Gospel Story Finder

The winter passed, and finally, early in May, the relief wagons began to roll in. Of the various communications Brother Jones had received, one critical letter from Brigham Young had not arrived. Loading and shipping of the stored goods could not commence without it.
For days they waited, becoming increasingly anxious. Finally Brother Jones sought the Lord in prayer to know how to proceed. He recorded the following testimony: “Next morning without saying anything about the lack of instructions we commenced business. Soon some one asked whose teams were to be loaded first, [and] I dictated to my clerk. Thus we continued. As fast as the clerk put them down, orders would be given, and we passed on to the next. We continued this [way] for four days. … All the teams were loaded up, companies organized and started back [to the valley]” (Daniel W. Jones, Forty Years among the Indians [1960], 107).
The 17 young men were loaded on the last wagons departing to the Salt Lake Valley, where they would be reunited with their families and loved ones.
Brother Jones arrived later to report to President Young, feeling not a little uncertain how he would be received. Should he have waited for the President’s written orders? As everything unfolded, it was learned that President Young had indeed dictated a letter of instructions, which was never received. Dan carefully presented his detailed report. It was a testimony to him to find that the inspiration he’d received in Wyoming was exactly the same as in the prophet’s letter.

About the last thing Cindie and I had expected to find on our evening stroll was a tombstone. But there it was, at the base of a large oak tree where the forest met the meadow, not a hundred yards from Bottlerock Road.
Quickly 11-year-old Cindie ran to the stone, knelt beside it, and began trying to make out the inscription. Together we pulled away the dry moss that obscured some of the lettering and read:
MARYANN DEMING
wife of Rufus Deming
died Jan. 5, 1855
in the 56th year of her age
Her eyes shining, my auburn-haired Cindie said, “Oh, dad, I can just see what happened. There were Mormon pioneers crossing the plains, and poor Maryann was killed in an Indian raid, and her husband and children were heartbroken, and they buried her here and sadly left her and went on to Utah. It was so tragic!”
“I don’t think so, Red. The Mormon pioneers didn’t pass through Lake County, California, in 1855 or any other time. More likely she and her family were here as part of the gold rush or to find a good farm or something like that. But I’m sure you’re right about her family being very sad when she died.”
“Well, we’ll just have to do her temple work for her. I just know that Heavenly Father led us to this spot so we could find Maryann’s tombstone and do her temple work for her.”
“I’m glad you thought of that, love. But we can’t do her temple work with just a tombstone inscription. We’d have to have her birth date and other information—and anyway, her work may already have been done.”
“But what if it hasn’t? Oh, dad, I can just see it now: One of her great-grandchildren has been looking for her records for just years and years, and they need her death date, and they’re praying that someone will find her tombstone and send in the information to the Genealogical Library, and give me your pen and paper.”
Well, I’ve never been one to deter an 11-year-old daughter of mine from doing something good. We copied down the tombstone inscription so that it could be sent to the library in Salt Lake. Why not? My exuberant, fervent, firstborn might be right—maybe someone somewhere was looking for Maryann Deming.
When we got back to grandma and grandpa’s summer cabin, it was nearly dark. Cindie recounted our discovery of the tombstone and our plan to send the inscription to Salt Lake.
Cindie didn’t join the rest of us for our usual evening game of dominoes that night. She spent the entire evening at the kitchen table with the old portable typewriter, trying to get a letter to the Genealogical Library ready to go.
The next day was Sunday. Together with grandma and grandpa our family drove to the Lakeport Branch to attend our Sunday meetings and to enjoy a nice dinner and a leisurely drive.
On the way back to the vacation cabin grandpa took Bottlerock Road, and we were nearing home when Cindie cried out, “Grandpa! Stop the car! There’s a cemetery!”
Well, we stopped, and Cindie ran the hundred yards or so to a small cemetery atop a hill. She walked quickly from one stone to the next, peered intently at several inscriptions, and then ran back to the car. “It won’t take but a few minutes,” she announced. “If we divide up the cemetery, and if everyone helps, we can write down all of the inscriptions in 15 minutes! We’ll add these names onto the list with Maryann’s and send them all to Salt Lake!”
Now, I’m not one to discourage an 11-year-old daughter of mine from doing something good, but we were dressed in our Sunday clothes, and the cemetery was dusty and overgrown with dry weeds, and we didn’t have enough pencils, and it was really hot. “Tell you what, Red. You’ve got a great idea, and I’m all for it—but let’s do it this evening, okay?”
As it turned out, Cindie couldn’t wait until evening. As soon as we got back to the cabin she put on her dust-and-dry-weeds ensemble and began organizing a cemetery safari. Everyone else opted for hammocks and shade, so old dad got elected to provide transportation. Besides, I try never to discourage an 11-year-old daughter of mine from doing something good.
We took a couple of pencils and pads of paper and drove back to Mountaintop Cemetery. Working together, with one of us reading the inscriptions and the other writing, we finished the job in less than an hour. As we worked, I marveled at the unflagging enthusiasm of my tall redhead: It was a scorching day—there was no shade—dust and weeds were everywhere—we had nothing to drink—and yet she chattered continually and gave the impression that she was having the very time of her life.
That evening Cindie tried to type up the 85 new inscriptions so that they could be sent to the library in Salt Lake. At length her mom took pity on her and took over the typing chores.
I was enjoying my favorite Sunday evening activity: lying in a lounge chair, sipping lemonade, and looking up at the stars peeking through the pine trees. Cindie pulled a lounge chair over next to mine, helped herself to my lemonade, and thanked me for helping her with her cemetery project. “Oh, dad, I can just see it all,” she said quietly. “There are people somewhere who have been looking for those names for just years and years. I’m sure Heavenly Father guided us to take Bottlerock Road today so we could find that cemetery and copy down those names.”
“Could be, love. But it could also be that someone has already written down those inscriptions. They might already be in the library in Salt Lake.” It was several minutes later when Cindie broke the silence.
“Dad?”
“What, love?”
“Do you suppose there are other cemeteries around here?”
“Probably.”
“Like where?”
“Hard to say. There’s probably one down in the valley in Middletown. Why?”
“Oh, I was just thinking.” Well, that should have tipped me off, but somehow I completely missed it—until next morning at 5:30.
“Psst. Dad. Get up.”
“Hzmph?”
“Get up. It’s already light outside. We’ve got to get started before it gets hot.” There was urgency in my Cindie’s dark brown eyes.
“Hzmph? Frmms?”
“The cemetery in Middletown. I’ve got a jug of ice-water, and I’ve made a sack lunch—I mean sack breakfast—and I’ve got pencils and the note pads.”
“Prmp?” inquired mom.
“Hurry, dad,” implored my redhead. “And be quiet. We don’t want to wake anyone at this hour.”
Now that last statement was something I could believe in. But I’ve never been one to discourage an 11-year-old daughter of mine from doing something good, so I got up and got dressed.
When we got to Middletown the thermometer by the bank displayed 6:15 A.M. and 80° F. Just outside of town on Highway 29, we found what looked like the largest cemetery in the Northern Hemisphere, with major portions overrun with poison oak and blackberry vines. In my mind I pictured the rest of the family sleeping in.
We soon discovered that it’s hard to keep track of which stones have been copied and which haven’t, so we drove back to town and bought a box of chalk at a variety store. The display at the bank now, showed 97° F.
It took until lunchtime to get through the poison-oak-and-berry-vine section of the cemetery. Page after page of notes had been taken, but we had made chalk marks on only a few dozen of the hundreds of tombstones. We had barely made a good beginning.
We took time out to go back to town for a hamburger and a milkshake, and then checked out the temperature again: 105° F. In my mind I could see the rest of the family enjoying a swim at the resort near the cabin.
It was nearly dark when we finished, and both Cindie and I were exhausted. We left Middletown and its heat and drove back up the mountain to the cabin in the cool, shady grove. My redhead slept as we drove and was too tired to even eat supper.
But the next morning she was up and at it. All through the morning, while other family members swam and hiked and picked berries, Cindie hunched over the old typewriter.
After lunch I offered to help Cindie with the typing, and she gratefully accepted. Together we worked our way through the pile of notes: typing, proofreading, rechecking. It was evening before we finished the last page.
Grandpa went with Cindie to the store near the resort to buy a binder for the completed project. When they returned, Cindie reported that she and grandpa had decided one thing was lacking—an index.
All through the evening Cindie and her grandpa worked on the index. Twenty-six pieces of notebook paper—one for each letter of the alphabet—were laid out on the table. Slowly, carefully, the names were written down and organized. As portions of the index were completed they were handed to mom, who typed them. It was midnight before the title page was completed and we all stumbled into bed. The next day we sent Cindie’s book to the Genealogical Library in Salt Lake.
A few weeks later, with summer vacation behind us, Cindie came home from school to discover an impressive-looking envelope in the mailbox. Excitedly, she called me at my work and read, “The Genealogical Society wishes to thank you for your 41-page booklet, Cemetery Inscriptions of Lake County, California. You have provided important information which we did not have in our collection—information which will no doubt be very useful to many of our patrons in the years ahead. We congratulate you, at age 11, on having your own author card in our card catalog.”
As she read the letter and chattered happily over the telephone, I thought to myself how important it is to never discourage an exuberant 11-year-old from doing something good.
Then Cindie spoke again: “Dad,” she said, “when do you want to start on Los Angeles County?”

Something for the Teacher
All of us have dreams—things we’d like to do—but how often do you hear about people helping each other achieve their own individual dreams? That’s why the actions of the Laurel class of the Smithfield (Utah) Ward are so heartwarming. Said their teacher, Patricia Cannell: “Ever since I was a child I have loved to draw and paint. Now that I’m married, we have no room for my hobby in the house. Sometime during the MIA year when we were sharing dreams, I mentioned my desire to buy an old train caboose and make it into an art studio.”
That’s when the girls took over. A caboose was found. The cost to move it was $106. Unbeknown to the teacher, the girls sold window-cleaning fluid door-to-door at 35¢ a pint. At a recent birthday party for the teacher, guess what she received as a present from her Laurels?
A caboose.

It was unlike any other commencement or baccalaureate exercise I had ever attended or participated in myself. It was held one week ago, last Thursday, on the twenty-third of May. There were forty-four graduates, all male. They did not have traditional academic robes or caps or gowns. Their attire, to a man, was light blue denim shirts and dark blue denim trousers. The ceremony was not held in a fieldhouse or a stadium or even a lovely auditorium. The exercise was held in a modest interdenominational chapel at the Utah state prison. The graduating class consisted of forty-four men who had successfully completed a year’s course of Bible study sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints but open to all who cared to come and participate. These forty-four represented more than a dozen different religions, and, of course, many of them had no formal religious affiliation at all. At this very moment a lot of images and impressions are coming back to my mind, and I hope I can catch them long enough to share some of them with you.

One is of the delightful, tall, cordial, and warm inmate who conducted the exercises. He immediately warmed the group to the evening. About half were pleasantly and appropriately called “outsiders.” He said he wanted the outsiders particularly to appreciate that he was in prison even though he had hired one of the biggest criminal lawyers in America: “It’s only after I was through with the trial that I fully understood that designation. What it means to be a criminal lawyer is that he thought he was a lawyer and I think he’s a criminal.”

I remember the prayers. The opening prayer was given by a young man, but he seemed like a boy and looked like a boy and I think had not yet begun to shave. He gave there the first verbal and public prayer, according to the chaplain, that he’d ever given in his life. He was frightened to death, but it was a prayer of the heart, and you would need to have been there and to have heard it to appreciate fully what that might have meant. He was in the prison for ten years to life on an armed robbery charge. The closing prayer was given by a man who was, I suppose, forty-five or fifty years old—just a pleasant, warm, slightly chubby man who looked as if he should have been somebody’s uncle and undoubtedly was. He was in for a life term on second-degree murder.

The choir sang, among other numbers, the Hammerstein-Romberg song “Stouthearted Men.” If you could have seen the looks on their faces and felt the feeling in their voices, you would have known something about stouthearted men that you’d never understood before. I don’t think any two of them crossed paths on the same note at any given moment during the rendition. But it was a choir of angels. It really was. When they sang, “Give me some men who are stouthearted men, who will fight for the rights they adore. Give me ten men who are stouthearted men, and I’ll soon give you ten thousand more,” they knew something about rights that had been adored and lost, that were adored all the more because they had been lost, and that perhaps were desired more greatly because someday they might return.

I remember just a couple of other impressions. A young man who was now on the outside had come back to get his certificate and to encourage his colleagues. He said something that I wrote down. I’ll call him Howard, though that isn’t really his name. He looked out to his colleagues and said, “Guys, the perspective in prison is really bad. It really looks better on the outside. Try to remember that.” Then he turned to the outsiders, to the friends and families who had come in, and said, “You people are a light in a dark place. If it were not for love like yours, we would not be able to get from where we are to where we need to be.”

He was followed extemporaneously by another delightful young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age. He had been in and out very quickly—I think for less than eight months on good behavior—and talked about what it was like to be back out, to be keeping a job, dating girls, going to church, and trying to live a moral and law-abiding life. He turned to friend and stranger alike and said, “Please understand that those of us at the halfway house need faith and prayers, too. We have reentered a world of temptation.”

I would also like to mention the concluding comment of the inmate who conducted the service. He said, when it was all over, with some emotion in his voice and a little mist in his eyes, “This is the most auspicious occasion of our year. It is better than Christmas. It’s better than Thanksgiving. It’s even better than Mother’s Day. It’s better because we’re enlightened, and that’s as close as we come to being free.”

Then the gates clanged behind my wife and me. That night we went home, and I confess I couldn’t sleep. Pat fell asleep, it was late, and our children were already asleep, but I couldn’t sleep. That experience haunted me and does yet at this pulpit. That’s why I choose to speak to you tonight as I do. I had in the early hours of that morning, and have had somewhat since, feelings and thoughts and a response to bondage and freedom and their relationship to enlightenment and love in a way that I confess I have never had before—even though I’ve studied those principles and read the doctrines and thought I had a pretty good understanding of what all of them might mean.

On Brother Wayman’s last day at Cornell, he was saying good-bye to friends when Kim Ho Jik approached him. Brother Wayman felt impelled to ask the Korean why he had decided to leave his homeland and family to study in the United States. The Korean scholar responded that he needed the new knowledge in nutrition available at Cornell for the benefit of his people.
Then, Brother Wayman recalls:
“I bore my testimony … and told him that it was my opinion that the Lord had moved upon him to come to America … in order that he might receive the gospel and take it back to his people in preparation for a great missionary work to be done there. … I informed him … that if he refused to do the work the Lord had for him … another would be raised up in his place.”
Brother Wayman never saw Kim ho Jik again, but he left New York “sure that the Spirit which touched me when I bore my testimony to him touched him at the same time. I could see a change in his expression.”

My brothers and sisters, let me tell you of a recent experience. We were in the city of Bacolod on the island of Negros, in the Republic of the Philippines. There, to my great surprise, I met a man I had not seen in years.
The weather was steamy hot, as it always is in Bacolod, the center of the once thriving Filipino sugar industry. My friend was in a short-sleeved white shirt with dark trousers, his shoes shined. His beautiful wife, Marva, was beside him. I said, “Victor Jex, what are you doing here?”
He smiled and replied, “We’re doing the Lord’s work. We’re helping the people. We’re missionaries.”
“Where do you live?”
“In a little house in IloIlo on the island of Panay. We came over on the ferry for the conference.”
I thought of when I had last seen them. It was a few years ago. They then lived in a beautiful home in Scarsdale, New York. He was a widely recognized and honored chemist, with a doctorate in chemical engineering. He worked for one of the big multinational companies headquartered in New York. He was credited with putting together the chemical ingredients of a product now sold around the world, the name of which is known to millions of people and the profit from which has run into many millions of dollars for his company.
He was well paid and highly respected.
He was also the president of the Yorktown stake of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had under his direction a corps of church workers who served faithfully in their local wards, many of whom commuted each day to and from New York City, where they held high and responsible positions in some of the great corporations of America. He was their church leader.
Now he was retired. He and his wife had sold their beautiful home, had given their children what furniture they wanted, and donated the rest to others. They had disposed of their cars and everything except their clothing, their family photographs, and their family history records. They had made themselves available to the Lord and His Church to go wherever they might be sent at their own expense. They were now in the Philippines Bacolod Mission, working among the wonderful, friendly, brown-skinned people of the area. Unemployment is high in this region, and there is much of misery. But wherever Elder and Sister Jex go, they touch for good the lives of those among whom they serve.
They are there to heal the suffering people, to teach the gospel of Christ, to give encouragement and strength and hope and faith. They are there to heal wounds of misunderstanding and contention. They are there to bless the sick and to help those with diseased bodies and frustrated minds. Their smile is infectious, their laugh a joy to hear. They are living humbly among the poor, down at the level of the people, but standing straight and tall to lift with strong hands.
This former New York executive and his charming companion are in the service of the Savior, giving their full time, their resources, and their love to bless with healing the lives of many who are discouraged and need help. Here is a retired New Yorker, a man of great learning and recognized capacity, living in a home with few conveniences, a simple little place that would fit in the living room of his former house.
He and his wife are there, with others of their kind. They are two of a band of remarkable and dedicated older missionary couples who minister to the wants of people with numerous problems. They receive no financial compensation. They pay their own way. This world’s goods mean little to them. As I said, they sold all they had when they left to come to the Philippines. They will stay for as long as they are assigned by the Church to do so. Then they want to go on another mission. They are healers among the people, serving in the cause of the Master Healer.

Mom and Dad were thrilled when I was born. I was their only child and they had waited for seven years. When excited well-wishers came to the house to see the new baby, Mom held me up to the window inside the house and the onlookers viewed me from the front yard outside the house. No one was allowed into our home to welcome me and to hold me.

As I grew, we visited my grandmother often. She lived close by. I loved playing with cousins there. They could take their shoes and socks off and play in the grass and dirt. I could play, but only if my shoes remained on. My Mother insisted that my bare feet could not touch the ground. Alarmed with the flies at Grandma's house, Mom would shout at me "Don't let those flies touch you!" She was frightened by what their tiny feet might carry. She didn't like me touching door knobs or anything else others had touched. When it was time to leave, Mom would scrub my fingernails with a scrubbing brush until they would bleed. Mom initiated strict rules and I obeyed or I was beaten. I noticed as young as three years old that Mother acted differently than others. I didn't know why, but in my adulthood, her condition finally had a name and some of my questions were answered.

Mother developed OCD before I was born. She had an intense fear of germs and performed cleaning rituals to eliminate the fear. She viewed herself as germ-free. Everything and everyone else was contaminated. Mother's family knew something was wrong, but didn't know how to help her. In those days, OCD did not have a name or any kind of treatment. Thank goodness, today there are medications and behavior therapies to assist.

My dad was a fulltime National Guardsman. When he received a promotion, we moved from Driggs, Idaho to Idaho Falls and bought a new house. Dad focused his spare time on finishing our downstairs. I hoped the new home would help my mom change from her old ways. It didn't and life only got worse. Dad was tired of her compulsive behavior. He soon divorced Mom and moved out.

I thought my life had ended. I was seven years old and Mom had full custody. It was just Mom and me. She began working full time. Dad remarried and resided within our city. Mom's anxiety increased and so did her OCD. She scrubbed things at work, but most cleaning routines were performed within our home and yard.

Mom moved me to the downstairs bedroom, while my toys and most of my clothes remained with her. I was never allowed again onto the main floor of the house. I lived in the basement for the next nine years. Restrained by Mom's fears, I had no say or control. I was frightened and heartbroken in that dimly-lit basement.

Our house was connected to a one-car garage. I could enter my house only once a day by following a well-established pattern. I disrobed in the garage and Mom carried me down stairs to newspaper that I stood on while she scrubbed the stairs and stairway. When I was too big to carry, Mom allowed me to walk downstairs. After the stairs were cleaned, I could walk from the newspaper to the bathroom, bathe and dress following a certain routine. In my bedroom, I could touch only my light switch and two drawers of my dresser. In my double-sized bed, I could only touch the left-hand side. I didn't understand these rules, but I obeyed.

After Mom finished her rituals downstairs, she would climb to the top of the stairs and shout to me, "Turn off your light." I hated turning off my light! It was very dark. I worried about monsters finding me and I'd hide my head under the covers. I knew if I needed help, Mom would not respond. There was no interaction allowed until morning when Mom would choose my clothes and bring them downstairs with breakfast.

I questioned myself ... if I tried harder, if I were cleaner, if I were nicer, would Mom allow me to live on the main floor with her? I desperately wanted her to change. We never talked about it. Only occasionally did I dare ask her "to please change." She would quickly answer, "I will change tomorrow." The next day she'd be the same or worse. I was helpless, hopeless, and all alone.

The Lord provided me with good people along my path. A kind neighbor friend introduced me to Primary. I began attending with her. It was a happy setting and I looked forward to it every week! My Primary teacher taught me about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and that they loved me. That was survival information! It felt good, it sounded right and it provided much needed comfort. I'm grateful for that Primary teacher who week after week bore testimony of gospel truths. She didn't know I felt unloved and disvalued. She didn't know that Mom could not hug me because of my germs. She didn't know the vital impact of her words, but the Lord knew. He was there. He reminds us "[I] knoweth all things, for all things are present before mine eyes;" He knows our hardships. He knows our pain.

Also, in Primary I learned of prayer. "Pray always, and I will pour out my Spirit upon you, and great shall be your blessing." I began talking with Heavenly Father and sharing my fears. I asked him to save me from the basement monsters and later with maturity, I pleaded that I could escape Mom's compulsive behavior and demands. I felt the Lord near and I held on tightly to His hand. I had hope! I kept praying and waiting, praying and waiting.

I was fearful of Mom and knew I could tell no one about my home life. I knew I'd be punished if I told the "secret."

When school was out, Mom arranged for others to watch me at their homes while she worked. If no one was available, I would be left at my home, locked out of the house, as Mom left for work. I never had a key to open the door and the house was always locked. During the summer, Mom would bring me a sandwich on her lunch hour and I could drink from the garden hose. My bathroom was an empty tin can in the garage or a fast bike ride to the gas station. Reading Nancy Drew books, listening to my transistor radio, weeding the marigolds, watering the lawn occupied some of my time. The best times were spent riding my speedy, blue bike with friends. I have many fun memories!

My mother dated frequently and I'd stay the night with friends. A few families were active in the Church and one in particular demonstrated righteous patterns that I grew to love. For instance, every morning before breakfast was served, they knelt around their kitchen table for prayer. I cherished those moments and the spirit of family unity. Each time I bowed my head in that setting, I noticed the round braided rug we knelt on under their round wooden table. I remember that clearly and the feeling of hope I had for a future time with an eternal family that could kneel in prayer together. Was it possible? I know now that survivors of dysfunction can reverse the trend and start new patterns that follow the Savior. We are not stuck where we started.

In the garage with doors closed, I liked singing Primary songs. The lyrics would echo off the walls. It seemed extra voices sang with me. "I need my Heavenly Father to help me every day. He wants me to be happy and choose the righteous way. He wants me to be happy and choose the righteous way." Those songs helped me then and in the years ahead. Often a musical phrase would circle in my head and remind me of who I was and what I could become.

I remember a Beehive class that left a lasting impression. The topic was temple marriage. The teacher taught enthusiastically and was full of the Spirit. I left that class knowing there was only one way to marry and that's what I wanted. I held on to the Lord's hand.

Lesson 2
After understanding the reason for commandments and the need to seek forgiveness when we break them, I offer a second lesson. It is the other side of the forgiveness coin: Just as the transgressor seeks forgiveness as part of the quest for relief and peace, we need to forgive at least in part for the relief and peace it brings us. As angry as Troy and Deedra might justifiably have been over this terrible experience, they have felt that they should not withhold forgiveness for him who gave offense. At least part of that motivation was because Troy has spent these last five years of his life struggling with his role, accidental as it was, in the loss of nine-year-old Austen.
To carry that into this setting, there is not one of us anywhere on this campus who has not needed forgiveness for some mistake made. Our deed may not have been as severe as the kind we are recounting today, but we have all made mistakes, and some of them were very serious mistakes. Whatever the event, we all thank God for being the Father of forgiveness and for the gifts of mercy and relief He offers us—all of it ultimately coming to us through the majestic Atonement of His Only Begotten Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. We are to join in and participate in that offering. The Russells have done that. They have looked up to their God and, even in their anguish, have humbly but resolutely joined the Savior in extending forgiveness to one in need. Surely they have been “submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love.” Without embarrassing them, surely they are becoming “saint[s] through the atonement of Christ the Lord.”

Let me begin with a story that may sound all too familiar to some of you. The airport had been packed for hours. The usually crowded holiday travel conditions were exacerbated by weather-related delays and cancellations at other airports. Hundreds of frustrated travelers were scrambling from one gate to another as they sought alternate ways to reach their destinations.
At one gate, the line to talk to the agent stretched for more than fifty yards. One of the passengers in the line was a well-dressed and obviously impatient man. As he glanced at his watch with ever-increasing frequency and tapped his foot at an ever-increasing rate, it was obvious to all around him that he was not a person who was accustomed to waiting.
Finally the man could stand it no longer. He bolted from his place in line and stomped up to the gate. Pounding his hand on the desk, he bellowed, “Do you know who I am?”
An awkward silence instantly gripped the area. The agent at the desk calmly picked up her telephone and, in a steady voice, said, “We may need a little additional help at Gate 19. There is a man down here who doesn’t know who he is.”

Dickley Duck paddled sideways. Instead of paddling front and back, front and back as a proper duck should, he went SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP, and PULL sideways. If he wanted to go in an easterly direction, Dickley turned his body north or south and paddled sideways.

“This is ridiculous,” said his father.

“Most unusual,” said his mother.

“He gets there just the same,” defended his sisters and brothers.

Other water creatures opened their mouths in wonder, and, being kind, said nothing. But a few, like the Heron twins Meg and Greg, laughed and laughed and shouted such things as, “Look at Silly Sider the sidewinder go! He should be in a sideshow! Ha-ha-ha!”

Dickley didn’t like to hear such remarks, of course, but they bothered his mother even more. One day when he saw tears in her eyes after some foolish goose children had said unkind things about his swimming, Dickley said to himself, “I must try to find a way to paddle like other ducks. I’ve tried by myself, but my feet just go SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP—SKIDDLE. Maybe somebody else can help me.”

Then Dickley Duck sidled off down the lake until he came to Muskrat’s home. “Can you think of a way to help me train my feet to go front and back, front and back, as a proper duck’s feet should go?” He asked.

Muskrat scratched his head. After thinking a while he said, “Try putting your head down into the water as you move your feet. That’s what I do. With your head down it might steer you forward.”

“Thanks,” said Dickley, and he tried the suggestion. But when his head was down his feet just turned him over and over in somersaults.

Then Dickley went to Mrs. Mink’s house. “Can you tell me a way I could make my feet go front and back, front and back, instead of sideways?” he asked.

Mrs. Mink closed her eyes and thought for two minutes. “No, I can’t,” she said. “Not unless you try using just one foot at a time. While you’re pulling with one, you could lift the other one high and put it way out in front of you and try to go forward as the high one comes down.”

Dickley looked puzzled. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll try that.” But it was no use. Dickley turned end over end until he was dizzy.

“This isn’t getting me anywhere.” sighed Dickley. “Perhaps there isn’t a way to get my feet going in the right direction.”

Dickley felt discouraged as he came to Brother Beaver’s house. “Brother Beaver, do you know any way to make my feet go front and back, front and back, instead of SLAP—SKIDDLE?” he asked.

Brother Beaver blinked and slapped his flat tail on the ground three times. Then he said, “No, I don’t, Dickley Duck, but if anyone can help you I think it would be Clara Crane. She’s one of the wisest birds I know.”

“Thanks,” said Dickley, and he went to where Clara Crane was standing in the water watching for a fish to come along.

“Clara Crane, Brother Beaver thought you might be able to help me.” Then he told her about the way his feet always went SLAP—SKIDDLE sideways instead of front and back as they should.

Clara Crane stared into the water for so long that Dickley thought she might be falling asleep, but finally she looked up. “Dickley,” she said, after some quiet thought, “I think your main trouble is with your legs. You must first teach your legs to turn themselves in the right way and your feet will follow properly.”

“But how can I do that? My legs are hooked onto my body and they aren’t very long, and I don’t know what to do!” Dickley wailed.

“I’ll help you,” said Clara Crane. “It’s all a matter of leg exercises.”

“Oh thank you, thank you,” said Dickley. “Could we start right now?”

“Yes, indeed. Now stand tall and turn your body this way and that way, but keep your legs still. Twist—twist—twist, right and left, right and left! Do you feel your legs hurting a bit? Good! That means you are exercising them!”

Well, Clara Crane worked with Dickley for several days, but Dickley didn’t care for the exercises. Sometimes he wanted to give up because his legs were sore. “It’s too hard! It isn’t worth it!” he declared. But then he thought of his mother’s tears and of some of the water creatures’ unkind remarks. So he kept on.

After a time when Dickley swam he didn’t just go SLAP—SKIDDLE, SLAP—SKIDDLE sideways. He began to go slap and pull, slap and pull with a forward motion. Then one bright day he started swimming, slowly and carefully. Off he went in the direction his yellow bill was pointing—straight forward, front and back, front and back!

“Hooray! Hooray for Dickley!” cried all his brothers and sisters.

“Hooray for Dickley!” quacked his father and mother, and this time tears of happiness filled his mother’s eyes.

“Hooray for Dickley!” cried Meg and Greg, the Heron twins.

Then Dickley flapped his wings and shouted, “QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! Hooray for Clara Crane and all my other friends too!”

I was halfway up a climbing wall, completely stuck. Moments earlier, I had been on the ground, chatting with friends and waiting in line. Although I’d never climbed a wall like this before, I hadn’t been nervous or concerned. Within a matter of seconds though, everything had changed. I now clung desperately to handholds, my progress stopped by inexperience and fear.
Only moments before, when the man ahead of me slipped in his own ascent and descended slowly to the ground, I readied myself to climb. As I strapped on the safety gear, my friend Kent tapped me on the shoulder. “Liz, I’ve been watching the climbers and studying the wall. I know how to get to the top. Take your first step with your left foot and grab high with your right hand …” Kent’s directions were detailed, like driving instructions, but I just nodded without really paying attention. The wall didn’t look hard. I was sure I could do it on my own.
Disregarding Kent’s instructions, I grabbed holds right in front of me and followed the course that seemed to offer the least resistance. Climbing quickly, I took three fairly easy steps, and then … nothing. The next handhold was out of reach, and I couldn’t find a toehold. I was only 10 feet up, and my options had entirely disappeared.
Cutting through my predicament, I heard Kent’s voice from below. “Liz, I told the instructor that you are a first-time climber. He said you can start over. Come down and begin again, this time with your left foot.”
I quickly descended, thanked the instructor, and started again. This time I listened to Kent’s instructions as he directed me up the wall. Following the course he charted, I climbed, stretched, and maneuvered my way up. Nearing the top, I made a sickening discovery. The bell that from below had appeared easy to reach was actually located on an overhang.
“Liz,” Kent called, “you’re going to have to jump up to grasp that handhold to the left of the bell. With your left hand on that hold, you’ll be able to ring the bell with your right. You can do it, Liz.”
Was he crazy? If I jumped for the handhold, I would be airborne for a split second. And if I could grab the handhold by the bell, my feet would be left dangling in the air.
As I felt my fingers slipping, I realized that I needed to trust Kent’s directions. He could see the entire wall. He had watched others before me. He knew this was the only way for me to succeed. I resolved to follow his instructions and trust my guide. Jumping high, I grabbed the left handhold and reached for the bell. I’m not sure which I heard first, the bell up high or the cheers down below, but both assured me that I had succeeded.
On the climbing wall, I was given permission to try again by an understanding instructor. In life, we are given the ability to try again by an even more understanding Savior. If we repent of our errors, heed the counsel of those He has called, and keep striving upward in faith and hope, each and every one of us can reach the top and ring the victory bell.

Raegan and Rylyn from Kentucky, USA, were grumpy, hungry, and tired. It had been a long day doing service with their family. But on the drive home they saw a sign on the side of the road that changed their attitude. It said, “Just Be Kind.”
“It made us less upset—and grateful we were able to serve,” Raegan says. “We started wondering if we could make signs like that,” Rylyn says.
After seeing the Just Be Kind sign, they had a home evening discussion with their family about being kind to their older sister Kendall, who had Down syndrome and was starting to get sick. Raegan and Rylyn decided to make their own Be Kind signs. “We thought it could help prevent bullying,” Raegan says.
They were also thinking about their other siblings, who each have Down syndrome too. Their older brother Kallen passed away as a baby, and they have two adopted siblings—Leena and Liam. “We wanted to raise awareness for kindness to them,” Rylyn says.

So off I went, to Seoul, Korea. I made the decision not to worry about weight lifting while I was gone—I would concentrate on serving the Lord. One thing lifting had taught me was that the loss of concentration can lead to failure. You lose your concentration, your goal disappears from your mind, and you never reach it. So I decided to put all the powers of concentration I’d learned in the gym to use in the mission field, and it worked!
It wasn’t easy, of course. Challenging people with the gospel was as hard as trying to lift a heavy weight. But when our investigators accepted our message, the feeling was far greater than winning a weight lifting competition ever was.
On my mission, I learned a lot about a different kind of lifting. The mission president encouraged us to try helping someone every day. That way, we would lift them, and lift ourselves. Service to others, service to the Lord—now that was true power lifting.

Those listening ears are greatly missed by Julie-Ann and Heather for many months each year. These two leave home, family, and Irish stew behind and attend school at the renowned Mary Hare United Kingdom Grammar School for the Deaf in Newbury, England. Due to the rigorous academic requirements, for one pupil to be accepted at this outstanding school is an accomplishment (a bit like being chosen for Oxford or Cambridge), but for two from the same family to attend is something of a miracle.
“Letting the children be educated so far away has been a traumatic experience for us all,” Brother Ferguson says. “But through prayer we found comfort and confirmation that our decision was right.”
“We all send letters once or twice a week,” says Julie-Ann, “and there’s a special telephone at school which allows three-way conversations between pupil, interpreter, and parent, so we don’t have to go too long without help from home on any problem.”
“Brother and Sister Williams from Newbury Branch pick us up for church each Sunday,” says Heather. “We enjoy that. There’s a lovely feeling among the members.”

Another time, my uncle, who was only three years older than I was, put me in a baby carriage and took me for a walk around the house. In front of the house was a road, and behind the road was an irrigation canal. When he took me across the road, the carriage slid into the canal. It was empty at that time, but my uncle couldn’t get us out. My mother felt concern for me and began to call me. Then she looked for me in the house but couldn’t find me. She felt prompted to look on the road and in the canal. She found us and got us out of the canal just before the water started to come through the canal. Had she not listened to the Spirit, my uncle and I would have drowned.

Just about everyone has heard the story of a proud little grandmother who, watching her grandson on parade with the other soldiers, exclaims: “Look, everyone but Johnny’s out of step!” It’s an old joke used to show how a dear lady refused to notice her grandson’s imperfection, and after I heard it, I filed it in the back of my mind and forgot it. Forgot it, that is, until one day when I was playing bass drum in the cadet band of University School in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.
The bass drum player wears a shoulder harness to carry his instrument. As he marches along, he walks just as a person normally walks, so that his right hand is forward to strike the drum when his left foot hits the ground (and vice versa). This is important because the left foot-right hand position marks the beginning of each measure of music.
One other thing—the bass drum is big. The one I was playing was so large I could just barely see straight ahead over the top of it. But I could not see the feet of the band members ahead of me. I depended on the music and the left foot-right hand position to keep me in step.
We were rehearsing for our annual inspection. The cadets always marched along the school driveway and out onto the playing field to assemble for review. The band would lead the parade, followed by the platoons in ranks three abreast. Everyone followed the beat to keep their steps in cadence.
Mr. Genge, a veteran from the British Army’s North Africa campaign in World War II, directed the maneuvers of the entire parade. But the band members paid particular attention to the drum major. We called him Brown I (we had four fellows named Brown at the school, so we labeled them Brown I, II, III, and IV, and the nicknames stuck). Brown I was tall, about six-foot-six. He carried the big silver baton, or “mace”; he decided which tunes we would play; and by twirling and pointing the mace in different directions, he gave the band its instructions.
The morning sun dazzled its reflection from our polished instruments. Our newly pressed uniforms made us look crisp and sharp.
Mr. Genge barked out in his high voice an oft-heard command: “Parade: move to the right in column of threes; by the right, quick MARCH!”
This time, however, something went wrong. Brown I stepped off on the wrong foot. He had never done it before, but now, there he was, in front of the whole band, out of step!
A chain reaction quickly swept through the ranks. The front row of musicians, realizing they were not in step with Brown I, figured they must be out of step, so they changed to match him. The other rows rapidly followed suit—all except the bass drum player. Remember, I couldn’t see over the drum far enough to know that I wasn’t in step with the others. I was just listening to the music and following its beat.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” the snare drummer on my left whispered.
I marched on a few paces, feeling the rhythm of the music. I could tell I was in step with it. “No I’m not!” I whispered back.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” This time it was Price, on my right. “No I’m not!” I insisted.
I cringed as I heard Mr. Genge’s voice say, rather softly, “Birley, change step!”
“But sir,” I protested, “I’m in time with the music!”
Mr. Genge seemed taken aback for a moment. It’s not usual for a cadet to talk back to a superior, much less to refuse to follow a command. But he listened to the music as he watched me continue, and in a moment exclaimed, “My goodness, you’re right!”
Then he issued the strangest order ever heard on that parade ground: “With the exception of Birley, parade CHANGE STEP!”
All of the cadets had to change to match my step and the beat of the music.

This pattern can be seen in the life of Jasmine B. of Washington, USA, who received help in coping with a disease. Before contracting the disease, she was a healthy young woman who excelled on her high school track team and loved getting up early for seminary.
Then she started feeling ill. She lost 15 pounds very quickly, and no matter how much sleep she got, it became harder and harder to get up for seminary. She couldn’t run as well as she used to and was hungry, thirsty, and weak all the time.
Over a month went by before she started to pray for help. “I held off so long,” she says, “because the thought of praying for help was an act of submission, admitting that something was indeed wrong with me. It scared me.”
But because she humbled herself to seek the Lord’s help, answers started to come. She went to see a doctor, who discovered she had developed type 1 diabetes, which meant her body could not produce insulin to process sugar. Diabetes has lifelong consequences and must be carefully monitored. Even as the doctors developed a plan to help her manage her condition, she began to worry that she would not be able to continue running track.
“I never ceased to pray as I struggled to understand my new life and to control my disease,” she says. “I prayed for strength and understanding and that I would be able to accept this trial. I would not have made it through those hard days and weeks without prayer.”
Jasmine made incredible strides. Within two weeks of being diagnosed, she was back practicing on the track, and later that year she did well in state competitions. “I believe Heavenly Father has blessed me with a strong, healthy body because I have been striving to be steadfast in the gospel,” she says. “Having diabetes was not the end of the world. With His help, I knew I could get through this.”
By the grace of God and through her dependence on Him, Jasmine is able to cope with her disease and have wonderful successes in her life.

Photograph courtesy of the author
I often saw the same face staring from an apartment window. I thought to myself, “Isn’t it sad that someone would constantly look out their window, judging their neighbors’ activities?”
Then one day I thought perhaps I should go ask to see if I could be of some help. I decided to take some fresh-baked bread with me.
The warm bread melted the ice in my elderly neighbor’s heart. Tearfully she told me how lonely she felt. No one visited her and no one called her, not even her own children. With a trembling hand, she wiped tears from her cheeks.
She sighed and then said, “How nice it would be to just leave this world. I don’t judge anyone as I look out my window. I just watch the children playing and other things going on in the yard.”
Illustration by Alex Nabaum
Over time, we talked about the gospel. At first she was reticent because her husband served as an official in another church. But the more we talked, the more impressed she became with the truths I shared about Jesus Christ and His restored gospel.
“It’s wonderful that we have the same Jesus!” she said. “Will we see each other in heaven?”
“Yes,” I responded, “we will be there together—hand in hand.”
From then on, we were good friends for many years, until she finally passed from this world.
Now I like to think that my former neighbor looks from the window of her heavenly home, following our activities and hoping we have sufficient harmony and love toward one another.

The Sunday School teacher introduced herself and then began to teach about the gold plates, the Urim and Thummim, and the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s First Vision. I was fascinated and listened intently.
In priesthood meeting I met the Young Men president, his counselors, and members of the bishopric. Our discussion was about Adam and Eve. I knew by the Spirit that what they taught me was true. In one day I was convinced that these were the most fun and the most spiritual people on earth. By the end of church, I felt so welcome that I came back Sunday after Sunday.
These people provided the fertile soil that helped nourish the gospel seed in my heart. I began to look forward to Sundays, and I enjoyed going to church.
I marveled at the amazing things I was learning about the Prophet Joseph Smith, the Restoration, the premortal existence, the three degrees of glory, the temple, eternal marriage, and the Atonement. My testimony grew, and I found that I knew the Book of Mormon was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I knew that God lived, and I knew He was literally my Father.
I was baptized almost two years later on 26 July 1998. I marvel now as I look back at the fellowship, the friendship, and the examples of those people who were willing to extend a hand to a stranger.

My beloved brothers and sisters, for several years and with the deepest feelings I have thought about what I would like to talk to you about this morning. The prophet Mormon tells us that “by the power of [the Lord’s] word did they cause prisons to tumble” (Morm. 8:24). In recent weeks, I have reread the stories of Jean Valjean in Victor Hugo’s brilliant novel Les Miserables and of Bob Merrick in the novel Magnificent Obsession by Lloyd C. Douglas. These two stories, though widely different in time, circumstances, and affluence, have touched my heart in many ways.
I have agonized as I have thought about the ordeal of Jean Valjean—the nineteen years in prison and the things done to him for the small transgression of stealing a loaf of bread to feed a starving family. He suffered so many indignities, even after he was finally released from the physical prison.
Some of the same feelings flood my mind as I reflect upon the self-inflicted sufferings of Bob Merrick. The life of a prominent surgeon was lost and the sight of another because of Bob Merrick’s wayward activities, selfishness, ego, and disdain for others. He suffered in a prison of his own making.
Yes, I realize these masterfully crafted episodes are fictional, but they cause me to think about the various types of prisons Satan leads us into building for ourselves and others, or that others build for us.
Haven’t we all been delivered from various forms of captivity? How did you feel when the doors were opened to your personal prison? How was it to feel free? How wonderful it is to be liberated from any kind of a prison.
I remember how I felt forty-one years ago when I was taken from a train in Europe at 2:00 a.m. by two soldiers of a hostile nation and held against my will. I was verbally and physically abused. I felt I would never see my family or my country again. I assure you that while I was held captive, the blood coursed through my veins like adrenaline. Though the captivity lasted less than a day, it seemed like an eternity. And when I was put on another train and sent back to safety, my gratitude to the Lord knew no bounds. I was free! As I talked to the train conductor, I learned that hundreds had not been so lucky.
I then was led to think of Him who really delivers us from various types of prisons into forgiveness, a newness of life, of spirit, of change, and of opportunity, and how the souls of men find such relief, fulfillment, and safety when this occurs. I thought of the Son of God and His greatest freewill offering to each of us, given at the expense of His own life and under excruciating pain. I thought of how our Father in Heaven loves each one of us. And though we sometimes walk into prisons of our own making, He is there with keys to unlock the doors that bind us. I thought of those who help along the way, who share in turning those keys which deliver others, and who care so deeply sometimes that they rebuild the trust of others—like the two men of God in the novels helped to free Jean Valjean and Bob Merrick from their prisons into magnificent new freedoms promised by the Lord.
As difficult as a physical captivity or prison is, there are other captivities or prisons even more devastating. They are very subtle and take various forms in life, like (1) taking advantage of another; (2) bearing false witness to get gain; (3) knowing things to be true and not defending them; (4) stealing the morality of another; (5) destroying the innocence of a little child; (6) being captive to alcohol or drugs; or (7) financially digging a pit for another, causing hardship and destroying his ability to take care of his needs and so on. There are many prisons which come from our sins or the sins of others “according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Ne. 2:27), who leads us away.
Let me take an example to illustrate the point of these prisons. The prophet Job counseled us not to “dig a pit for your friend” (Job 6:27). I understand that could mean a business associate, a neighbor, a member of the Church. How could this happen?
Several years ago, a great young man had a thriving business. He had worked long, hard hours for many years to develop the skills, reputation, and expertise necessary to build his business and provide for the needs of his young family. He loved his work, and every morning he anxiously began each new project with creativity and opportunity. His was a great life, filled with much hope and many projects. Then one major project was completed and finalized. Rather large payments were anticipated, but a shrewd businessman found that oral approvals, given to my friend to make many necessary alterations in the project, could easily be broken and not honored. After all, there was no written record of the changes requested. It was just “good business” to get it as cheap as possible, even after commitments were made. And so verbal commitments were not honored. The money due, which was considerable, was not paid.
At this point we have several prisons that are in place: the prison of deceit of the “shrewd” businessman, and the prison of the deceived, who could not now honor his own commitments. To this day the one deceived, through further industry and much hardship, is still trying to get out of the prison created by another. And he has lost confidence in others, and he and his family have lost opportunities and his business because of another.
Did not the Savior teach through the prophet Moses, “If a man shall cause a field or vineyard to be eaten, and shall put in his beast, and shall feed in another man’s field; of the best of his own field, and of the best of his own vineyard, shall he make restitution”? (Ex. 22:5).
These types of prisons often cause the offended to lose faith, hope, and even the ability to care for their own, as was the case with my young friend. But these prisons should not happen. They often cause years of anguish. They cause those involved to wonder about justice and mercy. Sometimes these people find it impossible to resolve their own personal affairs honorably.
The lessons taught by the Savior differ widely from these actions. For He taught, in effect, Do unto others as ye would have them do unto you (see Matt. 7:12; 3 Ne. 14:12). He taught, “Behold it is my will that you shall pay all your debts” (D&C 104:78). Yes, even if it takes years, pay your debts.
No Christian should ever be a challenge to another Christian. Many widows, single mothers, and older couples are victimized by those who take advantage of them, who do not honor their commitments and then put them into a type of prison. Those affected find themselves pleading for someone to open their prison doors, often while babies cry for bare necessities.
When we seek to follow Christ, we take the oath of a Christian as a member of this Church; we covenant to never put another in any sort of prison, but rather to try to liberate those who are there. We become like one man who said that when he joined this Church it changed the way he thought, the way he talked, the way he believed, the way he dressed, the way he worked and honored his employer, the things he read, the movies he saw, the way he conducted his financial affairs in absolute honesty with everyone, and the way he served others. He truly believed in the liberating power of the gospel of Jesus Christ and became free because of it. As is stated in the book of John, “If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed” (John 8:36).
Years ago an acquaintance of mine was captive for over twenty years to a serious alcohol problem, which bound him every day. He would leave work, buy his alcohol, drive into the countryside, and drink until he could barely find his way home. He truly was under the captive spirit of the devil and lived in hell. A faithful home teacher loved this brother, saw him often, taught him to pray for help, and prayed for him often. One day while he was driving his pickup truck into the countryside to begin his daily alcohol ritual, he felt a powerful influence to stop his truck, walk out into a field, fall to his knees, and plead for help from his Father in Heaven. Later, he tearfully testified that as he arose from his knees, the desire to drink alcohol had completely left him. He had been delivered from a twenty-year prison. God heard his prayer, felt the desire of his heart, and opened the prison doors that bound him.
Beloved friends, it is Jesus who has unlocked and will unlock the doors of our personal prisons. It is a glorious promise to all who are captive, for whatever reasons, upon the condition of repentance.
Certainly, a Latter-day Saint will demonstrate the freedom he has received by walking in all morality and all honesty, as taught by the Lord. For his word is his bond—sacred and honored. His life becomes the testament that it is all true—every principle and every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Savior and His prophets. By living these cardinal principles, we are truly free and we become the witnesses of His word.
One of the beautiful, profound statements of the man of God to Jean Valjean was: “My brother, you belong no more to evil, but to good. It is your soul I am buying for you, and I give it to God” (Victor Hugo, Les Miserables, volume 1, book 2, chapter 12). No more prisons for others, if you will, because of my actions.
Jesus came that man might have life and have it more abundantly. He walked the path, taught the way, opened the doors to truly liberate mankind, and said, “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:32). The writer, Mr. Douglas, expressed it beautifully when he said to Bob Merrick, “When you find THE WAY, you will be bound—it will become an obsession—a magnificent obsession.”
We know it works, for listen to the words which record what happened to the Saints who truly followed the Savior for two hundred years following His appearance in America:
“And as many as did come unto them, and did truly repent of their sins, were baptized in the name of Jesus; and they did also receive the Holy Ghost.
“… And there were no contentions and disputations among them, and every man did deal justly one with another.
“And they had all things common among them; therefore there were not rich and poor, bond and free, but they were all made free. …
“And surely there could not be a happier people among all the people who had been created by the hand of God” (4 Ne. 1:1–3, 16; emphasis added).
Yes, “by the power of his word did they cause prisons to tumble” (Morm. 8:24). May we live our lives so we will all be free with no prisons for ourselves or others, only a magnificent obsession filled with freedoms and blessings ahead, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.