Gospel Story Finder

There’s a layered feeling in the hills of central Tennessee, the same sort of rich, close-to-the-earth satisfaction that comes from contemplating the unbroken repetition of furrows in a field. The feeling comes from the hills themselves, one rolling into the next, then into another, ridges paralleling ridges until the whole region seems to have been mapped out, tilled, and planted by one master cultivator.
Whoever planted the hills populated them, too, not with people but with animals. Deer still bound through the thickets. Raccoons still wash in the streams. Squirrels hide in the trees, and foxes sneak through the forest, just as they did in the 1800s when trappers marched the length of the trail called the Natchez Trace, trading with Indians and carrying furs to market in the cities.
It is well before 5 A.M. in the Tennessee hills when Tre (call him “Tray”) Pennington, 17, and his grandfather bump along an old dirt road in their pickup. There are no signs to point the way to the Duck River, no landmarks that would stand out to someone new. Mostly there are trees, thick, green, and heavy. It’s only where someone’s cleared out space for a farm or a home that you get any extended view.
Grandpa (call him ’Pa) slows the truck at a clearing and pulls in next to some trees. He doesn’t have to say a word. Tre knows it’s on foot from here. They scramble down a steep bank and pull their boat out of the underbrush, from the same place where they’ve tied it up every day for years. It’s a shallow boat, square on both ends.
They check to make sure there’s gas for the motor; they lift in the paddles and load a few plastic buckets on board. Then, for a few minutes, they wait.
It isn’t that there needs to be more light, although the sun is yet to crest over the hill. It isn’t a question of when the catfish will bite, because the trot lines ’Pa baited with grasshoppers yesterday have been in the water all night long. It isn’t even a question of sneaking a moment of rest before the work begins, because both the young man and his grandfather are eager to be on the river.
It is, quite simply, a moment of reverence, a pause to appreciate nature, to take in the beauty of a morning at its birth.
Finally it is ’Pa who whispers.
“Let’s go,” he says.
Tre responds with a nod. The boat glides into the mild current.
Soon they reach the lines. ’Pa holds the boat steady while Tre lifts each fish, flopping and slimy, out of the water. He brings them in one at a time, almost like taking laundry off a clothesline. Some fish, quite small, are set free. On the big ones, Tre guesses how many pounds.
“This one’ll go for five or six, won’t it Grandaddy?”
“More like four or five,” ’Pa responds.
Ask what kind of fish are in the river, and Grandpa will explain. “Lots of cats,” he says. “Blue. Yeller. Channel. Other fish, too. Perch, Bass, Carp. But you don’t take them often.”
This day when the four lines are cleared, the catch totals fifty catfish and one carp.
Tre does most of what little talking is done. He tells about the time ’Pa got knocked out of the boat by a tree limb and lost his hat. He teases Grandpa about the nickname Grandma gave him.
“She calls him a pelican,” he says, “because he could eat fish three times a day.”
Then there’s silence again, not the awkward silence of people who don’t know what to say, but the silence of men who know each other well.
“I wonder if we’ll see anything today,” Tre finally says as the boat turns for home. Often it’s deer, sometimes a beaver, once in a while a blue heron. Today they see a turtle.
Back home the catfish are cleaned and skinned, dipped in corn meal and fried. “What we don’t eat, we put in the freezer,” Tre explains. “We can trade it for beef.” The carp will be pressure cooked and bottled, then stored on the shelf like salmon. ’Pa can remember times during World War II when canned carp helped keep the family alive.
When breakfast is over, Tre and his brothers and sister are off down the dirt road for about a mile, where the school bus will ferry them on into Columbia for their classes. The bus stops by a little before seven. Then it’s a one-hour ride to the city. There are 300 students in the school, which includes grades from elementary through high school. Two of the teachers and 13 of the students are LDS. “Pretty much everybody in the school is friends,” Tre says.
There must be hundreds of stories to tell about the Penningtons. Their family’s membership in the Church dates back to the Nauvoo days. Tre’s father, Ray Junior, (don’t call him Pa) is, among other things, a stonemason who built his own home. Mom (call her Penny) hails from Los Angeles, California, but loves living in Tennessee. Grandma (call her Ovie May) hated the name Raymond, but she married ’Pa, whose real name is Raymond, anyway. Great-grandma (call her Mamie Bell) at age 85 still makes the finest quilts in the county, maybe the entire state. Rebecca Lynn, 14, is the only sister in the family, but she keeps right up with her four brothers: Tre (an adaptation of the French word for “three,” because his real name is Raymond Lee Pennington III); Joseph Sanford, 14; Ronald William, 11; and Jeffrey Aaron, 9.
So why begin a story about the Penningtons by talking about catfishing? Because it’s so typical. Tre and ’Pa out on the river represent the quiet confidence of a family that lives close to the land and depends on it to teach them and feed them. They also represent the quiet, confident communication, sometimes without words, of a family that depends on each member as another source of strength and love.
The hills and the Penningtons are friends. Any member of the family can show you where to gather hickory nuts, blackberries, ginseng root, or a dozen other delicacies Mother Nature provides. Tre especially knows the routes and the ridges. He can pick out animal trails or guide you to beaver dams.
And the Penningtons are friends with each other. It’s evident just in the way they like being together. Even though ’Pa, Grandma Ovie, and Mamie Bell live in one house and Ray Junior, Penny, and the kids live over the hill in another, they’re practically neighbors. It seems like the children spend equal time in both places.
At school, Tre and Joe are in the same class, because Tre has dyslexia and has had trouble reading. So Joe has become Tre’s unofficial tutor. They often do their homework together.
“Tre has always learned from experience,” Sister Pennington explains. “Joe learns from books. Even though they’re in the same class, they’re not jealous of each other or embarrassed to be seen together. They really help each other.”
“It’s a little strange being a sophomore instead of a senior,” Tre admits. “But it doesn’t matter. The most important thing is to work and to learn.”
“To work and to learn” could be the family motto. The Penningtons have done a lot of both. In summer, when Ray is laying rock, sometimes the rest of the family will go with him on a job. They help him select the right stones, and Tre and Joe help mix the mortar.
“I’ll pack a lunch and bring the other kids along, and it’s almost like we’re going on a picnic,” Sister Pennington says. “We learned a long time ago that work’s not a chore if you make it fun.”
The family also runs a fur business. The shop, “Garden of Eden Furs,” is just outside ’Pa and Ovie May’s place, and during the cold months of winter, there’s a lot of time spent inside.
“It gets so busy during fur season that the adults in the family don’t do much else,” Brother Pennington explains. “Lots of people come buying and selling. We have to grade the furs by quality and size. The unfinished ones have to be scraped, washed, tanned, stretched, and dried.” Except on Sundays, the adults work all day, then go to bed sometime between midnight and 4:00 A.M. They start again at 6:00 A.M. The children help whenever they can, squeezing in their meals, school work, and Church activities too.
Sometimes, when Brother and Sister Pennington have to go on a buying trip, Tre is left in charge of the shop. He has established quite a reputation as a good judge of fur quality, a skill that takes a lot of training. He also knows how to put together a crew.
“He’ll go and get workers, kids from school and grown men, too,” Brother Pennington says. “He’s a good manager of people. He works with them and tells them hunting stories to keep them entertained. We can leave him with a whole big load of fur, and when we get back it’s always done.”

It was in the late 1960s when I first heard about Relief Society, and I was not yet a member of the Church.
I was excited to hear about this women’s organisation, and the missionaries had arranged for one of the sisters to pick me up for the evening homemaking meeting. It seemed like a beautiful thing to go to.
I was conscious that this was the first time to meet these women. So, with an emphasis on it being a Church meeting, my apparel was important. I was brought up in Ireland, but with the Anglican tradition that you don’t go to church without a hat. I had a hat I thought would be suitable. It happened to be quite flamboyant, with its navy and pink petals—rather like a bouquet on top of your head, but pretty. I had a matching navy coat and dress. So, well-manicured, with make-up on, and in my hat and outfit (including gloves), I was ready.
At the last minute, I thought I’d better take some food, because of the charity aspect of the organisation. So, I gathered some tins and placed them in a wicker picnic basket.
When the lovely lady arrived to pick me up, she was casually dressed in jeans and a nice sweater. I can’t remember if she had a look of shock on her face when she saw me, but it still didn’t dawn on me that I was way overdressed. Only when I went into the room did I realise they were all casually dressed — and there I was looking like the Queen Mother! I never did ask them what they thought, but they were wonderful sisters, wonderfully warm.
I’ve learned to be good at laughing at myself, but it was a serious moment for me—it was perhaps my first spiritual moment. I felt their genuine warmth, and I wanted to be connected with these sisters. I truly felt the sisterhood of which we talk and read.
I am grateful for the stability of the gospel that has helped me to ride many waves in my life. And since that first meeting I have always had an affinity with my sisters in the Church.

James Forten had been fifteen years old when he enlisted on the privateer Royal Louis as a powder boy in 1781. His job was to fetch gunpowder for the cannons as they were fired in battle. After several successful raids on British ships, the privateer was captured by the British warship Amphyon. The British captain was so impressed with James’s intelligence and warm personality that he offered James a comfortable life in England for the duration of the war.
But James told him, “I cannot be a traitor to my country.”
James had then been placed on the Jersey. It was a fate preferable to slavery, James felt. At least on the Jersey he might have a chance of returning to his home in Philadelphia. Now the opportunity he had been waiting for had arisen.
James searched the hold of the wretched ship for men who had not survived the night. To his relief, there were none. Then, looking for sick men to help to the deck, he found his friend Daniel Brewton, former ship’s boy on the Royal Louis.
In the sunlight on deck, James saw that Daniel’s eyes were glazed. His body was covered with sores, and his sunken face was pale. With a horrible feeling, James realized that Daniel was dying. Unless …
James tried to thrust the thought from him. He’d made his plans. He would not spend another night on the Jersey!
“James,” Daniel whispered. “Would you get me some water?”
James scooped up a dipperful of the thick, almost-green water from its cask. Daniel choked down the liquid and lay down again with a shudder.
The next morning, Daniel Brewton escaped in the officer’s sea chest and returned to his home in Philadelphia to recover. James was finally released from the Jersey almost three months later. Although he was weak, he made his way on foot back to Philadelphia. He went to work for the sailmaker, Robert Bridges, who had employed James’s father for many years. Two years later, when he was only twenty-two, James was supervising twenty black and twenty white employees. He was known for his fairness and generosity to all. Later, Bridges sold his sail loft to James Forten, and he became one of the most successful and respected businessmen in Philadelphia.
Forten fought for equal job opportunities and equal citizenship for blacks in the United States. Even though he amassed a large fortune during his lifetime, at the time of his death, only a fraction of it remained. Most of it had been used for buying the freedom of many slaves and for the struggle for equal rights. He wrote eloquent pamphlets and made moving speeches against unfair laws and practices.
When James Forten died in 1842, he had earned his place in history for helping not just his country but all mankind.

Some time ago, a young man came to my office. He was about 18 years of age and had some problems. There were no serious moral problems, but he was mixed up in his thinking and worried. He requested a blessing.
I said to him, “Have you ever asked your father to give you a blessing? Your father is a member of the Church, I assume?”
He said, “Yes, he is an elder, a rather inactive elder.”
When I asked, “Do you love your father?” he replied, “Yes, President Benson, he is a good man. I love him. He doesn’t attend to his priesthood duties as he should. He doesn’t go to church regularly. I don’t know that he is a tithe payer, but he is a good man, a good provider, a kind man.”
I said, “How would you like to talk to him at an opportune time and ask him if he would be willing to give you a father’s blessing?”
“Oh,” he said, “I think that would frighten him.”
I then said, “Are you willing to try it? I will be praying for you.”
He said, “All right, on that basis, I will.”
A few days later he came back. He said, “Brother Benson, that’s the sweetest thing that has happened in our family.” He could hardly control his feelings as he told me what had happened. He said, “When the opportunity was right, I mentioned it to Father, and he replied, ‘Son, do you really want me to give you a blessing?’ I told him, ‘Yes, Dad, I would like you to.’”
Then this young man said, “Brother Benson, he gave me one of the most beautiful blessings you could ever ask for. Mother sat there crying all during the blessing. When he got through there was a bond of appreciation and gratitude and love between us that we have never had in our home.”

A personal experience illustrates that point. Sister Oaks and I are the parents of six, including four daughters. Our youngest daughter is still in her teens. As parents, we have learned a lot about teenage girls. I remember when one of our teenage daughters announced that she was in love with eight boys. She produced a list of their names. I made silent note of the fact that she had never even dated some of these boys, and one of them she had never even met. Within a few weeks she dropped several names off her list and added others. When I asked her how she could fall in love and out of love with so many boys so quickly, she wisely admitted, “I guess I’m not in love with those boys. I’m just in love with love.” Your parents and grandparents will remember the words of an old song, “Falling in love with love is falling for make believe” (Lorenz Hart, “Falling in Love with Love,” The Boys from Syracuse, n.p.: Chappell & Co., 1938).

In February 2002 I was sitting across the desk from President Gordon B. Hinckley. He asked, “Bonnie, how is your health?” I answered that my health was fine, although I could not hear in my right ear because I had lost that hearing in the mission field. He then asked, “How is the hearing in your other ear?” “Fine,” I said. “Well, then,” he replied, “just turn your head.” He then proceeded to issue my current call. President Hinckley understands the principle of doing the best with what we have and making adjustments when we need to compensate.

“You want us to do what?” they asked. “For how long? Why?”
When she heard those questions, McKenzie McNaughton knew this project might be a challenge.
At the beginning of the school year, McKenzie, a senior and member of the student council at Washington Township High School in Deptford, New Jersey, hatched an idea. She wanted the entire senior class to spend one school day providing service in the community. Nothing too elaborate. Just a few hours sprucing up the place.
“I started thinking about what I wanted to give back to the school and what we could do,” she says. “I thought this would be a good way.”
And that’s how Washington Township’s Senior Service Day began.
Things got a little tricky when she presented the idea to her fellow students, however.
“In September, when I told the student body of my idea at the beginning of an assembly, they were excited,” McKenzie says. “But then what I was saying started to sink in. Before the assembly was over, a lot of guys were saying, ‘You’re not going to get us all to go and clean a park. We’re not going to do this.’
“And I’m still in the EFY, youth-conference mode,” McKenzie adds. “I’m thinking, ‘We’re going to get to clean together, guys. We get to rake. And we’re doing it for free!’ I had to finally realize that maybe everybody wouldn’t be as excited just to spend a day working.”
Those few negative responses didn’t diminish McKenzie’s enthusiasm for the project, though. It was now McKenzie’s job to get those naysaying students into, as she says, “the mode.”
Nine months later, and a week before they all graduated, approximately 500 of the senior class’s 600 students shuffled out of the school holding rakes and shovels to board buses headed for nearby parks and schools.
If there is one thing McKenzie knows, it’s service projects. If you’re a Latter-day Saint, they kind of come with the territory. Since McKenzie turned 12 and joined Young Women, she’s helped paint a preschool building, and she’s gone on her ward’s annual Christmas caroling excursions to local hospitals. “We also regularly visit nursing homes, and we’ve given Easter baskets to the Ronald McDonald House,” she says. And McKenzie isn’t even including her Young Women Value Experiences which consisted of—among other things—acquiring donated fleece and using it to make toys and pillows she then donated to the local women’s shelter.
Senior Service Day was a little different from those activities in one big way. This was McKenzie’s idea, and she had to make it happen. There was no Laurel adviser to coordinate everything. So to accomplish her goal, McKenzie had to inspire a bunch of students not experienced in service projects to pitch in. “I think my high school is full of good kids. This will work,” she said confidently the day before the event.
“When I do service, it makes me more grateful for what I have. It’s a ton of work, but I think you learn how to work. It’s so fun. You really like to work,” she adds.
McKenzie was also only one of two Church members in her senior class. She knew she was perceived as being different by her classmates. And coming up with the idea of Senior Service Day didn’t necessarily change their opinions. “Because I don’t go to the parties on Fridays, other kids will ask me what I like to do. Then they become curious. Once I went on a picnic with a couple of kids who I kind of knew but wasn’t really good friends with. We were just talking about stuff, and we ended up talking for an hour-and-a-half about the Church.” Serving others was one of the topics that day. Senior Service Day would give McKenzie the opportunity to practice what she preached.
Still, there was the little issue of instilling excitement in the other students about—ahem—the prospect of raking. There was also a lot of planning necessary to make the whole thing happen. “I didn’t realize how much work had to be put into it,” she says.
With the help of teachers and counselors who offered their help, and after postponing the day twice, June 1 finally came and everything was in order. McKenzie made sure of it, checking off each item one by one:
X The school district had furnished the buses to transport the students.
X Bus drivers volunteered their time.
X The township had approved the work in several different parks.
X The elementary and middle schools’ principals were enthusiastic about the service the students would provide.
X A local pizza restaurant had donated pizzas for the party afterward, and grocery stores had provided soda pop.
“I think it’s going to be great,” she said, the day before Senior Service Day would actually happen. Pizzas and cases of soda as enticements certainly couldn’t hurt.
Even with all the planning, the next morning McKenzie drove from place to place to make sure everything was coordinated and going according to plan. She found students who had descended on the sites, and she thought back to that first assembly. “I think they kind of didn’t get what we were trying to do in the very beginning. But after they thought about it, they realized it could be fun,” she says.
At one school, several girls hemmed the bottom of the frayed stage curtain. Outside, another group was picking up litter along a fence line. At a middle school, kids were spading and weeding a garden while others were—yes!—raking the courtyard lawn.
And later that morning at The Birches Elementary School sat McKenzie. She was reading to the second-graders who had crowded around a wooden rocking chair. Eleven years earlier, McKenzie had been in this classroom. Her teacher from back then was still teaching. As McKenzie looked at the new batch of seven- and eight-year-olds, she fondly remembered her days in the school.
The kids were attentive, listening as McKenzie read from a children’s book.
“It was so much fun being back in that classroom,” she says afterward. “This has gone so well.”
A few hours later, the students were back at the high school sitting around listening to music, eating pizza, and smiling about what they had accomplished.
“You want us to do what? For how long? Why?”
They now had their answers.
McKenzie no longer lives in New Jersey. She’s now a student at BYU in Provo, Utah. Senior Service Day is long since over.
“I’m glad we did it. I think it was a success,” she says.
Which just proves what can happen when everybody gets in the “EFY, youth-conference mode.”

Despite our best efforts to raise children who love the Lord, follow His commandments, and live happy, productive, and healthy lives, our sons and daughters sometimes go astray. Straying can mean involvement in drug abuse, criminal activity, immorality, and even abuse of parents and others. Other forms of drifting, perhaps less serious but nevertheless troubling, include underachieving, dropping out of school, and finding little purpose or happiness in life.
Typical parental reactions include sorrow, despair, desperation, depression, feelings of guilt and unworthiness, and a sense of failure. In such circumstances, parents may also experience anger and withdrawal and may feel like simply giving up. These reactions usually make matters worse, deepening the problems they face.
My wife and I have friends who, because of their son’s behavior, have suffered almost every emotion identified above. The past five or six years have been a hideous nightmare for them. They have tried every possible approach, even placing their son in expensive rehabilitation programs in which he typically lasts only a week, despite his good intentions.
The father shared his lament and his hope in these words: “There is no how-to book for parents with young people like our son. You pray to the Lord that He will guide your thoughts and your actions, and you hope you will make wise decisions.” He and his wife, firm in their faith, declare: “We have the ultimate hope that because he has been sealed to us in the temple, the bonds of eternal covenants will be stronger than the bonds of the adversary that now seem to grip his life. We live with hope that the day will come when he will return to his eternal family and repent of his way of life.”
Our friends represent thousands of others in similar circumstances who are meeting challenges almost beyond their capacity to endure. Trials of parenthood are most often associated with children’s growing-up years, but these challenges can arise with children of any age. As parents, we don’t cease our concerns when our children reach adulthood.

Some months ago I was given the assignment to interview a young man, 21 years old, to determine if his repentance was sufficient for him to serve a mission. My heart ached as I read of the serious problems and transgressions in his past. I wondered if it would be possible that one with such a background could ever prepare himself to worthily serve a mission. At the appointed time for my interview, I saw a handsome young man approaching me. He was immaculately groomed and had a wonderful countenance about him. He looked like a returned missionary, and I wondered who he was. As he approached, he extended his hand and, to my surprise, introduced himself as the young man I was to interview.

During the interview I simply asked, “Why am I visiting with you tonight?” Then he laid out the sordid details of his past. After reviewing and confessing again his transgression, he began talking to me about the Atonement and the years of painful repentance that brought him to this very interview. He expressed his love for the Savior and then explained that Christ’s Atonement was sufficient to rescue even a boy like him. At the conclusion of the interview, I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “When I get back to Church headquarters, my recommendation will be that you be permitted to serve a mission.” And then I said, “I ask only one thing of you—just one. If you are privileged to serve, I want you to be the best missionary in the entire Church. That is all.”

About four months later I was speaking at a missionary devotional at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. After the devotional I was standing in front of the podium greeting missionaries when I noticed a familiar face approaching me. My first thought was that I was about to be embarrassed because I was supposed to know this young man. I could not remember where I had met him, and I knew the first question that he was going to ask me. Sure enough, he extended his hand and asked, “Do you remember me?” Apologetic and somewhat embarrassed, I answered: “I am sorry. I know I should know you, but I just do not remember.” He then said: “Well, let me tell you who I am. I am the best missionary in the MTC.” I could not withhold the tear that slowly trickled down my cheek as I thought, Here is a man. He met his test. He paid the painful price of repentance. He has humbled himself and submitted himself to the redemptive power of the Savior. He has met the challenges. He has measured up to true manhood. And I say, “Behold a man,” a man humble enough to submit himself to the redemptive powers of the Savior.

A large framed picture of the Taipei Taiwan Temple hangs on an alcove wall inside Taiwanese Church member Chang Chih Hsun’s hydraulic-machine business. Symbolizing his new faith, the temple’s spires point heavenward. The picture replaces a shrine where employees once burned incense.
“Most business places in Taiwan have a shrine where employees worship a god of prosperity,” explains Brother Chang. “After I joined the Church, I hung a picture of the temple where the shrine used to be.”
His example is characteristic of the faith and courage Church members in Taiwan demonstrate as they strive to live the gospel. Brother Chang, who serves as stake mission president in the Taichung Taiwan Stake, recently offered a cash bonus to any of his employees who would give up smoking, as he did before his baptism in 1995. So far, no one has taken him up on the offer.
“Before my husband joined the Church, he did not know what love was,” says Brother Chang’s wife, Chang Wu Lan Hua, who was baptized 10 years before her husband. “Now he knows how to love me and the family.” The Changs were sealed in the Taipei Taiwan Temple in 1996.

Fishing is a necessary and pleasant pastime for many Samoans. Molimaufou, Letane, and Aioo carry their dugout canoe (paopao) from their house to the beach a half a mile away. Molimaufou has placed the family wash in the canoe and will do it by hand in a clear, stream-fed pool while the tide is out. While she is doing the washing, Aioo and Letane try their hand at fishing using homemade spears and goggles. Today the water is murky because of a storm out at sea, and they don’t find any fish or shellfish.

There it is on the youth conference program. On Friday from 9:00–12:00 and again from 1:00–4:00 “Dooleyalawalagus”! What does it mean? No one seems to know, but everyone is looking forward to finding out. And at the same time they’re feeling just a little apprehensive about the whole thing.
For many of the youth in the Bountiful Utah Stone Creek Stake, this is the first youth conference they’ve been to. And although there is a theme, professional-looking programs, and a level of organization that any leader would envy, no one seems to know what’s going on.
Well, maybe not everyone is in the dark. As the crowd prepares to leave for Park City, a resort not far from home where the conference is being held, there are some knowing smiles on a few of the faces.
Leila Whiting, a Mia Maid in the Bountiful 43rd Ward knows, and she’s not telling. “It’s going to be a lot of fun,” she says, but that’s all you’ll get out of her. In conjunction with the stake youth committee and their leaders, she has helped plan a youth conference that carries a mysterious air of secrecy and yet promises to be a great time.
Some of the other youth are still a little wary. Mitch Gwilliam, a teacher in the Bountiful 12th Ward, admits to being a little nervous, and Jeff Lund, president of the teachers quorum in the West Bountiful 8th Ward, says it makes him wonder what’s going to happen to them. But overall, the feeling is one of excitement.
John Shafter, 14, of the Bountiful 12th Ward, stands by his golf clubs and waits to go. “They said we could golf, play tennis or racquetball, and go swimming,” he says, and he’s definitely looking forward to the next three days.
The first day goes as expected. The hills and mountains surrounding Park City crackle with the fiery reds and yellows of fall, and the air is crisp. Some of the youth head for the tennis courts, others prefer the warmth of the indoor pool, and some use the time to laugh and talk with friends. Almost everyone is up late that night.
However, the next morning, early, their rooms are empty. But no one is playing on the tennis courts and no one is splashing in the pool. Instead, the youth are found up on a dark stage in the local theater, heads bent intently over whitewashed sheets of cardboard where the word Dooleyalawalagus is being painted.
Dooleyalawalagus?
The secret is out. Dooleyalawalagus has been revealed, and contrary to what some might think, it is much more than just silly mumbo jumbo.
Dooleyalawalagus is a town. More specifically, it is a town in a play that has been written especially for this youth conference.
Within the course of the afternoon, parts will be assigned, scenery will be painted, dances will be learned, and everyone will take part in rehearsals.
Why all the hurry?
Because the next day the youth will perform the play at the Utah State Training School for mentally handicapped youth and adults. Although it seems impossible to pull everything together so quickly, everyone dives in and preparation is soon underway.
While soon-to-be stars of the stage memorize their lines, paintbrushes and plenty of paint transform plain cardboard into the small community of Dooleyalawalagus. A parking lot outside the theater becomes a dance floor for members of the cast practicing their routines, and the sound and effects crew can be heard enthusiastically going over their lines.
Charice Smith, 15, of the Bountiful 12th Ward, says she’s going to be a dancer in the play. Is Dooleyalawalagus what she expected it to be? “Well, I thought it was going to be dumb when I first heard,” she says, but that was before getting involved. She practices the dance steps with a friend and laughs, “It’s been a lot of fun.”
There was no mystery surrounding Dooleyalawalagus for Doug Leavitt, a priest in the Bountiful Fifth Ward. Doug is one of the youth assigned to direct the play, and he’s been in on the planning stages of the conference. “I think it’s a really good idea,” he says. “I’ve been to the Utah State Training School a couple of times and it’s definitely something to remember. The kids there are great.”
And even though his cast and crew are short on practice time, Doug is confident that everything will work if everyone “just thinks and remembers their parts.”
Just as scheduled in the program, Dooleyalawalagus takes up two blocks of time during the day. Not much, when you consider that the play will be performed the next day. “I’m excited about it,” says Michael Fernelius, a teacher in the West Bountiful Seventh Ward, “but I didn’t think we could do it that fast.”
As the day of the performance arrives, the youth pile into cars to head for the training school. They leave behind the beauty of Park City and opportunities for more golf, tennis and swimming, yet they are looking forward to doing the play.
Once at the school, the scenery is quickly arranged on stage, costumes are donned, and the sound and special effects crew takes its place. The remaining youth line themselves against the walls of the auditorium to welcome the residents from the school. As the residents arrive, they are greeted with smiles and given special badges to wear. The auditorium fills slowly, the lights dim, and it’s time for the show to go on.
As the sound and effects crew imitate the sound of a train, part of the cast arrive on stage aboard the imaginary locomotive. Their destination? Dooleyalawalagus, of course. Upon arrival the travelers are shocked to find that Dooleyalawalagus is not the same as it was when they left several years earlier.
The plot thickens and the characters learn that Vernon Vile has taken over their once clean, happy hometown and turned it into a dirty, unproductive place. However, with the help of Vernon’s kind sister and a little ingenuity, these characters are able to restore happiness to Dooleyalawalagus and the townspeople. And in the process Vernon Vile, himself, is transformed.
The final performance may not be a polished Broadway production, but it is very effective and carries a small piece of everyone who has worked on it out to an audience that sincerely appreciates and needs this kind of love.
And although what they’re doing could be termed a service project, Kevin Jensen, a priest in the Bountiful 12th Ward, says it really doesn’t feel like one. “It’s been great,” he says. “We’re getting a lot more out of it than out of other service projects we’ve done.”
Heidi Judd, a secretary in her Mia Maid class in the West Bountiful Eighth Ward agrees. “At first it’s a little scary to come here,” she says. “But when you talk with the residents and help them, you see that they’re people too, and they’re so excited to have visitors.”
After the performance the residents shake hands with members of the play’s cast and crew and begin returning to their rooms. One young resident smiles broadly as he leaves the auditorium wearing, not one but two badges on his jacket. He will remember this visit.
The cardboard backdrops that represent Dooleyalawalagus are quickly taken down and loaded onto a truck as everyone prepares to go home.
Many of the youth conference programs have been thrown away or lost by now, but it doesn’t really matter. The questioning looks and curious faces caused by seeing the word Dooleyalawalagus a few days ago are gone. Instead of just a few knowing smiles in the crowd, there are many now.
Everyone that worked with Dooleyalawalagus knows that it is more than just a small town built of props and whitewashed cardboard, and much more than a silly name or a quickly prepared play.
Dooleyalawalagus is the sum of a lot of things. It is working hard and working together; it is a little bit of worry and a lot of fun; it is giving without expecting anything in return, and learning that service has its own kind of reward.
The excitement and air of mystery that once surrounded Dooleyalawalagus may be gone, but no one seems to mind. The real fun, they will tell you, has been discovering what such a word is all about.

In addition to the badges, there are other projects a Scout must complete to earn his Springbok. One of these is a construction project. Rocco chose to build a bridge. He had to first design and build a scale model of the bridge. Then, with a team of six other Scouts, Rocco had to build it full size, about 20 feet tall (6 m) and 30 feet long (9 m). It took nearly nine hours to build the bridge and then disassemble it.

Then there’s community service, which is a big part of earning both the Springbok and the Duty to God Award. For his Springbok service requirement, Rocco visited more than 40 homes of seniors to help them with various chores and repairs. “The only big thing that overlapped was the 40-hour service project I was able to use for both Scouts and the Duty to God Award,” says Rocco.

Of all the requirements Rocco has fulfilled to earn his various awards, he points to one in particular as most valuable for his personal growth: “Reading the Book of Mormon,” Rocco says without hesitation. “That was the biggest and most rewarding challenge.”

“I had read the Book of Mormon once already, a year or so ago, but I was just reading to get it done,” Rocco explains. “When I started reading it again, I really wanted to learn and gain a testimony of it.” He approached reading the Book of Mormon in a completely different way his second time through. “Every time I read now, I pray before to ask Heavenly Father’s Spirit to be with me as I read.”

Rocco’s already begun on his next big project—to more actively share his testimony with others as he prepares to serve a full-time mission. His Scouting experiences and earning the Duty to God Award have helped him in his personal development and in becoming a missionary. “To spread the gospel, I needed to know what is in the Book of Mormon, and I needed to know that it is true,” he says. “After reading the Book of Mormon for the second time, I received a testimony of it.”

Even if there was not a Duty to God Award to earn, Rocco says he would have fulfilled most of the requirements simply because he wanted to prepare for missionary service. Attending church, reading the scriptures, praying daily, and giving service are just part of who Rocco is, of being what a Latter-day Saint is supposed to be.

Now that he has received his call to serve as a full-time missionary, the testimony Elder du Plessis has built is proving much more useful than the rope-and-log bridge he built for his Springbok construction project. However, some of the backwoodsman skills he learned as a Scout may come in handy as he serves in Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Malawi.

The File on Cindy
Cindy was a bright, hyperactive girl of fourteen who began, on occasion, to be quite emotional. It became increasingly hard for her to make and keep friends. She had a hard time getting along with others in school. She became unfriendly and hostile toward her parents. She started avoiding people and worried at great length about little day-to-day situations. She said she wanted to get out of the rat race. Her parents were fearful that she was experimenting with drugs.
The cases of Jerry and Cindy are true. They don’t know each other, but they do have something in common: Both of them are young Latter-day Saints who were having troubles. But today they are secure about themselves. Jerry has found new confidence in himself, which makes him feel good about his home life and school activities. He is planning on a mission. Cindy has developed a warm relationship with her family and even enjoys talking to her parents. In fact, she has helped some of her friends with their problems.
There is one other thing that Jerry and Cindy have in common. Both were helped tremendously in overcoming their problems by meeting with their bishops, who in turn through the stake president brought into the setting some professionals from the Church’s Social Services Department.

My husband and I joined the Church in Russia in 1995 and were sealed the next year in the Stockholm Sweden Temple. Our two young daughters were also sealed to us. Two years later we were blessed to have another daughter, Lizochka, born to us. Our lives were going well. We were all happy. But two days after her birth, our little one began to have trouble eating. In a month she gained only two-thirds of a pound (300 g).
The staff at the children’s medical center told us to feed her more often. I saw that she wanted to eat but could not. Finally, my husband took her to the city hospital. The doctor immediately gave us a diagnosis—a birth defect in the heart. One heart valve did not work, and the poor blood flow to her lungs made it hard for her to breathe or eat.
She needed an operation, but in Russia the youngest children to receive this operation were two years old. Our daughter was only one month old. The doctor prescribed a treatment for her and said that later, when she was older, they would perform the operation.
One month later, Lizochka’s health worsened dramatically, and we rushed her to the hospital. I held her as we drove. She looked at me as if pleading for help. If I had not been a member of the Church, I don’t know what I would have done. But my husband and I trusted the Lord and firmly believed that all would be well. I tried to calm her, saying, “Don’t be scared of anything, my little one. God loves us. He will help us, and everything will be OK.”
Finally we arrived. Holding her close to me, I ran to the admitting division. Lizochka’s eyes began to close. She was barely breathing. Almost unable to speak, I told a doctor about my child, and the medical staff took her to the intensive care unit. The doctor said her lungs were beginning to swell, and they hooked her up to an artificial-respiration machine.
The next day we talked with the director of the cardio surgery division. He said, “I have done such operations but only on older children. How old is she now?”
“Two months,” we told him.
“She already hurts a lot. She is so small, and the swelling of her lungs is complicating things, but we must not drag this on any longer. I have never done such an operation to a small child. I will try to do all I can. You will have to buy an artificial double valve, but it is very expensive—about $2,100. The operation will be in four days.”
What were we to do? Neither we nor anyone we knew had such money. However, our situation came to the attention of others, and through their generosity and the Lord’s mercy we were able to secure the funds. My husband bought the valve we needed to save the life of our child.
Not only did all the brothers and sisters of our branch pray and fast for our little daughter but so did the missionaries and many Latter-day Saints throughout the city. We felt their support. Sitting in the hall on the day of the operation, we felt the presence of the Holy Ghost and sensed the prayers of our brothers and sisters. We knew they were near us! And God was with us, guiding the surgeons. He would not leave us, and everything would work out.
When the surgeon came out after the operation, he, somewhat bewildered, told us, “Everything worked out. We put in the valve. I do not know how, but it succeeded.” But we knew how it succeeded. Heavenly Father blessed him.
Lizochka stayed in the hospital three more days while the swelling of her heart and lungs went down. She had been cut open and sealed closed by only a thin membrane, and a few days later they operated again to close her chest and organs. Almost none of the doctors expected her to survive. But we believed in Heavenly Father and in His power, and we believed that if it was His will, she would recover.
Only God could have given us back our Lizochka. With each day, she got better. She stayed in the hospital another month, and now she is home with us.
God is a God of miracles. He hears our prayers, and during our hard times, He carries us. Trials strengthen our faith and teach us to believe, hope, and love.

At the end of World War II, when I was 19 years old, enemy troops came to occupy my hometown in Europe. One evening my parents and I were sitting at our table when we heard a loud noise. We looked out through the blackout curtains, hung so that bombers couldn’t detect our house at night, to see enemy troops—along with their motorcycles, trucks, and tanks—coming into our village from two different directions. I was very frightened.
My father, always a faithful man, said simply, “Don’t be scared.” In the face of what was just outside our house, that was an extraordinary statement. We all knew that the soldiers would likely invade the neighborhood to pillage people’s homes. Father suggested that we kneel next to the couch and pray for Heavenly Father’s protection. He prayed, “Father in Heaven, please blind those soldiers. Make our house invisible so they won’t see it.”
After he prayed, my mother prayed. Then I prayed. Afterward, we returned to the table and cautiously looked out the window. We watched soldiers storm into every house on our street. Ours was the last one on the street. They approached our house but then passed our front gate and went to the next street. We watched them enter every house that we could see from our window.
After an invasion of about two hours, someone blew a loud whistle, and the soldiers returned to their vehicles. As they slowly left, we were tremendously relieved and knelt again, thanking Heavenly Father for His kindness and protection.
The next day I learned from a distraught friend that the soldiers had done terrible things in every house she knew of. When I told her that they had not come to our house, she was shocked. She said she had watched them go in our direction and that she knew of no homes in our sector that they had not entered. Our house was the only one the soldiers had left alone.
I know that Heavenly Father hears our pleas and answers them. Sometimes it seems that we might not ever receive an answer, and we wish that He would answer sooner. But I know that in our home 65 years ago, He answered right away.

Illustration by David Malan
After a long, hard day filled with the struggles that come from caring for three young children, all I wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed.
I took a deep breath and went into my room to unwind. That’s when our five-year-old daughter came in and reminded me it was her turn for the monthly personal interviews my husband and I had started having with her and our three-year-old son. We would ask them questions about their favorite things and what they liked about kindergarten or church. Then we would remind them that they were children of God and that we loved them.
I enjoyed these talks, but I didn’t feel physically or mentally up to it. I started to tell my daughter we would have our talk tomorrow night, but I realized how important our talks were to her.
“All right,” I said tiredly, “let’s get Dad.”
We three sat on the bed and began our chat. After my husband left the room for a moment, I asked our daughter, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I was not prepared for her answer: “Like you.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, and my heart filled with emotion. I was touched by the way my daughter saw me, but I felt overwhelming anxiety that stemmed from fear of inadequacy. I thought of all the reasons I did not make an ideal role model for my children, and I was keenly aware of my shortcomings.
Later that night as I prayed, I fervently asked Heavenly Father to help me become a better example for my daughter and more worthy of her admiration. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of comfort, hope, and love washed over me. I became aware of the gratitude my Father in Heaven and Savior had for me simply for being a mother who was trying to be better. They acknowledged my efforts and were there to help me become the mother and daughter They see in me.
I know with all my heart that God knows and loves us and that through “the enabling power of the Savior’s Atonement,” we can become who we hope to become.

In the spring of 1945, I was on Okinawa as a frightened, barely adequate infantry replacement, concerned with victory to be sure, but very much concerned with selfish survival. Japanese artillery pieces had tried for several days without success to hit the little plateau our mortar squad was on. Then one evening they dropped three shells on us; they had finally found the range and we knew it, and they surely knew it. Since one of those shells fell just several feet from my foxhole, I was stimulated to intense prayer, full of promises. Strangely, no more shells fell near us that evening—at the very time when more shells should have been fired for effect. The Lord that night blessed me and others. But suppose He also told me to be of good cheer, for not only would I live, but one day (just a few ridges away) I would preach the gospel to an LDS chapel full of members! Could I have managed that perspective? Probably not. Yet that is what happened in 1973, 28 years later, as I was privileged to go back to that—for me—sacred spot. Sugar cane has since covered the little plateau but not my poignant memories of Okinawa, that bloodiest battle in the Pacific.

But as they say, never say never—especially when the Lord has work for you to do. Twenty-five years later I retired after an enriching career with a large global tech company. Another company recruited me to Arizona, where Dana and I began to build our retirement home. Everything was falling into place as we worked through the transition. But for some reason the Lord had something else in mind for me.

Our family had been in Arizona for just over a year, and something about our “perfect” plan felt off. That year I also was diagnosed with cancer. Reflecting on that time, I see the Lord was preparing me for a significant change in the direction of my life. As I was going through this challenging period, I met a friend of my mother-in-law who had worked at the University of Arizona. She asked if I had ever considered working in higher education. That idea had never crossed my mind, but I felt prompted to explore job opportunities at BYU and found an exciting position in the BYU Marriott School of Business. I was still recovering from cancer surgery but felt directed to travel to Provo and meet with Dean Lee T. Perry in person. As soon as I met with Lee, I knew I needed to be at BYU. Fortunately, he felt the same and took a chance on me. Lee was another special person who the Lord put in my life to help me return to BYU.

It was not the first time I had met Lee. I had had the opportunity to take a class from then-Professor Perry as an undergraduate student. He was a new, young faculty member at BYU and brought great energy and passion to his class. Who would have known that this inspiring young professor would one day play a significant role in my life? Lee ended up being a great mentor to me as I began this new second career that offered me an opportunity to give back and to learn the important role BYU plays in developing disciples of Jesus Christ.

It was a major transition to BYU after years at a big corporation where the primary focus was driving business results; the pace and purpose were very different. Starting meetings with prayer, openly bearing testimony, and discussing the gospel while at work was unique, exciting, and refreshing. Over the past 12 years, I have also cherished the opportunity to mentor and work with amazing young people, watching them grow and develop.

With perspective I lacked as a young person, I now understand that the Lord led me back to BYU not only to recognize the important role of this sacred university but also to assist in the great work of developing disciples of Jesus Christ.

Flora first saw “T,” as she affectionately calls her husband, when she was attending Utah State Agricultural College (now Utah State University) in Logan. He was standing on the corner with his cousin, one of her friends, as she drove by in her car and waved pleasantly. “T” was visiting the campus, taking college courses by home study until he could afford to attend school full-time.
“Who is that girl?” he asked.
“Why, that’s Flora Amussen,” his cousin replied.
“When I come here to school, I’m going to date her.”
“You’ll never make it; she’s too popular for you.” “That makes it all the more interesting,” the future prophet answered. He already knew she was the girl he was going to marry.
But the farm boy from Idaho found rigorous competition for Miss Amussen’s time. During her college years, she was vice-president of the Utah State Agricultural College student body and president of the girls’ athletic club. She also won the girls’ singles tennis championship, was elected to the honorary dramatic fraternity for Shakespearean acting, and was in constant demand for her natural ability to play almost every musical instrument—without having to read music.
President Benson recalls arriving for his first date with the “most popular girl in town.” Through the graciousness of Flora and her “queenly mother,” the farm boy was soon at ease in the large home of culture and refinement.
“As we left the house and she kissed her mother tenderly, I knew I was the escort of a choice girl, and I determined to make the best of it,” he remarks.
“Nothing in Flora’s life impressed me more deeply than her reverent kindness to and deep love for her mother,” continues President Benson. “Their companionship was an inspiration—the sweetest relationship I have ever known between a parent and child.”
Likewise was Flora impressed with this courteous, good-looking, deeply spiritual young man. “I wanted to marry a farmer and learn how to work and cook and sew,” she says, adding emphatically, “and I learned!”