Gospel Story Finder

Trusted friends who are older than yourself are always invaluable, especially when you are a teenager. Such friends include parents. I am grateful for the close companionship and association I had with my musician-father, George Henry Durham. It began in early boyhood. Its basis was family life, but extensive activity carried beyond the family. I learned to share much of his specialty, music, by attending concerts and participating in choral groups which he led. For five years of my boyhood, during the period of my father’s advanced study, there were concerts of the Boston Symphony. There were notable times each spring when the Metropolitan Opera of New York played a short season in the Boston Opera House. I shall never forget Verdi’s Aida. Later, in high school, I could join in singing choruses from the “Triumph” scene in the second act with the high school chorus my father led.
The old LDS College was a two-year college and a three-year high school with a business college attached. It occupied the space behind the Hotel Utah and the Church Administration Building where the beautiful plaza and highrise Church Office Building now stand. High school classes began at 8:30. Father wanted a school choir. There was not room for such a class in the regular schedule of classes, so he met the choir daily at 7:45 A.M. in Barratt Hall. The first number I remember rehearsing was Beethoven’s “The Heavens Resound.” There followed selections from Handel’s Messiah, Mendelssohn’s St. Paul, especially “How Lovely Are the Messengers.” We had a wonderful songbook called the Corona Songbook, filled with classical music and songs from various nations. It was a rich experience. It formed a special bond with my father. We had mutual interests to talk about.
The bonds extended into Church activity. Father invited me to join the 31st Ward Choir to sing alto. This was before my voice changed! He kindly let me sit between the sisters who sang alto and the men who sang tenor. This removed any sense of embarrassment and gave me a sense of security. When I shifted from alto to tenor, the transition was simple and easy. As the years went by the ward choir undertook performance of Handel’s Messiah one Sunday evening in December.
Choir practice was every Wednesday night in the chapel at 7:30 P.M. By that time I was also a forward on the ward M Men basketball team, athletic manager, and captain of the team. Choir rehearsals and league games were often scheduled on the same Wednesday night. This produced conflicts. One night father insisted I attend choir practice and miss a game. Usually, in such cases, I was excused from choir practice. As I look back, the bitter taste I felt during that particular rehearsal has long since vanished. The glorious sounds of Handel resonate through my soul while my basketball prowess has somewhat diminished!
Talking things over with Mother was always easy. She was an energetic woman, mother of eight. I was the eldest. We enjoyed an unusual relationship. She was my counselor. I was her confidant. With such a large family it was important to get part-time work as I approached high school. We talked it over. She had a great deal of initiative and management ability. We had engaged in a contest to secure subscriptions for the Deseret News. We didn’t win the prize, but my name received “Honorable Mention,” with mother doing most of the work behind the scenes. When it was time to get a paper route, without my knowledge, she called Ralph Whitney, the circulation manager of the Deseret News, and opened the door. The first thing I knew, my solicitations bore fruit and I received Route 11 in downtown Salt Lake City. I could leave the LDS campus on North Main, go to the Deseret News printing press on Richards Street, get my “sheets” as we called them, then proceed down Main Street to 300 South, back up State Street, crisscrossing 200 and 100 South to deliver papers in the various hotels, cafes, and shops that were subscribers.
Mother and father expected dependability from their sons. This led to an opportunity to get a larger route with more subscribers, Route 69. This extended from 800 South to 1300 South in Salt Lake City between 800 and 900 East. Windsor Street intersected and ran parallel to 900 and 800 East. I had nearly 100 papers. Our earnings were one cent for every paper delivered. Subscriptions were fifteen cents a week, or sixty-five cents a month. We were billed for the number of papers sent to us. I did collecting on Saturday mornings when school was out and always tried to pay the bill to Mr. Knight at the Deseret News office on the southwest corner of Main and South Temple by Monday. The bill amounted to nine cents a week for every paper delivered. With six deliveries a week, that meant six cents on each paper, or the magnificent income of about six dollars a week, provided everybody paid his bill! In collecting I met many older friends, principally the mothers and grandmothers who were home on Saturday mornings. They would respond to my knock at the door, come forward with their fifteen cents for the week’s papers, and we would talk. These friends provided much stability for the social environment of a teenager. I learned early in my teens of the value of communicating, receiving counsel, respecting older people, and responding obediently to my parents. It was a great blessing. It provided me with marvelous lessons at home, such as the injunction in one of my father’s songs: “A friend is a present you give yourself.”
Adult leadership is available to all of us. I shall never forget our ward M Men leader, Leo B. Sharp. He taught our class at Mutual every Tuesday evening at 7:30. He was one of my newspaper customers. He never missed our basketball games and would usually sit on the bench with the coach and the “subs.” We played our games usually at Westminster gym, nearby and easy to rent. It meant much to us on the floor to have Leo watching us and being our friend. He loved us. He knew us. We respected him.
Then there was our bishop, Leo’s older brother, Bishop June B. Sharp, also one of my early subscribers. Bishop Sharp was our priests quorum president. We saw him Sunday mornings. He was our friend. He knew us. We could approach him on any matter. At a ward dance, and they were frequent in those days, you could always see Bishop Sharp dancing with his wife, Ida, bobbing up and down over the floor to a fox-trot or gliding to a waltz. And they would smile and greet us. They were our friends. As I write this, he is still alive and active at age 91, having served as a temple worker for many years and, after serving as bishop, presiding over the South African Mission. Like my parents, his smiling face and figure have always been a visible presence in my consciousness.
Then there was our stake patriarch, Christopher E. Layton, a son of the great pioneer Christopher Layton. He was also the custodian of our ward meetinghouse. He was our friend. He knew us. What a privilege it was to be greeted by him, respond in turn, and shake his hand. Later, when we went to him to receive a patriarchal blessing it was a crowning experience. He was available to us in a different way than Bishop Sharp but stood high in the galaxy of senior friends whose experience, wisdom, and judgment were available.
There were many, many more, too numerous to name. I hope that each of you takes advantage of reaching out, cultivating, and becoming better acquainted with many senior friends in your ward and in your community. They will be complimented and appreciative.
There were many senior friends among the great women of my circles. They were examples during my growing-up years. There was Verna W. Goddard, neighbor, wife of one of our stake presidents. She was the Gleaner leader in the ward (young women 17 to 25). Her home was open to us, and we took advantage of it. By the time we were adults she was a member of the General Presidency of the YWMIA. We were grateful that her leadership was now extending throughout the Church. There was our ward Relief Society presidency: Sister Brinton, the president; her counselors, Sister Michelson and Sister Josephine Matheson. These were beautiful, stately, dignified, cultured women. Although the ward was large, 2,000 members, it was good to get acquainted with such senior friends and feel their influence. Of course, there were always the returned missionaries, a younger group of “seniors” that we looked up to. None of them disappointed us. Although they were several years older when we were 17 or 18, they never approached us as anything less than equals and friends. What a thrill it was to have their friendship, be greeted by them, and sometimes be invited to accompany them in their automobile, or even as one grew a little older, on a date.
Friendship extends horizontally and vertically, up and down the age ladder. Neither dimension should be ignored. One soon finds that some of those “young kids” become very important in one’s own life. It is wonderful to have not ignored them as being “too young” or unimportant when they are 12 or 13 and you have reached the “advanced” age of 16 or 17. The same applies to those who are seven, eight, or nine! And so it goes.
The purpose of this little essay has been to point out the special value of senior friends. I hope that every reader will make it a point to get acquainted with available senior friends, beginning with father, mother, aunts, uncles, and the adult leaders in your ward. It will help stabilize your life. It will add significant dimensions to your social education. It will help open doors of opportunity for your future service. Do not ignore them! Be grateful for the opportunity of developing friendships with senior friends.

“Robert Wood.” Robby frowned as he read his name aloud. All his friends called him Robby. His whole name looked strange and uncomfortable on the bright yellow Primary birthday calendar. It didn’t seem to belong with the names of the church kids. He wasn’t like them. He had only been to church about three times in his whole life. He wouldn’t have come today except that his new teacher, Sister Jensen, had sent him a special invitation and offered him a ride.
Robby liked singing the songs. Sharing Time was interesting, too. When his class was excused, he followed the other children to their classroom. They were way ahead of Sister Jensen. She was pretty old for a Primary teacher, and she stopped to talk with most of the class in the hallway.
Robby chose a seat at the very back of the room, but when he started to sit down, a boy kicked his chair out from under him. An ugly word popped out of Robby’s mouth. He was immediately sorry and blushed a deep red when he saw Sister Jensen standing in the doorway. She must have seen the whole thing.
The girls raised their hands and pointed at Robby. The boys snickered, and Robby wanted to run home. Sister Jensen closed the door and smiled at him. Then, turning to the girls, she said, “Oh, I just love to see so many volunteers for the prayer.”
The girls snatched back their hands, but Sister Jensen still assigned two of them to give prayers. During class, Robby watched Sister Jensen. She smiled a lot. She made Robby feel like he was just as important as the other children.
After class, Sister Jensen hugged each of the children as they left. When it was Robby’s turn, she quietly shut the door. Robby was alone with Sister Jensen, and he knew why. She was going to bawl him out for saying that angry word. Well, at least she hadn’t embarrassed him by doing it in front of everybody.
“I’m so glad you came today, Robert,” Sister Jensen said with a smile.
Robby looked down and traced a big X on the floor with his shoe.
When he didn’t answer, Sister Jensen continued, “I know that you’re embarrassed about what you said. If someone kicked a chair and made me fall, I would be pretty upset, too.”
“They wouldn’t do it to you,” Robby said. “They just do it to me because I’m not a church kid.”
Sister Jensen looked thoughtful as she bent to gather some of her things. When she straightened up, she was wearing her big smile again. “Sit down a minute, Robert,” she said, pointing to a chair.
Robby sat quietly while Sister Jensen pulled a chair up beside him.
“Do you like our bishop?”
Robby thought for a minute. He remembered the time the bishop came to his house when his mother was very sick and couldn’t care for the family. After that, some church ladies came by to help take care of them and his sick mother. The bishop seemed really nice. “Yeah, I think he’s OK.”
“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher.”
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are pretty old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that every time he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that that was a good start, but that he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
Robby traced another X on the floor with his other shoe. “Well, maybe when I’m a grown-up, I can do that, too,” he told her.
“But now’s the time to start to make important choices that will bless you throughout your life, including your choice of words.”
“How can words bless me?”
“When you are careful with the words you choose to say, you show others that you care enough about them not to offend them. It helps you gain more friends, and you’re also not offending your Heavenly Father. Besides, when you have good words inside, good actions often follow.”
Robby nodded that he understood, and he helped Sister Jensen gather up the rest of her materials.
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting and seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”
Robby giggled as Sister Jensen nudged his arm. He leaned over and whispered, “That’s what I’m going to say when I’m mad, too.”
“Good for you, Robby,” Sister Jensen said with a wink.
In the Primary room, Robby again noticed his name on the yellow birthday board. “That’s funny,” he said.
“What’s that?” Sister Jensen asked.
“Last week my name seemed different.”
Sister Jensen looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, last week my name looked out of place up there by the names of the church kids. But today it looks like it belongs.”
Sister Jensen put her arm around Robby, and he noticed tears starting in her eyes. “That’s because you do belong here,” she said.

Charlie walked his dog, Paca, slowly along the uneven pavement that led home from Miguel’s house. Finding a new home for Paca was harder than he thought. “Even Miguel can’t keep you, Paca. His mother’s allergic to dogs!” The small, scruffy, brown-and-white dog panted in pace beside Charlie, her head tilted just enough so that he knew that she was listening. Paca always listened. “It’s not fair that my little sister can keep her dumb bird.” Charlie continued. “He makes more of a mess than you do. Mom even said so.”
Charlie picked a leaf from an old oak tree. “I don’t know why Dad had to accept a promotion. Who wants to leave California to live in Ohio, anyway? Especially in an apartment building that doesn’t take dogs!” He tore the leaf into little pieces, then tossed them away.
In less than a month Charlie’s family would be moving. Just thinking about it made him mad and sad at the same time.
“Ever since the missionaries came and started teaching Mom and Dad about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, things have been different!” he told Paca for the umpteenth time. “Dad says that the things that the missionaries have been teaching us can bring lots of blessings, but I sure don’t see any. Moving isn’t a blessing to me.”
Paca stopped to scratch, then they continued walking. Charlie slowed down when he came to Mrs. Sanchez’s yard near the middle of the block. She was sitting in her old rocking chair on the front porch. Her cats were out too.
The tabby was chasing a butterfly near the fence. Paca saw it and barked, startling Charlie so much that he jumped backward.
“You’d better watch that dog. I don’t want it chasing my cats!” Mrs. Sanchez declared.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie reassured her as he clutched the worn black leather leash more tightly. “She only barks at them.”
“What’s her name?” the elderly woman asked, her voice softening.
“Paca.” Charlie was surprised. In his whole life, Mrs. Sanchez had never talked to him. He’d always thought that she didn’t like kids.
Mrs. Sanchez pushed herself up, using the arm of the wicker rocker for support. “Would you like some cookies and milk?” She motioned to Charlie to come up onto the porch, adding, “Now, Paca, you be a good girl.”
Charlie couldn’t think of any reason to say no. As he pushed open the gate and walked up to the porch, for the first time he really looked at Mrs. Sanchez—at her lined and tired face, at the wrinkled hand that clutched at a worn shawl on the back of her chair. She steadied herself with her other hand.
A smile deepened the lines. “You’re Charlie Johnson from down the block, aren’t you?”
Charlie just nodded his head.
Mrs. Sanchez opened the front door, then called in her two cats before showing Charlie and Paca inside. The room looked like Mrs. Sanchez, comfortable and timeworn.
“Is she a good dog?” the elderly woman asked as she nodded toward an overstuffed chair for Charlie to sit in.
“Oh, she’s the best!” Charlie defended Paca. “But I have to find another home for her. We’re moving to Ohio, and I can’t take her with me.”
“What a shame,” Mrs. Sanchez said on her way into the kitchen. When she returned with a small plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Charlie, she asked, “Why can’t you take her with you when you move?”
Charlie bit into a cookie. It was chewy and good. “Because,” he said between bites, “the apartment we’re moving into doesn’t allow dogs, just birds.”
“Birds?”
“That’s what my little sister has, a bird.”
Mrs. Sanchez sat in a wooden rocker and pushed back a strand of white hair that had fallen across her face. She studied Paca, who was curled up by the boy’s feet. Then, looking up at Charlie, she said, “The missionaries stopped by to see me the other day, and they told me that you and your parents are going to be baptized. That will be a happy thing for your family. It will bring many blessings.”
Charlie gulped down some milk, then wiped the mustache from his upper lip with his napkin. “I suppose so.” He wiggled uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, “but I don’t feel very blessed right now.”
Mrs. Sanchez reached for a tray on the small table beside her rocker. Three small, dirt-filled plant pots were resting on the tray. She picked up one of the pots, saying, “Would you please hold this for me, Charlie?”
Mrs. Sanchez tore open a brightly colored packet of seeds. “Now,” she said, “take your finger and poke two holes in the dirt.”
After Charlie had made the holes, she shook several long, thin seeds from the packet into his hand. “Put these zinnia seeds into the holes, and cover them with the dirt.”
Charlie dropped the seeds into the holes and covered them.
Mrs. Sanchez smiled at him as he did it. “Blessings are sometimes like seeds, Charlie. You can’t see them until they grow. Now, when the time is right, I’ll have to transplant these seeds. Soon they’ll be as big and as beautiful as the ones by my front fence.”
Charlie nodded his head, wondering why she was telling him all this.
Seeing his puzzled expression, she continued. “Your family is a little bit like these seeds. Your father grew in his job and is ready to be transplanted to a better one. Soon you will grow and need to move on to bigger things, just like your father.”
Understanding now, Charlie smiled too.
“I think that you’re going to be a good member of the Church,” Mrs. Sanchez told him. “When you get baptized, will you send me a picture? I’ll put it here next to my new planters.
“And I understand how anxious you are for Paca to have a good home, so I’d be happy to keep her for you,” Mrs. Sanchez offered, “unless you find her another home. Even my cats seem to think she belongs here.”
Charlie looked at the sleeping dog curled up on the rug, looking almost as though she did belong there. Charlie couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have Paca live with.
“Come now,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “Give me a hug, then go tell your mother that Paca’s taken care of.”
Walking home that day, Charlie had a contented feeling. It wasn’t just because Paca had a new home—it was also because he now understood that the missionaries had brought blessings, after all.

“My teacher is going to be tardy,” said Cindy to herself as she sat on her front steps, watching teacher after teacher go into the school building. Today was the day that only teachers went to school. Teachers from all over the city were coming to a meeting. But where is my teacher? she wondered.
She had already seen smiling Miss Green. Now she waved to quiet Mr. Black, and he nodded his head at her.
“Have you seen Miss Martin yet?” called Mother.
“No,” replied Cindy. “I think my teacher’s going to be tardy!”
“Oh, dear,” said Mother.
Just then the school bell rang loud and long, as it always did at half past eight. A few teachers were still scurrying inside for the meeting. But where’s Miss Martin? Cindy wondered.
She stood up and walked down to the corner. She could see black cars, green cars, blue cars, tan cars, but she did not see her teacher’s little red car.
“Miss Martin,” said Cindy in Miss Martin’s you’d-better-listen voice, “Miss Martin, you are TARDY!”
Just then someone came into sight way down the street. It was Miss Martin running down the sidewalk with some papers in her hand.
Then just as Miss Martin reached Cindy’s corner she tripped and fell—WHUMPH! It was just what Cindy sometimes did on the playground. She ran to the corner, and there was poor Miss Martin, rubbing her ankle and looking very sad. And her papers were blowing all over the street!
Cindy hurried to pick them up. One paper went under a parked car. One was stuck on a tree branch. A cat grabbed one paper and was playing with it. Cindy finally gathered all the papers together and ran back to her teacher with them.
Miss Martin stood up, but the heel had come off one of her shoes. Her stockings were torn, and she began to rub her ankle again.
“Oh, Cindy,” said Miss Martin. “My car broke down. I have to give a report at the meeting so I started running to make sure I wouldn’t be late, and now look what’s happened.”
“Here are your papers,” said Cindy. “I’ll help you walk, Miss Martin; you can lean on me.” Cindy felt very important.
The teacher limped along for a few steps. Then she stopped. “Oh, dear, what am I going to do?” she questioned. “I can’t go to the meeting like this.”
Miss Martin looked at the heel that had come off her shoe. She looked at her torn stockings. Then she looked at Cindy.
“Let’s go to my house,” suggested Cindy. “My mom can help. And maybe I can get your heel back on.”
“I can give you some stockings,” said Cindy’s mother when she saw what had happened.
Cindy glued the heel back onto Miss Martin’s shoe with some quick-drying cement while Miss Martin changed her stockings. Mother helped Miss Martin put her papers in the right order again. And Cindy offered to help her into the schoolhouse.
So that’s how Cindy happened to go to the teacher’s meeting. It was a good thing Miss Martin was the last person on the program. She and Cindy arrived just in time!
Miss Martin’s report was all about good habits.
“One of the things children must learn is to be on time,” she said at the end of her talk. She looked straight at Cindy and smiled a big smile.
“That goes for teachers too!” said the tardy teacher.

I cannot express the depth of my devotion to my wife and children, their companions, and their children. I have learned more by far from them than they from me. That learning comes in ordinary experiences, the joy and the pain of everyday life.
I learned from a little boy the identity and value of a human soul. Some years ago, two of our little boys were wrestling on the rug. They had reached that pitch where laughter turns to tears. I worked a foot gently between them and lifted the older boy (then just four) to a sitting position on the rug, saying, “Hey, there, you monkeys, you’d better settle down.”
He folded his little arms and looked at me with surprising seriousness. His little boy feelings had been hurt, and he protested, “I not a monkey, Daddy, I a person.”
I was overwhelmed with love for him. I realized he was a child of God. How much I wanted him to be “a person”—one of eternal worth. From such ordinary experiences, I have learned to understand doctrine. “Children,” truly, “are an heritage of the Lord.”

When missionaries returned to Iceland in 1975, Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir was one of the first Icelanders to investigate the Church. She spoke fluent English, and soon after her baptism in 1976, she began her 20-year career as a translator for the Church. “My first assignment was to translate the Book of Mormon,” she recalls. “I knew I wasn’t qualified—I had never really translated anything but pamphlets for the missionaries.” She spent many hours on her knees in humble prayer. “I knew I could not do it without the help of the Lord,” she says. The task was overwhelming, but Sister Sveinbjörg felt the guidance of the Holy Ghost. The Icelandic Book of Mormon was published in June 1981.

Waiting for the realization of that dream was an exercise in faith. In 1981, Sister Sveinbjörg had been assigned to go to Salt Lake City to translate the temple ceremony; However, that translation was never recorded. A decade passed before she made that long journey once again—this time to update the translation and prepare it for recording.

During those 10 years of hoping and waiting, the Church in Iceland was growing. Testimonies were being nurtured, and new members were continually adding their strength. Gudmundur Sigurdsson and his wife, Valgerdur Knutsdóttir, were baptized in 1982. He was called to be the Reykjavík Branch president in 1983, and he became the first Icelandic district president in 1986.

Gummi (as he likes to be called) remembers the struggles they faced as the Church was gaining a foothold in Iceland. “We felt so isolated because we had no background for the Church in Iceland—we had no one to ask how things should be done. Sometimes people would offer to help me, but the problem was, I didn’t know what to ask for! Now we have built a base of leadership, and they are ready to be of assistance as new leaders are called.”

One of those more recently called leaders is Bárdur Á. Gunnarsson, current president of the Reykjavík Branch. He, too, first heard of the Church in 1982, but that was a time in his life when his thoughts were far from religion. Even though his lifestyle was not so different from most other young men in his country, he had many obstacles to overcome. “I tried several times to quit smoking and drinking, but I didn’t have the strength to do it,” Bárdur recalls. He had a family, but it was one that began without the blessing of a marriage ceremony. Finally, four years after the elders first knocked on his door, his desire to unite his family and to seek forgiveness led him to be married to Ólöf Bjarnadóttir, the mother of his three daughters. Ólöf was not ready to be baptized at that time, but she did give her consent for him to take their three little girls to church every Sunday. “My patriarchal blessing told me I would go to the temple with my wife and children, and I worked very hard to make this happen,” said Bárdur.

Bárdur’s dream of uniting his family began to come true in 1994 when word was received that the Icelandic temple ceremony was scheduled to be recorded in the Salt Lake Temple. In May of that year, Ólöf accompanied him to Salt Lake City, along with the small group who had been called to make the recording. While there, surrounded by their friends, Bárdur baptized his wife in the baptistry of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. They were sealed in the London Temple one year later.

After five days, the recording project was completed. Before the group who did the recording left the temple, they were allowed to view a small portion of the finished product. “Seeing just a part of the film and hearing those first few words in our own language touched me deep in my heart—it was something I will never forget,” said Gummi. “That increased our fervent desire to share this wonderful experience with all our brothers and sisters at home.”

It was now possible to think about organizing a trip to the temple for the members of the Reykjavík Branch. There was much preparing to be done—in addition to becoming worthy for temple recommends, branch members had to do genealogical research to find family names, and they had to save money for the trip. When whole families were planning to go, this became a sizable amount!

“There was a wonderful excitement, an extra amount of love and care shown among the members as they prepared for this experience,” recalls district president Ólafur Einarsson. “It brought a feeling of unity to the branch that we had not felt before.”

The necessary preparations were completed, and 38 members of the Reykjavík Branch—adults and children—journeyed to the London Temple in June 1995. For a week, they devoted themselves to the work of the Lord. “It was an unforgettable experience to see the joy on the faces of our group as the Spirit touched our hearts,” recalls one branch member. “The love and kindness we felt toward one another continued to grow as we shared the joy of our temple experiences.” They returned to their homes and families with strengthened testimonies and a renewed love of the gospel.

As the Church becomes stronger, the saga of the Saints in Iceland continues. In June 1996—still filled with memories of their experiences the previous year—some of the members of the Reykjavík Branch made a second trip to the London Temple. There, they once again were blessed to participate in holy ordinances as they renewed their covenants with the Lord—in the language of their Viking ancestors.

I share just one tender experience. While President Monson was serving as a bishop, he learned that a member of his ward, Mary Watson, was in the hospital. As he went to visit her, he learned that she was staying in a large room with several other patients. When he approached Sister Watson, he noticed that the patient in a neighboring bed quickly covered her head.
After President Monson had visited with Sister Watson and given her a priesthood blessing, he shook her hand, said good-bye, and prepared to leave. Then a simple but amazing thing happened. I quote now from President Monson’s own recollection of this experience:
“I could not leave her side. It was as though an unseen hand [was] resting on my shoulder, and I felt within my soul that I was hearing these words: ‘Go over to the next bed where the little lady covered her face when you came in.’ I did so. …
“I approached the bedside of the other patient, gently tapped her shoulder and carefully pulled back the sheet which had covered her face. Lo and behold! She, too, was a member of my ward. I had not known she was a patient in the hospital. Her name was Kathleen McKee. When her eyes met mine, she exclaimed through her tears, ‘Oh, Bishop, when you entered that door, I felt you had come to see me and bless me in response to my prayers. I was rejoicing inside to think that you would know I was here, but when you stopped at the other bed, my heart sank, and I knew that you had not come to see me.’
“I said to [Sister] McKee: ‘It does not matter that I didn’t know you were here. It is important, however, that our Heavenly Father knew and that you had prayed silently for a priesthood blessing. It was He who prompted me to intrude on your privacy.’”

In April 1847, Sam Brannan and three other men left San Francisco Bay in search of Brigham Young and the main body of the Saints. They did not know exactly where to find them, but most emigrants followed the same trail west. If Sam and his small company headed east along the trail, they would eventually cross paths with the Saints.
After stopping briefly to pick up supplies at New Hope, the men trekked northeast to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. People who knew the Sierras well had warned Sam not to cross them so early in the year. The mountain pass was still choked with snow, they said, which meant the journey could be a two-month ordeal.
Yet Sam was sure he could cross the mountains quickly. Urging their pack animals forward, he and his men hiked for hours up the mountains. The snow was deep but tightly packed, making it easier to find footing along the trail. The mountain streams ran high, however, forcing the men to risk dangerous swims or hazardous alternative routes.
On the far side of the mountain range, the trail led them along hulking granite crags to a view of a beautiful pine-wooded valley with a lake as blue as the sky. Descending to the valley, they found a few abandoned cabins at a campsite littered with human remains. Months earlier, a wagon train bound for California had become stranded in the snow. The emigrants had built the cabins to wait out a bad winter storm, but low on food and unprepared for the cold, many of them slowly starved or froze to death, while some resorted to cannibalism.1
Their story was a grim reminder of the dangers of overland travel, but Sam refused to let their tragedy frighten him. He was captivated by the wilderness. “A man cannot know himself,” he exulted, “until he has traveled in these wild mountains.”2
By mid-May, Brigham Young and the advance company had covered more than three hundred miles. Each morning, the bugle awoke the camp at five o’clock, and travel began at seven. Sometimes delays slowed the company’s progress, but most days they managed to travel between fifteen and twenty miles. In the evening they circled their wagons, gathered for evening prayers, and extinguished campfires.3
The dull routine was sometimes broken by buffalo sightings. The large, shaggy animals traveled in massive herds, rumbling across hills and bottomlands so fluidly that the prairie itself seemed to be moving. The men were eager to hunt the animal, but Brigham counseled them to do so only when necessary and to never waste the meat.4
The company traveled along an existing trail that other westbound settlers had blazed a few years earlier. With each passing mile, the grassy prairie slowly gave way to desert meadows and rolling hills. From the top of a bluff, the landscape looked as rough as a stormy sea. The trail followed the Platte River and crossed several creeks that provided water for drinking and cleaning. Yet the ground itself was sandy. Sometimes the company spotted a tree or a patch of green grass along the trail, but much of the land was stark and forbidding as far as the eye could see.5
Sometimes, a member of the company would ask Brigham where they were going. “I will show you when we come to it,” he would say. “I have seen it, I have seen it in vision, and when my natural eyes behold it, I shall know it.”6
Every day, William Clayton estimated the company’s mileage and corrected the sometimes imprecise maps that guided them. Not far into the journey, he and Orson Pratt worked with Appleton Harmon, a skilled craftsman, to build a “roadometer,” a wooden device that accurately measured distances through a system of cogs attached to a wagon wheel.7
Despite the company’s progress, Brigham was often frustrated when he saw the actions of some members of the company. Most of them had been in the Church for years, served missions, and received the ordinances of the temple. Yet many ignored his counsel on hunting or idled away their free time with gambling, wrestling, and dancing late into the night. Sometimes Brigham woke in the morning to the sound of men arguing over something that had happened during the night. He worried that their quarrels would soon lead to fistfights or worse.
“Do we suppose,” he asked the men on the morning of May 29, “that we are going to look out a home for the Saints, a resting place, a place of peace, where they can build up the kingdom and bid the nations welcome, with a low, mean, dirty, trifling, covetous, wicked spirit?”8 Each of them, he declared, ought to be men of faith and sober minds, given to prayer and meditation.
“Here is an opportunity,” he said, “for every man to prove himself, to know whether he will pray and remember his God, without being asked to do it every day.” He urged them to serve the Lord, remember their temple covenants, and repent of their sins.
Afterward, the men grouped themselves together in priesthood quorums and covenanted, by uplifted hand, to do right and walk humbly before God.9 The next day, when the men partook of the sacrament, a new spirit prevailed.
“I have never seen the brethren so still and sober on a Sunday,” Heber Kimball noted in his journal, “since we started on the journey.”10
While the advance company traveled west, roughly half the Saints in Winter Quarters were outfitting wagons and packing provisions for their journey. In the evenings, after finishing their preparations, they often gathered together to sing and dance to fiddle music, and on Sundays they met to hear sermons and talk about their coming trek.11
Not everyone was eager to go west, however. James Strang and other dissenters continued to lure Saints away with promises of food, shelter, and peace. Strang and his followers had started a community in Wisconsin, a sparsely settled territory some three hundred miles northeast of Nauvoo, where some dissatisfied Saints were gathering. Already several families in Winter Quarters had packed up their wagons and left to join them.12
As the presiding apostle in Winter Quarters, Parley Pratt begged the Saints to ignore apostates and follow the Lord’s authorized apostles. “The Lord has called us to gather,” he reminded them, “and not scatter all the time.” He told them he and John Taylor wanted to send companies west at the end of spring.13
Parley had to delay the departure, though. Before the advance company left, the Twelve had organized several companies according to revelation. These companies were composed mostly of families that had been sealed by adoption to Brigham Young and Heber Kimball. The apostles instructed them to pack enough provisions for the coming year and to bring with them poor Saints and the families of the men in the Mormon Battalion. If people would not keep the covenant to provide for these needy families, their wagons could be confiscated and given to those who would.14
But Parley saw problems in carrying out the quorum’s plan. Many Saints in these companies, including some company captains, were not ready to leave. Some of them lacked the resources to make the journey, and without sufficient supplies they would be a heavy burden on others in the companies who barely had enough provisions for their own families. At the same time, there were other Saints who had not been organized into companies but who were ready and eager to go, fearing they would lose more loved ones to sickness and death if they stayed another year in Winter Quarters.15
Parley and John decided to reorganize the companies, adapting the original plan to suit the roughly fifteen hundred Saints who were ready to go west. When some Saints objected to the changes, questioning Parley’s authority to modify the Twelve’s plan, the two apostles tried to reason with them.
In Brigham’s absence, John explained, the apostle with the most seniority had authority to direct Church members. Since Brigham was not in Winter Quarters, John felt it was Parley’s responsibility—and right—to make decisions for the settlement.
Parley agreed. “I think it is best to act according to our circumstances,” he said.16
As Wilford Woodruff traveled west with the advance company, he often reflected on its sacred mission. “It should be understood,” he wrote in his journal, “that we are piloting a road for the house of Israel to travel in for many years to come.”17
One night, he dreamed that the company arrived at the new gathering place. As he gazed upon the land, a glorious temple appeared before him. It appeared to be built of white and blue stone. Turning to some men standing near him in the dream, he asked if they could see it. They said they did not, but that did not diminish the joy Wilford felt in beholding it.18
By June, the weather turned hot. The short grasses that fed their cattle turned brown in the dry air, and timber was harder to find. Often, the only fuel for fires was dried buffalo dung.19 The company, however, remained diligent in keeping the commandments as Brigham instructed, and Wilford saw evidence of God’s blessings in preserving their food supplies, animals, and wagons.
“We have had peace and union in our midst,” he wrote in his journal. “Great good will grow out of this mission if we are faithful in keeping the commandments of God.”20
On June 27, the advance company encountered a well-known explorer named Moses Harris on the trail. Harris told the Saints that neither the Bear River Valley nor the Salt Lake Valley was good for settlement. He recommended that they settle in a place called Cache Valley, northeast of the Great Salt Lake.
The following day, the company encountered another explorer, Jim Bridger. Unlike Harris, Bridger spoke highly of the Bear River and Salt Lake Valleys, although he warned them that cold nights in the Bear River Valley would likely prevent them from cultivating corn. He said the Salt Lake Valley had good soil, several freshwater streams, and year-round rain. He also praised Utah Valley, south of the Great Salt Lake, yet he cautioned them about disturbing the Ute Indians who lived in that region.21
Bridger’s words about the Salt Lake Valley were encouraging. Though Brigham was unwilling to identify a stopping place until he saw it, he and other members of the company were most interested in exploring the Salt Lake Valley. And if it was not where the Lord wanted them to settle, they could at least stop there, plant crops, and create a temporary settlement until they found their permanent home in the basin.22
Two days later, as the men in the advance company were building rafts to cross a fast-moving river, Sam Brannan and his companions walked into the camp just before sunset, surprising everyone. The company listened raptly as Sam entertained them with stories of the Brooklyn, the founding of New Hope, and his own perilous journey across mountains and plains to find them. He told them the Saints in California had planted acres of wheat and potatoes to prepare for their arrival.
Sam’s enthusiasm for the climate and soil of California was infectious. He urged the company to claim the San Francisco Bay area before other settlers arrived. The land was ideal for settlement, and important men in California were friendly to the Saints’ cause and ready to welcome them.
Brigham listened to Sam, quietly skeptical of the proposal. The allure of the California coast was beyond question, but Brigham knew the Lord wanted the Saints to establish the new gathering place closer to the Rocky Mountains. “Our destination is the Great Basin,” he declared.23
Just over a week later, the company turned off the well-beaten trail they had been following to take another, fainter trail south to the Salt Lake Valley.24

Grandma smiled gently. “Did I ever tell you about the summer Grandpa and I moved?”
“I don’t think so,” Savannah said.
“I was sad all the time,” Grandma said. “I wanted to be happy, but I just didn’t care about anything. I felt so lonely.”
“But you had Grandpa and my mom.” Savannah looked down at her shoes. “Why would you feel lonely?”
“I couldn’t figure out what was happening,” Grandma said. “I had never felt that way before. I eventually went to the doctor.”
“What happened?”
Grandma put an arm around her. “I learned I have depression.”
“Oh, so you just felt sad?” Savannah asked.
“No, depression is more than just feeling sad,” Grandma explained. “My sadness didn’t seem to go away. I struggled to do all the things I normally did. And I had a hard time connecting with other people, even my own family. I really needed help.”
Savannah looked up. “What kind of help?”
“The doctor explained what was wrong, and we made a plan together to help me feel better,” Grandma said. “But sometimes I still felt sad. I spent a lot of time praying. When I was lonely, I imagined the Savior sitting beside me. I felt better thinking about Him.”
Savannah looked at the snow outside and shivered. “I feel sad a lot too. I try to feel happy, but sometimes I just can’t, and then I’m mad at myself for feeling that way.”
“I know, honey.” Grandma gave Savannah a hug. “That’s how I feel sometimes too. But you’re not alone. I love you, your parents love you, and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love you. They understand your pain and will never leave you.”
Maybe Grandma is right, Savannah thought. I’m not alone. The weight in Savannah’s stomach didn’t feel quite as heavy.
“I think I should talk to Mom,” Savannah said. “She wants to help me too.”
“That’s a great idea.” Grandma took Savannah’s hand.
Savannah smiled and leaned on Grandma’s shoulder. She didn’t feel quite so cold and lonely anymore.

A case in point: In 2007, NBC Television came to Salt Lake for an interview with me as part of a piece they were producing on the Church. Reporter Ron Allen and I spent an hour together in the chapel in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. We discussed the Church at length. A few days later the story appeared, and in the four-minute segment that aired, there was one short quote of about six seconds from the one-hour interview. That was just enough time for me to testify of our faith in Jesus Christ as the center of all we believe. I repeat, just six seconds were used from a 60-minute interview. Those six seconds are quite typical, actually, for members of the traditional TV media, who think and air in sound bites. The big difference from the old days to today is that the reporter also ran 15 minutes of our interview on the NBC Nightly News Web site. And those 15 minutes are still there. What we say is no longer on and off the screen in a flash, but it remains as part of a permanent archive and can appear on other sites that reuse the content. People using Internet search engines to hunt for topics about the Church will come across that interview and many others.

I remember a time when I had been called to be the priests quorum adviser. At that time we had over 30 priests in the ward, and the bishop said to me, “Brother Ballard, we want every priest in this ward to be active. I’ll do all I can to help you, but it is your duty to get every one of them.” There were several of those priests who were not active in the Church.

The story of one of those boys whom I shall call David is special to me. His father was not a member of the Church, and his mother was not completely active. This boy had not been to church for about six or seven years.

I went to his home to visit him and he tolerated me, but I didn’t get very far. I pondered what to do to help this boy and went to the Lord in prayer. I got the impression that the way I could get a little closer to him was to go for a ride with him in his jeep.

David’s eyes lit up when I said to him, “David, why don’t you take me for a ride in your jeep?”

He said, “Really, Brother Ballard?”

I replied, “Yes.”

“Where do you want to go?”

Here’s where I made my mistake. I said, “I don’t care, just anywhere you want to take me.” What I should have said is, “Around the block five times.”

We got into the jeep and I strapped myself in with everything I could find. He headed right for the hills, and I think that is the only time I have ever been airborne in a four-wheel vehicle. I had eaten enough dust by the time I got out of that jeep that I made up my mind that the Lord and I were going to activate David. I said to him, “I’ll pick you up in the morning at 7:45 for priesthood meeting. You be ready.” Then I left.

At quarter to eight the next morning I was at David’s front door talking to his nonmember father. I said, “Would you please tell David I am here to take him to priesthood meeting.”

He said, “He is still in bed.”

I said, “Well, would you get him up and tell him I am out here waiting?”

Then his mother came to the door. I asked, “Would you please wake David up? If you don’t want to, just show me where his bedroom is and I will.” Isn’t that terrible? What right did I have to talk that way? I believe, however, that I was being moved by the Spirit. Finally, about 8:20, out came David.

The bishop, in the meantime, was with the priests quorum wondering what had become of his adviser who was supposed to be teaching the lesson. When David and I walked in the door together, he knew what had happened.

That was the beginning of a great relationship between a boy and a priests quorum adviser. This boy was quite a loner without many friends. We did some things together, and just before I was released as priests quorum adviser, I took all the priests on an outing for a weekend, going on a Thursday and back on a Saturday. I let David drive my car, and we stayed in the same room together. He was my companion.

Soon afterward, I left to take up my position as president of the Canada Toronto Mission. Six months later, I received a letter from David. Allow me to share some excerpts from that letter:

“I wish you and your family the best of happiness and sincere guidance from God. Your wife and family are ever so much missed. We all love you and pray for you. Brother Ballard, you have taught me well, for I am leaving in March for the mission field.”

There I was in Canada, buried in missionary affairs, reading a letter from a young man who had come to mean a lot to me because of the relationship that we shared. I had watched him begin to attend church and develop a testimony; he had grown close to his Father in Heaven. As I read that letter telling me that he was going to serve a mission, I went into the kitchen to tell Sister Ballard and she wept with me.

His letter continued, “I can hardly wait. I pray that Heavenly Father will bless me. Tomorrow night the bishop will ordain me an elder. Saturday he is taking me to the temple. I will pray for you and think of you. May the Lord bless you in your missionary labors, Brother Ballard. David.”

I thank the Lord that David took the time to write that letter to me. It showed me that he cared. That letter made an impression on my life that was far greater than I ever made on him. That letter was a greater reward for my small efforts in this young man’s behalf than any amount of money or earthly wealth could have ever been. I felt as the shepherd must have felt when he called together his friends and neighbors and asked them to rejoice with him, for he had found his sheep which was lost.

And in another area of the Church the youth from several wards were meeting together; the hour was late; many sweet and moving testimonies had been shared that evening when Bishop Rogers signaled to the capable young priest conducting to bring the meeting to a close, even though the bench was still filled with youth eager to bear their testimonies. But having waited this long for courage to stand, and being next in line, Melany could not pass this opportunity to tell “how it works.” She moved quickly to the pulpit.

“You see,” she said, “I was called to be a class president of 17 girls, and the bishop said I was responsible for them. I was scared to death. I didn’t even know for sure where they were. Then he told me to decide on my counselors and reminded me of the need to pray and ask the Lord. I wondered how it worked—how would I know who the Lord wanted.”

At that moment this young class president stopped shifting from one foot to the other, stood erect, leaned forward, and with a tone of conviction through a choked voice, she related her experience.

“I wrote 17 names on a piece of paper. Then I prayed about those names. Each time I would finish my prayer, I felt right about crossing off one or two names from the list. I kept thinking and praying and trying to decide until the third day. With only two names remaining, I had a strong feeling that I knew who Heavenly Father wanted. That’s how it works.”

Seemingly relieved from an urgent need to bear testimony, she continued in an enthusiastic tone: “I love these girls, and we’re going to try to be good examples and reach every girl in our class so we won’t lose a single one.”

From where I sat I could look into the faces of the youth and I, too, could see who the Lord had desired to be counselors to Melany. Two girls sitting together, with smiles of confidence and eyes brimming with tears, convinced me they “won’t lose a single one.”

There was only one thing that could really make me feel Christmas cheer that year, and there it was, sitting in the mailbox. A note from the mailman, stating that there were packages from the United States waiting for me in the post office.
Now expensive presents don’t mean that much to me. But that year, even a paper clip from home made me want to dance around and sing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs. Because of a mail strike, I hadn’t heard a thing from my family in the two months since I’d arrived in the mission field, and I was dying to hear how they were doing.
As for me, I wasn’t doing so well. The mission field hadn’t quite turned out to be what I’d expected. I’d studied Spanish in college and had even taken classes in Mexico, so I pictured myself reeling off the most spiritual discussions with perfect grammar and accent. Instead, my first assignment was in an area where they speak a unique dialect called “Valenciano.” Even my native Spanish companion couldn’t understand it.
The cold didn’t help either. When I received my mission call to southern Spain, I pictured sundrenched beaches and orange blossoms, not the waist-high snow drifts that confronted us daily.
All that wouldn’t have made much difference if the work had been going well, but the fact was that there hadn’t been a baptism in that particular town for more than a year, and as hard as we tried, we weren’t getting in many doors.
What I needed more than anything was to know that someone back home still loved me, and I was ecstatic to find that there, in the post office just a few blocks away from my apartment, lay tangible proof that they did. Since the post office was already closed for the day, we decided we’d go out early the next morning, make the visits we’d planned, then return a bit earlier than usual to pick up the packages. We had to do it before noon, since the post office closed at noon on December 24th and would remain closed until the 26th.
It wasn’t even difficult the next morning to crawl from under my six blankets and emerge into the subfreezing temperatures of our basement apartment. I sang as I fixed breakfast, then proceeded to dress myself in everything I’d packed in my suitcase. It took a lot to battle the wind and the sleet. Although I’d lost about five pounds, I looked like I’d gained thirty thanks to my mega-layers of clothing. And instead of feeling frustrated when I looked in the mirror, I started giggling.
My companion and I set out, and the warmth that radiated from the thought of those packages sitting in the post office seemed to keep me toasty despite the chilly weather. As we knocked on the doors, I flashed a genuine smile that I saw reflected time and time again in the faces of those we visited. People were actually inviting us in! They were sharing their bars of turron, an incredible Spanish almond holiday treat, with us, and better still, they were listening to the message of the Savior that we wanted so much to give them that day.
We were down to the last house on our list—it belonged to a couple who seldom attended church but were very nice about referring us to their friends and often invited us in to warm up and dry off. Sister Boluda always had a smile and words of encouragement for us, and that was why we were stunned to see her answer the door on one of the happiest days of the year with red-swollen eyes and tears running down her cheeks.
“Oh sisters!” she cried. “How wonderful for you to come to visit me today. I’m always so lonely at Christmas. Won’t you come in and cheer me up?”
We entered her apartment and held her hands as she tearfully poured out the reason for her loneliness. She had a loving husband, but they’d never been able to have children of their own, and Christmastime seemed to emphasize the absence of little ones. Could we please stay and share a bite to eat with her? She would feel so much better if we could.
We agreed without hesitation, and a little while later, after we’d eaten, read the Christmas story in the Book of Mormon, and sang a number of Christmas carols, we left her house. Sister Boluda was smiling again, and she seemed to glow with the warmth of the season.
It wasn’t until we looked at our watches on the way home that we realized the post office was probably closed. It was past noon, but we ran back to the post office anyway, thinking that perhaps it would be so busy that they would have to stay open a few extra hours.
No such luck. Alcoy was a small town, and it would have been hard to muster up enough business to keep the place open for an extra 15 minutes, let alone a full two hours. Whatever my family had to say to me, whatever they had to send to me, would have to wait until the day after Christmas.
The sky seemed to grow even darker as we trudged through the snow. I bowed my head to shield my face from the wind and tried to brush back the hair that had fallen in my eyes. That was a mistake. My blond curls had frozen into spikey icicles, and they broke off in jagged hunks when I touched them.
Back in our dreary little apartment there would be no Christmas cheer to greet us. Everything that usually put me in the Christmas mood—lights, trees, brightly wrapped presents, stockings, small children—would be only vague memories within the cold, dark walls of our flat.
But you know what? I wasn’t upset. I wasn’t even a little annoyed. By not getting my family’s gifts on time, I received something far greater—it would change me for the rest of my mission and for the rest of my life.
I realized that happiness comes from the warmth within your heart and has nothing to do with the temperature outside. I also learned that when you carry that warmth within, it radiates outward to all those you meet and gives them something to glow on.
That Christmas Eve I realized that my first mission assignment was not to a mean, freezing little city, but a beautiful, expectant little town, just waiting for the warmth the light of the gospel can bring. It was my attitude, not the temperature, that needed to be raised.
Still, I was grateful for the packages with gloves, hat, and thermal underwear I opened the day after Christmas.

Several years ago I wrote a story about my sister and submitted it to you. It was published in the April 1984 issue under the title “Lifeline.” It told of my little sister’s trials during the time she lived with my father (a Baptist minister) in southern Georgia. The story described the heartache she felt at being cut off from the Church she loves and the help she received when her home teachers listened to the promptings of the Spirit and came to visit her.
My sister (Jean Swilley) remained true to the gospel and passed through the refiner’s fire. She moved to Chicago in July of 1984 to live with my mother. Jean became active in her ward, and before long her bubbly spirit was charming the members in Illinois just as it once had in Mississippi. My Mom could not help but be influenced by the strength of Jean’s testimony, and she began her journey back into the fold of the Church. Both she and her new husband are now strong, active members of their ward. They are very happy even though they miss my sister very much.
Jean left Chicago last week to enter the MTC. Though she always insisted she had no desire to go on a mission, she obeyed her Father’s call and is now a very excited sister earnestly studying her discussions in Swedish. Though I am sure Jean will face many a refiner’s fire in Sweden, I know that she will come through them clinging to the lifeline her Father tossed to her many years ago. We thought you might like to know. Thanks again for printing Jean’s story.
Elizabeth (Swilley) SheridanIrmo, South Carolina

His first mission lasted for five years. Nineteen years later Matthew returned to New Zealand as mission president. The saints there were thrilled to have him back with them and welcomed him as their tumuaki (great leader or big chief).
When Tumuaki Cowley returned to New Zealand as mission president, he adopted the words Kia Ngawari as a slogan for all the Saints there. He had the phrase printed on little signs that could be taken into every home. Each talk Tumuaki Cowley gave ended with these stirring words. There is no exact translation for them in English. Some say the meaning is “be sincere”; others, “be loving and kind.”
Today the Maoris sing a song that has this slogan for a title. It was written in honor of Tumuaki Cowley, and as they sing it they remember him with special love.
Kia Ngawari!

Most of us recognize that God speaks to all His children in their own language. We have likely seen how He communicates with us in our language and how He communicates with others in their own language. This is especially noticeable if we have had the opportunity to live in a country other than our own. I initially became aware of this principle as a young missionary when my first companion and I taught the gospel of Jesus Christ in standard Italian, a language that was not our native tongue.

During our time together in Lugano, Switzerland, my companion and I found and taught a family from Sicily, Italy. We spoke Italian, but the family spoke Sicilian, which is distinct enough from standard Italian that it is considered a separate language. The local branch members spoke a different variation of Italian that is even less well-known: Swiss Italian. Yet the branch members used their native Swiss Italian to help us fellowship and teach this young family.

Despite the differences between standard Italian, Swiss Italian, and Sicilian, the Lord spoke to and through each of us by the Holy Ghost, according to our language and understanding. Eventually, this young family entered the waters of baptism and were confirmed members of the Church.

“In the morning I went in secret before the Lord, and asked Him what was His will concerning me. The answer I received was that I should go to the south; for the Lord had a great work for me to perform there, as many souls were waiting for His word. On the 3rd of March, 1840, in fulfillment of the directions given me, I took coach and rode to Wolverhampton, twenty-six miles [away].
“I presented myself to [Mr. Benbow, a wealthy farmer, living in Ledbury, Herefordshire] as a missionary from America … He and his wife received me with glad hearts and thanksgiving, [and] rejoiced greatly at the glad tidings which I brought them.
“I also rejoiced greatly at the news Mr. Benbow gave me, that there was a company of men and women—over six hundred in number—who had broken off from the Wesleyan Methodists, and taken the name of United Brethren. They had forty-five preachers among them, and for religious services had chapels and many houses that were licensed according to the law of the land. This body of United Brethren were searching for light and truth. …
“I arose on the morning of the 5th, took breakfast, and told Mr. Benbow I would like to commence my Master’s business by preaching the gospel to the people. He had in his mansion a large hall which was licensed for preaching, and he sent word through the neighborhood that an American missionary would preach at his house that evening. As the neighbors came in … I preached my first gospel sermon in the house. The following evening [I] baptized six persons, including Mr. John Benbow, his wife, and four preachers of the United Brethren. I spent most of the following day in clearing out a pool of water and preparing it for baptizing … [and] afterwards baptized six hundred persons in that pool of water. …
“When I arose to speak [to a congregation of about a thousand] at Brother Benbow’s house, a man entered the door and informed me that he was a constable, and had been sent … with a warrant to arrest me … for preaching to the people. I told him that I had a license and that if he would take a chair I would wait upon him after meeting. He took my chair and sat beside me. For an hour and a quarter I preached the first principles of the everlasting gospel. The power of God rested upon me, the spirit filled the house, and the people were convinced. At the close of the meeting I opened the door for baptism, and seven offered themselves. Among the number were four preachers and the constable. …
“… The first thirty days after my arrival in Herefordshire, I had baptized forty-five preachers and one hundred and sixty members of the United Brethren, who put into my hands one chapel and forty-five houses, which were licensed according to law to preach in. This opened a wide field for labor, and enabled me to bring into the Church, through the blessings of God, over eighteen hundred souls, during eight months, including all of the six hundred United Brethren except one person. In this number there were also some two hundred preachers of various denominations.”—From the journals of Wilford Woodruff

My missionary companion and I were eating a quick dinner at a member’s house one Sunday evening in December when we heard a knock on the door. There were the youth from the branch singing. We were serving in the Joliet Illinois Second (Spanish) Branch. It was nice to see the youth serving and to hear them singing familiar Christmas carols.
Later that evening we were visiting with one of our investigator families when we heard a knock on the door. To our surprise, there stood the same group of youth singing Christmas carols for our investigators.
I was impressed that they would think not only to visit people they knew from the branch, but also to visit the people the missionaries were teaching. I thought it was a wonderful way for the youth to get involved in missionary work.
Our investigators were impressed for a very different reason, however. After the youth left, they told us how amazed they were that a group of teenagers would give up their Sunday evening to bring others some Christmas cheer. They commented on how many youth today seem selfish and would not do such a thing but that the youth in our Church were different. They wanted their children to be like these young men and women.
Soon after Christmas this wonderful family decided to be baptized, and I know one of the influences on their decision to join the Church was the members’ testimonies and examples. They could also see the light in the members’ faces. I know they saw it that night when those youth gave of their time to spread the spirit of Christmas.

One morning shortly after being called as a Relief Society president, I received a phone call from the mother of a family in our ward. She disclosed the loss of her employment, medical issues, and other challenges. It was clear the family had used the last of their resources. As I listened, I silently prayed that the Holy Ghost would guide and direct my words and actions.
I assured this sister that I would contact our bishop and would reach out later that day. I felt an urgency to help this family, especially the children within the home. After making multiple phone calls, however, I discovered that the entire bishopric and elders quorum presidency were out of town. Being new to my calling, I was unsure what to do.
After kneeling in prayer and asking for help, I decided to go grocery shopping for the family and work out things with the bishop upon his return. I also decided to donate some needed items. As I prepared to leave in my car, I had a clear and unmistakable impression: “Wait.” I followed the prompting and got out of my car. An hour later, a knock came at my front door.
Outside stood a widow from our ward. She handed me two large grocery sacks of food and said, “Sister Smith, I know you will know what to do with these.” Then she hurried down our porch steps to her car.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude and tender feelings from the Spirit. The Lord had answered my prayer. I was reminded of Nephi, who was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand what he should do (see 1 Nephi 4:6).
When we pray and follow small, quiet promptings, we have this assurance from the Lord: “It shall be given you in the very hour, yea, in the very moment, what ye shall say” (Doctrine and Covenants 100:6)—and sometimes what we should do. The Lord knew this family’s pressing and immediate needs before I did. I was blessed to witness a tender mercy of the Lord as this widow provided an offering that fed a family in their very hour of need.

Some years ago I received a letter in reference to recognition being given to a man in a community where I had once lived. The man and his wife were leaving the community where they had spent most of their lives. Local citizens were organizing a special event to honor him for the service he had given and the influence he had had in so many of the lives of the people. My life was one that he had touched. Receiving the announcement reminded me of the many ways in which I had been benefitted, encouraged, and guided by this man’s concern and kindness for me.
The community in which the man had lived was a small one. He had never accumulated much in the way of worldly goods. The little business he had operated could have been profitable enough, but he was too interested in people to be much concerned with building up his standard of living. He was always available to people, but he never demanded anything of them. Most of us had learned to take him very much for granted. It is unlikely he would ever have been given any public recognition until his funeral service, had not his unexpected move from the community prompted this effort to honor him.
On the evening of the special event, I was intrigued by the arrangements that had been made. All who entered the gathering place were asked to sign their names on slips of paper that were then folded and dropped into a box. When the large crowd was seated, and the honored guest had taken his place on the stand, the chairman announced the proceedings. No speakers had been assigned for the evening, he said, but names would be drawn from the box. Those who were chosen would be asked to represent all in offering expressions of appreciation and love for our friend.
One by one the names were drawn. As the hour passed, a procession of unrehearsed speakers revealed the story of selfless service that our friend had given to members of the community.
As the meeting drew to a close, the name of a local physician was drawn from the box. For many years the good doctor had lived as a neighbor to our honored friend. He had recently returned to his home following treatment in another state for what had proved to be a near-fatal illness. As he spoke, he explained that for many years he had contemplated how his own life and that of our friend had been devoted to serving others. He told of leaving his home to make professional visits at hours both early and late, and of frequently encountering our friend departing on what appeared to be responses to the call for help from someone with a problem. At these times, the doctor said, he felt particularly close to his neighbor in the fellowship of service they shared.
At this point in his remarks, the doctor paused, and his voice became touched with emotion. Making reference to his recent illness, he related how he had left this same community several months before, not knowing whether he would ever recover and return. No farewell testimonial had been held in his honor. He confessed that he had been upset by the obvious difference in the feelings of the community toward himself and our friend, especially considering the service that both of them had given. Tonight, he said, he had learned why this was so.
With all of the apparent parallels between his life and that of his friend, there was one very important difference that had set them apart from each other in the eyes of the people in the community. For all of his services, the doctor pointed out, he had collected a fee. That was the difference. He had not realized until tonight how much his fees had cost him.
All of us who knew the good doctor and had benefitted from his kindly ministrations realized that he was being too critical of his own compassion and charity. But he succeeded, in those dramatic circumstances, in teaching all of us a lesson that we would not soon forget.