Gospel Story Finder

Many times we don’t comprehend the meaning of the ordinances of the temple in their fulness until after we have known affliction or passed through experiences that could have been extremely sad without the knowledge of the plan of salvation.
When my wife and I had only been married a year and a half, she was ready to deliver our first baby. We had decided that she would have the baby in the Chihuahua colonies, where she had been born. At that time I was working in Mexico City, and we decided that she would be there a month ahead of the delivery date. I was planning to join her later.
The delivery date arrived. I was at work when I received a call from my father-in-law. The news was good: “Octaviano, your wife has given birth, and you now have a little daughter who is beautiful.” So, in my happiness, I began to announce this to my friends and partners at work, who in turn asked me for chocolates to celebrate the birth of my little one.
The next day I began to give out chocolates throughout the four floors of our office building. When I reached the second floor, I received another call from my father-in-law. This time the news was different: “Octaviano, your wife is fine, but your daughter has passed away. The funeral will be today, and you don’t have time to come. What are you going to do?” I asked to speak with Rosa, my wife, and then asked her if she was OK. She replied that she was fine, depending on how I was feeling. Then we talked about the plan of salvation, remembering this scripture:
“And I also beheld that all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven” (D&C 137:10).
I asked her, “Do you believe that?” And she said, “Yes, I do.” Then I replied, “We should be happy then. I love you. And if you are OK with that, I’ll take my vacation in two weeks, spend some time with you, and return back together to Mexico.”
We knew that one day we would be reunited with our daughter because we were sealed by the power of the priesthood in the temple. We ended the telephone call, and I resumed giving out the chocolates in my office building.
Seeing me do this, one of my co-workers was surprised and asked me how I could do this after such terrible news. I answered, “If you have three hours, I can explain to you why I am not feeling too sad and about my knowledge of what happens after death.” He didn’t have three hours at that moment but did later. We ended up talking for four hours. He accepted the gospel and, together with his mother and brother, was baptized into the Church after receiving the discussions.
I know that thanks to the power of godliness manifested in the ordinances of the temple, I will now be able to know my daughter. I will embrace her, and we will be with her for eternity, just as we are now with our three surviving children.

The wood had broiled in the sun for so many years that it was now the color of faded cardboard. Wind and rain had warped and cracked its weary surface.

Slap! A brush drenched the crevice where the old board joined the fence post. Slosh! A roller dipped in its tray, then spread a thick layer of rust-red latex over the tired timber, which drank its fill and noticed that its neighbors, too, were being refreshed by some benevolent teenagers. The old corral would never look the same!

Across the road, weeds and grass, fed by 80-degree spring water, had clogged irrigation channels. Now young men and women toiled side by side, knee and elbow-deep in moss and slime. As they freed paths for water to make its way to the pastures, they smiled and laughed and joked and cheered each other on. At the same time, their counterparts in another field were clearing away piles of dead palm fronds trimmed by previous work crews, piling trucks high with debris.

It was not a typical youth conference.

True enough, when the young people from three of Las Vegas’ ten stakes had gathered for the conference’s opening session the night before, they had enjoyed a musical fireside, including an impromptu chorus starring the presidents of the Las Vegas, Las Vegas South, and Las Vegas Nevada Redrock stakes.

And it was also true that following the fireside there was a dance where young men and young women mingled and made new friends. And there were still a testimony meeting, meetings with featured speakers, and a ranch-style barbecue dinner to come. There would even be a game session featuring horseshoes, earth ball competition, a greased pig chase, an obstacle course, and a tug-of-war.

But the most impressive event was the all-day Saturday cleanup at the Warm Springs welfare ranch and farm, 60 miles northeast of town.

Following an early-morning breakfast at one of the stake centers, a dozen work crews (each identified by a specific T-shirt color) boarded a dozen buses (each labeled with a sign of the same color) and were conveyed across the sage-speckled desert toward the welfare property.

In transit, crew members, directed by captains of 10 and captains of 40 (to match bus capacity), were required to interview each other and fill out forms listing favorite foods, date of birth, hobbies, Church callings, and other get-acquainted facts:

“We purposely mixed people from different stakes so they would be able to make friends with new people,” explained Gary Tonks, 17, captain of the light blue bus. “We wanted them to work together at the farm, but we thought that would be easier if they knew each other first.”

The buses left the freeway and tooled along a lesser road, adrift in the barren mounds of an ochre, gray, and tan moonscape, dry enough to give a lizard thirst. Then, over one last rise, a patch of green! Green! Palm trees danced a wind-inspired hula, while streams, glinting like diamonds in the sun, encircled plants and fields in belts of silver.

Fortunately for the work crews, this was not some sand-weary traveler’s illusion, no mirage born of too much sun. Warm Springs, Nevada, is an oasis in every sense of the word. Thermal water gushes up here from an underground source, blessing the parched earth with life. A billboard beckons tourists to visit a privately owned recreational water slide; environmentalists on field trips inspect the warm-water canals for a fish species indigenous to the area; and the skyscraping palms converge in cavernous groves that offer seclusion and shade in summer and shelter from the harsh winter wind.

The property, purchased about four years ago, may eventually be developed to include pomegranate groves, grape vines, cottonwood trees (for firewood), range cattle, a dairy, a pig farm, a turkey farm, a catfish pond, a swimming pool, grain fields, and silos for storage. It is also used from time to time for camping and Scouting activities, and so many of the youth conference participants had been here before.

Each crew was assigned to a work area, again according to T-shirt color, and within minutes, the farm was engulfed by workers shoveling, carrying, hoeing, sawing, raking, hacking, and stacking. Invading mesquite bushes were whacked off at the roots, cut up, and carted away. Barbed wire was restrung and tightened. The farm manager’s yard was weeded and manicured until it looked professionally landscaped.

“We already had the bus leaders come out to the farm,” explained Jacie Summers, 17, of the 51st Ward, South Stake. “There were three or four sessions when they were allowed to come and practice doing all the jobs so that they’d be qualified to supervise. Now they’re in charge of groups, but they know what to have them do.” Her job? “Today we’re cleaning pig pens,” she said, grinning.

“Usually we go to a youth conference and sit in classrooms during workshops,” said David Brown, 18, of the 28th Ward, Las Vegas Stake. “We always have some people sitting alone, eating alone, not feeling involved. We felt like this was a way for them to feel part of the conference, for us to be able to work with others, and for everyone at the end of the day to feel satisfied with what we got done.”

“I like to work, and working with friends makes it fun,” said Andrea Hildreath, 17, of the South Stake’s 47th Ward. And Heather Rodriguez, 15, of the Third Ward, Las Vegas Stake, added that “it’s not the thing I’d normally anticipate doing for fun, but it’s what you make it. If you come in with a good attitude and make it fun, it will be. The best part was meeting lots of new people.”

“We explained at a fireside what we planned to do at the conference,” Jacie said. “We told them we were going to work and work hard, but we explained how they could help and how much good it would do for the farm.”

Evidently the appeal was convincing. “This is the biggest turnout we’ve ever had for a youth conference,” Jacie said. And Gary, who served on the steering committee with her, noted that more than 500 attended an activity originally planned for 300. “At first we were afraid people would be turned off by the idea of working, but it turned out to be one of the best ideas ever.”

A quick look around the farm would have been enough to convince anyone he was right. There were so many willing volunteers, one of the biggest problems was finding enough tools to go around. Another problem was distributing oranges to everyone for a morning break. There were plenty of oranges, but everyone was so involved working there was only a minimal distribution crew!

The strenuous labor made the juicy sweetness of the fresh fruit even more appealing, and the workers relaxed momentarily, leaning on the fence posts, hillsides, and even sides of automobiles. They talked, as they often do with those from out of town, about what it’s like to live in Las Vegas.

“Most people think you live in a casino,” said Bruce Tingey, 17, of the 51st Ward, South Stake. “They don’t realize that this is actually a home town for some, that people, especially Mormons, really live here. But there are lots of Church members in Vegas.”

“It’s easy to find good examples,” said Suzann Melaerts, 16, of the 31st Ward, Las Vegas Stake. “But it’s easy to find bad ones, too. You have to be strong. I’m glad for the opportunity to share with those who want to know about the gospel.”

“I’ve never lived anywhere else,” Andrea added. “But I’ve been other places. I love it here because the Church is so strong.” Bruce’s sister, Christine, agreed. “We have more opportunities to share the gospel here because a lot of people know about the Church already. It’s an ideal situation—plenty of chances to do missionary work, and yet there are enough members that you don’t feel like you’re all by yourself.”

Heather nodded her head. “About 50 percent of my friends are members of the Church. About 50 percent aren’t. I have an obligation to share the gospel. I want others to have the same happiness I do.”

Heather told of a friend who’s investigating the Church. “We talk a lot, almost every day,” Heather said. And others mentioned a young lady who was baptized shortly after last year’s youth conference. Looking around, they pointed out half a dozen nonmembers mixed in with the crowd around them.

“There were six or seven new members baptized last year in my high school,” Andrea said. “Three of them are on missions now.”

On another part of the ranch, Kristie Ferrell, a 16-year-old member of the Third Ward, Las Vegas Stake, sat chatting with a nonmember friend who accompanied her to the conference. They discussed the youth activities the Church sponsors, as well as Kristie’s active role in her ward. Kristie leads music for the Young Women and is second counselor in her Mia Maid class. She enjoys volleyball and basketball.

Soon others were describing fun activities, too. Suzann remembered girls’ camp hikes in the nearby mountains and seminary lessons that “gave me a good feeling and made me want to do right all day long.” Walter Wagner, 15, of the 19th Ward, Redrock Stake, mentioned the dances held each week at different chapels and the rappeling classes with the teachers quorum in Redrock Canyon. “lt was scary at first,” he said, “but we got used to it.”

Soon the break would be over, and while the laborers finished their chores, adult advisers and some of the ranch hands would be butter-basting potatoes in charcoal-heated dutch ovens and slicing roast pork for the feast to come. The testimony meeting and choral performance scheduled for early evening would eventually be postponed until Sunday because of rushing desert winds, though the testimonies borne would be fervent and tender after a day’s rest gentled the effects of fatigue. Even the games, though riotous at first, would be short-lived because nearly everyone was exhausted.

But for one small moment, no one worried about all that. For one small moment in the bright, clear winter sunshine, there was a near-unanimous contentment, a happiness at being united in service and companionship with fellow Saints. And there was a realization that here there was more than one kind of oasis—that through service, love, gospel-sharing, and reaching out, the Saints in Las Vegas are building a spiritual oasis that will invigorate the desert people for eternities to come.

One day, while driving along a road in California’s Sequoia National Park, I noticed a turnout for Moro Rock. I’ve always enjoyed hiking, climbing, and exploring, so I decided to check it out.
At the turnout, a short 10-minute hike takes you to a large granite outcropping overlooking a huge river valley with sky-piercing peaks in the distance. I quickly made my way past throngs of other people on the trail. After a few quick turns, I was standing on the summit. The view was great, but I was disappointed because there were metal railings everywhere! I couldn’t really explore the location like I wanted to.
I thought I was an experienced hiker, so I found the railings to be a little offensive to my sense of what was safe. In some cases, the placement of the railings seemed so arbitrary, and the straight lines of the railings prevented me from following along the curves of the rock. In a few places, the railing seemed to stop short of what would be an interesting spot to look over. For a moment I considered crossing over the barriers, but as I read the warning signs, I decided I’d better stay inside the railings.
A few months later, I noticed a news article about two people who fell off the rock and died. I immediately thought, “How could anybody die at Moro Rock with all those railings around?” Then it struck me: they had gone outside the railings!

In 1878, President John Taylor called Saints to settle in the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado. Early in the twentieth century, Pa moved our family to that desolate land.
Our new farm was littered with rocks. Before we could till the ground, we had to clear them away. Using a wheelbarrow, Ma and I carted away the small rocks. There was only one way to remove the boulders—blow them up with dynamite.
Pa dug under each one as far as he could and placed the dynamite underneath. He was careful to set each charge in just the right place so that the blast would tear the boulder completely apart. Finally everything was ready for Pa to light the fuse. Mama herded us children out of danger.
Boom!
The first boulder exploded into hundreds of fragments and a cloud of dust. When the dust settled, the boulder had disappeared. I now had to pick up the pieces and fill the hole with dirt.
We repeated the process, Pa lighting the dynamite and I clearing away the shattered rock. By the end of the third explosion, I was growing tired of picking up rocks and wanted to be in on the “real” work—lighting the dynamite. I took a few steps toward Pa.
“Willard, stay back!” my mother called.
I scowled. At nine, I was the oldest and believed I was a man.
As I started back to the homestead, a sense of danger ran through me. A whispering in my heart warned me that something was wrong.
I didn’t understand. I wasn’t in any danger. I was well away from the blasting. Certain that I had imagined the voice, I concentrated on what Pa was doing. Maybe he’d see that I was nearly grown and ready to work alongside him.
The feeling of danger grew.
I recalled the promise my father had made at the time of my confirmation: “I bless you with the power of discernment. Listen to the Spirit. It will guide you and protect you from harm.”
I tried to ignore the voice, but it wouldn’t be still. I could no longer pretend that I didn’t hear the insistent whisper.
I bless you with the power of discernment.
The words were as clear now as they had been when Pa pronounced the blessing more than a year earlier. If I wasn’t in danger, maybe the voice was telling me that someone else was. Ma was hanging clothes on the line, my little sister pulling at her skirts. I grinned at the picture they made. My smile faded as I realized that I couldn’t see three-year-old Hyrum.
“Hyrum!” I shouted. “Hyrum!” Shading my eyes from the sun, I squinted into the distance. Then I saw him—heading straight toward the field, chubby legs churning.
I took off after him, running and praying and shouting all at the same time. “Pa!” I screamed, waving my arms to attract his attention.
His back turned to me, Pa couldn’t see my warning or Hyrum toddling toward disaster.
I reached Hyrum at the same moment the boulder exploded. Throwing my body over his, I shielded him the best I could. Sharp rock fragments rained down on me, pummeling my head, back, and legs.
Hyrum began to squirm. “Heavy,” he said. “Let me up.”
I rolled off. My body screamed with pain, but I scarcely noticed. Gently, I ran my hands over my little brother. “Are you all right?”
He wiggled away from me and stood. His chin wobbled, but he appeared unhurt. “Scared,” he said.
“I was scared, too.” I pulled Hyrum to me and hugged him.
By then Pa had reached us. Tears tracked through the dirt and grime on his face. His big arms circled us, squeezing tight. “How did you know that your brother was in danger?”
I hesitated, not sure how to explain. “A voice told me that something was wrong. I didn’t pay attention at first, but it kept poking at me until I had to listen.” I paused, then confessed the part that stung my conscience. “If I had listened the first time, Hyrum wouldn’t have wandered away. He’d never have been in danger.”
Pa laid his big hand on my shoulder. “But you did listen. That’s the important thing.” Pa took a deep breath. “That was a mighty brave thing you did, Willard.”
“I prayed, Pa. I was praying so hard the words nearly choked me.”
“So was I, Son. So was I.”
Ma and my little sister came running. Laughing and crying at the same time, Ma hugged me and Hyrum. Soon, all of us were hugging and crying.
A sweet feeling of peace settled around my heart as I knelt by my bed that night. My prayers took longer than usual as I thanked Heavenly Father for the whisperings of the Spirit in my heart.

Some years ago, long after he had returned from his mission, Bishop J. Richard Yates, now of the Durham Third Ward in the Durham North Carolina Stake, was out on the family farm in Idaho, helping his father milk the cows and do some of the evening chores. Because of limited family circumstances, Richard’s father, Brother Tom Yates, had not been able to go on a mission in his youth. But that disappointment only strengthened Brother Yates’s vow that what he had not been able to afford, his sons would certainly realize—a full-time mission for the Lord—whatever the sacrifice involved.

In those days in rural Idaho it was customary to give a young man a heifer calf as soon as he was old enough to take care of it. The idea was that the young man would raise the animal, keep some of the offspring, and sell others to help pay for the feed. Fathers wisely understood that this was a way to teach their sons responsibility as they earned money for their missions.

Young Richard did well with that gift of a first calf and, over time, expanded the herd to eight. Along the way he invested some of the income from the milk he sold to buy a litter of pigs. He had nearly sixty of those when his call finally arrived. It was the family’s plan that they would sell future litters of the pigs to supplement income from the sale of the dairy milk to cover the costs of Richard’s missionary labors.

That evening out in the barn, long after a wonderful twenty-four months were safely concluded, this young man heard something of which he had known absolutely nothing while on his mission. His father said that sometime within the first month after Richard had left, the local veterinarian, a close family friend and tireless worker in that farming community, had come to vaccinate the pigs against a local threat of cholera. But in an unfortunate professional error, the vet gave the animals the live vaccine but failed to give adequate antiserum. The results were that the entire herd of pigs came down with the disease; within a few weeks most of the animals were dead, and the remaining few had to be destroyed.

With the pigs dead, obviously milk sales would not be enough to keep Richard on his mission, so his father planned to sell one by one the family’s dairy herd to cover the costs. But beginning with the second month and virtually every month for twenty-three thereafter, as his parents prepared to send him the money for his mission, either one of their cows suddenly died or else one of his did. Thus the herd decreased at twice the rate they expected. It seemed an unbelievable stretch of misfortune.

During that difficult time a large note became due at the local bank. With all else that had happened and the inordinate financial problems they were facing, Brother Yates simply did not have the money to repay it. There was every likelihood they would now lose their entire farm. After much prayer and concern, but with never a word to their missionary son, Brother Yates went to face the president of the bank, a man not of our faith who was perceived in the community to be somewhat stern and quite aloof.

After he had heard the explanation of this considerable misfortune, the banker sat for a moment, looking into the face of a man who, in his own quiet and humble way, was standing up to trouble and opposition and fear as faithfully as had Rudger Clawson and Joseph Standing. In that situation I suppose Brother Yates could not say much more to his banker than “Shoot.”

Quietly the bank president leaned forward and asked just one question. “Tom,” he said, “are you paying your tithing?” Not at all certain as to how the answer would be received, Brother Yates answered softly but without hesitation, “Yes, sir, I am.” The banker then said, “You keep paying your tithing, and you keep your son on his mission. I’ll take care of the note. I know you will repay me when you can.”

No paperwork or signatures were exchanged. No threats or warnings were uttered. Two good and honorable men simply stood and shook hands. An agreement had been made, and that agreement was kept.

Bishop Yates says he remembers hearing this heretofore unknown story with considerable emotion that evening, asking his father—the note to the bank long since repaid—if all that worry and fear and sacrifice had been worth it just to try to live the gospel and keep a son on a mission. “Yes, Son,” he said, “it was worth all of that and a lot more if the Lord ever asks it of me,” and he continued with his evening chores.

Physically, Tom Yates was a slight man—under five feet eight inches in height and weighing less than 150 pounds. His body was stunted somewhat from a near-fatal case of polio contracted in his infancy. But Richard says he does not ever remember thinking of his father’s physical stature one way or the other. To this son he was simply a spiritual giant, always larger than life, leaving his children a legacy of devotion and courage longer than all eternity.

“Ahhhh!” Oliver cried. He jumped into Mom and Dad’s bed. “A monster is after me!”
“You had a bad dream,” Mom said. “The monster isn’t real.” She put her arm around him. They snuggled tight.
Oliver shivered. “It was really tall. It had yellow eyes and green teeth,” he said. “I said a prayer. But I could still see it coming!”
“I’m glad you asked Heavenly Father for help,” Dad said. “What else can you do?”
“What do you mean?” Oliver said.
“Remember when you gave a talk in Primary? You prayed for help. But is that all you did?”
“I practiced,” Oliver said. “I stood in front of the mirror. I said my talk over and over.”
“And you gave a great talk!” Dad said.
“And remember when you lost your toy car?” Mom said. “You prayed to find it. Then did you just stay on your knees?”
“No. I searched and searched. I looked under my bed. Then I looked behind the couch.”
“And there it was!” Mom said.
“So,” Dad said, “how can you get rid of the monster?”
Oliver imagined himself in a suit of armor.
“First,” he said, “pray.”
“Good. And then?”
“I can take some deep breaths. And then I can sing ‘I Am a Child of God.’”
“That’s a great plan!” Mom said. “Now back to bed.”
The next morning Oliver ran to talk to Mom and Dad.
“I had another dream about the monster,” he said. “But I said a prayer and followed my plan. And the monster went away!”
“I’m so glad the monster went away,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father really does hear your prayers.”

“I ran for president of my high school Women’s Association and lost. I felt that losing left me out of everything, and I really wanted to be in. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I worked with one of my teachers to plan a marvelous party for the girl who beat me.
“When you lose and you’re really hurt, you can just reach out. If someone offends you or gets the honor or the award or job that you wanted, you just say to someone, ‘What can I do for you?’ And then you try to reach out to another and away from your own hurt.”

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
What’s wrong, Sarah?
I’m not smart.
Who’s been teasing you?
It doesn’t matter, because it’s true—I’m not smart. I’m no good at math or English or anything else.
Heavenly Father, please help me know what to say.
Sarah, my dad read a scripture to my family last night. It says, “The glory of God is intelligence, or, in other words, light and truth.”*
So?
So you may not be the top student at math or English, but you’re full of light and truth. It shines from your face. Sarah Mercer, you are intelligent!
You’re a child of God, and His glory is in you.
If you say so.
I do say so.

Like most of us, Matthew and Judy Morrise of the West Hills Ward, Beaverton Oregon Stake, are always looking for new ideas for family home evening lessons and activities. The Family Home Evening Resource Book (item no. 31106) is the mainstay, but other ideas are also welcome. While looking through the resource book, Judy Morrise came across an idea calling for the use of a suggestion box.
“This seemed like a good way to find out how our children felt about family home evening,” says Sister Morrise. “I made the box and placed it on a shelf where I knew the children would see it. Imagine my delight when after a few days I found notes from my six-year-old and eight-year-old daughters. They wanted to use the family home evening ideas they saw monthly in the Friend magazine. We gave it a try, and within the next two months each girl gave a short lesson that included an opening song, scripture references, a story, and an activity. Of course, we ended with treats.”
The suggestion box worked for the Morrises. Following is a “suggestion box” for you, full of family home evening ideas and testimonies gathered from readers. As you read these suggestions, choose some that best fit your situation and give them a try.

Sister Mayra is a recent convert from Ecuador. Her joy in the gospel skyrocketed immediately following her baptism as she invited friends and loved ones around her through social media accounts. Many family members and friends who saw her posts responded with questions. Mayra connected with them, often inviting them to her home to meet with the missionaries together.
Mayra’s parents, her siblings, her aunt, two cousins, and several of her friends were baptized because she courageously invited them to “come and see,” “come and serve,” and “come and belong.” Through her normal and natural invitations, over 20 people have accepted her invitation to be baptized members of the Church of Jesus Christ. This came about because Sister Mayra simply invited others to experience the joy she felt as a member of the Church.

After joining the Church, what Edwin wanted most was for his family back in India to learn about the gospel. The problem was that there were no missionaries in India to teach them! Edwin and Elsie wrote a letter to Church headquarters asking them to send missionaries to India.
What came next was a big surprise. President Spencer W. Kimball called them to serve as missionaries in India!
And now, here they were.
Their first stop in India was Edwin’s brother’s house. Edwin’s parents and siblings were there too. Right away, Edwin and Elsie started teaching them. Their family was happy to learn about the gospel.
A few weeks later, Edwin and his family gathered around the swimming pool in his brother’s yard. The pool had been cleaned, painted, and filled with fresh water. Everyone was wearing white. The women wore flowing saris that draped over their shoulders. The men wore loose Indian-style jackets and trousers.
Edwin stood in the pool with his father. “Samuel David,” Edwin said, “having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
Edwin felt happy as he baptized his father. He felt even happier when he baptized his mom next. By the end of the day, Edwin had baptized 18 people!
The next day, Edwin and Elsie rode a train for six hours. They visited more family members and taught them about the gospel. Edwin baptized four more of his relatives in a nearby river.
Finally, Edwin and Elsie took a 16-hour train ride to visit Elsie’s parents. Elsie’s father was a leader in another church. He didn’t get baptized, but he thought the Book of Mormon was a good book. He helped translate the Book of Mormon into Telugu, one of the languages spoken in India.
When Edwin and Elsie finished their mission, there were enough new members to start one of the first branches of the Church in India! Edwin and Elsie were happy when they returned to Samoa. They were grateful Heavenly Father had sent them on a mission!

Ninth President of the Church
David O. McKay’s witness of the truthfulness of the gospel came during his mission to Scotland. He attended a priesthood meeting where “everybody felt the rich outpouring of the spirit of the Lord.” He later recalled: “Never before had I experienced such an emotion. It was a manifestation for which as a doubting youth I had secretly prayed most earnestly on hillside and in meadow. It was an assurance to me that sincere prayer is answered ‘sometime, somewhere.’” It was during this same conference that Elder McKay’s mission president told him, “If you will keep the faith you will yet sit in the leading [councils] of the Church” (“Two Significant Statements,” Deseret News, 27 October 1934, 8).

A story is told of a woman who was upset that her son was eating too much candy. No matter how much she told him to stop, he continued to satisfy his sweet tooth. Totally frustrated, she decided to take her son to see a wise man whom he respected.
She approached him and said, “Sir, my son eats too much candy. Would you please tell him to stop eating it?”
He listened carefully then said to her son, “Go home and come back in two weeks.”
She took her son and went home, perplexed why he had not asked the boy to stop eating so much candy.
Two weeks later they returned. The wise man looked directly at the boy and said, “Boy, you should stop eating so much candy. It is not good for your health.”
The boy nodded and promised he would.
The boy’s mother asked, “Why didn’t you tell him that two weeks ago?”
The wise man smiled. “Two weeks ago I was still eating too much candy myself.”
This man lived with such integrity that he knew his advice would carry power only if he was following his own counsel.

“Want to try again?” Elder Higgins asked as we approached a group of houses next to a church.
I knocked on the door and stood back waiting. A tall man wearing a clerical collar opened the door and smiled at us like the cat about to eat the canary.
“What can I do for you boys?” he said with a very proper British accent. He obviously knew who we were.
I glanced at the mailbox as I swallowed and stepped back. “The Reverend Richard Cutts, Ph.D.,” it said.
What could I say to this man? How could I challenge what he believed? I whispered a quick prayer. I could see Elder Higgins getting ready to jump in.
It’s funny how much can go through your mind in a few seconds. I thought of my first Primary teacher, Oma Santos, telling the story of Moses and the burning bush; my Sunday School teacher, Cloe Davis, explaining the importance of Joseph Smith’s first vision; Velda Dalton teaching about the Sermon on the Mount; and my Uncle Elton talking about the restoration of the priesthood in deacons class. I grew up in a small town in southern Utah. None of my teachers had Ph.D. behind their name. None of them read Greek or Latin like Reverend Cutts most likely did. But it didn’t matter. What they knew was much more important.
“I’m Elder Roberts,” I said, feeling for the first time the strength and importance of what I’d been taught, what I was here to teach. “This is Elder Higgins, and we’d like to tell you about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
The expression on Reverend Cutts’s face changed. He looked a little surprised. “Come on in,” he said, smiling.

Through it all, my parents were great. They have always taught me how to make decisions. I remember when I was 14 and I was invited to play on an all-star team made up mostly of 16-year-olds. That was very exciting, but then I found out the team played every day—including Sunday. As soon as my coach said that, it just mortified me inside because I knew there was this great opportunity but there was also the issue of playing on Sunday.

I really didn’t know what to do, only that I had to make a decision before I talked to the coach. So I got down on my knees to pray, and I had this feeling that I should not play on Sunday. When I told the coach about not wanting to play on Sunday, he was totally fine with that idea. He told me he respected my decision, and that I could still play for the team.

In closing may I share with you an example of one who determined early in life what his goals would be. I speak of Brother Clayton M. Christensen, a member of the Church who is a professor of business administration in the business school at Harvard University.
When he was 16 years old, Brother Christensen decided, among other things, that he would not play sports on Sunday. Years later, when he attended Oxford University in England, he played center on the basketball team. That year they had an undefeated season and went through to the British equivalent of what in the United States would be the NCAA basketball tournament.
They won their games fairly easily in the tournament, making it to the final four. It was then that Brother Christensen looked at the schedule and, to his absolute horror, saw that the final basketball game was scheduled to be played on a Sunday. He and the team had worked so hard to get where they were, and he was the starting center. He went to his coach with his dilemma. His coach was unsympathetic and told Brother Christensen he expected him to play in the game.
Prior to the final game, however, there was a semifinal game. Unfortunately, the backup center dislocated his shoulder, which increased the pressure on Brother Christensen to play in the final game. He went to his hotel room. He knelt down. He asked his Heavenly Father if it would be all right, just this once, if he played that game on Sunday. He said that before he had finished praying, he received the answer: “Clayton, what are you even asking me for? You know the answer.”
He went to his coach, telling him how sorry he was that he wouldn’t be playing in the final game. Then he went to the Sunday meetings in the local ward while his team played without him. He prayed mightily for their success. They did win.
That fateful, difficult decision was made more than 30 years ago. Brother Christensen has said that as time has passed, he considers it one of the most important decisions he ever made. It would have been very easy to have said, “You know, in general, keeping the Sabbath day holy is the right commandment, but in my particular extenuating circumstance, it’s okay, just this once, if I don’t do it.” However, he says his entire life has turned out to be an unending stream of extenuating circumstances, and had he crossed the line just that once, then the next time something came up that was so demanding and critical, it would have been so much easier to cross the line again. The lesson he learned is that it is easier to keep the commandments 100 percent of the time than it is 98 percent of the time.

The first time I ever said that I was going on a mission for the Mormon church was at the intermission of the New York Philharmonic Annual UNICEF concert. I was standing beside my parents as they discussed the performance with their friends and a Mr. Blaiseworthy turned to me and said, not that he really cared, “And what are you going to be doing after your graduation next spring?”
My mother immediately began to explain that we, meaning she, had sent off applications to Princeton and Harvard and New York University, that we would probably be studying business. I had heard this “we” answer before. But I swallowed once hard and without looking at my mother replied, “I will be going on a mission for the Mormon church, sir.” Then I smiled.
My mother, not smiling, smoothed things over carefully and explained that I have a wonderful sense of humor but that Harvard was really our preference. Mr. Blaiseworthy gave me a peculiar stare and politely hurried off. In minutes my mother was back laughing with some woman in blue hair. I believe they were discussing how we had loved Eaton.

“Pass the ketchup, will you, Mom?”
“How do you ask, Jacob?” replied his mother, holding the ketchup for ransom.
“Come on, Mom! I’m in a hurry. Just pass me the ketchup!”
“Not until you ask for it properly, young man!”
For an instant, Jake thought of eating his hamburger and fries without ketchup, but the thought vanished as he looked at the near masterpiece he had created on the plate before him. All that was missing was the ketchup. With just a hint of exaggeration, he gave in and said, “Please, mother dearest, if it’s not too much to ask, would you mind passing the sweetened tomato sauce my direction?”
“That’s better.” His mom smiled and handed him the ketchup before continuing. “Oh, I almost forgot. Brian called to remind you to bring the name of one of your ancestors to activity night tonight. He said something about going to the Family History Center. Anyway, I got out some books so you can pick a name.”
Jake took a big bite out of his burger and began to respond. In unison, his mom, dad, two little sisters, and little brother reminded him not to talk with his mouth full. As soon as he was able, he continued, “Don’t worry about the name, Mom. I’ve been to the Family History Center before, so I’m going to the gym with Brett tonight.”
Jake’s dad cleared his throat, and the chatter around the table stopped like a switch had been flipped. “Son, I’m not going to tell you what you have to do, but the right place to be tonight is at activity night with the rest of your quorum. You can make your own decision, but you know where you should be.”
“Aw, Dad!” Jake dragged out the words with his best whining tone. “We go every year, and it’s always the same. A little old lady tells us how exciting genealogy is and if we listen real close we will have the ‘opportunity’ to use one of the fish machines.”
“Fiche, Jake, microfiche machines,” his mother corrected.
“Fish … fiche … whatever. Last year the most exciting thing that happened was when Doug Brown started rewinding his microfilm and then walked off. When it got to the end of the tape, it was flipping around making all kinds of noise. People came running from everywhere to see what had happened.”
Jake’s little brother and sisters laughed, and his parents smiled, but his dad didn’t give in. “Lots of information is on computers now, Jake. They don’t use those ‘fish’ machines as much anymore. You need to go.”
Jake started to respond, but his dad held up his hand. “You make your own decision, son. You know what I think you should do.”
As the quorum arrived at the Family History Center, Jake dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper his mom had given him. Unfolding it, he read the name: Annie Hicks. A girl! His mom had given him a girl’s name! Brian had bragged all the way to the center about his ancestor the Civil War hero. Most of the rest of the guys claimed to be related to one king or another. Doug even claimed he was related to Elvis. And here was Jake with the name of some unknown girl.
“This is going to be even worse than I thought,” he grumbled as he walked in the door.
Jake’s dad was right about one thing. Where the microfiche machines used to be, there were now several computers with bright screens. Racks of shiny compact discs sat next to them on the tables. The microfiche machines remaining were all huddled in a small back room. The door to the room was roped off with a sign that read “Please Ask for Assistance.”
As the family history consultant welcomed the quorum and began to talk about the new software, Jake drifted toward the back of the group. He didn’t want to be the one who had to use his ancestor’s name as a demonstration. Finding a comfortable spot against the doorway to the back room with the microfiche machines, he settled down for the wait. He tried to listen for a few minutes, but from the back he could barely hear, and his attention soon turned to the ‘fish’ machines in the room behind him.
Poor machines, he thought, all those years they did just what they were supposed to and now their only reward is to be quarantined like they have some rare disease. Without thinking, he stepped over the rope and began to wander among the machines.
In the darkest corner, Jake discovered a monster of a fiche reader. It wasn’t a table-top model like the others but stood by itself on the floor—like a picture-taking booth. It even had a little black curtain across its door to keep out the light. Curious, Jake began to walk around the machine. His inspection, however, was cut short as he tripped over its power cord. Bending to plug it back in, he realized that he hadn’t just unplugged it; he had ripped the wires right out of the machine.
Jake groused under his breath. “I should have just gone to the gym.” He quickly shoved the bare wires back into the hole in the machine and headed for the safety of the crowd. As he passed the little doorway of the huge fiche reader, he came to a dead stop. Something was flickering inside. Hoping he hadn’t started an electrical fire with the bare wires, Jake slipped inside the machine to investigate. As he sat down, the little black curtain quietly closed behind him.
Jake would have jumped up and run, but the screen of the microfiche reader flickered on. “Well, at least it still works!” he said out loud. Almost as if in response to his voice, a computerized voice said, “Please state the name of the person you wish to find.”
Wow! Pretty high-tech, Jake thought.
“Please state the name of the person you wish to find.” The machine repeated.
“Okay, okay! I’ll state it!”
“Please state the name of the person you wish to find.”
Jake rolled his eyes and said nothing as he dug the folded piece of paper from his pocket and read the name out loud: “Annie Hicks.”
The next thing Jake knew, he was cold, so very, very cold. Snow was blowing in his face, and an ice cold wind cut through the thin, coarse jacket he was now wearing. His legs were covered by very thin, gray wool pants with patches on both knees. He couldn’t feel his feet and had to lift them out of the snow to see if they were still there. His high-top, cross trainers had been replaced by old-fashioned boots. But the toes of the boots were completely worn through, revealing the red wool socks that now covered his frozen toes.
Taking in his surroundings, Jake became aware that he was standing on the bank of a wide river. There were people on both sides of the river pulling and pushing handcarts and shivering in the cold. Those on the opposite side of the river appeared to be waiting for their turn to walk down into the water and cross to Jake’s side. Jake shivered involuntarily as he looked at the sheets of ice floating on the cold, gray water.
“What is this?” was all he could say before he heard a cry for help.
“My boy, my boy! Somebody save my boy!” The cry came from the far side of the river, and Jake focused on a woman with several children gathered around her. She was screaming and pointing at a boy, no more than 10 or 12, being carried downstream with their handcart by the force of the current. For an instant, Jake was frozen in terror as he watched the tragedy unfold before him. It seemed hopeless. Then he noticed someone from his side of the river racing down the bank toward the boy. The rescuer jumped into the water, splashed out to the boy, and pulled him and his handcart toward the safety of the shore.
Something finally clicked within Jake, and he ran down to the bank of the river. He reached the water just in time to help pull the boy and his rescuer up onto the bank. With chattering teeth, the boy thanked the rescuer over and over again, “Thank you, Annie! Thank you, Annie!”
For the first time, Jake realized that the rescuer was a young girl not much older than himself. As he reached out his hand and pulled her out of the water, he asked, “Annie? Annie Hicks?”
She looked at him for a moment with a quizzical look on her face and then replied in an English accent, “Why of course it is. Have you had a bump on your head today? Now quit looking at me that way, and let’s get this poor chap back to his family and into camp.” Jake smiled sheepishly, took hold of the handcart, and pulled it up the hill toward the rest of the company.
As he walked into the camp, Jake realized it was like none other he had ever seen. There were four to five hundred men, women, and children, all in wet and frozen clothes. From what Jake could see, few, if any, had dry clothes to change into. Some were trying to clear away snow and set up tents, but the ground was too frozen to drive the tent pegs. One or two small fires burned, but there wasn’t any additional firewood in sight. There were a few people eating, but what they ate looked like nothing more than a flour paste. Jake thought about the masterpiece burger and fries he had eaten for dinner. It probably would have fed half the camp.
“How are these people going to survive the night?” he wondered aloud as he helped Annie pull her cart into camp. Annie looked at him but didn’t respond. As they passed cart after cart, he began to wonder if they would ever find Annie’s family. “Where’s your family’s camp?” he finally asked.
Annie stopped pulling and studied him closely before responding. “My family is in England. They disowned me the day I was baptized. I don’t expect that I will ever hear from them again.” As she spoke she laid down the handcart handle and turned to unpack her few belongings.
“You, you’re here by yourself?” Jake’s disbelief and shivering caused him to stammer. After all, here was a girl, no older than himself, pulling a handcart across the country in the middle of winter without her family.
“No, I’m not by myself,” Annie responded matter-of-factly. “I’m surrounded by my brothers and sisters, and God is with us.”
“But how, Annie? How can you keep going without your family and with so much suffering?”
Now Annie stopped working and looked directly across the handcart at Jake. “From the moment I heard the gospel, I knew it was true. The day after I was baptized, my family heard of my baptism and told me some of the vilest stories about the Mormons. They said if I joined the Mormons I would be ruined for life. That night I prayed with all my heart to know the truth. I prayed, ‘Dear Lord, do not let me do wrong. Let me know tonight, dear Father; let me know tonight.’ I immediately was comforted by a wonderful dream. A book was opened to me, and the leaves were turned in rapid succession until the page with my record was found. On the page was my name without a mar or blemish against it. A loud clear voice spoke to me saying, ‘This is the way. Walk ye in it.’ When I woke the next morning, I laughed for joy to think that I had been heard and answered. I told my folks that it had been made known to me that Mormonism was right, and I would follow it.”
She hesitated for a moment and Jake looked down. A warmth burned within him that even the most severe cold couldn’t stop. Annie stepped around the corner of the cart and touched him on the sleeve. “This is the right way, Jake. Walk in it.”
In an instant, Jake was back in the Family History Center. He was sitting on the floor where the huge machine had been. There was no sign of the machine. He had his own clothes on, but his toes tingled like they did whenever they were thawing out. Jake shook his head a few times to clear his thoughts. He could hear the family history consultant continuing his presentation. “Now, does anyone have the name of an ancestor we can use as an example?”
Jake jumped up and ran toward the group, “Right here! I have one right here!”

One of the great social occasions of the year in our little town was the annual fathers and sons’ banquet. It was really a large affair held in the gym, and it featured a spectacular program. It was always well-attended by fathers and sons from the community.
In my family there are four boys (with a sister on each end). My father was a school teacher. Most of the time he could not afford to take all four of us boys to the banquet at once, so one year my father would take one or two sons, and the next year he would take the others.
One particular year it was not my turn to go to the banquet. But I had an uncle who came to live temporarily in Monroe. He didn’t have any sons, and he asked my father if he could take one of us. I was really thrilled to learn that I was chosen to accompany my uncle to the banquet.
I was number three in the line of four boys, so I always seemed to get the hand-me-downs. My mother fixed up an old suit for the big night. I was very proud of it. My uncle worked in his shop until closing time, and he agreed to meet me at the gym. We lived across the street from the high school. I could run out the door and reach the gym in a minute or two.
My mother first helped my father and two older brothers make preparations; then she helped me get ready. It started to rain hard just before time to leave the house. We had no umbrella. I could run fast, so Mother said, “I’ll open the door, and you jump off the porch and run across the street.” I made my break and leaped off the porch. But I hit some soft dirt, and my feet went out from under me and I landed in a mud puddle. I was drenched and muddy all over.
I went back into the house, crying. I thought, That’s the end of the banquet. Mother, however, took off my muddy clothes and dried them. We did not have electric irons in those days, so she put the flatirons on the coal stove to heat. In a matter of just minutes, she had me clean and dry and my suit pressed and dried. By that time, the rain had let up a little bit, and I made my second dash for the gym.
As I think back on that night, a mother with less determination would have given up and written it off as a bad experience. But my mother wasn’t going to let that happen, because she loved me and knew how disappointed I would be if I didn’t attend the fathers and sons’ social.

1 George was only five years old, but he loved to help his mother. He often ran errands for her. One morning his mother dressed him in his best velvet suit and asked him to take a message to President Brigham Young.
2 George was nervous as he walked the two blocks to the Prophet’s office. He was even more nervous as he pushed open the big wrought-iron gate and looked around for the prophet.
3 A guard stopped the young boy and gruffly asked what he wanted. When George replied that he had a message for President Young, the guard said that the prophet was too busy to see him.
4 George was frightened. While he was trying to decide what to do, a door opened and President Young walked out.
5 Laughing, the guard told the prophet that little George wanted to see him. Imagine how surprised George was when President Young asked him to come in!
6 President Young sat down at his desk, lifted the boy onto his knee, and began to visit with him. George was very impressed with the respect and love that President Young showed him.
7 Throughout his life George Albert Smith always tried to treat people as kindly and respectfully as he had been treated by President Young. When he became the eighth President of the Church, he was already well known for his love and charity toward all people.