of narrow halls.)
Then the entire group hurried to keep up with the 81-year-old, but incredibly energetic, tour guide, Miss Marianne English. It was quickly becoming evident that this morning’s cultural activity at the Art Institute of Chicago was going to be as entertaining as it would be enlightening.
First stop: a valuable glazed pottery horse, a statue from the T’ang Dynasty, which ruled China in the seventh through ninth centuries. Eyebrows raised with new interest as the girls learned of the ancient Chinese custom that insisted a man be buried with not just his live horse, but with his wife as well! Then Miss English whisked the group on down the marble hallways lined with Roman vases and Greek statues. They paused at an Italian sculpture of Heracles wrestling Anteus.
“Does anyone remember the story of this myth?” the guide asked. One girl surprised even herself as she related most of the details. Anteus, a giant who received his strength by always touching the earth, was finally bested by Heracles in a battle of wits and strength.
The group moved on toward a collection of Buddha statues, but the guide slowed her pace to a stroll and chatted with a couple of the girls, who were on the tour as part of the first-ever Mia Maid conference in the stake.
“They tell me you girls are a religious group on some kind of a retreat. You’re the ones who don’t believe in Christ, right?” A girl with long, blond hair smiled as she reassured the guide that Latter-day Saints most assuredly do believe in Christ. She, like most of the other girls, seemed accustomed to such questions. After all, Chicago and its suburbs include 7 million people plus, and the missionaries haven’t reached all of them yet.
Other girls thought back to their morning’s activity. The first stop had been a 50-foot, metal Picasso sculpture that dominates the Civic Center Plaza in the heart of downtown Chicago. Elevators tunnel to the top of towering buildings around the courtyard, and of course, each girl clambered aboard one to rush with it up story after story for the reward of a look down. The Saturday-morning city was just beginning to allow slices of sunshine to sift through the skyscrapers.
The skyline was familiar to only a few of the Mia Maids, though some of them do occasionally shop downtown in enormous department stores with famous names like Marshall Fields, riding efficient commuter trains from their suburban homes many miles away. Members of the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake live anywhere from 50 blocks to 75 miles from the city’s “Loop,” the center downtown area encircled by elevated railways. In the cool early morning air on top of the building, Arlene and Carla had reminded each other about pigeons they had seen on Michigan Avenue and anticipated returning after the tour (when it would be warmer) to chase them. Then they had jumped back on the elevator, dropped back to the plaza, and gathered with the rest of the group.
“Put your stools down here, and we’ll look at Rembrandt’s painting Young Girl at the Open Half-door,” Miss English interrupted the young ladies’ reverie. “This painting is actually a design of circles. Look closely and you might see more than 20 circles.” Suddenly, for Pam and Brenda the painting became more than just a scene with a nice-looking girl. It became an intriguing puzzle.
Others were fascinated by the large brush strokes of El Greco or the loving smiles on portraits by Correggio, who reportedly learned his technique by studying the Mona Lisa.
The Art Institute’s collection is arranged chronologically, so a walk through the corridors is a walk through the centuries. The oldest painting dates about 1270 A.D., and the statues and other relics date centuries earlier still.
One of the highlights of the medieval collection was a series of paintings entitled The Ayala Altarpiece. The works were commissioned by a family of nobles in 14th-century Spain for the family tomb. Heavy with gold, the altarpiece depicts various scenes from the life of Christ, typical of the period when the major function of art was religious instruction (necessitated by the fact that only the priests could read).
“Medieval painters hadn’t yet learned to show distance,” Miss English explained. “The pictures look flat, with no sense of perspective, and the people have rigid, awkward bodies. Notice that it is essentially the position of the stiff hands that expresses the character’s surprise or sadness.”
Not far away, another Mia Maid was startled to meet the likeness of a young woman, cut in stone, atop a chiseled sarcophagus. “Actually,” Miss English confided, “the woman buried in this coffin was probably much older and not so beautiful as the lady you see lying here. It’s likely she had her likeness carved the way she wanted to be remembered.”
A short detour and the group jumped ahead to the 19th century, plopping down their stools in front of an impressionistic work by Claude Monet, The Beach at Sainte Adresse, one of his early paintings.
“Do you see here the careful shadings and detail we saw in Rembrandt?” the guide inquired. “Have the brush strokes melted into one realistic scene like the landscape of Venice we passed?”
A timid hand rose. “No. You see dabs of green and white in the ocean that aren’t blended in at all.”
“Right! The theory in impressionism is that the colors will mix in the mind. French artists like Monet, Renoir, and Degas broke the established rules and used less careful detail but lots of light, atmosphere, feeling, and color.” She described how the impressionists were at first rejected, but persisted in their scenes of rainbow colors without smooth shading. Details were lost, flowers became simply dots of paint, and reflections in water were favorite settings. American artist Mary Cassatt convinced many wealthy Americans to buy French paintings and bring them to the U.S. “I’m sure France wishes it had some of them back!” the guide said. “The people wouldn’t call them messy now, which is how they described them then.”
The girls didn’t realize how fast time was passing. They were amazed that art history could be so much fun. And the guide made it even more personal by pointing out things they could observe any time they went looking at art: “Learn to look for the color, shape, line, form, texture, and movement that always comprise a painting.”
—Colors may be bold, such as those in Delacroix’s The Lion Hunt, which underscore the deep emotions of the scene. Reds are fierce, dark clouds threatening. Or colors may be delicately shaded, as in the porcelainlike faces of Renoir’s women. Or they may be just flecks and spots, as in the “pointillism” of Seurat, who used tiny brush strokes of different colors to fill an entire picture. (For example, separate dots of blue and orange can be distinguished in the grass in Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, although when one takes a step back, the color appears as dark green.)
—Look for geometric shapes in the overall design. Are lines and forms sweeping or restful? The circles in Young Girl at the Open Half-door have already been described. In The Lion Hunt the oval arrangement of the characters ties together the animals and the hunters, intensifying the drama. In the Seurat painting just mentioned, the triangle shape of the island draws the audience back into the picture.
—The texture of the paint can be so smooth it is almost an unobservable part of the work or so heavy that it can’t be ignored. For example, in Picasso’s Place du Havre, Paris, there is such a heavy impasto (paint laid thickly on the canvas) that it’s almost like painting with candy. Especially in modern art, texture may be anything from smooth like a window pane to woolly like a sweater. The paint may not even cover all of the canvas.
—Some artists successfully create a sensation of movement. How? In On the Stage by Degas, skirts swirl, hair flies, and details in the foreground are blurred to give the illusion of captured motion.
“See what the artist is trying to tell you,” Miss English summarized. “Are the people realistic or only caricatures? Is he showing their character or only their costume? For example, look at the pitchfork-holding farmer and his wife portrayed in Grant Wood’s famous American Gothic, painted in 1930. What message about those two people do you find?
“Finally, if modern art baffles you, remember it encompasses all the elements of traditional art, except that the subject has been removed. Nature or the realistic scene serves merely as a jumping-off point. Some modern art, such as Picasso’s, is inspired by the medieval period. He has gone full circle back to the flat perspective.” Teenage heads nodded with new understanding, remembering the huge Picasso sculpture they had seen first thing that morning.
The tour was over. Later that night, traditional youth conference activities continued. There were workshops on dance, beauty, and grooming, and a spiritual discussion about testimonies, taught by Sister Jan Ryan, who joined the Church just 18 months ago. A court reporter, she compared witnessing the truth before a judge to testifying of the truth before one’s fellowman. There was also a testimony meeting.
The young ladies still recall the Friday evening group prayer, the games, the apple juice and doughnut refreshments, and the chatter before snoozing in sleeping bags. And, of course, the spiritual memories still linger, because they helped the girls see life through new eyes. In a different way, so did the art tour. By studying great artworks, the Mia Maids had, perhaps, gained some appreciation for the talent and love the Master Artist exhibited in creating the world, and they had learned to search for beauty where they hadn’t expected to find it before. That type of awareness may just be the true purpose of art.

This passage of scripture brings to mind an experience I had as a young boy. My family had traveled from our home in California to Salt Lake City, where General Conference was being held. After we had waited in line, an usher found a place for us, up behind the choir on a wooden bench at the base of the big organ pipes in the Tabernacle. It gave me a visual perspective on General Conference that I’ve never had since, and certainly don’t expect to enjoy again. Spencer W. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, began to speak. I have no memory of what he said, but as I viewed him from behind, standing at the pulpit and speaking to the people, in an instant I understood – somehow perceived clearly – that I was seeing and listening to a prophet. It is difficult to describe other than as a moment of enlightenment. It was not a particularly emotional experience, but actually rather matter of fact. I recognized something about him that seemed plain as day to me. He later became the President of Church when I was in my early 20s. Sustaining him in that office was, to me, a completely obvious and easy thing to do.

by Pat Truman
A caravan leaves the glittering lights of Las Vegas bound for the west. Complete with a giant toy box, wishing well, fake mountain, bunk beds, black caldron, spotlights, and sound equipment, it snakes along the Nevada landscape. Following are five buses full of astronauts, teddy bears, mutated flowers, boogey-men, skunks, bunnies, and even Little Jack Horner with a two-foot diameter pie. Plainly, an unusual night is in the making!
It was a new approach to missionary work sponsored by the Las Vegas Nevada South Stake Young Men and Young Women, a combination of roadshow and missionary involvement. Since full-time elders had just been assigned for the first time to the Pahrump, Nevada, area (where an outlying ward in the stake was located), it was decided that the Las Vegas wards and outlying branches would travel there to present their roadshows. They decided to invite the 1,200 townspeople of the farming community to the roadshows in a “Meet the Mormons Night.”
The night of February 21 arrived, and 178 youths and 26 advisers eagerly boarded the buses, dressed in costumes and makeup. Robert Simmons of the Las Vegas 12th Ward remembered, “The bus ride was great, especially an hour and a half in a teddy bear costume!”
The schedule was tight, and the buses pulled into the parking lot of the Pahrump Community Center only minutes before show time. Costumes were frantically straightened in bus aisles, while scenery and props were sorted on the lawn. Eventually everyone was ready, and Brother Ted Bingham, stake roadshow specialist, began the evening’s program by explaining the Church’s interest in the cultural arts and a little about the Young Men and Young Women programs.
The cast surmounted the challenges presented by performing on a small stage and using a curtain made of sheets (supported by the branch members from Beatty) and presented roadshows that were fun for audience and participants alike. After the shows, a nonmember commented on the professional quality of the roadshows and the wholesome and clean-cut appearance of the young people involved.
After the performance refreshments were served, and copies of the Book of Mormon, plus homemade cookies and candies with “Thank You for Meeting the Mormons” notes attached, were distributed.
Some unexpected benefits of the event were the eventual baptisms of some of the nonmember youths who were members of the roadshow casts. As Faith Allen, a Laurel from Pahrump, expressed it, “Missionary work can be accomplished in so many different ways, and we found that it can be fun, too.”

Mozambique. The name, for some, conjures images of exotic wildlife, lush green vegetation, or white-sand beaches. More likely, it will send the average person scrambling for a map to discover its location in southeast Africa. But for Maria da Conceição, it means home. And thanks to the efforts of members in the Inhamízua Branch and a few missionaries, Maria now has a place in Mozambique to call her own.
Maria is a tiny woman with a gigantic spirit. Abandoned by her husband and oldest daughter, she was left to rear two small children on her own. Crippled by a debilitating disease she has had since birth, Maria struggled to pay the rent each month. In a country that has high unemployment, work and money are nearly impossible to come by. Yet Maria managed to make a meager living and do the best she could.
I was a full-time missionary in Mozambique. When I first met Maria, I was impressed by her positive attitude and zest for life. She worked relentlessly in her machamba (large garden) to provide for two children and herself and to pay rent on a small mud house.
Church members helped by providing food and medical care. Tragically, Maria’s two children died within three weeks of each other due to disease and no access to the right medical facilities. Death and suffering are common in Mozambique.
Serving as the branch president for our tiny branch, I was extremely concerned for Maria. Both the youth and adult members of our isolated branch did everything they could to help Maria. Some worked in the machamba, others offered food, and a few even helped pay the rent; but she needed a permanent answer.
Late one night, while I was pondering and searching for an answer, inspiration came to me in the form of an idea for an ambitious youth project: building a home for Maria. My companion, Elder Bis-Neto, and I proposed our idea to the younger members of the branch, and they jumped at the chance to help build Maria a house. There was little money and a great deal of work to be done, but with many willing hands and a vision of a traditional African mud-and-stick house, a plan took shape, and the youth went to work.
Everyone got down to business immediately. First job: get wood.
A trip into the African jungle to gather wood for building a home is not a job for the fainthearted. The youth and missionaries made many two-hour trips through thick, swampy savannas, endless rice fields, dense overgrown jungles, and waist-deep mud to find the perfect trees with which to build Maria’s house. Using machetes, we hacked down the slender trees and then organized them into bundles for the journey back. Some of the youth used tall wild grass to quickly weave hats to help protect their heads from the rough logs.
The most difficult leg of the journey now began. Carrying a heavy load on our heads, scratching our way through the dense undergrowth, and battling the scorching African sun, we hauled our loads back. As we walked, the youth sang hymns of Zion, with smiles on their faces.
Alves Elídio Eguimane Razão, 18, says, “It was a lot of hard work, and we loved every minute of it!”
The wooden frame went up stick by stick, with care given to ensure a sturdy and lasting structure. Many generous hands constructed the roof by laying down strips of plastic, which were secured with mats of woven weeds. This roof would need to repel the violent storms of the annual rainy season.
From mud walls to mud floors to mud pies, mud was the menu for most building days. Barrel after barrel of rich brown dirt was hauled in and then drenched in water. Dozens of youth and other branch members turned out to help hand mix the mud and cover the frame house. The exterior was done first, followed by the interior walls and partition. After we had packed the walls with several inches of strong, dried mud, the house started to take shape. To jazz up the interior, a special layer of mud was carefully applied to create the floor and solid water-resistant surfaces.
These days were full of hard work, but the atmosphere abounded in good humor and many smiles, not to mention the surprised eyes of the neighbors as they watched missionaries and youth carrying large bundles of sticks and gallons upon gallons of water and slinging handfuls of mud.
Finally the door was hung, a lock installed, and the house was done. After more than 1,000 service hours, given by more than 40 members and a number of missionaries, Maria da Conceição had a beautiful home of her own.

At one house, the vans were parked around the corner like they had been at previous houses. Then the assembly line of angelic hands started all over again. But somehow this experience was different. It was my assigned house, the family I had shopped for. That same good feeling went through me as the presents went through my hands. The gifts piled up on the front porch.
We decided to hide in the bushes and behind the surrounding snow mounds so that we could see the reactions of the family. I picked the nearest evergreen bush and knelt behind it. One boy rang the doorbell and hid behind the closest tree. The front door opened an inch, and then it closed. There were so many gifts that they couldn’t open the door.
A few seconds later two young children came running around the back of the house and, in surprise, they clasped their hands over their mouths. With a small push, the door opened a foot more. A little girl about age six came out of the house dressed in pink pajamas. In an excited voice she said, “Look, Mom, cereal! It’s cereal and milk, Mom!”
When I heard those innocent words, I wanted to reach out and hold her. I wanted that girl to have all that I had.
It was in that moment that I remembered back to when I was six. We had opened our front door one December night and were completely overwhelmed by the bags of gifts so generously placed on our doorstep. Our house was much warmer than usual that night because my father had been given firewood earlier that day. As a family of nine, we were barely making ends meet. That year especially, I could sense my parents’ uneasiness about Christmas day. I was limited to requesting only one toy. I had carefully chosen to ask for a “Peaches and Cream” Barbie doll, and I placed a torn-out newspaper picture of the doll up on the refrigerator. With my six-year-old heart and mind, I knew my one wish would come true.
Before heading off to bed, we knelt as a family on our old green carpet and gave a prayer of thanks for the few things that we did have. I remember going to bed feeling hungry. Each day food was practically the same—Cream of Wheat, oatmeal, or biscuits. I prayed that tomorrow—Christmas—would be different.
I snuggled in my blankets, and just as my eyes were about to close, I heard a muffled knock at the door. I followed the members of my family downstairs. As the door opened, an overwhelming feeling took over my little body. There were big black bags of gifts and food placed at our doorstep. I was so happy that I couldn’t believe my eyes. I said a whispered prayer of thanks, and I knew that my prayers that night had been heard. We carried the gifts inside and placed the bags of gifts under the tree.
Sleep did not come easily that night, but I managed a few hours before my sister Mary woke me. We eagerly ran downstairs, and to my eyes, it was as if the gifts had multiplied overnight. They were scattered around our tree. I again thought to myself about the one wish I had made. I picked up a gift that had “Meg” written on it, and I opened it carefully. I pulled out the most beautiful “Peaches and Cream” Barbie that I had ever seen. I hugged her, and I knew that I had not been forgotten. I learned several years later that my prayers were answered through the loving hands of those who generously helped out needy families.
Now as a teenager hiding behind a bush, watching that little six-year-old girl, I was so touched by the spirit of this family that my emotions overwhelmed me. The words of that sweet little girl were echoing in my mind.
I will always remember the peaceful, quiet night that I spent watching many families receive their miracle Christmas, just like the one my family received so many years before.

Illustration by Joel Castillo
I was introduced to the Church by my aunt and uncle, who live near my home. I was only seven years old at the time, and I loved going to church to be with the other children. My parents were not members, but they did not mind that I went to church every Sunday with my aunt and uncle. My parents said that it was much better for me to be involved with a church that taught of Jesus Christ than to be out in the streets getting into trouble.
The missionaries came often to our home to teach us. My parents loved the discussions, but they did not want to embrace the gospel. They said that they were not ready because entering the waters of baptism is a serious commitment. The missionaries continued to come to our home, but they always left disappointed with the answers my parents gave. I knew, however, that one day they would be baptized.
When I turned eight, I was ready to make the baptismal covenant. My mom asked me if that was what I really wanted. She told me that once I was baptized, I could not change my mind and that baptism would change my entire life. I said that being baptized was something I had dreamed about since I first started going to Primary.
After I was baptized and confirmed, I continued to go to church, but my parents rarely came to our Primary activities. It was painful for me to see all the other children with their parents. But I hoped that one day they would be baptized and we would be sealed in the temple, and my greatest dream would become a reality.
When I was a teenager, the missionaries continued to teach my parents, but they still did not want to be baptized. However, they would occasionally come to church, which gave me a little hope. I still dreamed that my parents would join the Church, but I began to think that it would never come to pass in this life.
Then one beautiful Sunday morning when I was 17, my mother again went to church with me. On our way home she told me something that I can still hear in my thoughts and in my heart. She said that she had decided to be baptized. I was shocked! After waiting for so long, I wondered if this was real. In May 2010, my mother entered the waters of baptism. It was such a happy day.
After the baptism I looked at my father and said, “You’re the only one left now.” He responded that it would not be soon because he didn’t feel the desire to be baptized. I was again sad—part of my dream had come true, but the rest seemed far away. Although it was hard, I was certain that things would change. To my great happiness, my prayers were again answered two months later when my father entered the waters of baptism. It was the greatest joy of my life. I felt as though the heavens were singing.
After my parents joined the Church, I realized that another part of my dream had come true but that we needed to be sealed for eternity in the house of the Lord. My parents told me they didn’t feel ready, that they didn’t have enough money for the long trip to the Recife Brazil Temple, and that they didn’t have anyone to watch our home while we were gone. I was sad, but I kept praying for that blessing, knowing that the Lord would answer my prayers.
In time my mother began to feel a strong desire to go to the temple, even though my father continued to put it off. After many conversations with the bishop, they both decided to go. I felt so much joy I could barely contain it!
In September 2011, my mother, my father, and I went to the temple for the first time in our lives. I was sealed to my parents the next day, and I can truly say that, after 11 years of waiting, it was the best day of my life.
I am very grateful to Heavenly Father for everything He has given to me, especially for answering my prayers and fulfilling my greatest dream: the dream of seeing my whole family in the house of the Lord.

Sister Chen is now battling a new disease and the aftereffects of a minor heart attack. Twenty years after first asking God why He had left her, she found herself asking the same question—and receiving the same answer. “Haven’t I already told you?” she felt Him say. “You still have temple work to do.”
So Sister Chen continues to spend one week per month at the temple.
“These are things we have to do for our ancestors that they cannot do for themselves,” she says. “With my situation, I don’t have the time commitments that others have with work and such. I need to work hard now while I can.”

Nine-year-old Seiko Tran and his six-year-old sister, Lili, were happy in their comfortable Saigon home. Their father, Loc, not only controlled considerable land but owned two homes and operated a family business. He was an attorney before being drafted into the military. He was trained as a jet-fighter pilot and was stationed at Tan San Nhut Air Base in Saigon. Young Seiko had often dreamed of flying in his father’s jet.
His father worked closely with some LDS servicemen stationed in Vietnam and became very interested in the Church before the Americans were gradually withdrawn from Vietnam, mainly in 1972 and 1973. Seiko and Lili attended private schools. They were being groomed to follow in the footsteps of their parents, who were well educated and spoke several languages. Their father, in fact, spoke Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Cambodian, English, French, and Vietnamese.
When the South Vietnamese government surrendered to North Vietnam, Seiko and Lili were hurriedly taken by their parents to the air base and, along with their mother, Van, were stuffed into the back seat of the fully-armed jet fighter assigned to their father. Suitcases containing family valuables had been exchanged for their safe entry to the base, but they didn’t have enough to satisfy everyone.
When the engines were started, there was a massive effort to stop the Tran family. With guns firing at them from all sides, Seiko and Lili huddled close to their mother. Their father’s jet shook violently under full power as it roared down the battered runway and then, as it seemed to them, leaped into the air. Their father dropped all armaments to gain speed and altitude. They were soon safe.
Seiko and Lili were too young to understand that they would not be coming back. Unlike their parents, they were more frightened than sad. Through the clouds and the mist, they took one last look at the green hills and rice fields of Vietnam as their father set a course for Thailand. All the family had now were the clothes on their backs and each other. Seiko’s first airplane ride was not turning out quite the way he had imagined.

All of us, for some reason, have come to BYUH. We are not here by chance but there is a reason. Before graduation, I usually send out an email to the prospective graduates inviting them to share something unique about themselves. Usually the Commencement speakers want to know the graduates and perhaps what has brought them here to BYUH. Usually I get answers like, I have siblings who graduated from this school or I have this many kids and I am graduating, or my husband and I are graduating together. Occasionally I will get a reply that is so uplifting and so touching that it brings me to tears. One student told me that although his family were not members, his father had suggested that he come to BYUH. He had been online and came across our website and was impressed by what we offered. In his understanding he was coming to go to school and get an education but he said this experience here changed his life. Unlike many of you who have found your spouse here, he left single, but he left as a member of the church. He shared how the faculty and students and friends that he met here had helped him have an experience that he could not have had elsewhere. He left not only with a degree but with a testimony of the gospel and for that he was grateful. He knows that because he showed faith and came to BYUH that he was blessed.

When he came to the office one day, just after this, I recognized his name and talked to him more about his experience. He told me he still didn’t quite understand how or what made his father go online to check out schools, but it was a blessing in his life. Many of us do not understand why we have come here but if we trust in the Lord, keep his commandments and be obedient, the Lord will be able to guide us and direct us to do what he wants us to do.

One of our fine stake presidents shared with us the following experience:
“I remember a girl that I had gone to high school with. She was from a good LDS family, but when she was a junior in high school, she began to compromise her standards and principles.
“I remember how stunned I was one afternoon as a group of us were in the back of the bus, riding home from school, and we were talking about the consequences of sin or transgression. And she flatly announced that she wasn’t worried about committing any sin because her bishop had told her she could easily repent and could be quickly forgiven.
“Well, I was shocked with this flippant attitude that didn’t reflect any understanding of repentance and no appreciation of the miracle of forgiveness. I was also sure that she had grossly misunderstood the instruction and counsel of her bishop.”
Adultery, or anything like unto it, is abominable in the sight of the Lord. President Kimball also wisely observed:
“Among the most common sexual sins our young people commit are necking and petting. Not only do these improper relations often lead to fornication, pregnancy, and abortion—all ugly sins—but in and of themselves they are pernicious evils, and it is often difficult for youth to distinguish where one ends and another begins. …
“Too often, young people dismiss their petting with a shrug of their shoulders as a little indiscretion, while admitting that fornication is a base transgression. Too many of them are shocked, or feign to be, when told that what they have done in the name of petting was in reality [a form of] fornication” (The Miracle of Forgiveness, pp. 65–66).

“And speaking of courting, I remember a night when my sister Jane had a date with a boy who had grown a fine beard (fine enough to win a recent beard contest). However, the boy was very nervous about coming to our home, and he didn’t know if Dad would approve of his beard. He finally became so concerned that he shaved it off and appeared at our front door that evening clean-shaven. You know, my father was very touched by that.”

I would like to conclude with a personal experience that occurred at our home several years ago. I had gone outside to turn on our barbecue grill, when I noticed a quail sitting on the railing of our deck. I only noticed the quail because it was making a terrible racket- to the point of being annoying. As I looked across my yard in the direction the quail was directing the noise, I noticed the neighbor's cat sitting under our tree. I became intrigued and walked over toward the cat. As I got close, I noticed that the cat had something in its mouth, and I came to see that it was a tiny baby quail. Armed with my barbecue utensil, I scared the cat away, and it dropped the baby quail from its mouth onto the grass. The baby quail was still alive, so I went back into the house to give the mother quail a chance to attend to its missing baby. I gathered my family and together we watched from the window. Soon thereafter, the mother quail flew down to the ground, and began to make a call that was noticeably different than the one she had made before. In response to the call, we were all surprised to see not just one, but five, baby quail immediately pop up from different areas of the grass, and began to quickly make their way to their mother. The mother continued making the sound until all of the baby quail, including the one that had been in the cat's mouth, had all arrived safely back to her.

It became clear that the initial call made by the mother quail was a voice of warning- instructing the baby quail to take deep cover in the grass. The latter sound was a call to gather. Thus, there was safety and security to be had for the baby quail in both recognizing and responding to the specific instruction that was given.

Let me share the story of one of our most beautiful hymns, “Where Can I Turn for Peace?”
The poetess, Emma Lou Thayne, struggled for three years to help her oldest daughter through a severe mental illness. She’d done everything she could to find peace and help for a diagnosis she knew little about, calling it the “bleakest time I had ever known.”
In the midst of that heartache, Sister Thayne was asked by the Church to write music for a youth conference. One day, she retreated to a quiet room in the basement and penned these pleading, sacred words (in part):
“Where can I turn for peace?
Where is my solace
When other sources cease to make me whole? …
Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish?
Who, who can understand?
He, only One.
He answers privately,
Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and friend.
Gentle the peace he finds …
Constant he is and kind,
Love without end.” [18]
After writing those beautiful lyrics, Sister Thayne called her friend Jolene Meredith and asked her to compose the music. Sister Meredith had battled mental health struggles of her own. “She understood every word I’d written,” Sister Thayne recalled. “She sat at her piano … and as I read a line, she composed a line. By noon, we had our hymn.”
The two women privately referred to it as the “Mental Health Hymn”—and the Gethsemane they were both thinking of… included the mental suffering and emotional anguish that the Savior took upon Himself for all who suffer. [19]
What I love about this story is how these faithful women used their suffering for good!

“What do you want to do today?” Camille asked as she ran inside with her friends Jasmine and Deryn.
“My cousin showed me the funniest video!” Jasmine said. “We should watch it.”
“Awesome!” Camille said as she hurried to tell Mom that her friends were here. I wonder if I should tell Mom we’re on the computer, Camille thought. But she was already on her way back to the family room.
By the time she got back, Jasmine had already logged on to her favorite online video site. Deryn and Camille crowded around the computer, and the girls giggled as they watched a puppy chase after a tennis ball. When the video ended, the screen filled with links for other videos.
“Click that one!” Deryn said, pointing to a music video. “I love that singer!”
As the video played, Camille started to feel uncomfortable. She didn’t feel very good about the words or the dancing. She had liked the dog video, but this wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to watch.
“Let’s watch another one!” Deryn said, and Jasmine clicked another link.
Camille started to feel sick, but Deryn and Jasmine seemed to really like the videos—they were singing along and dancing—so she didn’t say anything while Jasmine and Deryn watched more and more videos.
When her friends went home, Camille wandered back to where Mom was working at her desk. “How are Jasmine and Deryn?” Mom asked.
“They’re good, but …” Camille paused.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “But what? Is something wrong?”
“We started watching videos online,” Camille said. “And at first they were OK, but then we started watching videos I didn’t feel good about. I just wanted to go play, but Jasmine and Deryn wanted to watch more. I didn’t know what to do.” She slumped down in a chair.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Mom said. “The Internet is good for lots of things, but sometimes just one click can take you somewhere you don’t want to be. We can also waste a lot of time without realizing it. What can we do to fix this for next time?” Mom asked.
Camille thought for a second, then said, “Watching a few videos is fine, but maybe after that I could come up with something else for us to do.”
“Great!” Mom said. “And if a video makes you uncomfortable, it’s important to say something. Never be afraid to stand up for yourself.”
“OK,” Camille said.
“That’s how you can do your part. But I can do my part too. How about we make a new family rule? Whenever your friends want to watch videos online, Dad or I have to log you on to the computer and be in the family room with you. That will help keep you and your friends safe. Can you agree to that?”
Camille nodded. “I think I know what to do next time.”
A few days later, Jasmine and Deryn came over after school again. “Hey, I found more music videos,” Deryn said. “We should watch them!”
Camille took a deep breath. “I don’t really like those videos,” she said. “But we can watch something else instead. I’ll go ask my mom to log us in.”
“I can just find them,” Jasmine said.
“No, Mom needs to,” Camille said, “She wants to make sure we watch good things online. And I do too.” She ran off to find Mom. After they’d watched a few videos, they could make smoothies or paint their nails. This way they could all have fun.

Several months ago, Sister Osborn and I were traveling a narrow road in central Luzon in the Philippines, where I was serving as a full-time Regional Representative. We passed a farmer on his way to market. He was trotting along, carrying an enormous load of vegetables and produce hanging from both ends of a wooden yoke carried across his shoulders. I stopped the car to take his picture. After I snapped the camera, he lowered his burden in order to visit. I asked my friend if his load wasn’t really too heavy to carry a great distance. He replied, “No, it isn’t, because it’s balanced.”
“Doesn’t that yoke hurt?” I asked.
“At first it did, but I carved and sanded it with a rough stone, and now it fits and is comfortable.”
I noticed, also, that he had a small cloth pad that spanned his neck—I suppose to cushion the shocks of a rough road.
It wasn’t until we drove away that I thought of the Savior’s invitation found in Matthew 11:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matt. 11:28–30.)