Gospel Story Finder

Sabrina is a wonderful friend and big sister to Megan. They met one of Sabrina’s preschool friends at a park. Megan followed them closely while they explored the playground.
Sabrina’s friend said, “Hurry and climb fast after me so the baby can’t follow us.”
Very cheerfully, Sabrina told her friend, “Megan is two years old. She is a toddler, not a baby, and I want her to play with us.”
After that, Sabrina’s friend was nicer to Megan, and the three of them played until it was time to go home. No wonder Sabrina is Megan’s best friend!

A surprising number of people in British Columbia have joined the Church because of feelings they had on temple grounds. “I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I walked through the gates of Temple Square in Salt Lake City,” Julie Keyes of the Victoria stake says. “It felt like I was walking from darkness into light.” She was impressed by the whole experience—the people she met, the testimony of Joseph Smith, the focus on Jesus Christ. “I thought, ‘I’ve got to find out more about this.’” When she returned home to British Columbia, she called the local LDS meetinghouse and asked to meet with the missionaries.
Sister Keyes, who is now married to the president of the Victoria stake, was at the temple grounds because a member of the Church invited her to come, and she was surprised by the warmth she felt from the members there. In fact, if one common theme characterizes almost every story converts share in British Columbia, it is this: light, joy, and genuine friendliness emanate from members of the Church. Being with members and feeling the Spirit are what motivate them to learn more.

Let me give you an example from my own life. I have been blessed to have such dear friend-mentor relationships in my life with Elder Jon M. Huntsman—Area Seventy, philanthropist, benefactor, founder of the Huntsman group of companies, and my friend.

I first met Jon Huntsman in 1975, when I was 24 years old. I was an elders quorum president for a University of Utah married-student ward, and Jon Huntsman was my high council adviser. We became friends, and in my senior year, as I was preparing to conclude my education at the university, Brother Huntsman recruited me as a sales representative in his plastics company.

One of my very first assigned accounts was Avon, the cosmetic giant headquartered in New York City. To get me started with that important client, Brother Huntsman personally accompanied me to New York City for my initial introduction. Excited to be entering into a new career and anxious to make a good impression, I wore my best brown college suit with a brown tie and brown loafers. When we met at the airport, I noticed that Mr. Huntsman gave me a peculiar look. But he didn’t say anything!

When we arrived in New York City, he told me there was a stop we needed to make before calling upon Avon. We went directly to a famous men’s clothing store known as Brooks Brothers on swanky Madison Avenue. On the way, I recall him saying to me, “Now, Ron, if you are going to be a salesman in my company, and if you are going to represent me to Avon, you are going to learn how to dress, how to act, and how to serve in this new role.” And then he added, “You don’t wear brown suits in a business environment in New York City!” Not representing Jon Huntsman at least!

Jon knew the people at Brooks Brothers, and he watched as they fitted me with a beautiful, dark gray, pin-striped suit—the nicest I had ever seen and certainly the nicest I had ever owned. After it was taken away to be tailored for a perfect fit, we picked out a shirt, some ties, a belt, and all the accessories. Next we went to the shoe department, where Jon introduced me to my very first pair of black wingtip dress shoes.

I guess Brother Huntsman’s account at Brooks Brothers gave him special privileges because after we had had lunch, we returned to the store, where my new business wardrobe was ready, courtesy of Jon M. Huntsman.

I remember my gratitude to Jon for sparing me the needless embarrassment of showing up in my college clothes. As I stuffed—and that’s exactly what I did—my brown outfit into a bag, I realized he had made sure I was properly dressed! Then it was off to Avon, where he introduced me as their new account representative from his company. Jon was teaching me much more than the importance of looking the part. He was introducing me into a whole new way of thinking, of doing things, of representing myself to others. He was mentoring me. This was the first of many such valuable lessons I learned from him.

Years later, while serving as an executive in Brother Huntsman’s company, I was very involved in my duties, which took me around the globe. Returning from one of these business trips, Brother Huntsman, a stake president at this time, asked me what I was doing in the Church. I told him I was happily teaching a gospel doctrine class in Sunday School. He asked me what kinds of experiences I had had in Church leadership. I told him I had enjoyed serving in several presidencies, but most of my Church service, very happily, had been in teaching.

After I explained this to Brother Huntsman, he told me of a similar time in his life when he had been called to serve in a student stake, first as a high councilor and later as a bishop. He found it ideal for his busy schedule. In fact, as I mentioned earlier in this message, that was where I first met Jon Huntsman.

He said he knew a brother at the University of Utah who was serving as the stake president of one of the university married stakes who could fill Church-service positions with brethren from across the Salt Lake Valley. Brother Huntsman asked if he might phone this stake president and let him know of my name. I agreed and really did not think of it again, knowing how busy he was.

Sometime later I received a call from Robert Fotheringham, the president of what was then the University of Utah First Stake. He asked if he and his counselors might come to our home and visit with Sister Rasband and me. Not many days later all three of the stake presidency were sitting on the couch in our living room, inquiring about our situation and feeling our testimonies. After a searching interview with each of us, the three men looked at each other knowingly, and the stake president then extended a call to me to serve as a member of the University of Utah First Stake high council. They said they had already talked to my resident stake president and that he felt fine about the call—if they should want to move forward.

I accepted that call and began my service in the University of Utah First Stake. As a part of my assignment, Sister Rasband and our young family enjoyed a wonderful opportunity to develop choice Christ-centered relationships with the young married students. After serving for a period of time on the high council, I was called as the bishop of the 10th Ward in that stake.

I later found out that Brother Huntsman did call President Fotheringham and simply suggested that he knew someone who might do well in a university campus setting. Hence, my dear friend and mentor Jon Huntsman, merely by mentioning my name for a possible interview, provided another kind of experience for me in Church service.

I think of the wonderful young people I met in that university ward setting and the opportunity I had to assist several of them in finding employment themselves, one who is here with us tonight. Most importantly, I had the privilege of bearing witness of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and establishing righteous friendships in a way similar to what Brother Huntsman did for me.

“What’s this?” I said to myself as I walked into my bedroom and saw a vase and flower on the dresser. It was a bud vase of green glass, with a yellow ribbon tied around it. It held a red velvet rose made with obvious care and skill.
I knew my 15-year-old daughter, Ellen, had made flowers like this before, usually for friends or to give away as presents. But why would she be giving one to me? Though we rarely quarrel, she and I had quarreled earlier in the day, and the storm clouds between us had not yet evaporated.
And what was this—a note addressed to me? I opened it and read:
“Dear mom this may seem like a small thing to give, and it may only be a copy of the real thing, but it still has the beauty of a real rose. This rose isn’t real though, and that’s on purpose. Because real roses die. But this one will always be alive. And so will the love I have for my mother. Even though it sometimes seems that I don’t love you, I do.
“Just like when there’s dust on the rose and you blow it away and everything seems new, the same is true when we’re upset. Blow the dust away and our love shines clean and new. I love you, mom. I always will.”
Tears dropped down my cheeks. My heart shamed me for not having been the first to apologize. But Ellen had beaten me to it. She had more than cleared the static between us. She had given me a gift of love.
We still disagree occasionally, but now we both know how superficial that dust on our relationship is, and we have learned to quickly blow it off. After we have, then, with warmth and tender appreciation, I walk into the bedroom and blow the dust off my velvet rose, too.

My father and I hadn’t always gotten along perfectly, but things were getting better. Then one day he confessed to our family that he’d been unfaithful to my mother for some time.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing—the words wouldn’t register in my mind. For the next several weeks I felt sick every time I thought about my dad. I was mad at him for doing such a horrible thing, for disrespecting my mom so completely. I often couldn’t even fall asleep at night, wondering how I could ever trust a person again after this.
Anger was all I could feel, and I realized that it was making me think of everything in my life negatively. I began to pray, asking Heavenly Father to help me deal with this situation. I knew my dad was wrong and that I deserved to be upset with him, but I also knew that I couldn’t keep obsessing about it.
An account early in the Book of Mormon came to me as I was thinking about how to handle the problems in my family. Nephi’s brothers Laman and Lemuel got angry with him and then tied him up and planned to kill him. Only a few verses later, Nephi says that he “did frankly forgive them all that they had done” (1 Nephi 7:21). Nephi was able to quickly forgive his brothers for treating him maliciously.
I also thought about the Savior, who said on the cross, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Both Nephi and Jesus didn’t hold on to anger over what had been done to them—instead they forgave.
It didn’t happen overnight, but as I wanted to forgive my dad and prayed for help doing it, I stopped thinking about his sins all the time. I felt sorry for him for making such a terrible decision, and I felt a desire to support my mom. Heavenly Father softened my heart and helped me forgive him instead of being torn up by anger and revenge.

When one of our sons was very young, beginning before he turned one year old, he became very fascinated with the sacrament. At church, he would raise himself up and look around for anything that had to do with the Sacrament. He watched the deacons as they walked with the Sacrament trays throughout the chapel. He would watch carefully as the trays were passed to the rows before and behind him. As the tray came down our row, his eyes followed it throughout. Then he would partake of the Sacrament and watch at the tray moved on. This happened week after week.

Then one Sunday, we brought candy to church. He ate the candy during the meeting. When the Sacrament came he lost total interest in it. All he paid attention to was that candy. Can something like candy happen to us?

In the fall of 1911, Alma Richards returned to Brigham Young University with the goal of going to the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm, Sweden. Alma was a twenty-one-year-old high jumper from Parowan, a small town in southern Utah. Before going to BYU the previous year, he had known next to nothing about the Olympics. Then his coach told him he had a shot at competing in the games.
“If you will train consistently for a year and a half,” he said, “you will make the team.”1
At first, Alma thought his coach was joking. He was naturally athletic, but he was taller and heavier than most high jumpers. And he did not have much experience or training in the sport. Rather than scissor kicking or rolling his body horizontally over the high jump bar, as most jumpers did, he would launch himself awkwardly into the air, curling up in a ball as he flew.
But he put his coach’s words to the test. He trained regularly and began excelling in local athletic competitions.2
His desire to excel in his sport led him to keep the Word of Wisdom at a time when the principle was encouraged but not strictly required in the Church. In abstaining from alcohol and tobacco, he trusted the Lord’s promise that those who followed the Word of Wisdom would “run and not be weary” and “walk and not faint.”3
In the spring of 1912, his coach told Alma that he was ready for the Olympic tryouts. “You are one of the fifteen best high jumpers in the world,” he said, “and one of the seven best in the United States.”
Alma Richards stands in the Stockholm stadium at the 1912 Olympic Games.
Alma Richards’s eyes hurt as he peered at the high jump bar. It was the third day of the 1912 Olympics. The sun over Stockholm’s new brown-brick stadium was unbearably bright, irritating an eye infection that had plagued Alma for weeks. When he was not jumping, he wore an old, droopy hat to shade his eyes. But now that his turn had come again, he stepped to the side of the field and tossed his hat into the grass.4
As Alma prepared to jump, his mind raced. There he was, representing his country at the greatest athletic competition in the world. Yet he felt weak, as if the whole world were resting on his shoulders. He thought of Utah, his family, and his hometown. He thought of BYU and the Saints. Bowing his head, he silently asked God to give him strength. “If it is right that I should win,” he prayed, “I will do my best to set a good example all the days of my life.”5
Raising his head, he felt his weakness slip away. He threw his shoulders back, walked up to the starting line, and crouched into position. He then skipped forward in a burst of energy and leapt into the air, tucking his knees beneath his chin. His body barreled forward and sailed over the bar with inches to spare.
After returning from the 1912 Olympic Games in Stockholm, Sweden, Alma Richards was honored in a parade.
On the sidelines, Hans Liesche suddenly looked nervous as he warmed up for his jump. Alma ran in circles to keep his legs limber. If Hans cleared the bar, as Alma was sure he would, the bar would be raised even higher, and Alma would have to jump again.
When Hans launched into his first jump, he fell on the bar and sent it crashing to the ground. Frustrated, he returned to the field and made a second jump. Once again, he knocked the bar off its pegs.
Alma could see that his competitor was losing composure. Just as Hans squared up for his final attempt, a pistol fired nearby, signaling the start of a race. Hans waited for the runners to cross the finish line and then prepared to jump. Before he could, though, a band began playing, and he refused to start. Finally, after nine minutes, an official prodded him to hurry along. With nothing left to do but jump, Hans bounded forward and threw himself into the air.
Once again, he failed to clear the bar.6
Joy washed over Alma. The competition was over. He had won the gold medal and set an Olympic record. Hans came over and heartily congratulated him. Others soon joined in the praise. “You have put Utah on the map,” one man said.
James Sullivan, an official on the American Olympic team, was especially impressed with Alma’s coolness under pressure and wholesome lifestyle. “I wish we had a hundred clean fellows like you on our team,” he said.7
Within days, newspapers across the United States praised Alma’s victory, crediting his success in part to his religion. “They call the winner of the great jump ‘the Mormon giant,’ and he deserves the title,” one reporter wrote. “He is a self-made athlete, and his winning of world renown comes after years of endeavor and a determination inherited from the men who established the Mormon religion and made the desert blossom.”8
One of Alma’s friends, meanwhile, teased him about praying before his winning jump. “I wish you wouldn’t laugh,” Alma quietly responded. “I prayed to the Lord to give me strength to go over that bar, and I went over.”9

Derek Fagan, 17, has excelled both in school and in seminary, and he credits an experience he had just before he received his patriarchal blessing. “We had been talking about patriarchal blessings in seminary. I prayed and asked if I should get my patriarchal blessing. Our stake did not have a patriarch at that time, but three days later, our new patriarch was called. I felt it was my answer. That was the time I decided for myself that the Church was true and I would try harder to do well and choose the right. My patriarchal blessing was amazing. I carry it around with me everywhere. Since early-morning seminary started, everything has been clearer. Even in school, I just learn very quickly now. It’s unusual to do ordinary level subjects for exams and then move up and take the exam at a higher level. The teachers were rather amazed when I moved from ordinary level to higher.”

It was just a year ago next week when the telephone rang in my office and I answered it to hear the voice on the other end of the line say, “This is Doug Snarr speaking.” My mind turned back some fifteen or twenty years to the time when Doug first came to my office. He had recently moved from Idaho Falls to expand his sign business into Utah. I had difficulty communicating with him at that time because he stuttered quite badly. But now, on the phone, he said without any stutter, “I want you to come over to the Salt Palace tomorrow afternoon at 4:40. I’m sending a ticket to you.”
I knew that it was important to Doug, or he would not have asked me to come; I said, “I’ll be there.”
The following afternoon at 4:40 I sat in the Salt Palace on the second row. My seat had been reserved. As I looked around, I estimated that there were approximately ten thousand people present. Again I looked at my ticket; it read fifteen dollars. Noticing that I had a better seat than some of the others in the audience, I reasoned that the average cost of a seat for one day was about twelve dollars. I multiplied twelve dollars by ten thousand people and I was impressed.
Don Hutson had been speaking when I arrived; he was an excellent speaker. He finished at five o’clock, and the person who was conducting the session came to the podium and introduced Doug Snarr. The lights went out, Doug stepped to the podium, and the spotlight came on. There stood Doug to give his talk. He told the audience that he had been raised in Idaho Falls; his father owned a potato farm about five miles west of the city. When he was young, he said, he stuttered so badly that he could not communicate. But while hoeing spuds he used to talk to the potato vines. As long as he talked to the potato vines he could get along quite well, but when he tried to talk to people he stuttered so badly that he could not be understood. As he stood in the field one day he looked to the east at the city of Idaho Falls and said to himself, “I must get into that city and meet people or I will never overcome my stuttering.”
One day he read an ad in the newspaper for a custodian in one of the stores in Idaho Falls. He knew that he could not get that job unless he offered something more than others would offer. Doug was quite a good artist, so he told the store manager how badly he wanted that job and said that if he got the job he would not only keep the store clean but would paint the display signs and thus save the cost of one employee. What employer could resist such an offer? Needless to say, Doug got the job of cleaning the store and painting the signs.
At the same time, Doug was going to high school, and there was a young girl in his class who he thought was the most beautiful creature that he had ever seen. He did not have the courage to ask her for a date, so he got one of his friends to set him up on a blind date with her. On the big night when he was to keep the date, he paced back and forth in front of her house for thirty or forty minutes, until he just about wore a path in the concrete sidewalk. Finally he got up the courage to knock on the door. The girl’s father answered the door and said, “Who are you?” When Doug tried to answer he could not say a word—he just stammered and stuttered. Just at the moment when he was ready to sink into oblivion, the young lady came tripping down the circular stairs. Seeing Doug, she called out to her father, “Daddy, meet Doug Snarr,” and saved the day.
After graduating from high school, Doug came to BYU. He registered for a class in religion; and on the first day, wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible, he slipped in the door and sat in one of the back seats. But the teacher looked down the roll, put his finger on one of the names, and asked, “Will Doug Snarr please come up and offer the invocation?” Doug walked to the front of the room and completely failed—he could only stammer and stutter. It was a disaster. After the class was over the teacher stopped him and said, “Doug if you will continue to come to my class, I promise that I will never ask you to pray before the class again.”
Doug said to himself, “That is not the answer. I must learn how to stand before a class and pray without stuttering.”
One day, while sitting in the barber shop waiting for his turn for a haircut, he opened a magazine and saw an ad about a school in St. Louis, Missouri, that taught people how to speak and to overcome stuttering. He jumped from his chair and, taking the magazine with him, hurried to his room. He packed his bags, took the next bus to Idaho Falls and, showing the ad to his father, said, “I want one thousand dollars to go to St. Louis, Missouri.”
His father said, “I’ll check it out first.” Three days later he said, “Doug, it’s a hoax. They can’t do it.”
Doug responded, “Nevertheless, I’m going to that school.”
His father said, “If you go to it, you’ll do it at your own expense.”
Doug had a friend who could talk. Since his friend could talk but could not paint signs, and since Doug could paint signs but could not talk, they made a good combination; they went into the sign business together. The traditional way to advertise with signs is to put a picture on a rectangular board. Doug discarded the rectangle and instead used the shape of the object he wanted to represent. It was a unique approach, and they were very successful. Within a few months—by September of that year—Doug had saved enough money to go to St. Louis, Missouri. As he boarded the train and they bid him goodbye, his family and friends said, “Don’t come back until you overcome your stuttering.”
Upon arriving in St. Louis, Doug went to the school and met the man who was in charge of it. He learned that the man had recognized that when stutterers sing they do not stutter. Therefore, he reasoned that if a stutterer could get a rhythm into his speaking he could overcome his problem. To get the rhythm, the stutterer swung his arm and spoke with the rhythm of his arm.
After several weeks Doug, feeling that he was not making enough progress, became despondent. He knelt and prayed to his Heavenly Father for help. While dong so, he suddenly realized that if he was going to expect help from the Lord, he had to do what the Lord had asked him to do. He got off his knees, called a cab, and went to the nearest branch of the Church. He arrived and found a sign on the meetinghouse door that announced the time for sacrament meeting—it was over for the day, but the sign also gave the name of the branch president and his address. Doug had the cab driver take him there. He knocked on the door; and the branch president’s wife answered. Doug said, swinging his arm in rhythm, “My–name–is–Doug–Snarr.” A little girl who had also come to the door ran into the other room and said to her sister, “Come see; there’s a man at the door that talks with his arm.”
Doug became a very good friend of the branch president, and his family, and they invited him to live with them. One day they invited Doug to go with them to visit the wife’s sister in a distant town. When they arrived and the sister met Doug, she said, “What you need to do is give a two-and-a-half-minute talk in Sunday School.” She picked up the telephone, called the bishop, and said, “Bishop, I have a young man here who needs to give a two-and-a-half-minute talk this Sunday. Can you arrange it? It was arranged.
The following Sunday, Doug stood at the pulpit holding on with both hands for fear of falling over. Then he realized that he could not use both hands to hold on the pulpit; he needed one of his arms to establish his speaking rhythm. He raised his right arm to the square to begin—then he realized that he could give that talk without the use of his arm. He put his hand back on the pulpit and gave his talk without a single stutter. Can you imagine how much that meant to him? He knew that he could overcome his problem of stuttering.
When Doug completed his schooling and returned home to Idaho Falls, the first place he visited was his girlfriend’s house. He knocked on the door; the father answered. Using his arm to establish the rhythm he said, “My–name–is–Doug–Snarr.” He married the girl; he said that it was the best thing he ever did.
Doug returned to the sign business and plastered Idaho with his unique signs. Then he came south to do the same on the highways of Utah. He also made it his goal not only to overcome his stuttering, but to go on tour and speak with the best thinkers in America. After preparing himself he noticed one day that a Positive Thinking Rally was being held in Dallas, Texas. He flew down to attend the rally and when it was over visited with Paul Harvey and his associates. He told them he wanted to be on their circuit. After two hours he finally convinced them.
“We’ll give you thirty minutes,” they said.
Doug responded, “No, I won’t settle for thirty minutes. I want just as much time as Paul Harvey or Don Hutson or Art Linkletter or Zig Zeigler or Ira Hays or any of the others, or I won’t go on.”
Finally, after another two hours, he convinced them that they should give him a full fifty-five minutes. They said “Be in Charlottesville, North Carolina, Wednesday of next week.”
So Doug made his debut in Charlottesville, and the morning following his talk the newspaper headlines read, “Charlottesville, North Carolina Adopts Doug T. Snarr.”
Back in the Salt Palace on the second row, I felt that this was really Doug Snarr’s homecoming. It was the first time that he had spoken in his own area. His friends and family were there, and the spotlight was focused on him. I have never in all my life heard a more dynamic speaker. He stole the show from Paul Harvey, Art Linkletter, Zig Zeigler, Ira Hays, and the others. Now, if any of you are called to serve a mission in Alaska, he will be your mission president in Anchorage—that is where he is today.

The next part of the pattern is that "they met together oft both to pray and to hear the word of the Lord." You are so blessed as women and men to be able, here at BYU-Idaho, to have the opportunity to meet together every day in an environment that builds faith. Your professors and friends can speak freely about the gospel and testimony in your classrooms; you have religion classes where testimony is shared; your church meetings are close at hand. Not all people who attend a university have so supportive a situation. And someday, you, in all probability will not be in such a tightly-knit environment of people of your own faith. In some places that I have visited, just getting to church is very difficult and requires a great sacrifice of time and resources. A few years ago I met a woman in Texas who, with her husband, were living only on their Social Security check, and for her it took a lot of budgeting just to have the money each month to buy gas so that they could make the 80-mile round trip to church each week. And yet, they did.

One day Tanner was riding his bike with his friend, Cole. Suddenly Cole’s bike crashed to the sidewalk. Tanner saw that his friend had scraped his arm and he was crying.
Right then Tanner had a good idea. He hopped off his bike and asked, “Cole, do you want me to make you something happy?”
Cole didn’t know what Tanner meant. But there on the sidewalk, Tanner did a happy dance. He jumped, kicked, and turned around as he sang, “Do, do, do!”
Cole wasn’t crying anymore. He was laughing so hard that he was rolling on the grass.

I once heard President Hugh B. Brown relate this inspiring story: Some time ago a great actor in the city of New York gave a wonderful performance in a large theater, at the close of which there were rounds of applause. He was called back again and again. Finally someone called to him, “Would you do for us the Twenty-third Psalm?”
“Why yes. I know the Twenty-third Psalm.”
He recited it as an actor would, perfectly, with nothing left to be desired as far as a performance was concerned. When he was finished, again there was thunderous applause. Then the actor came to the front of the stage and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, there is an old man sitting here on the front row whom I happen to know. I am going to ask him without any notice if he will come and repeat the Twenty-third Psalm.”
The elderly gentleman, of course, was frightened. Trembling, he came to the stage. Fearfully he looked out over the vast audience. Then, as though he were at home only with one, he closed his eyes against the audience, bowed his head, and talked to God, and said:
“The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want. …”
When the old man finished, there was no applause, but there was not a dry eye in that house. The actor came to the front of the stage and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I know the words of the Twenty-third Psalm, but this man knows the Shepherd” (adapted from Hugh B. Brown, The Quest, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1961, pp. 335–36).

Members of the Charlotte North Carolina (USA) South Stake answered the First Presidency’s call for a day of service during 2011 by partnering with a local charity to put on a welcome basket item drive.
More than 2,000 paper bags with a list of much-needed items were placed throughout the community. A week later, nearly 130 volunteers spent 150 hours collecting the bags and donating the items to families transitioning from homelessness to new housing.
Primary children from the ward made “Welcome Home” signs for the families.

My memories of childhood in a small farm town in northwest Florida are recollections of difficult times. When I was six years old, my father was blinded in an accident. Already motherless, I had to take over the responsibility for cooking and housekeeping in our home. It was not easy, but we got by. Although I attended the church we belonged to, I was never really much of a joiner, so I was often left out.
A few years went by and my brother—just seventeen years old—went to Vietnam as a soldier. The next year my father was killed in another accident. I was the one who found his body crushed under a car, and I thought I was going to lose my mind. Soon my sister and I had to appear before the county judge and were told that no foster home had been found for us. That meant we would have to go to an orphanage. But before that could happen my sister married, and shortly afterward I married Ben. Opportunities for a young married couple in our area were limited, so when Ben’s uncle came down from the north to persuade us to move to Indiana, we went. We were very unhappy for a long time. There we were, all alone, a thousand miles away from home and everything we knew.
In this state of mind, I was dismayed when I received a letter from my sister and learned that they were expecting a child. I had already made up my mind that I would never have a baby. I was very bitter about life, and I didn’t want to bring a child into the world to grow up like I had.
Soon, though, I began to feel an ache inside that I did not understand. I needed something—something of my own to have and to hold onto. So eventually I changed my mind and decided to venture into motherhood—still unsure and scared, but a little excited too.
I was very sick the whole time, and I wondered at times about my decision; but when the nurse laid my baby in my arms for the very first time, there was no more doubt. We named him Bill. He was so beautiful, and I loved him so much I nearly burst. He became my whole life—not just a part but the sum total, all I lived for. I had Ben too, but I suppose my experiences up to that point had led me to a vague (and in this case, unfounded) uneasiness about the permanency of anything in this life. But Bill I was sure of. He was mine.
Our circumstances improved, and at last we were able to buy a mobile home. And it was our good fortune to move into a mobile home park next door to a Latter-day Saint family. They were very friendly and often urged us to go to church with them. I felt that I needed God for my child, so I was glad they kept asking until we gave in.
It happened that our first meeting was a fast and testimony meeting. I was a little bewildered by this new experience, but not Ben; he was converted on the spot. We received two missionary discussions in the next two weeks. Then on Saturday, 28 February 1970, we had three more discussions and were interviewed and baptized that same night.
Six days later, on 6 March 1970, my whole world came apart. My child was lying in a coma in a hospital and no one could help him. He was dying.
I’ll never forget that awful day as long as I live. March 5 had been a beautiful day. The sun shone and it seemed as though the whole world was ours. We had everything I had never had as a child—security, health, love, and now the Church. Little Bill was just nineteen months old, and that evening he had so much fun at the birthday party we held for his grandma. He was so happy, he ran and played and had a good time. Then in the wee hours of the sixth I awoke to the sound of Bill choking and crying. I ran to his room and there he lay, a tiny bundle of tears. He had turned nearly black, and foam was pouring out of his mouth. He was so hot to the touch that I had to wrap him in a blanket to even hold his little body.
We rushed him to the emergency room at the hospital, where we could do nothing but wait while the doctors ran tests and worked frantically to save his life. Finally our doctor came and told us that Bill’s temperature was 108 degrees. He said they could not find any cause for our baby’s frightful condition. He sent for the best baby specialist in the state. He, too, was baffled. Later in the morning we were taken into his office where he told us there was nothing he could do, that the fever would not break. My whole world was dying. I can’t recall those last hours too clearly, but I do know that I felt alone again as I had when I was a child
Ben was called away to talk to someone, and I was all by myself. I phoned my friend and told her Bill had only a few hours to live. Then I went to his room. He was so little, so very beautiful, and so still.
I sat down next to his bed, feeling numb at heart. And as I did, a feeling came over me that I cannot describe—a feeling of complete peace, the like of which I have felt only one other time, in the temple of the Lord the day our family was sealed for time and all eternity. It fell on me with such force that I was stunned and shaken. Then I looked up, and there standing at the door was a man I recognized as one of the high priests from our ward. I didn’t know his name, but I knew why he was there. I reached over and picked up Bill from the bed. He awoke when I touched his body. He looked at me for one short second, and smiled.
The man at the door said, “I am Brother Walters. The Lord has sent me to administer to this child.” Because Bill had been placed in isolation, the nurses wouldn’t let more than one visitor at a time into the room; so Brother Walters had to leave his companion in the hallway. He anointed Bill with oil and then laid his hands on his head and blessed him with health and strength—and that he would be made whole that very day.
Shortly afterward the doctor returned with a paper for me to sign. It was an autopsy consent. I refused, and he said he would be back. Ten minutes later I looked up to see my child sitting up, completely well! He climbed out of bed as if nothing had ever been wrong and padded out into the hall as fast as his little legs would carry him—his usual speed. He ran up to the doctor and grabbed him around the legs. The doctor, who was always composed and cool, looked down in astonishment. Then he picked Bill up and came running down the hall to me, laughing and crying at the same time. He shouted, “It’s a miracle!”
I agreed.
I don’t know who called Brother Walters to administer to Bill. I only know he was sent by God.

Susa Young Gates, one of Brigham Young’s daughters, also understood that family history was important. She had been ill and very near death. But a priesthood blessing had miraculously cured her, and she was given this promise: "There has been a council in heaven, and it has been decided you shall live to perform temple work, and you shall do a greater work than you have ever done before."* Once she recovered, she devoted much of her time to helping people find their ancestors. She started genealogy classes, encouraged Saints throughout Utah and Canada to do research, and compiled a book on genealogy.

While on a mission tour recently, I met a young missionary by the name of Elder Tshiambwe. He came from a small village in a remote part of Africa. He wanted to serve a mission but was unable to afford even the basic requirements, such as a passport, needed to prepare for a call to serve. He and his father came up with a plan. Using his bicycle, Elder Tshiambwe would transport bananas from the many small banana growers in the region to the markets in the larger villages. His banana transportation business earned him a small but steady income from which he was able to save for his mission. For several years he saved and planned for his mission. When he was finally ready, he received a call from the President of the Church to serve in his native country. He is now returned from his mission, but it is no surprise that he served with honor and distinction. He had learned in his youth that he was an agent, not an object. He had the ability to act, not simply be acted upon. Elder Tshiambwe was an agent with power to act and to take control of his life. I am confident that he will go forward and do many good things in his life as a result of these lessons learned.

In tournament golf competition, there is a rule that a contestant must be disqualified if he signs an incorrect scorecard or turns his card in without signing it. Gary Player did that once and was eliminated from a prestigious tournament. He was asked if someone in the scoring tent couldn’t have reminded him to sign.
“My friend,” Player replied, “there are responsibilities in life. You cannot shove your responsibilities onto the shoulders of someone else. This was my responsibility. I failed to meet it, so I must suffer the consequences.”

I once took my little grandson to a seafood restaurant. They had a large tank full of live lobsters. My grandson watched with awe as the lobsters moved around in the tank, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they would soon be selected for somebody’s dinner. My grandson watched entranced for a while and then asked me, “There is no lid on the tank and it’s not very deep. Why don’t the lobsters just crawl out and go home? And then nobody will eat them.” We watched for a few minutes more, and then I noticed a curious phenomenon. If one lobster began to try to crawl out of the tank, the others would grab, pull, push, or tug to get the lobster back down into the tank. None could escape and go home because they were all too busy pulling each other back into the tank. I wondered what would happen if they ever figured out that if they could lift and help each other, there might not be any more lobster on the menu of that restaurant.

Sometimes people behave like the lobsters. If one gets a little ahead or looks like they might have figured out a way to safety, others clamor to pull them back, and in so doing, no one escapes. Why do people do this? Is it jealousy?

An illustration of the blessings that one receives through obedience is given by this story of Abraham Smoot. As you know, the administration building bears his name.

After the hardships of Ohio, Missouri, and Nauvoo, Abraham Smoot finally was able to settle down in Salt Lake City, build comfortable accommodations for his family, and become mayor of the city. Brigham asked Brother Smoot to come to Provo and be the stake president. The Brigham Young Academy was not Church funded and was the personal responsibility of the stake president. Brother Smoot balked at the idea. “Brother Brigham, I’ve put my family through so much. I have done all I was asked to do. Now, finally, I have some of the comforts of life, I have a position of respect, and I am able to provide for my family. It is too much to ask. I will not go to Provo.”

At that, Brigham Young, the Lion of the Lord, is reputed to have said, “Brother Smoot, you will go to Provo, or you will go to ———!” Brother Smoot went to Provo. By the time he died, Abraham O. Smoot was deeply in debt from keeping the university functioning. His homes were mortgaged and an auction was held to settle the debts.

Jesse Knight showed up at the sale and happened to be the highest bidder on every one of the Smoot homes. He took the deeds and signed one over to each of the wives of Abraham Smoot living in the homes.

Brother Smoot demonstrated to us that by being obedient we harvest eternal blessings which are far more important than the material wealth of this life.

Sweat beads up on Bret Rasmussen’s forehead and drips down his face. He pauses in the brilliant sunshine and wipes his face on his sleeve, then hoists a stack of six folded wooden chairs. A few rows away, Brian Herr and his dad carry tables two at a time and set them up. They move steadily in the afternoon heat, staying just a little ahead of the group cutting white plastic and taping it to the tables as covers.
Bret and Brian are Boy Scouts, and they are part of a ward effort to benefit the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra. Twice a week, all summer, the youth of the Noblesville Indiana Ward labor in the hot sun. They carry dozens of tables and chairs to the base of a long grassy hill in preparation for a symphony concert. Sweat, Scouts, and symphony—an unlikely trio? What brings them together?
They are not alone. Scout leaders, families, and friends all lend a hand. “It’s a time to see friends and get to know new people,” says Emily Runyan, whose brother Chris is a Scout. “Those of us who aren’t in the troop can still be an example of service to others.”
The LDS youth finish and settle down on the hill with cool drinks and snacks. With their service comes a bonus—they can stay and hear the symphony concert for free. As the sun lingers near the edge of the concert shell, thousands of concertgoers arrive. Sometimes 10,000 people throng the grounds on a symphony night. After the sun goes down, the scattered lights of hundreds of tiny citronella candles flicker like caged fireflies.
The concert is finished. A few fireworks light the sky over the orchestra shell, and the LDS youth scramble up from their places. Swarming down the hill, they start folding chairs, clearing tables, and carrying them back to storage. Now that it is cooler, demonstrations of strength take place. Austin Armstrong carries eight chairs at once. Brennan staggers under 13. Jamie Ketring and Jennifer tote one table between them, but Jon Foote hoists one above his head and carries it alone.
The final tarpaulin is tugged up and over a mountain of chairs. It is time to go home.
The thoughts of all the youth are echoed by Emily Runyan. “My main memory of summers is our work at Conner Prairie.”