Gospel Story Finder

George and Hine Chase of New Zealand found that their mission call was just right for them; they were pleasantly surprised when so many of their vocational and family talents helped them do humanitarian work in Papua New Guinea.
Elder Chase had been a carpenter and could help assess and organize projects such as establishing water wells. Sister Chase had worked for 18 years in office management. “My administration and computer skills were invaluable,” she says. She and Elder Chase used their combined abilities to run a career workshop program, helping locals learn skills like time management, organization, leadership, hygiene, and communication.
Together the Chases used the experience they’d gained from their Church callings and—most of all—from being parents. As the Chases worked to distribute school supplies and improve infant child care, their parenting experience helped them appreciate the difficulties local families and schools faced.

I used to be guilty of judging by appearance back in the days when I could see, before I lost my sight because of diabetes. I remember in particular my girls’ chorus teacher in junior high school. She was about as plain as a person could be, and she wore drab clothing. Even in conducting the choir she seemed to be a shy, backward person with about as much personality as a soda cracker. I am ashamed to admit that we girls made many rude remarks and cruel jokes about her behind her back.
One day at the end of the school year, some friends of mine thought it would be funny to leave an anonymous note on her desk telling her what we really thought of her. I was elected to do the dirty work. But as I went into the empty room to leave the note, I couldn’t do it. Instead, overcome by what I now suspect was the Spirit, I quickly wrote a note thanking her for her efforts in leading the chorus and telling her I had enjoyed singing.
As I was leaving the note on her desk, she entered the room. I was frozen to the spot as she walked to the desk, picked up the note, and read it. As I watched, I was astonished to see tears come to her eyes and flood down her cheeks. She clutched the note to her heart and in her mild way said, “Thank you.”
As I looked into her eyes at that moment, I believe I saw her clearly for the first time. I felt like I saw straight into her soul and sensed at once her loneliness, her pain, and her gentle goodness. At that moment, I loved her with a love that was far more powerful than anything I had ever felt for my favorite teachers. The Lord permitted me to see her heart as he sees it.

Juanita was sick, so Sarah walked home from school by herself. She missed her friend because they always had so much to talk about. Still, Sarah enjoyed figuring out where she was by the sounds around her. She could hear dogs barking and children playing in their front yards when she stopped to visit her neighbor Mrs. Bartelli and play with Baby Andrew.
“Hello, Sarah.” Mrs. Bartelli sounded tired and tense when she opened the door. “I hope that Andy will be good for you. He’s been fussy all afternoon.”
Sarah wondered what was wrong. She could tell by Andrew’s delighted giggles, though, that he was happy to see her. She lifted him out of his crib and sniffed. “Should I change him, Mrs. Bartelli?”
“Yes, if you would, please.”
Sarah felt around for a diaper and washcloth, then laid Andrew down. He giggled and squirmed. “I’m glad that these are disposable diapers,” she told him. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally stick a pin into such a wiggly boy!”
As Sarah finished changing Andrew, she heard Mrs. Bartelli talking on the telephone.
“Yes, I understand.” Mrs. Bartelli sighed. “Well, I’ll call you again. Good-bye.”
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Bartelli?” Sarah asked.
“Tonight is our fifth wedding anniversary. Juanita was going to tend Andy for us, but she has measles. And no one else is available on such short notice.”
Sarah had seldom heard a grown-up so close to tears. “Mrs. Bartelli, let me tend Andrew,” she suggested. “He knows me, and I can do a good job.”
After a long silence Mrs. Bartelli replied, “I don’t know, Sarah. Being totally responsible for Andy at night is not like playing with him while I’m here.”
“I know I can do it,” Sarah assured her. “I can change his clothes and diaper and make his bottle. I have all the emergency numbers memorized. I’m very careful. It shouldn’t matter that I’m blind. If I have any trouble, I can call Mom. She’s just two doors away.”
Mrs. Bartelli thought for a moment, then agreed.
“Thank you!” Sarah excitedly hugged the baby.
That night Sarah settled down on the sofa to listen to a tape of her homework. Andrew had taken his bottle and had gone to sleep quickly while she rocked him, and now she needed only to check him occasionally. Mrs. Bartelli had said that she and her husband would be home late—dinner, a play, and ice cream afterward would keep them out until at least midnight.
As Sarah listened to her history lesson, something kept bothering her. Finally she stopped the tape and concentrated. No, Andrew isn’t crying. It’s a smell, like something burning. She stood up and sniffed, turning her head to discover where the smell came from. Guiding herself down the hall by brushing her hand along the wall, she went through the kitchen to the door of the utility room, where the washer and dryer were. The smell of smoke was strong here, and it made her cough. She felt the closed door with her hand. It was hot!
Her heart pounding, Sarah prayed, “Please, Heavenly Father, help me get Andrew out all right.” With trembling fingers she felt her way back through the house to the baby’s room. She quickly wrapped him in a blanket and left the house. Walking carefully, feeling for toys on the sidewalk, she was soon home.
Sarah unlocked the door and called for her mother. There was no answer. She almost panicked before remembering that her mother had talked about going shopping. Sarah wasted no more time. Shifting a waking Andrew onto one hip, she quickly punched 9-1-1 on the telephone. She explained the situation and gave the dispatcher the Bartelli’s address.
After hanging up, Sarah hurried back outside. Andrew made small, inquiring baby noises as she felt her way along the sidewalk. The sound of a siren startled him, but she quickly hushed his crying.
When she could hear the fire truck pull up, she called out, “The fire is in the utility room. Go in the front door and through the living room. It’s to the left of the kitchen.”
For the next few minutes the sounds of booted feet and men calling to one another were all that she could hear, and she wondered what was happening. Then one of the men approached her. “Are you the one who reported the fire?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m the baby-sitter. I smelled smoke, and the door felt hot, so I left the house and called from my home. It’s just down there.” She pointed.
“Good work! The iron was left on, and it started a fire. The utility room was damaged, but because you discovered the fire so early, the rest of the house wasn’t harmed at all.”
People from the neighborhood were beginning to crowd around to see why the fire truck was there. Sarah heard familiar footsteps, and her mother hurried up. “What’s going on, honey?”
The fireman explained about the fire once more, and Sarah’s mother gathered her up in a big hug, baby and all. “You did well, sweetheart. Pretty exciting for a first baby-sitting job, wasn’t it?”
Sarah smiled. She had done a good job of baby-sitting all by herself—without her mom, or Juanita, or anybody else helping her! But there was one more thing that she needed to do. “We should call the Bartellis, Mom. I memorized the phone numbers of the places where they’ll be tonight.”
“Good thought,” Sarah’s mother said.
Sarah smiled up at her mother. “Mom, do you think that Mrs. Bartelli will let me baby-sit again?”
“She’ll be missing out if she doesn’t rehire the best baby-sitter that she’s likely to ever have!”

One such opportunity came unexpectedly. My companion and I were once “trapped” in a room surrounded by ministers from another church who were trying to discredit our teachings. We refused to contend with them and silently prayed for a way to escape. Then, a seminary lesson came to mind. I asked them, “How would you describe the taste of salt to someone who has never tasted it?” Some tried but could not do so, until one finally said, “It’s simple—just taste it!” I then held up my copy of the Book of Mormon and asked, “Has any of you read this book?” No one raised their hand or responded in the affirmative. Only silence ensued. That gave us the opportunity to bear our testimonies and invite them to read it for themselves. The encounter ended peacefully, and word of it spread in the community, opening doors that had previously been closed to us.

I hope with all my heart that we shall never slip into a depression. I am a child of the Great Depression of the thirties. I finished the university in 1932, when unemployment in this area exceeded 33 percent.
My father was then president of the largest stake in the Church in this valley. It was before our present welfare program was established. He walked the floor worrying about his people. He and his associates established a great wood-chopping project designed to keep the home furnaces and stoves going and the people warm in the winter. They had no money with which to buy coal. Men who had been affluent were among those who chopped wood.
I repeat, I hope we will never again see such a depression.

As a boy, I learned a great lesson of faith and sacrifice as I worked on my grandfather’s farm during the terrible economic depression of the 1930s. The taxes on the farm were unpaid, and Grandfather, like so many, had no money. There was a drought in the land, and some cows and horses were dying for lack of grass and hay. One day when we were harvesting what little hay there was in the field, Grandfather told us to take the wagon to the corner of the field where the best stand of hay was, fill the wagon as full as we could, and take it to the tithing yard as payment of his tithing.
I wondered how Grandfather could use the hay to pay tithing when some of the cows that we were depending upon to sustain us might starve. I even questioned if the Lord expected that much sacrifice. Ultimately I marveled at his great faith that somehow the Lord would provide. The legacy of faith he passed on to his posterity was far greater than money, because he established in the minds of his children and grandchildren that he loved the Lord and His holy work more than earthly things. Grandfather never became wealthy, but he died at peace with the Lord and with himself.

Another way to learn about leadership is to choose good friends. “The best way to learn to be a good leader is to make sure you’re following the right crowd. Then you can step up and be a good leader, listen to them, and invite people to activities,” says Brad Smidt, 17, of the First Ward, Coeur d’Alene Stake. Kiyana Dickson, 18, of the Cheney First Ward, Spokane West Stake, remembers a successful activity in her stake where this principle was illustrated. “One of the best activities we had was a summer social when a lot of inactive and nonmember friends came because other people invited them to have fun with us. Now I talk to those kids all the time, and they smile more often. They go to activities and know how much fun they are.”

It was like a big fair day in the town of Preston, England, that warm day of July 22, 1837. People everywhere were rejoicing as they looked forward to the rule of Queen Victoria. She had finally been crowned and, to the joy of all her people, had ordered new elections for Parliament. Everyone hoped for honesty in their new government.
The celebration was in full force. Signs reading “Truth Will Prevail!” decorated the roads. Everywhere people lined the streets, listening to bands and waving flags.
To Jed it was a time of excitement. Never in his fourteen years had he seen people look to the future with so much hope. It truly was a time of rejoicing.
In the midst of the turmoil, three modestly dressed men stood and stared at the commotion around them. Jed could tell that they were strangers, because they didn’t seem to know what the celebration was about. Then to Jed’s amazement, the men read the banners and shouted, “Amen! Thanks to God, truth will prevail!”
Jed watched them thread their way through the crowd and disappear in the jubilant throng. As the fun of the festivities continued, he forgot the men and enjoyed the rare day of vacation.
When Sunday rolled around, the excitement was still high. In Jed’s family everyone was up early, as usual, preparing for their day. Mother had a fire going in the fireplace and was cooking breakfast. Jed’s little brothers and sisters were sitting by the fire, rubbing their sleepy eyes and waiting to be fed. Jed had already been to the town pump for water. He set the buckets on the bench by the back door.
“Thank you, Jed,” Mother said. The soft Scottish lilt could still be heard in her voice, even though they’d lived in England for over ten years. “Now you can wash for breakfast.”
Jed took a basin of water up to his room. He was thankful that it was summer. Winters were so cold that he couldn’t wash fast enough! Carefully he washed, then rejoined his family.
His mother dished up a steaming bowl of porridge, which he eagerly ate, then asked for more. Mother laughed as she dished up another bowl for him. “Well, Jed, you surely have an appetite! I hope that you can last until dinnertime. Are you going to the meeting with me today?”
Before he could answer, his father came in with the milk pails. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he said. “I need the boy today. Da’s (Father’s) cow is sick, and I’ll need Jed to hold her whilst I give her the draught (medicine).”
“But, Tom,” Mother protested. “Can’t Da help you? I would really like one of you to come with me.”
“Da’s arm hasn’t healed properly,” Father answered. “He doesn’t have the strength for the job. I’m truly sorry. We’ll both try to go with you the next time.” He put his arm around her and gave her a hug. He knew that religion was important to her. She had been looking for the true church for years. He and Jed had gone with her from church to church, looking for the truth. She was convinced that she’d soon find it.
She smiled at her men. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Tom. And I’ll expect Jed to come too.”
She took the younger children with her. After leaving them in their Sunday School classes, she slipped into the Vauxhall Chapel to listen to Reverend James Fielding. A member of his church ever since he had started preaching there, she had been drawn to him because of his belief that the true church of Christ was not on the earth at this time but would come before the Savior returned.
Mother had listened to Reverend Fielding tell of a church in America that his brother and sisters had joined. It was reported to be like the one Christ established long ago. The minister was expecting to hear more about this church, and he had asked his congregation to pray for the truth to be brought to them.
That morning as Mother sat in the front of the chapel and listened carefully to Reverend Fielding’s sermon, he spoke forcefully about a need for prophets and a latter-day church. Then he told of three preachers here from America who were personal friends of his family in America. He invited everyone to return at three o’clock and listen to them preach.
Mother sat up even straighter in her seat. This was it! She just knew that what she’d been waiting for was about to happen. As soon as the meeting was over, she slipped out of the chapel and almost ran for home, pulling the little ones behind her.
“Tom! Jed!” she called. They still weren’t home from Da’s. Leaving ten-year-old Ann in charge, Mother ran from house to house, leaving a message with her neighbors: “Preachers from a new religion in America are going to speak at the Vauxhall Chapel. Everyone come!”
Never had she been so excited! Jed could feel the excitement when he walked through the door. Mother twirled Father around, and then Jed. “My prayers have been answered!” she exclaimed joyfully. “They’re here! The men from America. You must come with me!” After she calmed down enough to explain, they quickly agreed to go with her.
Knowing that there would be a crowd, they left early for the chapel. They found seats toward the front and squeezed in next to neighbors and friends who were already waiting eagerly for the meeting to begin.
When the hour for the meeting arrived, the door near the pulpit opened, and Reverend Fielding stepped through, followed by three men. Jed immediately recognized them as the three men he’d seen in the streets during the queen’s celebration. The sounds of “Truth will prevail!” echoed in his ears as he remembered. Now he knew what truth they had been shouting about.
He heard his mother gasp as she squeezed her husband’s arm. “Those are the men!” she whispered urgently. “The ones that I told you about—the ones in my dream!”
All around them whispers and murmurs were heard. Behind them to the left, Jed heard a man say reverently, “I saw those faces as I slept. These are the men sent to teach us the truth!”
One of the men stood up and introduced himself as Elder Heber C. Kimball. Jed didn’t know that this man was called the “Herald of Grace” by the Prophet Joseph Smith, but Jed did know that he bore a powerful testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Elder Kimball told of John the Revelator’s prophecy that the Lord’s Church would again be restored to the earth. He explained that it was the complete church as Jesus had organized it, with apostles and prophets and so forth. He told them of the need for all people to repent, to believe in Jesus Christ, and to be baptized by someone with the divine authority to do so.
The second man, Elder Orson Hyde, bore testimony that the true Church had been restored. The third man also preached. Jed sat very still. He didn’t want to miss a single word.
It was announced that the elders would be preaching again that night. Jed and his family went to that meeting, too, and to the one held Wednesday evening.
Jed was surprised when his mother angrily announced the next day, “Reverend Fielding has refused to let the elders preach anymore in his chapel! He’s been preaching for years that the true church had to be restored. Then when it happens, he’s afraid that he’ll lose his job! Well, we who believe know what to do!”
From that night on, the American elders preached at Jed’s home and in the homes of their friends. More and more people came to listen. They were like thirsty plants drinking in pure rainwater.
The time came when Jed, Mother, and Father were to be baptized. Jed grinned later as he thought back on the first baptism in England. He and his family had attended, and two of their neighbors had a footrace to see who would be first to reach the river and have the great honor of being the first person baptized in Christ’s Church in England.
When Jed himself was baptized, he felt a glowing sensation that what he was doing was right. He remembered again the day when he saw the three elders shouting for joy in the streets that truth would prevail. He felt great joy, himself, at being there when the truth had come to England.

When the Livingston Branch of the Kingwood Texas Stake put on a dance, it was a new page in their history.
The branch, with a total membership of 59, had never sponsored a stake activity, so the Mutual decided to remedy the situation and sponsor the next stake dance. They decorated the multipurpose room, planned refreshments, and sent out invitations. When the night came, more than double the expected number attended. It was a good night for dancing in Livingston.

Seminary students in the combined early-morning classes of the Gilmer First, Second, and Third wards, Gilmer Texas Stake, accepted the challenge to think, speak, dress, and act like a missionary every day for a week.
The challenge was issued by the full-time missionaries. And the students were challenged to mark and place a Book of Mormon with one of their friends during the week. Commitment sheets were distributed and signed. At first, some of the students were hesitant to commit themselves for fear of the reaction of nonmember friends. Instead, their friends ended up encouraging them.
One student reported about the experience, “I felt at first that I would be embarrassed, but after I started, I found I really didn’t mind.”
Another student, an athlete who at first was concerned about his image at school, wrote, “I first thought this was nonsense, but listening to the missionaries changed my mind. I wanted to aid them in the work of the Lord.”
One of the seminary instructors said, “For the first time, many of them realized the influence they can exert on their friends. It did them good to see they can be positive influences if they want to be.”
The project did not go unnoticed by school faculty. Other students began dressing up when the LDS youth did.
The feelings were best summarized by Samantha Bowers. She said, “The feeling of love and togetherness I have had for everyone this week has been so special. It is a feeling and experience I will never forget.”

When I first saw the old barn, I figured that it had to be at least a thousand years old. The gray slate roof was half gone, and the huge side doors wouldn’t shut. Inside I could see mounds of hay heaped so high that I knew that there had to be rats living in them—and bats flying around the rafters at night! My pa told me that I could explore the barn as long as I was careful. But every time I thought of that barn, the hair on my arms stood straight up. I spent a lot of time sitting on a rail fence near the garden, just staring at the sagging barn. I felt like it was staring right back at me, daring me to come inside.
I met Doughnut the summer that we moved to the farm, the same year that I turned ten. His real name was Teddy, but everyone called him Doughnut because he was heavier than most kids and his face was round. We played baseball together or walked along the fence, pretending that we were high on a trapeze.
Doughnut and I had a lot of fun together—until one day when he said, “Hey, Elliot let’s go inside the barn and make a fort.”
“Nope,” I said. “That barn is alive.”
“Alive?” Doughnut laughed. “Elliot, you’re just chicken.”
My face felt real hot. I had never been called chicken in my life. “Well, OK,” I said reluctantly. My knees began to shake as I marched up the small path leading to the barn. When I reached the doors, I stopped and tilted my head back to see just how high the barn was. “Wow!” was all I could say.
“Come on.” Doughnut nudged me closer. “Let’s go in.”
Doughnut followed me inside. I was glad that the doors didn’t shut—I might want to make a quick getaway. The beams that supported the roof were as thick as tree stumps. And the wind whistled through the open cracks in the walls.
“Wow!” Doughnut exclaimed. “Our barn isn’t nearly this big.”
“Or this scary,” I told him. I felt my heart pound hard against my chest.
Doughnut climbed the ladder to the loft and grabbed a thick hemp rope. “Come on, Elliot, let’s swing across and drop into the hay.”
“Are you crazy?”
“You’re just a red-bellied chicken.”
I climbed to the loft and pushed Doughnut so hard that he rolled across the floor. I was furious at him for calling me a red-bellied chicken.
Doughnut got up, grabbed the rope, and whooped as he sailed across the barn and dropped into the hay.
Before I knew it, I was swinging across the barn and landing in the hay too. We decided to build forts and tunnels on each side of the barn. Everything about it became new and exciting. I never wanted to leave.
Every morning, when I got out of bed, I hurried and did my chores. I wasn’t afraid of the barn anymore, and I couldn’t wait to play in it. It was wonderful. Some afternoons Doughnut would come over and we’d play in the barn the whole time. I liked it best, though, when I was alone in the barn and could bounce my voice off the rafters or just listen to myself think. I began to think of the barn as a friend. I started taking care of it. I made repairs inside, swept up the scattered hay, and even stuffed hay in the draftiest chinks in the walls.
Early one morning I was eating my breakfast as fast as I could so that I could go out to the barn and tighten the hinges on the side doors. I wasn’t listening to my parents’ conversation until I heard the word barn.
“We’ll start tearing down the barn Saturday afternoon,” Pa said to Mother. “The Amish people will come load up the wood. I told them that they could have it for nothing. It isn’t worth much.”
My mouth dropped. “You can’t tear it down, Pa,” I choked out. “I have it all fixed up inside. Maybe we could rebuild it.”
“Elliot, it would cost more than it’s worth.” He gave me an inquiring look, then said, “Now, finish your breakfast.”
I felt miserable and angry. And I felt sorry for the barn. Was I a normal kid to think that a barn had feelings? I curled up in a chair in my room and drew pictures of how the barn could look if we fixed it up.
All week Doughnut begged me to let him come over. I told him no. I told him that I didn’t feel like playing in that stupid barn anymore. Anyway, it was going to be torn down. I think that that was the only time that I was ever really mad at my pa.
Saturday morning I did my chores and decided to stay in the house. I peeked out my bedroom window to take one last look at the barn. I tried to convince myself that it was just a broken-down building.
After lunch Pa came into my room. He sat down on the edge of my bed and looked me straight in the eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the oak tree that I used to play on when I was about your age?” he asked.
“No, Pa.”
“Well, I found this old tree that had fallen across Miller Creek. The trunk of that tree was about as big around as this room. My folks always knew where to find me in the summertime. I would play on that tree until dark. I pretended that I was shipwrecked and that I was the captain. I fought off dangerous pirates and enormous sharks. I had the greatest adventures on it that I could imagine.”
I hadn’t really known much about Pa when he was a kid. It felt strange to imagine him as a little kid on that tree, letting his imagination run free. I wished that I could have been there with him.
“My adventures on that fallen trunk are some of my happiest memories,” Pa continued. He looked over at me. “I think that every youngster ought to have something happy to remember about growing up. Something he can hold on to.”
“Yes, Pa,” I said.
“So,” he said with a crooked grin, “I’ve thought a lot about what you said and how you feel about that barn. Maybe that’s what you’ll remember when you’re older.” Pa leaned down and picked up the drawings off the floor. “Do you still want to try to rebuild that old relic out there?”
“Oh yes, Pa!” I hugged him as hard as I could.
Pa stood and walked toward the door, then stopped, held out his hand, and said, “Well, come on then. We’d better get started.”

A young person who “just loves music” or is “simply wild about acting” can easily mistake a hunger for applause as the presence of talent. Recently a young man came to my office and said that he was going to organize a rock band, make a hit record, and acquire fame and fortune within the next year. I asked him what success he had already achieved in other people’s bands. “None.” How expert was he on an instrument? “I’m just learning the guitar.” I advised him not to risk the savings of friends or parents on a rock-band venture but to learn basic musical skills, join someone else’s band, and when he felt that he could surpass his mentor, then embark on a solo career. As he left, I suggested that he return in a year with his bank book, and we could compare notes, receivable and payable.

The story is told that on one occasion, a traveler asked a farmer who was seated in the doorway of his humble cabin, “How’s the cotton crop going to be this year?”
The farmer replied, “There won’t be any. I didn’t bother to plant it because I was afraid of the boll weevil.”
Upon hearing this, the traveler asked further, “Well, are you going to harvest a big corn crop?”
“It’s the same,” came the response. “I was afraid we wouldn’t get enough rain for the kernels to mature.”
The traveler pursued, “At least you will have a good potato harvest!”
“Nope. Not any; I didn’t dare plant them because I was afraid of insects.”
With frustration, and somewhat impatiently, the traveler then asked, “Well, what is it that you have planted?”
“Nothing, my good man,” came the answer. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Elder Richards had grown up with a piano. In fact, he could never remember his home without one. It had been as permanent a fixture as the kitchen sink; and yet, the piano had always been Terry Richards’s curse. Even though the rest of the family had musical inclinations, he had rebelled against everything musical—especially the piano. However, his mother had insisted and he had been forced to practice the piano one hour each day. Until that daily payment was made, he was in his mother’s debt. There was no football, no movies, no TV, nothing until the piano received its due. His heart was seldom in the practices, but he put in his required time, banging out his version of music, which was often nothing more than a cacophony of reckless pounding.
When he turned 16, even his tenacious mother relented and relinquished her dream of making him a great pianist. The lessons were abandoned, and with some money he had saved, Terry celebrated his freedom by buying a portable stereo, declaring that any music he made from then on would come from the stereo and not the piano.
Now in Guaymas, lonely and somewhat dejected, he gently ran his fingers along the chipped and broken keyboard. A wan smile touched his lips. “It would take more than a pianist to get music out of you,” he whispered. He began to walk his fingers across the keys, listening to the sharp ping of the falling notes.
A worn hymnbook lay on one of the folding chairs. He reached for it and turned to “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” It was the first hymn he had ever learned to play. He studied the notes for a moment. When he was convinced he could, he sat down and began to play. His fingers were terribly awkward. The piano needed tuning, and several keys were broken. At times it was difficult to determine whether he or the piano was making the mistakes. But he labored through the hymn, once, twice. He played until the music, if not entirely melodious, was at least recognizable.
It was late when Elder Becket, Elder Richards’s new companion, and Elder Cole found him upstairs lying on their cot asleep.
The next morning as Elder Cole was preparing the sacrament and Elder Becket filled out a mission report, Elder Richards strolled to the old piano. “Who plays this old box?” he asked with a grin.
Elder Becket looked up and laughed. “That, Elder, isn’t just an old box. To the members here, it’s the most precious thing in Guaymas.”
“This?” Elder Richards asked with surprise. Elder Becket nodded. “Why? Did Cortez bring it over from Spain or something?”
“It’s a piano. There are a few of them in town, but you certainly don’t find them in every house for the kids to climb on and kick around. Some of the newer members haven’t even heard this one played, and none of the members have heard it played very well. An Elder Fisher, who could play a few hymns with one hand, was here about a year ago, a few months after they bought it. The members almost made him a saint. They made him play his hymns every Sunday. Finally he jokingly told the mission president he was going home if he had to play those hymns another time.”
“It’s seen better days,” Elder Richards commented. “It could sure use a tuning job.”
“You play?” Elder Becket asked.
Elder Richards laughed and shook his head. “I can make noise, pretty bad noise at that, but I don’t play. My mother thought I had musical talents, but after five years of lessons and no noticeable improvement, even she gave up.”
“If you had lessons for five years …”
“I didn’t learn anything.”
“If you played that long, you can play as well as Elder Fisher.”
Just then President Perales and his family arrived and the piano was temporarily forgotten, but just before sacrament meeting, President Perales approached Elder Richards with a hymnbook and spoke, pointing to the piano. Grinning and shaking his head, Elder Richards said shyly, “No, no puedo … tocar.”
President Perales motioned for Elder Becket to come over. “Hermano Marcos said he heard you playing yesterday,” Elder Becket said.
“Yesterday?” he gasped. “I was just fooling around. I can’t play.”
“You sure impressed Hermano Marcos.”
“Elder, I haven’t played for over three years. Yesterday was the first time—I mean the very first time—I’ve even sat down to a piano for over three years. I was just …”
“Play what you were playing yesterday.”
“I can’t,” he insisted, but the protest was to no avail. With his face burning with embarrassment, Elder Richards retreated to the piano. Never had he played in front of a group. At home when the bishop had asked him to play in priesthood, he had adamantly refused.
When it came time for the first hymn, he huddled morosely on the piano chair and braced himself for the shame. Even had the piano been a good one, he would have battled to coax music from it. With his fingers trembling and his eyes frantically searching the keyboard, he began to grope through “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” He managed to get through all three verses, but it was torture for him. Later he played the sacrament hymn, and at the conclusion of the meeting he played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Sensing that all eyes were on him, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head. He wanted to race from the building and hide himself, and the thing that was so utterly frustrating was that he was forced to endure his shame in silence. There was absolutely no way he could explain in Spanish that it had been years since he had last played, that he had never learned properly in the first place, that this whole thing was a terrible mistake.
As soon as the benediction was said, he stood, planning to sneak from the room and hide from the members’ questioning stares, but before he took three steps a sister had him by the arm and was speaking to him, tears glistening in her eyes. The only words that had any meaning for him were her often repeated, “Muchisimas gracias!” Two more sisters approached and then a brother. Soon it seemed as though the entire branch crowded around him, many with tears in their eyes, each trying to shake his hand.
He saw Elder Becket and searched his face for an explanation. Elder Becket smiled and called, “They loved it. If the Church sainted people, you would be the first Mormon saint in Guaymas.”
“For what?” he asked, completely bewildered.
“For playing their piano.”
“That wasn’t playing. That wasn’t music.”
“You’ll have a hard time convincing them. They want you to play again.”
“Now?”
“But I can’t. It’s been …”
“That might have worked back home, but not here. Look at them, Elder. They’re all but begging.”
Elder Richards was touched. He felt a twinge of shame, a gnawing guilt. Suddenly he wished he could play like his mother had always dreamed of him playing. He offered a silent prayer, pleading for help, not to shelter him from shame and embarrassment but to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands so that through his neglected talent he might give these special people the joy and satisfaction they sought.
It was almost an hour later before the last of the members left the building and Elder Richards made his way with his companions up to their room. “I can’t believe they could even listen to that, let alone enjoy it,” Elder Richards commented.
For a long while Elder Becket didn’t reply; then he shook his head and asked, “Where are you from, Elder?”
“Logan, Utah.”
“Have you ever been to a chapel that didn’t have a piano?” Elder Richards shook his head. “Well, most of these people have never heard the hymns played on a piano. The elders have taught them the melodies. Before today, when they sang “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning,” it was the way the elders had taught it. Not more than a handful of them have ever sung that hymn accompanied by a piano. “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” is a hymn that many of them have wanted to sing accompanied by a piano, but they’ve hardly dared hope that it was really possible.”
“I’m no musician,” Elder Richards said, “but I can hear the difference between noise and music.”
“Maybe two years ago I would have felt the same, but this morning that sounded pretty good, even to me.”
“Where did they get the old box anyway?”
“In Logan,” Elder Becket chided, “that’s an old box. Here it’s a treasure. They bought it from the Baptists. They had a special dinner to raise the money. Everybody donated food and then paid outlandish prices to eat it. All the money went for the piano. Someday, when the chapel’s built, they’ll have a new one, but right now they have to make do with that. The members are proud of their piano. Even though no one can play it and even though it might be out of tune, that’s one of the most important things in this whole building.”
“If it’s so important to them, why don’t they tune it?”
“No money. Right now they’re trying to raise money so they can start building their chapel. Every extra peso goes for that.”
The rest of the day, as Elder Richards followed his two companions, he couldn’t forget the old piano. When they returned to the building that night, it was late and Elder Richards was tired, but before going to bed he went down to the old piano and played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” The timing was off, and the notes didn’t come through as smoothly as they did when his sisters or mother played, but for the first time in his life he really tried to make music and not merely put in time.
The next day he wrote a short note to his mother: “Mom, I would appreciate it if you would sell my stereo and send me the money. Ted Roberts said he’d buy it if I ever wanted to sell. There’s this piano here that needs tuning, and the members don’t have the money to get the job done. I’d like to help them out. I figure I owe them something after wasting all those piano lessons. And, mom, thanks for making me practice the piano.”
When the letter was addressed and sealed, Elder Richards stood and started down the stairs to the chapel below. “Where are you going?” Elder Becket asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll go down and beat on that old box. I mean, I figure that as long as I’m going to be the new branch pianist, I should give the members something they can be proud of, not just a lot of noise.”

I used to be the same way. I reserved my best behavior for people I didn’t live with and let my family have what was left over. My mom and I fought constantly for years. I exploded over stupid things, and I was grouchy all the time. I’m a little older now and married. I don’t even know where most of my friends are, let alone what they’re doing. The people I thought were most important to me are gone. Now I realize that my best friends are at home.

One of the great lessons I learned on my first mission was the principle of total obedience.

In 1923 I was serving a mission in Great Britain. At that time there was great opposition to the Church. It began with the ministers and then spread through the press. Many anti-Mormon articles appeared in the daily press. A number of anti-Mormon movies were shown, and derogatory plays were produced on the stage. The general theme was the same—that Mormon missionaries were in England to lure away British girls and make slaves of them on Utah farms. Today that seems fantastic, but in those days it was very real. In some places we even had to stop tracting because of such misunderstandings.

One time we received a letter from mission headquarters instructing us that we should discontinue all street meetings. At that time I was serving as the conference president, and my companion was the conference clerk. When this instruction arrived, we already had a meeting scheduled for the following Sunday night. So we reasoned that we would hold that meeting and then discontinue street meetings thereafter. That’s where we made our mistake!

The next Sunday evening we held our street meeting down near the railway station as scheduled. The crowd was large and unruly. In our efforts to preach to them, my companion and I stood back to back. He spoke in one direction, and I faced the other half of the crowd.

When the saloons closed, the rougher, coarser element came out on the streets, many under the influence of liquor. The crowd became noisy, and those on the outside were not able to hear too well.

Some yelled, “What’s the excitement?”

Others yelled back, “It’s those dreadful Mormons.”

To this, others responded, “Let’s get them and throw them in the river.”

Soon an attempt was made to trample us under their feet. But since we were taller than the average man there, we put our hands on their shoulders and prevented them from getting us under their feet.

During the excitement, my companion and I became separated. They took him down the far side of the railway station and me down the near side. Things began to look pretty bad.

Then a big husky fellow came up to me as some of the others formed a circle around me about ten feet in diameter. The man looked me straight in the eye and said, “Young man, I believe every word you said tonight!”

By this time a British policeman had worked his way through the crowd. He took me by the arm and said, “Young man, you come with me. You’re lucky to be alive in this crowd.” He led me several blocks and then ordered, “Now you get to your lodge and don’t come out anymore tonight.”

When I arrived at the lodge, I found that my companion was not yet there. I worried and then prayed and waited. I became so concerned about him that I decided to disguise my appearance by putting on an old American cap and taking off my topcoat. Then I went out to try to find him.

As I neared the place of the meeting, a man recognized me and asked, “Have you seen your companion?”

I said, “No. Where is he?”

He responded, “He’s down on the other side of the railway station with one side of his head mashed in.”

This frightened me greatly, and I sprinted to the site as fast as I could. Before I reached the railway station, however, I met the same policeman again. He said, “I thought I told you to stay in and not come out on the street again tonight.”

I replied, “You did, officer. But I’m concerned about my companion. Do you know where he is?”

He replied, “Yes, he got a nasty blow on the side of his head, but he’s gone to the lodge now. I walked partway with him as I did earlier with you. Now you get back there and don’t come out anymore tonight.”

So I went back to the lodge and found my companion disguising himself in order to go out and look for me. We threw our arms around each other and knelt together in prayer. From that experience I learned always to follow counsel, and that lesson has followed me all the days of my life.

“I drop my daughters off to school by bus every morning, so we have many opportunities to talk. On one recent occasion, we noticed a husband and wife having a disagreement. My daughters quickly turned to me and waited for me to comment. Instead I asked them how they felt about what had happened. They told me they thought a man should never talk to his wife that way. After that, we had a conversation about marriage and relationships. Our 30-minute bus trip ended up being very edifying and uplifting.”

Mario Lorenz, Guatemala

When I was called to be bishop of our ward, our young four-year-old son inquired of me, “Are you the guy they give those envelopes of money to?” I answered, “Yes, I am the one,” realizing that we needed a little lesson on tithing. Brandon clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Oh goody, we’re going to be rich!” We later learned he was thinking that Dad no longer would have to work and would therefore have lots more time for him!

Linahei not only uses her voice for music and prayer, but she also speaks up about helping family members on the other side of the veil.

“I had a dream one night where I saw hundreds of people, but none of them could communicate with each other,” she says. “I thought I recognized them, but I wasn’t sure.”

Linahei didn’t know what to make of the dream at first. Then she had an exciting thought: “Before the COVID-19 lockdown, I had performed over 100 baptisms for my ancestors—these people in my dream could represent those family members!”

Feeling more excited about family history than ever, Linahei did all she could to help move those names along in the temple to receive their additional ordinances. Soon after, Linahei and her mom were called as family history consultants in their ward.

“We helped a woman in our ward access her FamilySearch account. When she saw her family tree, she was so happy—it was the first time she had seen all of her ancestors!”

“I used to feel nervous going up to people in my ward,” Linahei admits. “But now that I have my mom with me, I feel more confidence teaching people about family history.”

Now Linahei looks forward to helping people learn about their ancestors. “I love seeing how happy people are when they do their family history. And I think our ancestors are happy that we’re interested in them and in performing their ordinances.”

In her calling as a family history consultant, she recently organized an activity for her ward’s young women. Not only did she help them find family names to take to the temple, but she also helped Primary children set up accounts so that they can participate.

“We are going to the temple soon,” she says.

“I like the joy that comes when you do family history.”

Want to be as cool as Linahei? Don’t worry, it’s definitely possible. “Young people can advance the errand of God by using technology,” Linahei says. “Anything that helps us think of our ancestors is wonderful. I know doing family history will bring everyone more joy in their lives. Family history has brought me closer to my ancestors and to Christ at the same time.”

With all the work she’s doing for her ancestors, one thing’s for sure: Linahei’s family is definitely not just history!

I served for many years in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles with Elder LeGrand Richards. He died at the age of 96. He told us that as a boy of 12 he attended a great general conference in the Tabernacle. There he heard President Wilford Woodruff.
President Woodruff told of an experience of being prompted by the Spirit. He was sent by the First Presidency to “gather all the Saints of God in New England and Canada and bring them to Zion.”
He stopped at the home of one of the brethren in Indiana and put his carriage in the yard, where he and his wife and one child went to bed while the rest of the family slept in the house. Shortly after he had retired for the night, the Spirit whispered, warning him, “Get up, and move your carriage.” He got up and moved the carriage a distance from where it had stood. As he was returning to bed, the Spirit spoke to him again: “Go and move your mules away from that oak tree.” He did this and then retired once again to bed.
Not more than 30 minutes later, a whirlwind caught the tree to which his mules had been tied and broke it off at the ground. It was carried 100 yards (90 m) through two fences. The enormous tree, which had a trunk five feet (1.5 m) in circumference, fell exactly upon the spot where his carriage had been parked. By listening to the promptings of the Spirit, Elder Woodruff had saved his life and the lives of his wife and child.
That same Spirit can prompt you and protect you.