Gospel Story Finder

Oliver Cowdery did not leave at once upon his assignment. Winter was at hand and the traversing of a thousand miles of snow-covered prairie was no easy task. It was not until the summer of 1833 that the printed sheets for the Book of Commandments were assembled, ready for binding. The work on the old hand press of W. W. Phelps & Co., at Independence, Missouri, had been slow and tedious. Material for book covers was lacking but proved unnecessary. On July 20, 1833, a mob broke into the printing establishment, carried away the press, scattered the type, and burned most of the papers and printed matter. One of the elders working on the publication, upon seeing the mob at the front door, hastily snatched up an armload of the assembled sheets of the Book of Commandments, and finding his way through the rear door, buried them beneath the hay of an old barn. The copies, at least twenty in number, were preserved.

Several years ago I had lunch with a young man who was a student in my department here on campus—one whom I had taught in a graduate-level class. With his permission I would like to share with you his remarkable story.
John was born healthy but developed bone cancer in his leg when he was only 11 years old. He underwent some of the early chemotherapy and radiation treatments. The cancer in his leg was successfully treated, but the medication used in the chemotherapy attacked his heart and resulted in a disease called cardiomyopathy. Such chemotherapy procedures today avoid the onset of this disease with frequent heart biopsies during the treatment. Unfortunately, these were not performed routinely when John was treated.
In this condition the muscles in his heart slowly deteriorated. Despite his weakened heart, John lived an active life, even becoming an Eagle Scout. By age 19 his heart had weakened seriously; nonetheless, against the recommendation of his doctors, John submitted his application to serve a full-time mission. His cardiologist advised against a mission, but, on seeing John’s determination to serve, suggested that he request a mission close to home. The doctor candidly warned him and his parents that his last years of life might be spent there. John accepted a call to the California Oakland Mission. At the time, being among those who were called to serve for 18 months, he prayerfully extended his mission service to 24 months when given the opportunity.
After his honorable mission teaching Cambodian refugees, John returned to BYU to study mechanical engineering. When he was 25 the muscle decay in his heart became so severe that his doctor indicated a heart transplant was the only option. After careful screening, John was placed on the eligible organ transplant recipient list at the University of Utah, and he waited for word of organ availability with an electronic pager at his side 24 hours a day. His family moved temporarily from California to Bountiful to be near the hospital. After nearly two months John was notified that a donor heart had become available, and he went immediately to the hospital for the transplant. In a surgical procedure that lasted only 87 minutes, John’s diseased heart was taken from his body and replaced by the healthy heart of a young automobile accident victim whose family’s unselfishness made critical transplants of several body organs possible all across the country. Incidentally, the heart transplant donor was female, and John used to joke that his transplant might be the only way he could “capture the heart of a woman.” After two weeks of hospital recuperation and nearly six months of required recuperation near the hospital, he returned to BYU to complete his studies.
I was then and still am amazed at the miracle of John’s story. Sitting beside him in the cafeteria, I was astonished to realize that I was talking to a young man whose heart had been taken from his body, and the heart of another was beating in its place. After his transplant John resumed a full, active life with participation in Men’s Chorus, an election as president of the student section of the national professional society to which he belonged, and Church service. He completed a master’s degree and was married in the temple in August 1992.
I’m quite sure John appreciates mortality more than perhaps most do. And he recognizes that his routine will never be the same. For the rest of his life he will face frequent visits to the doctor, careful oversight of his physical activity, and a daily regimen of medication to prevent his body from rejecting his borrowed heart. His heart transplant, however, has made it possible for him to escape what the doctors promised would be certain early death.

When I was a little girl, I noticed that my grandfather kept a picture of a young man on his desk. The young man was not especially handsome, nor was he a relative that I knew of. I didn’t think that he was anyone famous, either, but I knew that he must be someone very important to hold such a place of honor. So one day I asked my grandmother, “Who is that man in the picture?”
My grandmother stopped dusting, and a tender smile lit up her face. She gently touched the frame and answered, “He is the missionary who taught Papa about the gospel.”
I wondered at the reverent expression in her voice. I knew that Papa had joined the Church many years ago, after he had married my grandmother. She had grown up in the Church.
But that was such a long time ago! I thought. And they still remember it!
Though my grandparents moved many times, they always took the picture with them. And they always placed it once again where they could look at it every day and remember lovingly the young man who cared enough to share some of his life and his testimony.
Several years ago, my grandparents passed away. I’m sure they took the picture with them in their hearts.

Oh, sisters, we love you. While visiting Mexico recently, I had a glimpse of the sisterhood we are all feeling tonight. Imagine this scene: We had just finished Primary on Sunday morning, and the children, teachers, and I were spilling out into the crowded hallway. Just then the door to the Young Women class opened, and I saw the young women and their leaders. We all reached out for a hug. With the children holding onto my skirt and the women close around me, I wanted to express the feelings I felt at that very moment.
I do not speak Spanish, so only English words came into my mind. I looked into all of their faces and said, “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us, and we love Him.” Everyone immediately joined in, in Spanish. There we were in a crowded hallway, reciting together the Young Women theme as we said, “We will stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.”

8. A medical intern has his wife and children come into the hospital for a meal each time he has a Sunday shift and they then spend a few minutes in a corner reading and discussing the gospel. The children review their Sunday School lessons. Seeing their example, other workers, not members of the Church, have begun inviting their families into the hospital to eat together on Sunday. One quiet example is making a difference in many lives.

I grew up in a small country town in Idaho. Football came to our school later than most. It was 1923. We had neither equipment nor a coach. But the great day arrived when our high school principal was able to buy twelve inexpensive football outfits—but not football shoes with cleats. We used our basketball shoes. Our chemistry teacher was recruited to be our coach because he had once witnessed a real game.

He taught us a few simple plays and how to tackle, and then we were ready to play—or so we thought. We set off for our first game with Twin Falls, the previous year’s Idaho state champions.

We dressed and went out on the field to warm up. Their school band started to play (they had more students in the band than we had in our entire high school), and then through the gates came their team. They kept coming and coming, all thirty-nine of them, fully equipped and shoes with cleats. The twelve of us, a full team of eleven plus one all-round substitute, watched in amazement.

The game was most interesting! To say it was a learning experience is rather mild. After just two plays, we had no desire to have the ball, so we kicked it and they scored. Whenever they got the ball, they would run a baffling play and score. Our goal was to get rid of the ball—it was less punishing.

In the final minutes of the game, they became a little reckless and a wild pass fell into the arms of Clifford Lee, who was playing halfback with me. He was startled, not knowing for sure what to do—that is, until he saw them thundering after him. Then he knew what to do and boy, was he fast! But he wasn’t running for points; he was running for his life! Clifford made a touchdown. Six points went up on the scoreboard. The final score—106 to 6! We really didn’t deserve the six points, but with our bloody shirts and socks and cuts and bruises, we took them anyway.

A learning experience? Of course! An individual or a team must be prepared. Success or achievement depends upon preparation.

Twenty-eight years ago today, to my total surprise, my professional life took a completely different direction. I had spent twenty-one years in the commercial aviation industry, and I enjoyed it. We had just moved into a new home in Chicago when a call came from Church headquarters inviting me to come to Salt Lake City for an interview with President David O. McKay. All my prior plans were discarded as I was called to be a Counselor to the new Presiding Bishop, John H. Vandenberg. I had never thought nor aspired to become a General Authority, but there was only one answer possible when President McKay, a prophet of God, called me to this work.

A story written by Karen Nolen, which appeared in the New Era in 1974, tells of a Benjamin Landart who, in 1888, was 15 years old and an accomplished violinist. Living on a farm in northern Utah with his mother and seven brothers and sisters was sometimes a challenge to Benjamin, as he had less time than he would have liked to play his violin. Occasionally his mother would lock up the violin until he had his farm chores done, so great was the temptation for Benjamin to play it.
In late 1892 Benjamin was asked to travel to Salt Lake to audition for a place with the territorial orchestra. For him, this was a dream come true. After several weeks of practicing and prayers, he went to Salt Lake in March of 1893 for the much-anticipated audition. When he heard Benjamin play, the conductor, a Mr. Dean, said Benjamin was the most accomplished violinist he had heard west of Denver. Benjamin was told to report to Denver for rehearsals in the fall and learned that he would be earning enough to keep himself, with some left over to send home.
A week after Benjamin received this good news, however, his bishop called him into his office and asked if Benjamin couldn’t put off playing with the orchestra for a couple of years. The bishop told Benjamin that before he started earning money, there was something he owed the Lord. The bishop then asked Benjamin to accept a mission call.
Benjamin felt that giving up his chance to play in the territorial orchestra would be almost more than he could bear, but he also knew what his decision should be. He promised the bishop that if there were any way to raise the money for him to serve, he would accept the call.
When Benjamin told his mother about the call, she was overjoyed. She told him that his father had always wanted to serve a mission but had been killed before that opportunity had come to him. However, when they discussed the financing of the mission, her face clouded over. Benjamin told her he would not allow her to sell any more of their land. She studied his face for a moment and then said, “Ben, there is a way we can raise the money. This family [has] one thing that is of great enough value to send you on your mission. You will have to sell your violin.”
Six days later, on March 23, 1893, Benjamin wrote in his journal: “I awoke this morning and took my violin from its case. All day long I played the music I love. In the evening when the light grew dim and I could see to play no longer, I placed the instrument in its case. It will be enough. Tomorrow I leave [for my mission].”
Forty-five years later, on June 23, 1938, Benjamin wrote in his journal: “The greatest decision I ever made in my life was to give up something I dearly loved to the God I loved even more. He has never forgotten me for it.”

In another instance, a Young Women teacher had a blind girl in her class whose participation was limited because she could not study in the usual way. The teacher would go to the girl’s home and read out loud while the girl translated her personal progress book into braille. The work took two years. The teacher also encouraged the other girls in the class to help. Under her direction, they went to the blind girl’s home and read to her from the manual until it was translated into braille.
The Master’s touch through that teacher reached out and blessed not only this girl but many others who are blind, because the braille translation is available at the general offices of the Young Women organization.

On April 29, 2019, my father-in-law, who was 95 years old, was baptized. It was truly a miracle for his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We had waited for his baptism for a long time. What a gift for our family!
What changed him? Why did he commit to be baptized?
A few months before his baptism, he had a stroke and was hospitalized. My wife, Tazuko, returned home to see him. He was very pleased to see her. He had been afraid that he wouldn’t see her before he died. He started to tell her many things that he was worried about. He was thinking about his funeral.
But Tazuko told him, “Father, if you trust in God and leave everything to Him, your mind will be at ease and you will feel peace.” She explained about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness and what the Savior Jesus Christ has done for us. They talked about the spirit world, where my father-in-law’s wife, his oldest son, and his parents already are. “The next world will be amazing,” she said.
She also told him that it is better to be able to go there without sin. She said that thanks to the Atonement of Jesus Christ and thanks to baptism, he could be spotless before God. He thought a little and said, “I want to be baptized.”
Then he said, “It has been wonderful to see your children establish their own faith and continue to go to church, keep the commandments, and rely on God. I am so impressed with them.” And softly and with emotion, he said, “Family is really important! It is wonderful that our family can be one.”
After he joined the Church, I asked my father-in-law why he finally committed to be baptized. He replied without any hesitation, “I chose the right.”

Clearly, serving a mission for the Church puts us in a concentrated learning mode for persistent daily selfless service, where your own ministry becomes the Lord’s ministry, a ministry that carries you to many of the "least of these, my brethren." Our daughter, Emily, when serving in Austria, wrote home the following:

Sister Hopkins and I were asked to go sit with our non-member friend, a manic-depressive lady who gets so stricken with depression and anguish over her immoral behavior, when in her panic spells . . . she wants to commit suicide. We sat with her for eight hours. Part of the time she was thrashing, weeping and wailing in her bed, in the gall of bitterness. She felt that she had ruined her life and that of her family and that everyone would be better off if she were dead. I could feel my heart bleeding real blood for her and I was filled with the desire to do anything to help her.
We reviewed all of the usual wonderful doctrines about the atonement, forgiveness, her [own] worth, etc., but none of that seemed to help. Then we asked if we could sing for her. As we sang the beautiful German hymns, one after the other, in two-part harmony, the sweetest, most comforting spirit filled the room. She closed her eyes, and peace shown in her face. We felt, for that last hour we were with her, that this little room that we were in together was lifted up to heaven. This beautiful woman—even with puffy eyes and sweaty hair—who [had] been so scared by the cruelties of this earth, was picked up and cradled in the arms of the Lord (emphasis added).

Recently I met an intelligent young man with great potential. He was undecided about a mission. He has decided not to attend a university now. In his free time he only does what he likes to do. He doesn’t work because he doesn’t have to, and it would take time from pleasure. He passed seminary classes without much thought of personally applying the knowledge gained. I noted: “You are making choices today that appear to give you what you want: an easy life, abundant enjoyment, and not much sacrifice. You can do that for a while, yet every decision you make narrows your future. You are eliminating possibilities and options. There will come a time, and it won’t be too distant, when you are going to spend the rest of your life doing things you don’t want to do, in places you don’t want to be, because you have not prepared yourself. You are not taking advantage of your opportunities.”
I mentioned how everything I treasure today began to mature in the mission field. Missionary service is not something we do for ourselves, yet great growth and preparation for the future are gained from a mission. Missionaries focus outside of themselves on other people. They draw close to the Lord and really learn His teachings. They find individuals who are interested in the message but not sure of its worth. Missionaries try with every capacity—prayer, fasting, and testifying—to help individuals embrace the truth. A mission teaches one to be led by the Spirit, to understand our purpose for being on earth and how to accomplish it. I gave him a blessing. As he left, I prayed earnestly that the Lord would help him choose the right priorities. Otherwise, he will fail in life’s purpose.

“Being the oldest of six children, I was often left in charge of the others,” says Ruth Ann Wheelwright of Fort Worth, Texas. “I seemed to find it difficult to ‘preside’ in peace, so I yelled a lot. I even yelled at my friends. My parents didn’t like my yelling, and I didn’t like it, either. I tried not to yell, but there were times when I felt I would self-destruct if I didn’t yell at someone.”
When Ruth Ann went to Brigham Young University, her religion teacher challenged the class to read the scriptures for thirty minutes every day. However, they were not just to read the scriptures; they were to feast on them. Being an avid reader, she accepted the challenge easily.
“When I went home for the summer,” Ruth Ann says, “I continued my scripture reading during the week. But on Saturday and Sunday I neglected my reading. Guess what happened? I began yelling at my brother and sisters again. I was shocked. I immediately spent thirty minutes reading the Book of Mormon. The rest of the day went fine. Over the summer, my impulse to rid myself of my frustrations by yelling began to fade, and our family life was much calmer. I could not have conquered my yelling sprees without the help of the Book of Mormon.”

Alan Howell, one of two young men holding the Aaronic Priesthood in the Alexandria Minnesota Branch, Fargo North Dakota Stake, is the first branch member to earn the Eagle award. Because there was no Scout program in the branch and the stake center was over 100 miles away, Alan joined a troop sponsored by the Calvary Lutheran Church. (His mother has been a den leader and his father is on the Scout committee of that troop.) To complete his Eagle project, Alan organized the Scouts in cleaning and repairing an old hockey rink for use by the community. The boys cleared weeds and debris, leveled ground, and repaired boards. The park association flooded the area for ice skating, and the facility was used free of charge throughout the winter. Alan serves as priesthood chorister in his branch and as a home teacher in a 43-mile district. He has received his On My Honor award and was elected into the Order of the Arrow. When asked if it was difficult to keep LDS standards in a non-LDS troop, he replied, “No, it wasn’t hard to do. You are always in good company when you’re with Scouts!”

I begin my account in October 1978, when President Spencer W. Kimball gave a great missionary address to the Regional Representatives of the Church. I was then a Regional Representative, and I was also president of BYU. (I pause to note that in October 1978, most of you who are now freshmen at BYU were just entering the first grade. It takes many years to accomplish the purposes of the Lord. That idea has special application to China.)

President Kimball spoke of our obligation to take the gospel to what he called “the uttermost parts of the earth” (see D&C 58:64). His message was electrifying. No one who was present will ever forget the witness they felt that this was a prophet giving the Lord’s message to the leaders and members of his restored Church.

The prophet pleaded for us to move forward, saying, “It is better for something to be underway than under advisement.” He referred to various nations where we had not yet taught the restored gospel. He singled out China for special praise, saying:

By comparison with the widespread breakdown of morality and discipline in the western world, the Chinese are a disciplined, industrious, frugal, closely knit people. Their moral standards are very high by modern western standards. . . . Family life is strong, with old family members still given great respect and care.

I quote just two more sentences from President Kimball’s great message:

When we are ready, the Lord will use us for his purposes.

There are almost three billion people now living on the earth in nations where the gospel is not now being preached. If we could only make a small beginning in every nation, soon the converts among each kindred and tongue could step forth as lights to their own people and the gospel would thus be preached in all nations before the coming of the Lord.

When I returned from that meeting I asked my assistant, Bruce L. Olsen, to begin planning for a BYU performing group to go to China. That idea was farfetched, because at that time the United States had no diplomatic relations with China, and U.S. tourists were not welcome there. But a prophet had called for beginnings, and this was a beginning BYU could attempt.

What followed seemed a miracle, even for those with the greatest faith.

Just two months later, in December 1978, President Jimmy Carter unexpectedly announced that the United States and China would exchange formal diplomatic recognition on the first day of 1979. With that announcement, a BYU trip to China became at least a theoretical possibility—if an invitation could be obtained, if our board of trustees would approve, and if we could figure out what music and dance numbers would be acceptable in that country with which we had so little experience.

Beyond all of the political and musical questions were a host of technical problems. For example, if a BYU group were invited, could they take their sound and lighting equipment, and, if so, what was the voltage of the power source in the various cities of China, and what kind of connections would be necessary to tap into it?

Miracle followed miracle. Our friends in Friendship Ambassadors, a group that fostered improved international relations through the performing arts, had close ties with officials in Romania. That nation had close relations with China. China offered to receive a tourist group sent by Romania in February 1979. Romania authorized Friendship Ambassadors to assemble the group, and they invited BYU to send representatives. By these means, Val Lindsay and Ed Blaser went to China on a trip that established our contacts with the China Travel Service, answered most of our technical questions, and gave us valuable insights into what kind of music and dance would be acceptable to Chinese audiences.

During the first few months of 1979 we began serious but confidential planning about how we could assemble a group with the varied talents that would be required for a first-class variety show. But we could only plan. We could not make any arrangements until we had a formal invitation from our Chinese hosts.

How would we obtain an invitation? As often happens when we are doing the work of the Lord and the time is right, friends were raised up to assist us. A BYU official had a friend on the island of Guam. As president of a friendship association with China, this businessman had been one of the first Westerners to visit that country. He identified the Chinese officials we should contact to seek an invitation. He also counseled us to enlist the help of prominent U.S. senators. Idaho Senator Frank Church, then chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, wrote Chinese officials on our behalf. His enthusiastic endorsement of BYU was extremely helpful.

As we kept our plans secret and waited for an invitation, our spirits were touched at the experience of a former BYU student performer. Linda Tang, a Chinese girl from Hong Kong, was working in San Francisco on an internship. As she sat at her desk one day, she had a distinct spiritual impression that she was going to return to BYU and travel to China with the Young Ambassadors. She dismissed the idea as impossible, but the impression kept returning. Several days later, she called Randy Boothe and told him about her impression. When I heard about Linda’s experience, I felt reassured that our desires would be realized. I was not surprised when she was later chosen to perform on the trip.

As I recall, it was late in March or early in April when we received a brief invitation from the China Travel Service. They invited a BYU group to come, but they gave no performance commitments or dates, and they indicated that the group would just be tourists.

Throwing caution to the winds, we went ahead on faith. By this time, all of our performing groups were committed to other summer tours. Randy Boothe assembled a group of twenty performers by depleting the Lamanite Generation and two Young Ambassador groups. They rushed into the rehearsals necessary to learn the complex choreography and music for a ninety-minute program. They also had to learn enough Chinese to do some of the songs and narration in that language.

For an account of what happened next, I quote Bruce L. Olsen, the senior university official on the tour:

Four days before the group departed, a telegram arrived from China which told us to bring only simple musical instruments.

Although the students had been restricted to one carry-on bag, and our equipment was cut to a bare minimum, we still had over 2,000 pounds of costumes and equipment. Despite the nature of the telegram, we prayerfully decided to move ahead with our plans.

Upon arrival in Canton we met our guides, who called a meeting in the International Visitors’ Lounge of the airport. I wish you could have seen that gathering. Surrounding a little round table were our tour leaders, Elder James E. Faust of the Council of the Twelve (who, along with Sister Faust, was assigned by President Kimball to accompany us), and the two guides. “Just what do you expect from us?” Miss Wong asked. I remember tightening my stomach muscles and saying, “We hope to do at least one major performance in each city.” The guides then questioned us in minute detail about the performance—they wanted to see the music, the lyrics to each song, and to know what the choreography to each number meant. As we moved through the show, Randy would call the students over to give their Chinese narrations or to sing their Chinese songs. Soon the balcony area of the airport was rimmed with Chinese watching this curious performance. At the conclusion, the guides announced that we would perform the next morning at the Peking Minorities Institute.

It was clear that this performance was a test. The performance went well, and by the end our Chinese hosts announced that we would be giving another performance in the Red Tower Theater, the most prestigious performance hall in Peking.

The next day Miss Wong took Randy aside and told him that a great deal was riding on this concert. She said, “I don’t want to alarm the students, but I am very afraid for them.” She explained that the artistic elite of Peking would be attending the concert, the symphony orchestra personnel, the ballet, the opera, and the song and dance troupe—in fact, the 1,600 seats would be filled with artistic people. She said that two years ago she was sure that our group would not have been admitted to China and that how the Young Ambassadors were received would decide whether we were invited back or whether other groups would ever be admitted. We called a special meeting to explain the gravity of the situation to the Young Ambassadors and asked them to prepare.

It was an uneasy group of students that went on stage the next night, but their faith was great and their talent and hours of practice were rewarded. The audience responded to the performance quickly. Fifteen minutes into the show people were coming backstage telling us that “The important people in the audience are pleased.” The audience “oohed” and “aahed” during dance routines and called back the clever number from the musical Shenandoah, “Next to Lovin’ I Like Fightin’ Best,” for three bows and then demanded that after intermission we start our show by doing it again.

Prior to leaving for China, we were told not to expect anything but light, polite applause, but this audience demanded four encores and not only gave a standing ovation, but also held their hands high over their heads while clapping. It was the most enthusiastic response I have seen anywhere in the world. It was obvious we had passed the test.

Tonight, I’d like to tell you a story from my family history—you may have a story like it in your family history, too. Or your experience may be the source of stories that your posterity will tell.
My story is from the life of my second great-grandmother, Anthonette (Nettie) Marie Olsen. Nettie was born in 1845 in Oslo, Norway, the first child of Christian and Christine Olsen. Nettie and her parents joined the Church when Nettie was about 10 years old. As a result, Nettie and her family were shunned and ridiculed for their new faith. She worked as weaver in a factory to save enough money to immigrate to Salt Lake City, Utah, to be with other Latter-day Saints.
When she was 20 years old, she was ready to undertake the journey. Her father made her a travel bag, which contained a few pieces of underwear and a second dress. She wore the only pair of shoes she owned. Neither she nor her parents understood the nature of the journey ahead.
Nettie sailed across the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean and landed in Boston. From Boston, she took a train to a point near Florence, Nebraska. From Florence, she walked to Salt Lake City, a distance of 1000 miles. Before she walked 300 miles, her shoes wore off her feet. Nettie offered a fellow traveler her spare dress for a pair of shoes. The woman to whom she made this appeal had several pairs of shoes in her possession, but she refused, saying that she would need the shoes later on.
So, Nettie walked in her stocking feet. She mended her stockings each night by the campfire to be ready for the next day’s walk. Nettie later said, “This wasn’t so bad through the deep sand for miles and miles, but oh, the cactus patches.”
On November 8, 1865, Nettie arrived “afoot and alone” in Salt Lake City. She knew only a few words of English. She had met Christian Fredrick Bernhard Lybbert on the trail, and he helped her find work as a weaver and to learn English. She later married CFB (as the family calls him) and bore 11 children. She and her family eventually settled in Ashley Valley, Uintah County, Utah, where she died in 1932.
I have frequently thought of the sacrifices that Nettie made for her faith. She sacrificed personal comfort, her homeland, and the company of her friends and family in Norway. She sacrificed everything she had ever known for the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. You may wonder if she thought her commitment to the restored church of Jesus Christ was worth her sacrifice—she knew it was. She had a deep testimony of the prophet Joseph Smith though she never met him. She lived her life consistent with principles of truth and served the Lord, her family, and neighbors. She had faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and in the promises He makes to the faithful. Her sacrifices built her faith, and she was faithful to the end.

I believe most of us are familiar with the sad account of Thomas B. Marsh and his wife, Elizabeth. Brother Marsh was one of the first modern-day Apostles called after the Church was restored to the earth. He eventually became President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
While the Saints were in Far West, Missouri, Elizabeth Marsh, Thomas’s wife, and her friend Sister Harris decided they would exchange milk in order to make more cheese than they otherwise could. To be certain all was done fairly, they agreed that they should not save what were called the strippings, but that the milk and strippings should all go together. Strippings came at the end of the milking and were richer in cream.
Sister Harris was faithful to the agreement, but Sister Marsh, desiring to make some especially delicious cheese, saved a pint of strippings from each cow and sent Sister Harris the milk without the strippings. This caused the two women to quarrel. When they could not settle their differences, the matter was referred to the home teachers to settle. They found Elizabeth Marsh guilty of failure to keep her agreement. She and her husband were upset with the decision, and the matter was then referred to the bishop for a Church trial. The bishop’s court decided that the strippings were wrongfully saved and that Sister Marsh had violated her covenant with Sister Harris.
Thomas Marsh appealed to the high council, and the men comprising this council confirmed the bishop’s decision. He then appealed to the First Presidency of the Church. Joseph Smith and his counselors considered the case and upheld the decision of the high council.
Elder Thomas B. Marsh, who sided with his wife through all of this, became angrier with each successive decision—so angry, in fact, that he went before a magistrate and swore that the Mormons were hostile toward the state of Missouri. His affidavit led to—or at least was a factor in—Governor Lilburn Boggs’s cruel extermination order, which resulted in over 15,000 Saints being driven from their homes, with all the terrible suffering and consequent death that followed. All of this occurred because of a disagreement over the exchange of milk and cream.
After 19 years of rancor and loss, Thomas B. Marsh made his way to the Salt Lake Valley and asked President Brigham Young for forgiveness. Brother Marsh also wrote to Heber C. Kimball, First Counselor in the First Presidency, of the lesson he had learned. Said Brother Marsh: “The Lord could get along very well without me and He … lost nothing by my falling out of the ranks; But O what have I lost?! Riches, greater riches than all this world or many planets like this could afford.”

My father was the bishop of our ward at the time of its announcement to the Church in April general conference of 1936. The world was struggling in the Great Depression. So many of the fathers of our ward were unemployed. In those days a dime for admission to a school activity would prevent many of my friends from attending because their parents could not afford even that small amount for their children’s enjoyment.
Because of my father’s calling as a bishop, I was able to gain an appreciation of the welfare program from its very beginning as I watched him administer to the needs of the poor in his ward with great love and tenderness. How often I raced home from school anticipating a planned activity. As I would round the corner of our home, there I would see sacks of flour, sugar, and other commodities. My heart would fall, as I knew it would be another evening out with Father as he delivered these commodities to those in need. The planned activity would have to be cancelled for that evening.
When he arrived home, I was always enlisted to help him put the commodities in the car and travel with him to make the deliveries. Sometimes I would grumble under my breath for having been so put upon, but then I would have the remarkable experience of watching the light come back into the eyes of a depressed family as food was brought into their home. I always returned home from those experiences with an exhilarated feeling of watching the Church in action as it was caring for its poor and its needy through fast offerings and good, kind priesthood leaders.

Chris may not have believed it, but I really hadn’t planned to teach him about the gospel that day. He was just a neighbor boy who used to hang around. He happened to be over at our house when the missionaries stopped by to use the phone.
“Who are they?” Chris asked as the two elders walked past us, their dark suits and white shirts a strong contrast to my friend’s T-shirt and tennis shoes.
“They are missionaries from our church,” I responded. One of them overheard us and grinned at me as if to ask permission to join the conversation. I nodded enthusiastically.
“We’re missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Is that your church?” Chris asked me.
“Yes!” I said proudly.
“Would you like to know more about our church?” the elder asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” Chris said, looking down at his shoes. “Guess it won’t hurt anything,” he finally answered. “My grandpa always said it’s good to learn new things.”
The elders then began to talk about Jesus Christ and His love for us. They asked Chris to read a scripture from the New Testament, which he did with great sincerity. They established that he already had a basic testimony of the Atonement, helped him define Christ’s role in our lives, and then moved on to talk about the First Vision.
Again, they had Chris read scriptures. They bore their own testimonies, and then asked him how he felt about the message they had just shared. This time he was a little more unsure. The story of Joseph Smith was something altogether new to him.
“Well, I don’t know how I feel about that,” Chris said quietly. “It was a long time ago. You seem to know, but I don’t. It could have happened. I don’t know.” Then he paused for a moment, and his voice came through bold and bright. “But here’s something I do know. I know that what this world needs right now is a prophet. That’s what we really need. We need a prophet who’s alive on this earth today!”
By this time, a few of my family members had joined us in the living room, and as Chris spoke, we all looked at each other. An electrifying bolt of energy burst through us, but I was the first to speak. Okay, it was more like a shout of joy.
“We have one! We have one!” I grabbed his arm so quickly he was startled. “We do have a living prophet! His name is Gordon B. Hinckley, and he is the leader of our church.”
The elders began scrambling in their bags, searching for a picture. Chris smiled at my outburst and actually backed a few feet away in case I attacked him again. He gladly accepted a Book of Mormon and scheduled another appointment with the missionaries.
His family moved away very soon after, and I never heard whether Chris accepted the gospel. But I do know that everyone in the room that day felt the yearning of a young man wishing the world had a modern-day prophet.

“Abrams, Frank.”
“Here.”
“Bellerose, John.”
“Yeah.”
“Brown, Cindy.”
“Yo.”
“Cassady, Michelle.”
“Present.”
“Crandall, Alan.”
“Here.”
Mr. Rodenburg, my sixth-period English teacher, paused, just like all my other teachers had, looked up from his roll book, and stared at me.
“Are you Jim Crandall’s little brother?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“He sure was a great football player. What’s he doing now?”
That was the fifth time that day I’d heard the exact same question.
“He’s at BYU.”
“You think he’ll play much this year?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
He eyed me curiously. “Do you play football?” Somebody in the back of the room snickered, and I felt my face redden as it always did when people asked me that.
“I, … ah, used to, but I don’t anymore.”
Mr. Rodenburg looked surprised. “Really? Jim Crandall’s little brother doesn’t play football? I guess he must have hogged up all the football genes in your family, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I muttered.
He finally left me alone and continued calling the roll.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love my big brother, Jim, but I hate being referred to as “Jim Crandall’s little brother.”
I can’t blame people, though, because Jim is pretty great. Before he graduated last year he broke every school football record a linebacker can break. He was all-state and all-America in football, lettered in basketball and track, and had football scholarship offers from everywhere in the universe. He was also in the National Honor Society, the Key Club, and was the senior class vice-president.
Jim was the kind of guy every teacher wants for a student, every coach wants for a player, every bishop wants in his priests quorum, every parent wants for a son, and every little brother doesn’t want for a big brother. Jim was Mr. Perfect, and as Mr. Perfect’s little brother, I was stuck trying to follow his act.
And Jim was a tough act to follow. Where he got A’s, I was lucky to get B’s and C’s. At 6 feet, 4 inches, and 220 pounds, Jim was built like a Greek statue; at 6 feet, 1 inch, and 160 pounds, I was built like a flimsy scarecrow. Before he went to BYU, Jim was the bishop’s Joseph (you know, the kid with the coat of many colors): priests quorum first assistant, seminary president, and Mr. Model Premissionary. He read the scriptures, lived the commandments, and earned his Eagle Scout Award when he was 16. I wanted to follow in his footsteps—who wouldn’t?—but I knew I could never measure up to my big brother.
Not that that bothered Jim.
“Hey look,” he told me after I got cut from the junior varsity football team, “it doesn’t make a bit of difference to me, or anybody else who matters, if you play football or not. You’ve got to be your own man, Alan. There are only two people you really need to worry about pleasing: Alan Crandall and,” he pointed upward, “Him.”
Sometimes, Jim reminded me of our bishop. Can you believe that—an 18-year-old kid who sounds like a bishop? I looked at Jim without smiling. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who got cut.”
“Maybe so, but believe me, Alan, football, basketball, all these high school sports are short-term stuff. You can’t play forever.”
“I still wish I had made the team.”
He stood up and slapped me on the back. “Well, it’s not the end of the world. There’s always next year, and there are other sports too, but life doesn’t revolve around sports. Remember that, Alan.”
I tried to remember that all football season as I watched Jim play the hero’s role in game after game.
I tried to remember that when I was cut from the JV basketball team two months later.
And I tried to remember that in the spring of my sophomore year, Jim’s senior year, when Coach Kerby talked to me after practice.
“Look, Crandall,” he said, “even though you’re Jim Crandall’s little brother, I don’t think you’re going to have much chance at running in any of our meets this season. You’re welcome to stick it out, but I wouldn’t blame you if you hung it up right now.”
He paused, looked at his watch, then at his clipboard, waiting for my answer.
I didn’t know what to say. “Let me think about it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He nodded and headed for the locker room.
“What’d Coach want?” Jim asked on our way home from practice.
“He said he wants to cut me.”
“No way. He’s never cut anybody from the track team.”
“Yeah, but he’s never had me try out either.”
“Knock it off, Alan. You know he won’t cut you if you want to stay on the team. What did he really say?”
I told him.
“So what are you going to tell him tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it.”
I ended up deciding to stay on the track team, not so much for the competition, but for the exercise. I didn’t participate in a meet all season, but I enjoyed it anyway. I was on the team because I wanted to be on the team, not because I thought people expected me to be.
And that same spring, Jim managed to find time between track meets and awards banquets, to accept a football scholarship from BYU. His choice didn’t surprise anybody. Where else would Mr. Perfect want to go?
“Well, Alan,” he said late one August evening a few days before he left for BYU, “it’s going to be different going to school without my little brother. What’ll you do while I’m gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You planning on trying out for football again?”
“No, I think Madison High’s football team can survive without me this season. Besides, I don’t want to tarnish your reputation.”
Jim frowned. “I’m not worried about that. You’re one little brother any guy would be proud to have.” He was quiet for a minute. Then he smiled and said, “At least you won’t have to worry about being Jim Crandall’s little brother anymore, will you?”
“It’s not easy being a legend’s brother, but I think I’ll live. It doesn’t bother me anymore, honest, Jim.”
He jumped up, wrapped me in a headlock and messed up my hair. “Well, the school may forget me, but you better not. And I don’t want you getting any ideas about moving into my room. That’s off limits, you know, until I leave for my mission.”
“I know, I know.”
I remember the phone call clearly. Jim had been at BYU for three months, and according to his letters, he had been doing quite well. The coaches told him that if he continued to improve, he’d see some action before the end of the season.
The call came during dinner. “Hello?” said my dad as he answered the kitchen phone. “Yes, this is Mr. Crandall. Yes, Jim’s my son. Oh hello, Coach. This is a surprise. How’s he doing?” Dad’s face grew serious as he listened.
“I see. You say it happened this afternoon? I understand. Thanks for calling.” He carefully hung up the phone and turned to face Mom and me.
“That was Jim’s coach,” he said quietly. “Jim hurt his knee in practice today, and it looks bad. He’s in surgery now, so they won’t know how bad it is until tomorrow morning.”
It was bad. The next morning, a coach from BYU called and said Jim’s knee was so badly damaged that the doctors doubted he would play football again. Jim planned to finish out the last few weeks of classes and come home to prepare for his mission.
When he arrived at home, Jim looked the same, except for the cast and the crutches, of course, but he didn’t act the same. He wasn’t the same old Jim I had known, admired, and envied before he left for BYU.
The injury had changed my brother—almost as if it had knocked his usual rock-hard confidence and steadiness right out of him. He spent most of his time on the family room couch watching TV, reading, or lying on his back staring blankly at the ceiling. He rarely spoke, and when he did, he limited his speech to sighs, moans, and one word sentences like, “Yeah,” “Uh-uh,” and “Maybe.”
For a while, Jim’s friends visited him regularly, but he was so distant, so depressed that their visits became less frequent.
“Alan,” he told me as we sat watching TV one night, “this is crazy. I was second string, on the traveling squad. Everything was going great, and wham—it all fell apart. I just can’t believe it.”
“I don’t even know about a mission anymore,” he said tiredly. “With a bum leg, I doubt if they’d take me anyway. Who wants a handicapped companion to drag around from door to door?”
That surprised me. “What do you mean? You’ve always planned on going on a mission, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but I always planned on playing college football too. Now that this has happened, I don’t know what I’m going to do, even what I can do. Everything I’ve planned for, worked for, seems like it’s gone to pieces.” He looked at me in misery. “Alan, what should I do?”
I didn’t know how to answer him. Almost all my life, I had been looking up to him, following his example, and now he was lying there, asking me, his little brother, for advice.
Then I had an idea. “Hey look, Big Brother,” I said reaching over to mess up his hair, “it doesn’t make any difference to me, or anybody else who matters, if you play football or not. There are only two people you really need to worry about pleasing: Jim Crandall and,” I pointed upward, “Him.”
When he recognized his speech, Jim grinned, for the first time in a long time. “Why you little smart aleck. That’s my sermon you’re preaching. Haven’t you ever heard about copyrights?”
“Nope.” I tapped his cast lightly. “Jim, I’m really sorry about your knee and everything, but that doesn’t mean you’re any less of a brother to me. Your injury hasn’t changed you or the way I feel about you.”
Jim was quiet for a few minutes, looking at me, his leg, the TV. Finally, his smile faded and he sighed, “I know that, Alan, but still … it’s hard.”
“If it helps any, Jim, I know how you feel. I really do.”
He stared at the plaster cast for a few minutes without speaking. Then he looked back up at me, a faint glimmer of the old warmth in his eyes. “Thanks, Alan. It does help. It helps a lot.”
Jim’s in Ecuador now. In his last letter he wrote, “I give thanks every day for this bum knee. It’s made me a lot faster—at least when it comes to feeling other people’s hurts and seeing their needs.”
On my desk I have a snapshot of Jim in his cast. He’s smiling and pointing to the spot on the plaster where I wrote a little note and signed it in big, proud letters: JIM CRANDALL’S LITTLE BROTHER.