Gospel Story Finder

Every Saturday, it’s my responsibility to service one of the vending routes my dad owns in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. I drive on the sparsely populated freeway, listen to ’70s music, and enjoy the rare time alone. I love the long distances between the various locations of family entertainment centers and pizza restaurants. My first time making the rounds, however, proved to be more than just a way to earn some extra money and enjoy my time alone.
I had serviced all the booths without incident and felt pretty confident about my skills as a driver and my knowledge of the extensive freeway system in the valley. However, as I drove toward home, I soon found myself in unfamiliar territory and had no idea where I was. Frustrated more than worried, I picked up my dad’s cellular phone, swallowed my pride, and dialed home. No answer.
Getting a little anxious and noticing that I had wandered into a rougher part of town, I locked my doors and dialed again. No answer. I had no idea how to get home, and looking at my directions gave little help. I knew I needed my Heavenly Father and paused to pray. I thanked Him for the opportunity to earn extra money and humbly asked for His assistance to end my predicament. I closed my prayer and paused for a moment to listen. About a minute later, the phone sounded its computerized ring.
“Hello,” I answered.
My dad’s voice crackled through, “Raquel, how are things going? I’m out with your mom, and I felt I needed to call.”
Gratefully, I explained my situation, and he told me where I was and what I needed to do to get home. We disconnected, and I said a simple prayer of thanks, with unbidden tears streaming down my cheeks.
Most likely, I would have found my way home eventually. I doubt even that my situation was very dangerous, but the experience gave me firsthand knowledge that my Heavenly Father listened to my prayers. Now, when serious decisions are thrown my way or when heartfelt questions must be asked, I know He’s near, giving me faith and confidence. Whether I’m lost in an unfamiliar section of town, or lost in an unfamiliar section of life, I know without a doubt He cares and listens.

Recently, I was called as the temple and family history leader in my ward. In the week or so prior, I had been told a calling was on its way. Though I spent a lot of time thinking through what it could be, family history never occurred to me.
Before that meeting with the bishop, I’d done a little family history work—enough to bring some names to the temple and understand how to find them. Thankfully, my wife is passionate about the work and taught me to do it. It wasn’t something I ever spent much time exploring.
Aside from temple work, and bringing names for proxy ordinances, I didn’t see or understand what the work had to do with me or what blessings I could find in the work. To be honest, I had never attempted to liken the activities to myself for my profit and learning. (See 1 Nephi 19:23.)
When I received the calling and was set apart, I knew it was essential that I find out more about family history, how to find things out, what resources are out there for our eternal benefit of both us and our ancestors.
That very same day, as I got more familiar with the FamilySearch website and Ancestry.com, a scripture I had never given much, if any, consideration came alive for me in an unexpected way. “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the LORD:
“And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse” (Malachi 4:5–6).
I was receiving revelation of how to find sources and how to check the information therein. What had previously been a list of names which allowed me to participate in ordinances became a list of real people, with real experiences, with real worth in the eyes of God. Their life stories inspired me to work harder as a disciple of Jesus Christ and to be more dedicated in being a peacemaker. After all, it is pleasing to God when we “dwell together in unity” (Psalm 133:1).
Seeing my relationship links with people on FamilySearch deepened my desire to keep covenants so I could help them receive the ordinances necessary for salvation and exaltation.

Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that just a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen, Dad,” and across the valley came the plaintive call of a cuckoo bird. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the birds will sing joyful tunes. Oh, Dad, its a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first Latter-day Saint funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Mr. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the wagon with the casket with a pair of black horses.
It was only a short distance to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the wagon. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on the mountains. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.

One experience of wanting more holiness came for me in the Salt Lake Temple. I entered the temple for the first time having been told little of what to expect. I had seen the words on the building: “Holiness to the Lord” and “The House of the Lord.” I felt a great sense of anticipation. Yet I wondered if I was prepared to enter.
My mother and father walked ahead of me as we entered the temple. We were asked to show our recommends, certifying our worthiness.
My parents knew the man at the recommend desk. So they lingered a moment to speak with him. I went ahead alone into a large space where everything was sparkling white. I looked up at a ceiling so high above me it seemed an open sky. In that moment, a clear impression came to me that I had been there before.
But then, I heard a very soft voice—it was not my own. The softly spoken words were these: “You have never been here before. You are remembering a moment before you were born. You were in a sacred place like this. You felt the Savior was about to come into the place where you stood. And you felt happiness because you were eager to see Him.”
That experience in the Salt Lake Temple lasted only a moment. Yet the memory of it still brings peace, joy, and quiet happiness.
I learned many lessons that day. One was that the Holy Ghost speaks in a still, small voice. I can hear Him when there is spiritual peace in my heart. He brings a feeling of happiness and assurance that I am becoming more holy. And that always brings the happiness I felt in those first moments in a temple of God.

It was morning, muggy and buggy. I sat in the mulberry tree, thinking about the July carnival two weeks away. Daddy had promised us if we did our chores daily, no nagging, we’d each get $2.00 to spend. Otherwise, we’d have to pay our own way. I was 12 years old, and since my access to money was limited in those days, I’d taken his warning to heart and done all my work early. Now I had nothing to do, except sit in the mulberry tree, think about the “Fourth,” and eat mealy mulberries.
“Hello there, Birdie.” Grandpa walked over under the tree and chuckled. I’m named Roberta after my Uncle Robert, but everyone calls me Birdie. Grandpa was laughing because Birdie was in the tree. He and I had many jokes together, most so familiar we didn’t have to say them aloud.
“Hello there, yourself. Back from your walk already?” I jumped down and rubbed my hands on my pants, trying to remove the purple stain.
“Yup. I guess I’m still alive.” We laughed again. Every morning except Sunday, Grandpa went for a walk. “A man who stays in the house may as well trade his bed for a coffin,” he’d say.
He was really my great-grandfather, but we called him Grandpa because that’s what my mother called him. He lived with Mom’s family when she was a girl. Now he lived with us. His wife, Marie, died in 1932. He never remarried.
I was the youngest and only daughter, so my family had a tendency to treat me like I was still in Sunbeams. But Grandpa was my best friend. He didn’t treat me like a little kid. And I didn’t treat him like an old man.
“Are you ready for the fair?” I asked, squinting in the sunlight. “Great gray grizzlies couldn’t keep me away,” Grandpa replied. But on carnival morning Grandpa felt sick and couldn’t go with me. Dad gave each of us our $2.00. Don, Ricky, and I left early so we wouldn’t miss anything. Ted, however, was 23, home from his mission, and too old to go to the fair in the daytime. He and his fiancée, Katie, would go that evening. Nights at the carnival were romantic. Even I knew that.
I liked Katie. She always smiled and said, “Hi Birdie,” just like I was her best friend. Once she tried to fix my hair like hers, after I told her how much I admired her hair style. Since her hair was long and blonde and mine was red, short, and mop-curly, the results were disastrous. But we giggled the whole time. None of Ted’s previous girl friends ever acknowledged my existence, so I was glad he was marrying Katie—except they were moving to Utah to finish school. So I had to think of something extra perfect for a wedding present. And I had to get it before August.
The carnival was in the town park. There were twister rides, bumper cars, a double-decker Ferris wheel, and more. Rows of game booths stood around the rides. And the food booths smelled so good I got hungry just smelling them, even though I’d eaten breakfast less than half an hour before. Since Grandpa hadn’t been able to come I tried to print the entire scene in my memory. I walked slowly and separated sights, smells, and sounds. I wanted to tell it to Grandpa so lifelike that he’d close his eyes and the kitchen (where I’d be telling it over buttermilk and fruit) would magically change into a fairground with sawdust on the ground and birds flying to your feet, pecking up popcorn and hot dog bun crumbs.
I was just about to have one of my dollars changed for some ride tickets when I saw it.
Usually I don’t waste my time on game booths, since Grandpa says they’re all rigged against you. Sometimes I stand back to watch people try their luck, but not for long. So many people walk up with hope in their faces and walk away grumbling how they were gypped. The old men running the booths never seem to care. But the operator at this booth wasn’t an old man “carnie.” He was young with bright red hair and a faceful of freckles, and he wore a fluorescent yellow shirt that read, “James.” And his booth didn’t have big faded stuffed animals hanging from it, like they’d been waiting for years. This booth had all sorts of glassware stacked up in the middle—and you threw dimes. Whatever your dime landed in, you took home.
Normally, a bunch of glasses, even pretty ones like these, wouldn’t interest me. But near the middle was a tall, dark, red-rose vase. Flowery and frilly, with the sun glowing through.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” The red-haired “James” said. I jumped. I was used to people ignoring a 12-year-old.
“It sure is. It would be the perfect present for Ted and Katie.”
“Just one dime, and it’s yours. I’ll even put it in a box with tissue paper. You can take it home,” James said.
“I, I don’t think I could,” I stammered.
“It’s easy.” He picked up one of the many dimes on the floor and flipped it casually between his thumb and middle finger. It made a clear “ping” as it dropped into the vase. At the same time a boy on the other side threw a dime into a red and blue Spiderman bowl.
“I won! I won!” He screamed.
“Everyone’s a winner here.” James handed him the bowl. When he turned back to me I held out one of my dollars.
“I’d like change, please.”
He put the dollar in his pocket and picked ten dimes up off the floor. “Just remember, it’s all in the wrists.”
I looked at the dimes in my hand. One of them was going to land in the red vase. Maybe it would even be my first try. I wiped my sweaty left hand on my shirt and pitched a dime at the vase. It missed by a foot.
“Oh, a south paw,” James said. I nodded. “We always give lefties two first tries.” He picked up a dime and pressed it into my hand.
Embarrassed by so much attention, I hurriedly threw the dime and missed again. Only I missed much closer. Again and again I threw my dimes until I only had one left. Disillusioned, I started to leave. Then I thought. “What if this is the dime that will go in?” That thought got stronger and stronger. I still had one dollar left. So what was one dime? My heart thumped. I tossed it. It slid around the frilly edge, off the side, and landed in a jelly glass.
“A winner!” James cried out. He handed me the stupid jelly jar I didn’t want or need. Now I only had one dollar left. The whole day and fair were before me. I walked over to a food booth.
“How much for a hot dog?” I asked.
“Twenty cents. Mustard or plain?” The woman looked at me and waited. I wanted a hot dog, but I couldn’t spend any money. If I spent two dimes for a hot dog, I might spend the dime that would win my vase.
“Will you take this for a hot dog?” I asked, holding up my jelly jar. She glared at me. I walked back to James and the vase.
“Ten more dimes, please,” I said, shivering. Here it was, a hot Nebraska summer day, and I was shaking like it was zero degrees.
One by one I tossed all my dimes. One by one, they all missed. I kicked at the dirt and turned to go.
“Hey, Red!” It was James. “Come on back!”
“I don’t have any more money.” I jammed one hand in my pocket and gripped the jelly jar with my other.
“Us redheads got to stick together,” he grinned. “If you go get more money, I’ll help you get the vase, okay?”
“Okay!” I shouted, then frowned. Where was I going to get any more money?
I searched frantically until I found Ricky and Donald. “You spent the whole two bucks already?” Ricky gasped. “Isn’t that just like a girl.” Donald shook his head in disbelief. “Can I borrow a dime?” I begged. But they laughed and ran off. “I’ll sell you this jar for a dime!” I followed them but soon gave up. I shoved the jar on top of an overful trash can. I kept my eyes on the ground, looking for pennies, because I didn’t have any more money at home.
“Yes, you do.” I thought. “In the vitamin jar on your dresser is 37 cents.”
“But that’s tithing money!” I couldn’t believe I’d thought such a thought.
“You can pay it back,” I told myself. “And James promised to help. You’re sure to win the vase for Ted and Katie this time.”
“But it’s not my money. Anything in the vitamin jar is already tithing.” I argued with myself as I walked. When I looked up I was home. I felt like a thief as I walked into my room.
“What’s the matter, Leftie?” James asked when I returned. “I only have 37 cents and I have to win the vase this time.” He gave me four dimes and winked. I threw the first three. They all missed.
“I can’t do it,” I whined. “I try and I try, but they all either bounce off the rim or miss completely!”
“Give me your last dime.” He pointed to his palm. I handed it to him. “I’ll throw your last dime for you.” A flip of his hand and the dime went into the vase.
“You’re a winner!” He picked up the vase, put it in a box, and handed it to me. I smiled at the people clapping for me, but I didn’t feel like a winner. I felt like a real loser.
I ran straight home to my room, put the box up in my closet behind some dirty clothes, and lay down on my bed.
Grandpa knocked at the door. “Home already, Birdie? It’s only 2:00.”
“I don’t feel well,” I answered.
“Would you like some buttermilk?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I just want to be alone.” He left, and I lay there, more alone than I’d ever felt before, thinking all sorts of terrifying thoughts. I’d stolen from the Lord. What if I died before I could pay back that tithing?
August came, sunny and hot in the daytime, dark and hot at night—and sticky. The sweat stuck in the creases of your arms and knees. Katie was the only one who didn’t seem to mind the weather. She was over all the time, talking and laughing with Mom about the reception and married life.
I was feeling good again, too. I hadn’t died. I’d earned enough money and repaid the Lord. And I had the best present for Ted and Katie. To ease any remorse, I’d convinced myself that maybe the fact that I’d spent tithing money to win the vase made it more special. Guilty people can be real stupid.
Two days before the reception Grandpa and I were sitting in my bedroom drinking apple juice and club soda. Grandpa told me again about the day he married Great-grandma Marie, the civil ceremony in Fremont, and then, the train ride to Salt Lake City.
“Ted and Katie can fly to Salt Lake and get married tomorrow. But it took us three days by train,” Grandpa explained. “So we were married before, to make the trip respectable. It was an expensive marriage for me, but it was worth it.” He smiled at me. “The right things are difficult sometimes, but they’re always worth it.”
“Do you want to see what I got them?” I bounced up off the bed. “I haven’t shown it to anybody. I haven’t even looked at it since I got it. But if you want, I’ll show it to you.” I was already to the closet.
“What did you decide on, Birdie?” he asked.
“Wait until you see it. It’s the most beautiful present in the whole world.” I uncovered the box. He held it while I removed the lid and folded back the tissue paper. Somehow it looked different.
“Very nice,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” I turned away and looked out my window. “It looks like junk.” The vase, which had been the most exquisite object I’d ever seen at the carnival was now, in the afternoon light of my bedroom, all flawed. One side was much thicker than the other. Air bubbles marred the entire surface. “I don’t understand. It was so pretty at the carnival.”
“Is that where you bought it, the carnival?” Grandpa put his arm around me.
“I’m so ashamed,” I sobbed, and hugged him.
“You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” he comforted.
That made me feel worse. “Oh yes I have.” And between crying and blowing my nose I told him the whole regrettable story. “I’m so sorry.” I sniffed.
“I know,” he sighed. “I’m sure the Lord knows it, too. I wish I could have gone with you and spared you all this. But it seems to me, Roberta, you’ve learned a hard lesson.” He patted my back.
“When do I get to start learning easy ones, Grandpa?” I asked. Then, without waiting for him to reply, I stuffed the vase back in its box and gave it to him. “Please, do me a favor and take this to the trash. I never want to see this ugly vase again.”
When Ted, Katie, and the parents left for Utah, Grandpa stayed home with me and my brothers. We got the happy couple a gift certificate. Grandpa paid for it; I made the card. That was eight years ago. I’d almost forgotten about it.
Grandpa’s funeral was during finals week. When I came home from school there was a box on my dresser wrapped in plain brown paper. I carried it out to the living room. Mom was doing some mending.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“I found it in Grandpa’s bedroom when I was cleaning up,” she said. “It had your name on it.”
“Did he leave any others, for the boys or you?” I asked.
“No. That was the only one,” she answered. I felt kind of important as I opened the package. But the feeling didn’t last long. When I took off the lid I felt the same nausea and embarrassment I’d felt at age 12. Grandpa had left me that ugly red vase.
“It’s even worse than I remembered.” I felt like crying.
“What made him give you that?” Dad asked.
“There’s a note, Roberta.” Mom picked it up and looked at me. I was straining not to cry. “Would you like me to read it?”
I nodded.
She read:
“Dearest Little Birdie,
“I want to give this to you. It is the most important thing I can leave you. Do you remember how bad you felt the day you first showed me this vase when you told me the story behind it? I want you always to remember how bad you felt, because someday it may help you from feeling much worse.
“In life there are a lot of red vases: power, fame, beauty, money. And here on earth these things look so good to some people that they do anything to obtain them. They do far worse things than spending tithing money. When these people die, they will see with new eyes the goals they worked so hard to attain during their mortal existence. Those will seem as cheap and worthless as this vase seems to you. Only they will have spent a whole life on their red vases, while you, if you learn, will have only spent one hard lesson on yours.
“If you read the scriptures and heed the words of the prophets, ancient and latter-day, you won’t need to worry about whether the things you strive for in this life will be worthwhile in the next. You’ll know.
“So throw this ugly vase in the trash, if you must. But I would hope instead, you’ll keep it nearby at all times. So any time you’re tempted to lower your standards for money, worldly praise, or a man who is not worthy of you, anything you will have to compromise yourself for, you can take out this old vase, look at it, and remember how you felt that hot summer day. Then, ask yourself if it’s worth it.
“All my love, Grandpa.”
After crying for a while and explaining the vase story to my mother and father, I picked up the gift from my wise grandpa, carried it into my bedroom, and placed it on my dresser. And I’m going to take it back to school with me, too. I don’t know if my roommate’s going to think much of my taste, but I’m going to display it proudly in a prominent place in our apartment.
That red vase was a more expensive present than I ever dreamed on that carnival day. I will never let anything cost me that much again.

One priesthood leader in South America was burdened by the hunger and deprivation of the members of his little stake. Unwilling to allow the children to suffer in hunger, he found an empty plot of land and organized the priesthood to cultivate and plant it. They found an old horse and hooked up a primitive plow and began working the ground. But before they could finish, tragedy struck and the old horse died.
Rather than allow their brothers and sisters to suffer hunger, the brethren of the priesthood strapped the old plow to their own backs and pulled it through the unforgiving ground. They literally took upon themselves the yoke of the suffering and burdens of their brothers and sisters.11

I’ll close with two stories of young men—just a few years older than you students—who knew what they were on earth to do. Years ago a young man in Boston named Edward Kimball taught Sunday School at his church, feeling called to invest his life in the lives of young boys and men. In an effort to get to know his students better, he often paid a visit to them at their homes or places of work during the week.

One Sunday a 17-year-old boy showed up in his class—a boy with some rather rough edges, often bursting out in anger or profanity. Kimball thought about how he might reach this boy and decided to visit him at the shoe store where he worked for his uncle. He was nervous. What would the boy say? How would he be received? He found the boy in the back of the store wrapping shoes and putting them on the shelves.

Kimball simply put his hand on the teenager’s shoulder and mustered up some words about how Christ loved him. Amazingly, right there in his uncle’s shoe store, this young man wound up committing his life to Christ. His name was Dwight L. Moody.

In 1879 Moody was instrumental in the conversion of F. B. Meyer, who went on to become a minister. Meyer mentored someone named J. W. Chapman and led him to Christ.

Chapman became a pastor and evangelist and started an outreach ministry to professional baseball players. One of those players, Billy Sunday, became Chapman’s assistant for many of his evangelistic meetings.

Having learned from Chapman, Billy Sunday started to hold his own evangelistic meetings, becoming the greatest evangelist of the first part of the 20th century in America. In the 1920s, one of Billy Sunday’s revivals in North Carolina was so successful, an associate of his, Mordecai Ham (who had given his life to Christ in one of Sunday’s crusades), was asked to come back to Charlotte a few years later to hold a second series of crusades.

On one of the final nights of Mordecai Ham’s evangelistic meetings in Charlotte, North Carolina, another teenager responded to an invitation to follow Jesus Christ. That teenager turned 94 in November, and thanks to a Sunday School teacher in Boston years ago, countless millions of people have heard about Jesus because of the preaching of Billy Graham.

After high school I joined the army reserve. My commanding officer gave me the opportunity of becoming a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army. He was very gracious but also very large and imposing. People didn’t turn him down. I asked if I could go home and think it over.
I prayed that night, and into my mind came the baptism prayer found in Doctrine and Covenants 20:73: “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
I went back the next morning and told my commanding officer that I had decided to accept a commission—but that I would be commissioned by Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I explained that I was going to serve a mission for my church.
The feeling of having that prayer answered was wonderful, and I have felt it again and again as I have prayed about important decisions. I seem to have always known that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know me and love me. My conversion must have begun when I first attended Primary and felt the Spirit there. It continued in my Aaronic Priesthood quorums and in the mission field. It still continues today.

When I was 17 years old, one of my good friends asked me to go on a group date with him. We went to the park with a couple of our friends and played volleyball, ate treats, and talked around the fire to finish off the night. We had a lot of fun, and I was happy that I could spend that time getting to know my date. Just as we were getting ready to leave, a group of boys who were about our same age approached us. Almost instantly, I felt uneasy. Those boys were acting so strangely; they talked too loudly, and their eyes were red and glazed over.
One of them lifted something to his mouth, blew out a lot of smoke, and said, “Looks like you guys are having a party. Mind if we join?”
My date politely responded, “We’re actually just about to leave. We were just cleaning up.”
One of the boys then said, “But we’d love to join you! Besides, the party just started! Do you guys want to share a smoke?”
It was then that I realized that they weren’t smoking just regular cigarettes, and I completely froze. I realized why the Spirit had warned me so quickly. I didn’t want to be rude, but I also knew I didn’t want anything to do with whatever they had to offer. I was so relieved that I was with my friend—a worthy priesthood holder—who shared my standards and could sense how uncomfortable I was.
Without hesitating, my date said, “No, thanks. We’re not into that kind of stuff. Have a good night!” And we left the park.
As he drove me home, I felt the Spirit’s peace come back. I told him how grateful I was that he shared my standards and that he had been there to help me out of that difficult situation. The For the Strength of Youth pamphlet counsels us to “date only those who have high moral standards and in whose company you can maintain your standards. Remember that a young man and a young woman on a date are responsible to protect each other’s honor and virtue” ([2011], 4). Though his actions were simple, my date helped me to maintain my standards.
I’ve learned that if I choose to be around and date people who share my standards, I will be blessed with the Spirit and the decision to keep the commandments and maintain my standards will be easier.

I remember as a child looking at my grandmother’s wrinkled cheeks. Lines creased the corners of her eyes, and tiny lines graced her upper lip. I asked her how I could keep from getting wrinkles.
“Don’t smile,” she said. “And don’t cry.”
I followed her advice—for one day. Then I gave up. How could anyone live without smiling or crying? I decided I’d rather have a face that shows the lines of laughter and tears.

“It was a stake play, but it was a missionary play as well,” said Simon Noble, 17, of the Holywood Road Ward, explaining why youth in the Belfast Northern Ireland Stake were so excited to be involved in their stake production. “It was all about the plan of salvation, and we invited non-LDS friends to come and enjoy a night of theatre and learn about what we believe,” he said.
“My own testimony was strengthened, too,” said Paul Curran, 15, of the Bangor Ward. “We kept rehearsing the lines, and as we did, I kept thinking about how much it means to know the truth.”
Ruby May Silcock, 18, also of the Bangor Ward, said the play helped her learn about teamwork. “We all had to cooperate and work together,” she said. “It took a lot of people skills.”
Saints and friends alike enjoyed the music, the acting, the jokes, and the message.

It seemed perfectly normal when Karen Monahan grabbed the hero’s arm. Then, right on cue, he began his solo performance. But instead of singing the words, he was signing them, telling his part of the story through deaf sign language. No one in the audience knew that Karen had squeezed firmly on Scott’s arm to let him know when to begin. No one needed to know. He performed his actions smoothly, as the other actors had throughout the show, without saying a word.
Then the curtains rushed together, but no one on stage spoke. When the curtains opened again, the cast bowed politely. Although the audience thundered its applause, 30 of the 45 performers couldn’t hear it because they are deaf. But they had communicated so effectively with the audience that nearly everyone watching cheered when the awards were announced. The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf had won the Los Angeles California Stake roadshow competition, with awards for best acting, best costumes and set, best script, and of course, outstanding roadshow of the year.
It was the culmination of months of effort that had begun when the stake president, Rodney H. Brady, sent a letter inviting the ward to participate in the annual contest for the first time. Initially, the challenge seemed insurmountable. “I had my doubts about how good it would be,” Wayne Bennett, a counselor in the bishopric said, speaking in Ameslan (American Sign Language, a means of communication employed by many deaf people). “But a few months of practice made of lot of difference. When I saw the roadshow in performance, I said, ‘Hey, that’s no roadshow; that’s a miracle!’”
The audience seemed to agree. Carol Mears, a professional comedy sketch writer, said she was “thrilled. I honestly forgot it was being done by the deaf.” Other performers, sometimes from other ward’s roadshows, sometimes children of ward members, provided voices to narrate the story. They spoke through microphones in the orchestra pit and were unseen by the audience. But their narration helped those who could hear to follow the actions of the deaf actors and actresses on stage.
The show, entitled “Under the Apple Tree,” adhered closely to the stake theme, “Once upon an Apple Tree,” and followed the trials of Red Delicious, an apple tree torn from his home by a tornado. He was soon joined by Yellow Delicious, another uproot in search of a place she could call her own. The two castaways discovered a new orchard presided over by Mother Apple, and finally felt confident to sink their roots into the community. Red Delicious eventually saved his fellow trees from a nefarious attack by bugs and aphids (including two members of the bishopric), and the apple trees lived happily ever after.
One of the highlights of the production was the “ABC Song,” during which the Apple Cuties taught audience members the manual alphabet. Another well-remembered scene found Mother Apple unable to get the attention of Red and Yellow Delicious, so she threw an apple at them and complained, “They must be deaf.” The joke appeared to put the audience at ease as they realized the deaf knew how to laugh at themselves.
Making the roadshow a success was not an easy task. There were many unusual problems. For example, when 23-year-old director Dave McKay began thinking about writing a script, he encountered the difficulty of writing one that would never be spoken. “We wrote it with our hands,” he said. Once a skeletal plot outline was chosen, directors and cast members worked together from improvised possibilities to a finalized sequence of actions. Long after rehearsals had begun, voice director Kareena Heath decided on words to be read by the unseen voices in the orchestra pit.
Another difficulty was synchronization of music and action. The entr’acte, for example, was an interpretive dance, and the dancers were required to perform to music they could not hear. Brother McKay solved the problem by casting one hearing dancer, who was responsible to keep the others in time with the beat. Once again, this was accomplished by means of hidden signals undetectable to the audience. Scott Duge (Red Delicious) and Birdie Herrick (Mother Apple) were kept on cue by Karen, a hearing interpreter for the deaf who took the role of Yellow Delicious. In other sections, actors and dancers maintained correct timing by memorizing counts and order of appearance.
Staging had to be carefully arranged so that actors could not only be seen, but also so that their hand signals were clearly visible at all times.
And, of course, butterflies in the stomach aren’t limited only to those who hear. Bill Andrews, who played Washington, the oldest of Mother Apple’s children, explained that stage fright manifested itself in an unusual way. “You could literally say we had a case of arthritis,” he said. “Our fingers were frozen. When hearing people get scared, their voices shake, but in our case, it’s our hands. They stiffen up and we can’t make the signs.”
Birdie was supposed to keep everyone backstage quiet. “But the deaf signed to each other anyway,” she remembered, smiling. “I told them to cut it out, because their hands would crack and make noise.”
The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf is a unique organization. Those in the ward are either deaf themselves or members of a family in which someone is deaf. Although it is under jurisdiction of the Los Angeles California Stake, its members come from a broad geographical area. But the roadshow brought them all together.
Homer Thexton explained how participation in the event strengthened family unity. He is deaf, his wife is hard of hearing, and his children hear normally, yet all participated. “It helped our family,” he explained. “There was more cooperation and communication at home. We really taught and helped each other in our parts.”
That type of reaction extended throughout the stake. For example, members of the University of Southern California Branch roadshow cast (which, incidentally, placed second in the competition) stayed behind after their own performance long enough to provide the voices for the deaf show. Noting that support, President Brady said he felt the roadshow experience had unified the entire stake. Since the performance, a variety of activities have helped to bring members of the ward for the deaf and other wards in the stake into closer contact on a more regular basis. (See FYI for Feb. 1978 and May 1978.)
The roadshow is over. But excitement and pride remain. Already ward members are talking about future productions and looking forward to another roadshow next year.
Editor’s Note: The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf was recently divided to form two new wards, the San Fernando Valley Ward for the Deaf in the Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake, and the Torrance North Ward for the Deaf, located in the Torrance California North Stake. The Fullerton Branch for the Deaf of the Fullerton California Stake was created in 1971, and continues to serve the needs of the deaf in that area.

1. Mathan’s great-grandma always had interesting things in her big purse. If Mathan was hungry, she had a treat. If Mathan was bored, she pulled out a pad of paper for him to draw on. And if Mathan got hurt, she always had a bandage. But the thing that he loved the most was Great-Grandma’s bottle of lotion.
2. Great-Grandma often took out her lotion and rubbed it on her hands. She said it helped keep her hands smooth and soft. Mathan thought this was important because he knew that Great-Grandma did a lot with her hands. She made delicious grape jelly, she sewed soft baby blankets, and she played the piano.
3. Sometimes Great-Grandma shared her lotion with Mathan. When he was feeling restless or unhappy, she would take his hands in hers and squeeze out the cool lotion. Then she would gently rub it on his fingers, the backs of each hand, and then the palms. The sweet smell of the lotion and the touch of her soft hands made him feel calm and content. “There now,” she would say. “That’s just what you needed.” And it was just what Mathan needed.
4. Over time, Great-Grandma got very old. She couldn’t make jelly or sew blankets or play the piano. She no longer carried her big purse full of treats, pads of paper, bandages, and lotion. Most of the time she didn’t even look at Mathan. She just sat in her wheelchair with her hands in her lap. Mathan thought she looked unhappy and tired. It made him feel sad.
5. One day when Mathan went to visit Great-Grandma, he brought a bottle of lotion with him. While she was sitting in her wheelchair, Mathan gently took her wrinkled hands in his and squeezed out the cool lotion. He gently rubbed it on her fingers, the backs of her hands, and then the palms.
6. When Mathan was finished with her hands, he carefully removed her slippers and rubbed the lotion on her feet. After he replaced her slippers he looked up to see Great-Grandma’s bright blue eyes looking at him. “Thank you, Mathan,” she whispered. “That’s just what I needed.”

President Boyd K. Packer has counseled us to have a hymn memorized so that when an inappropriate thought comes into our minds, we can replace it with a hymn. In applying this instruction, a friend of mine explained: “One day I left my office for lunch. After I had walked for about two blocks, I noticed that I had been humming ‘my song’: ‘I Am a Child of God.’ As I chained my thoughts back several hundred yards, I realized that as I had crossed the street from my office, a young woman, inappropriately clothed, had crossed in front of me. Immediately, subconsciously, the words and music of ‘I Am a Child of God’ began to roll through my mind—to displace inappropriate thoughts.” That day my friend learned a great lesson about his ability to control his thoughts.

When Aaron and his family got home from church, the seven-year-old boy asked his mom if he could go down the street and see his friend Toby’s new remote-controlled race car. Mom knelt to his level, looked deep into his eyes, and smiled affectionately. “Whose day is this, honey?”
“Well,” Aaron replied after giving her question some study, “I guess it’s the Lord’s day.”
“That’s right,” Mom answered. “What do you think the Savior would do today if He were here?”
Aaron wrinkled up his face as if trying to squeeze out the right answer. It worked. “He’d help people? Maybe visit someone who was sick … or lonely … or sad?”
Mom’s smile widened, but Aaron sighed unhappily. “I don’t know anybody like that, Mom.”
“I bet Heavenly Father does, honey. Why don’t you ask Him?”
Aaron spoke softly to himself, but his mother heard the words as he drifted toward the living room. “I’m just a little kid, anyway. How can I help anybody?”
When Aaron stepped into the living room he spied their dog, Nick, lying on the floor asleep. Aaron knelt beside the big dog, resting his head on Nick’s slowly rising and falling side. He closed his eyes and prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help him figure out who he could serve. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at a picture of his Grandma McKillop hanging on the wall in a little patch of window light. Her husband, Grandpa Eugene, had died just a few months before, and Aaron’s father had told him that she was very lonely. “I wish we could go visit her today, Nick,” Aaron informed the sleeping dog. “But she lives far away from here, clear over in California.”
His eyes brightened. “I know,” he said, “maybe I could write her a letter.” And with Mom’s help, he did.
Dear Grandma,
Do the raccoons still bang on your sliding-glass door with their fists if you don’t put food out for them by five o’clock? I caught a big bug last week, Grandma. I let him go, and watched him walk down into the turnips. He walked kind of like a wind-up toy. I miss you, Grandma. I love you. And I even like your broccoli. Heavenly Father loves you too. Be happy, Grandma, and good luck with the raccoons. God will bless you for loving His creatures. As Dad says, “We’re all in this together.”
Love, Aaron
One afternoon about two weeks later, when Aaron returned home from school, his mother announced that he had received a letter from Grandma McKillop. Aaron beamed with surprise. “Grandma wrote me a letter?”
His mother laughed. “Unless there’s another Aaron at this address!”
“Can we read it together, Mom?” Aaron asked excitedly, setting his lunchbox on the kitchen table. “Just in case there are any words bigger than I am?”
Mom smiled and nodded, and they sat down together at the table. Aaron opened the letter and began reading, carefully sounding out the words.
My dear, precious grandson Aaron,
Your letter came unexpectedly on a day that was especially difficult for me. You see, I miss your grandpa so. Your heartfelt words lifted my spirits and gave me cause for joy. They were like a warm spray of sunlight on a dark, bleak afternoon. Your letter made my day. You’ll never know what a big difference it made. And yes, I am surviving the raccoons. We are the best of friends, you know. And they also like my broccoli!
All my love, Grandma McKillop
Aaron’s eyes lifted to his mother’s, shining with wonder and delight. “She said my letter made her day!”
Mom’s eyes shone back, and her chin quivered with emotion. “You see,” she said, her voice as shaky as her chin, “a child can help others and do good on the Sabbath day.”

It was on an overcast day years ago that my friend called and asked me to attend the Jordan River Utah Temple with her. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go out, as that day the things of the world were weighing heavily upon my soul. I felt I had little self-worth, and among other things, I didn’t feel needed in my ward.
But after some hesitation, I accepted my friend’s invitation with a prayer in my heart that if I would go and do the Lord’s work, He would help me find peace of mind and an answer to my prayers.
At the temple I enjoyed the session but felt no particular answer to my plea for help. After I had prepared to leave and was waiting for my friend, a woman in a wheelchair bumped into me. As I bent down to rub the pain in my leg, I heard her say in a sweet voice, “Oh, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” She gently touched my head. “Are you OK, dear sister?”
I looked up into an angelic face of pure love. She then looked me in the eye and, with a squeeze of the hand, said, “This Church needs you, and there are so many that need your love. Reach out to others, and they will reach out to you. You are needed, wanted, and loved in the Lord’s kingdom.”
Tears filled my eyes, and I cried for a few minutes as she held my head against her. When I regained control, I wiped away tears of joy and replied, “You have answered my prayer.”
I realized I was speaking to Camilla Eyring Kimball, whose husband, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), had said: “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs” (“The Abundant Life,” Tambuli, June 1979, 3; Ensign, July 1978, 4).
I then found the strength to go home with joy and to give love from that day forward. I shall never forget how I was given peace and an answer to my prayer in an unexpected way on that glorious day in the house of the Lord.

I just finished reading “When a Friend Dies” in the April 1987 issue, and I really feel strongly to write and thank you for this article. Two weeks ago four of my friends died in an accident. When I heard what had happened, I was totally shocked. Then it sank in and pain and emptiness just overwhelmed me. That day when I went to school everyone was upset and felt the same sense of loss that I felt.
But the understanding of the gospel, my prayers, and the scriptures have helped me to understand and go on with my life.
The pain of losing such good friends is still there, and I will never forget them. But now when I have that giant question “Why?” I can go back to this article and it will definitely help me out.
Thank you so much for your perfect timing, your wonderful magazine, and the best article in the world.

Even as we strive with all our might to fulfill our mission, we will all have experiences we would rather avoid. But these experiences, as unpleasant as they may be, can be most helpful to us. My next area of mission service was made up of sixteen small islands. Because the mission was so short of missionaries, I had no companion. My only instructions were that I should preach the gospel and build up the Church in my area.

Often I took members of the Church on some of those islands, and I often took them with me on preaching trips. We mostly traveled by small sailboat. One day as we were sailing to our home island, the weather became very rough. Suddenly we found ourselves in the middle of a tropical storm which was very dangerous. As two huge waves came toward us, the captain shouted to the six of us on board the boat, “Abandon ship!”

We dove into the sea as those waves smashed our tiny boat, leaving us struggling for our lives. Exerting all our efforts, we headed for a small island we had passed earlier. After swimming for about one hour, we finally made it to the shore, exhausted but alive. The storm passed rather rapidly, but we were still stranded on the island for several days before we were able to make our way home over much friendlier seas.

How much more I appreciated life and solid ground than I had before. We don’t begin to understand or appreciate life as we should until we sense the closeness of death. This whole experience gave me a new outlook and appreciation for life.

While I would not have chosen that experience in the sea or some other experiences I had, much of my subsequent happiness and joy can be traced back to some of those so-called “unwanted” experiences. We don’t need to seek these experiences. They find us more often than we may desire. All we have to do is try with all our might to live the way we should, remember on our goal, and leave the rest to the Lord.

I remember the time as a student, when I worked for three days and nights with no sleep on a computer programming assignment for my Computer Graphics class. I was exhausted and yet I completed and turned in the project on time. I contrast that with the time when I worked in a hospital when our system was down and it took me three days and nights with no sleep to get the system back up and running. Both were challenging and required about the same amount of time and effort from me. However, of the latter, there was much more at stake with many individuals involved and especially the quality and lives of patient care. I was the one programmer that knew how to troubleshoot and find the problem to get the system back up, and all eyes and hopes were on me.

Another example comes from the ministry of the Prophet Joseph Smith. In 1833 the Prophet accompanied Freeman Nickerson to Canada to visit his sons Freeman and Moses. They were received rudely by young Freeman. He said, “Father, . . . I had just about as soon you had brought into my home a nest of scorpions and turned them loose upon us. . . . I know all about Joe Smith . . . ; the papers are full of him and his works, and I want none of either. . . . But, . . . I’ll welcome them for your sake.”

Two days passed. Relations became more cordial, but there were no attempts to discuss religion. Freeman had boasted to his wife how he could handle Joe Smith.

On the evening of the second day, Freeman invited everyone to the living room. “He threw the family Bible on to the table . . . with the challenging remark: ‘There! Now go to it!’”

The Prophet did not “go to” the Bible. “Instead, he related his own dramatic experiences, . . . told with the utmost simplicity, but with great earnestness.”

Freeman apologized for his rudeness. Before the Prophet left town, 14 people, including the Nickerson brothers, were baptized by the Prophet. (Taken from John Henry Evans, Joseph Smith, an American Prophet [New York: Macmillan, 1936], 86–88.)