Gospel Story Finder

Morning RecessMandy, Mandy, trick or treat. How many treats did Mandy eat? One, two, three, four …
… eight, nine, ten, eleven—out!Ha ha! Mandy’s a klutz. My turn.
… four, five, six—out!Ouch!
Lunch RecessMandy, when I fell, why didn’t you laugh at me?I almost did, but I remembered that Jesus wants me to be kind.
Why should you care what He wants?Because of what He did for me.
What was that?Let’s share desserts and talk about it.

Valentine’s Day was always a wonderful time for me. Back in the early 1920s when I was a child, we delivered valentines by sneaking up to a person’s house, placing the valentine in front of the door, and then kicking the door hard and running away. The person in the house would then run out and try to catch the messenger. Even though we were supposed to escape, we liked getting caught because the recipient of the valentine would always invite us back to the house for refreshments.
I was getting ready to deliver my valentines one year when Mother suggested, “Roy, don’t you think it would be nice to leave one for George?”
“But, Mother …” I protested, my voice trailing off. I didn’t want to tell her the truth—that I was afraid of George. He was a boy who appeared to be about my age. He did not attend school with us because he was mentally disabled. No one ever talked to or played with him because he seemed strange. He looked unusual—his face appeared to be flat, and he had a hard time walking. He acted differently, too. As my two brothers and I passed his house on our way to school, he would come out and try to communicate with us in grunts. Frightened, we would avoid him by hurriedly crossing the street to stay as far away as we could. As we passed by, we often noticed his mother taking him back into the house. He seemed sad whenever this happened.
Mother seemed to read my mind. “Son, I know you’re afraid, but that boy needs a friend. Will you do it?”
I reluctantly agreed. As my brothers and I walked down the street to George’s house, we decided that I would be the one to deliver the valentine. Nervously I lifted the latch on George’s front gate and approached the house, not knowing what to expect. Gathering all my courage, I stepped onto the porch, laid the valentine down, banged my foot against the front door, and then fled with all the speed I could muster.
As I ran through the gate and up the road, I glanced back and saw George’s mother opening the door. She looked down to see the valentine on the porch.
“Please, come back!” she called.
My brothers, who were waiting on the sidewalk, returned with me to the house. We entered the front room to find George dancing around clutching the valentine to his heart, tears streaming down his happy face. George’s mother grabbed all three of us, hugged and kissed us, and invited us into the cellar to pick out the biggest red apples we had ever seen.
From that time on, my brothers and I found it easy to be a friend to George. My mother had taken advantage of a great opportunity to teach us how to love our neighbor.

Meet Brother Astus (right) who followed a friend to the gathering place activities in the Calabar Nigeria Stake and enrolled in a video editing and photography class. Shortly thereafter, he began attending the Calabar institute as well. Astus’s talent for photography was recognized, and he began to cover all the single adult activities, institute activities, weddings and more. He not only fell in love with photography, but he fell in love with the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized.

“The Juan Fernández islands,” Papa said. “One of them is called Robinson Crusoe’s island.”
“You mean the place where he was shipwrecked and lived all alone until he found his man Friday?”
“Well, that was a make-believe place, just as Robinson Crusoe was an imaginary man. The Juan Fernández are real islands where a real sailor, Alexander Selkirk, was put ashore after he had an argument with the captain of his ship. He lived alone for four years, waiting to be rescued. His experiences there gave Daniel Defoe the idea for his book.”
It might not have been Robinson Crusoe’s island, but a real island where an actual man was marooned sounded like an exciting place to visit!

It was a sunny Sunday morning, May 18, 1980, when Mt. St. Helens blew her top with a blast 500 times as powerful as the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The top 1,400 feet of the mountain were blown off, killing at least 22 people, wiping out homes, displacing families, creating steaming mudslides and floods that demolished bridges and logging camps, and blanketing much of the northwestern United States and parts eastward with a fine gritty, gray volcanic ash. Over a billion dollars in crops, timber, and property were lost; cities and schools closed down; food and water supplies were sometimes cut off; and people stayed in their homes.
The chalky ash covered trees, houses, fields, streets, everything, like tons of powdered sugar, but it was far from sweet. It clogged car engines, swirled up in white clouds like dense fog whenever cars drove through it (making driving extremely dangerous), choked out new crops, weighed heavily on rooftops and awnings and people’s minds. You could shovel it from your walk to the street, but it often blew back, and how did you get it out of the street, anyway. For most people it was a gritty nightmare that eventually city bulldozers and trucks would help handle.
For the young Latter-day Saints living in volcano territory, the disaster became a time of faith, service, and closeness to our Heavenly Father.
“I was in sacrament meeting when it happened,” said Joyce Allsop, 19, of the Yakima Fifth Ward, Yakima Washington Stake, about a hundred miles from Mt. St. Helens. “I looked out the window and everything was getting darker and darker. There were flashes of eerie, orange-red lightning through the ash particles, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, but no rain. The thunder came so close that we all ducked, and the building shook. We thought it would fall down on us. Then everything turned pitch black, at 10:00 in the morning, and stayed that way for 24 hours.
“Outside, ashes were falling like snow, only you could feel it, like sand pelting you. Then it started coming down like a heavy, gritty rain.”
The members of Joyce’s ward were told that the volcano had erupted and that the roads were extremely hazardous, with visibility down to zero. She and a friend decided to drive the 20 miles home, because they wanted to be with their families.
“As soon as we got into the car, we said a prayer to help us get home. We started out and could barely see anything, it was so dark. Cars where pulled off in ditches to the side of the road because people couldn’t see where the road was. Most people had no idea where they were. The only way we ever made it home was with the Lord’s help.
“When we got home, we got calls from all sorts of concerned people, some we hardly even knew, checking that we’d made it home safely,” she added.
The abrupt change from a peaceful, secure life to not knowing what would happen gave Joyce a lot to think about.
“I realized how blessed we were to get home safely. And I thought, if this is anything like the Second Coming, we have to be more prepared. I think I could also relate a little to how the Nephites must have felt when Christ was crucified, when it turned pitch black. Those words from the Book of Mormon suddenly took on new meaning.
“I also understood how powerful the forces of nature are and how quickly the world could be destroyed. And I realized, more fully why we need to have food storage and clothing, supplies, and water on hand. As soon as the general public in Yakima heard that the roads were closed because of the eruption, they all rushed to stock up on supplies. Now a lot of the single people from home are starting their own food storage programs,” said Joyce.
Sheryl Hague of Yakima was also at church when the volcano erupted. “I thought it was a blessing that we were all in church when it happened, in a safe place,” she said, “I go to a singles’ branch, but I knew my family was in church at their ward, and my dad, who’s a stake president, was in church somewhere. My bishop was making sure we had wet paper towels over our mouths so we didn’t breathe the dust in, and people were making sure that everyone who wanted a ride home had it and that we were all okay. Right away we organized a calling committee to make sure that everyone had food and any help they needed.”
Many of the Young Adults at Sheryl’s ward opted to stay at the institute building where church was being held, until things quieted down. Food was brought in to the group by the Relief Society and elders quorum presidents.
“The prophet tells us constantly to be prepared, but often we don’t really listen until something like this happens, which is too bad,” added Sheryl. “During the first day especially I thought a lot about the Second Coming and how if you’re not prepared you’re going to panic, like a lot of unprepared people here did. I found out how important food storage is, too. Some people here didn’t have enough food to last them for even a couple of days. On the radio people were advised to store water, which our family had already done long before. We stored quite a bit more, though, including a bathtub full.”
Immediately after the shock of the eruption, even with the uncertainty of not knowing what was going to happen, the young people of wards across Washington jumped wholeheartedly into helping other people. Calling committees checked to see that ward members were safe; teachers and priests quorums and the young women organized to help clean chapels and homes. Volcanic ash started flying as young volunteers got out their shovels and brooms and started the cleanup.
“The youth in my ward were helping even as families started leaving the chapel the morning of the eruption,” said Bishop Terry Brandon of the Yakima Fourth Ward, Yakima Washington Stake. “The teenagers comforted the children, talked with them, and in many cases scooped the young ones into their arms and delivered them safely to waiting cars and their parents. Breathing was uncomfortable, and the falling ash was irritating their eyes, but these youth didn’t care about that.
“Then early the next morning I began receiving phone calls from teens wanting to help anyone who needed it, so we organized a cleanup force. They spent eight, nine hours at a time in the grittiest, dirtiest mess you’ve ever seen helping other people, in addition to the efforts spent in cleaning up their own homes. They took a lot of initiative themselves. All of them helped clean up the stake center.
“It was such a spiritual uplift to work alongside such cheerful youth during a depressing, messy week of cleanup. We have a fine generation of young people here with goals and ideals that just won’t let them be defeated. When we didn’t know if we’d be able to hold church the next Sunday, I was determined we should, just so I could let them know how I felt towards them. I’ve never seen a finer group of young people,” said Bishop Brandon.
Hundreds of young Latter-day Saints across the disaster area swept ash, piled it high into giant gray hills, washed down roofs and streets, wiped it from their ears and hair and faces. And despite the seeming drudgery, some of them even had fun while they did it.
In the Moses Lake Washington Stake, over 150 miles east of the volcano, 33 youth helped clean the stake center, working until 1:00 in the morning so they could return the hoses they’d borrowed from the fire department in time. Scouts in Moses Lake helped clean the homes of ward members. The four teenagers of the Allen Brown family helped a blind ward member clean off his house and yard. The teens in the Don Larson family surprised a ward member who was out of town when the eruption occurred by having his house cleaned up when he got back to town. He then helped clean the chapel grounds and homes of other people. Craig Duvall, a recently returned missionary, cleaned county roads and driveways for a week. Carolyn Whiteman, a 14-year-old Lamanite, went day after day to haul ashes out of the yard of an elderly couple down her street.
“We got a wonderful response from all our people with the cleanup,” said President Lew Judd Allsop of the Yakima Washington Stake. “We had all sorts of help from the youth in our stake when we needed to clean the ash off the roof of the stake center. It was tedious work, sifting the ash out of the gravel on the roof so the roof wouldn’t cave in with the first rain. It was a dirty, gritty job, and I didn’t hear anyone complain about the dust in their eyes or it being terrible, dirty work. Working conditions couldn’t have been worse. Faces were black; there was grit in your ears, your hair, all over. And yet they got the job done, and in good spirits.”

Even though Elder David O. McKay’s daughter Lou Jean was very ill, he had to travel out of state for a stake conference.
Elder McKay: I’ll be back as soon as I can.
Not long after he left, Elder McKay received a telegram saying that he needed to come home right away. When he stepped off the train at home, his father was there to greet him.
Elder McKay: Is Lou Jean still alive?
Father: Yes, but she’s worse than when you left.
A doctor and a nurse stayed at Elder McKay’s house all night. Other family members came to help for several days, but Lou Jean grew only worse.
On Sunday, Elder McKay sent his sons Lawrence and Llewelyn to church while he and his wife, Emma Ray, stayed home to care for Lou Jean.
Elder McKay: Son, will you ask the Sunday School president to have the Sunday School classes pray for Lou Jean today?
Son: Yes, Father.
Elder McKay’s son obeyed. He noticed that at 11:00 the requested prayer was given.
When Elder McKay’s sons returned home, they received good news.
Elder McKay: Well, boys, Lou Jean is going to be all right! At 11:00 this morning she finally relaxed and fell into a calm sleep.
Son: Father, that’s when the Sunday School prayed for her!
Elder McKay: Heavenly Father has rewarded the faithful prayers of many people who love us. We must show Him our gratitude.

In the fall of 1825, an acquaintance of the Hales, Josiah Stowell, hired young Joseph Smith and others to dig for silver. After a month of digging and finding nothing, Joseph persuaded Mr. Stowell to quit digging. While Joseph was working for Mr. Stowell, Joseph and his father boarded with the Hales. That’s when Emma met Joseph.
Over the next year, as Joseph and his father worked at various jobs in the area, Joseph and Emma talked in the evenings after work. She was an excellent cook and had a delightful sense of humor, which Joseph probably enjoyed.
Joseph soon decided to marry Emma. He told his parents: “I have been very lonely ever since Alvin died [three years before], and I have concluded to get married, and if you have no objections with my uniting myself in marriage with Miss Emma Hale, she would be my choice in preference to any other woman.”1 Joseph’s parents, pleased with his choice, invited Joseph and Emma to live with them after the marriage so they too could enjoy Emma’s company.
About 15 months after they first met, Joseph and Emma married, and Joseph worked that summer on his father’s farm.

After years of inactivity, my dad announced out of the blue one day that we were going back to church again. This met with some protest from me. Throughout my childhood I knew only vaguely of the Mormon church. Basically I knew that there were rules against everything I was currently doing. Besides, what would my friends say if they found out?
Finally my dad and I agreed that I would just try it out for a while and that if I decided against it he wouldn’t force me to go. Sunday came. I sat through sacrament meeting and Sunday School as if I were deaf. Then came Young Women. I sat in the corner, arms crossed, eyes glaring. (Later I found out that I had actually scared my adviser as much as I had hoped to.) With that Sunday over I vowed never again! The following Sundays I contracted everything from a cold to tonsillitis in order to avoid going.
Although I would have denied it at the time, I felt something that Sunday. I felt something from this adviser who really seemed to care about this strange new girl in her class. I felt something, too, from an LDS schoolmate who took an interest in my spiritual well-being. Somehow she convinced me to go back to church.
Then I met our bishop, a large rancher who seemed too gentle for his intimidating stature. In my first interview with him he asked me to pray. I refused. I knew how to pray, but I couldn’t because I believed God wouldn’t listen to such a sinner. The bishop seemed to understand, although I didn’t see how he could because I was sure he had never sinned in his life. But he didn’t condemn me. He seemed to consider me of equal value to all the “saints” in our ward. Feeling so accepted, I continued to attend.
The next couple of months were filled with something I had never felt before. I came to realize that it was the Spirit of the Lord trying to tell me that everything I was hearing and feeling was true. I don’t think I had a testimony at that time. I only knew that I loved my schoolmate and her funny ideas. I loved my Young Women adviser because she loved me. I loved my bishop because he didn’t condemn me. I loved the feeling I had when I was with these people, and I wanted that always in my life.

My English teacher has a habit of taking the Lord’s name in vain whenever there is a distraction in the class. One day I approached her privately after class and said, “I feel very uncomfortable when you say God’s name when someone disturbs you while you’re talking. Maybe you could use other words, but I feel very uncomfortable when people say His name that way around me.”
My English teacher thanked me for coming to talk to her, but she said she would have to think about it. After that week, she didn’t profane the Lord’s name for a long time, except once or twice when the word would just come out of her mouth, but I understood how hard it is not to make a mistake again when it is a habit. I realized how important it is to spend time with people to let them know what your standards are. Never be ashamed of doing what is right, because there’s always someone that stands on your side. I was so grateful to see this change in my English teacher. Not only does she not use the Lord’s name, but I realized that her attitude has changed, too.
As it says in Romans 1:16, “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ.” I won’t ever feel ashamed of asking people to not misuse our Heavenly Father’s name, because it is sacred. We should always stand up for our standards, and for our Heavenly Father, because of the blessings and courage that He gives us.

I’ll give you an example. Three little boys were flying a kite in a field away from their homes. It began to rain, and they wanted to save their kite. As they hastily pulled it from the sky, it caught on a tree limb high over their heads.

They found a long stick and tried to pull it down, but they couldn’t reach it. They tried everything they could think of to get it down, but the kite just turned and twisted in the storm. One of the boys finally said to the others, “I think we should pray.” The other two looked at him, then followed his lead, bowing their heads while he said the words. As they opened their eyes, they saw a car coming toward them down the road that let to the field. As it neared, the boys stood motionless and almost breathless, staring at the lady driving the car.

Their stares fascinated the lady, so she stopped and called to them, “Are you having trouble?”
“Yes,” they said. “Our kite is caught on the tree. Will you help us get it down?”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Stand away while I back up.”

She backed her car to position it under the kite, then she got out, climbed on top of the car, and, with the long stick retrieved the kite.

When the boy who had offered the prayer carried his kite into the kitchen, he told his mother about the kite’s getting caught in the tree. She asked, “Who helped you get your kite down?”
“Heavenly Father,” he replied. The boy, who had prayed with perfect trust, knew the answer to a prayer when he saw it.

• Friedrichsdorf and Frankfurt, Germany, Monday, June 10: If anxious members of the Tabernacle Choir seek a confirmation of things to come, they receive it on this first concert day here on the lawn of the Frankfurt Germany Temple in the suburb of Friedrichsdorf. A twenty-minute outdoor “concert” scheduled to begin at 12:30 P.M. has been delayed some minutes due to heavy drizzle, but with five hundred townspeople looking on, those in charge move ahead with the public greetings between Friedrichsdorf Mayor Gerd Schmidt and Elder Russell M. Nelson. Drizzle continues. Then the choir begins to sing “Alleluia,” a song whose lyrics consist of one reverent word—alleluia, meaning “praise to God,” repeated sixty-five consecutive times. Within a minute, the rain stops. In a few more minutes, wind breaks up the clouds, blue skies appear, and sunlight beams down. A Frankfurt newspaper headed their story “Alleluia Stops the Rain.” Tonight’s opening concert in Frankfurt’s palatial Alte Oper before an audience of 2,250 is a striking, four-encore success.

Bishop Page, the bishop of our young adult ward, started by explaining that family history and temple work aren’t just for parents or grandparents—they are the responsibility of our generation and part of why we have been sent to earth at this time. Then came the challenge: FamilySearch indexing. In fact, he suggested that our ward index 100,000 names.
It would be a tremendous undertaking. Each person would need to index 1,000 names. Yet when Bishop Page asked who would commit to the goal, we all raised our hands.
The challenge quickly became important in my life. I downloaded the FamilySearch indexing software, read the tutorials, and began.
At first, it seemed difficult. The handwriting wasn’t always easy to decipher. But each time I completed a set of names, I felt more confident.
Because my family is originally from Chile, I chose to index names in Spanish. Perhaps for that reason, the experience felt particularly personal. I didn’t feel I was merely typing names because I realized that each one was a person who could receive the blessings of the temple.
I quickly discovered that indexing is a great activity to do on Sundays. Because I live far from family, I sometimes feel there isn’t a lot to do after church. But indexing helps me use my time in a productive way, and I can listen to music or talks while I do it.
I was fortified when our stake president quoted President Boyd K. Packer, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “No work is more of a protection to this Church than temple work and the family history research that supports it. No work is more spiritually refining. No work we do gives us more power. … Our labors in the temple cover us with a shield and a protection, both individually and as a people.”1
It can seem that young adults are especially bombarded by the “fiery darts of the adversary” (1 Nephi 15:24), and here I was being promised protection. I felt a strong desire to help my ward members experience that same blessing, so a friend and I organized an indexing party. Many people brought laptops. People already familiar with indexing shared their computers and answered the questions of those just starting.
Over the next several months, ward leaders also held activities dedicated to our goal. When anyone got discouraged, we encouraged each other. I was amazed at the sense of unity we developed from serving the Lord and each other, together.
In the end, our ward fell short of our goal of 100,000 names, even though many individuals completed 1,000 names. Our bishop’s challenge, however, wasn’t about numbers; it was about helping us gain a testimony of family history. And because it involved service, sacrifice, and saving others, we felt its purifying effect.
I am grateful for an opportunity to participate in the Lord’s work. In doing His work, I came to know Him better as well.

1. Let thy love be for them as for thyself. Bill had always been an avid sports fan and sportsman. Fishing, golfing, bowling, hunting, going to ball games, and watching sports on television had been a regular feature of his life. To the extent she could, Susan also enjoyed many of his hobbies. But as the children began to arrive, it became more and more difficult to spend much time with him in such activities. This became a sustained source of irritation with her as she felt his lack of support with the children.

As Bill was reading the Doctrine and Covenants one day, a scripture struck him with thunderbolt force: “Let thy love for them be as for thyself; and let thy love abound unto all men, and unto all who love my name.” (D&C 112:11.) He cross-referenced this scripture with one even more familiar to him: “He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.” (Matt. 10:39.) He was ashamed with his own past behavior as he recalled King Benjamin’s observation that “when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” (Mosiah 2:17.)

Bill had a few mental pains of regret as he gradually disengaged from many of the activities with his friends and began to spend more time in family-centered activities. Often he would take the children for a walk in the countryside or a drive in the car and leave Susan some needed time alone to go shopping or just to relax at home without the demands of the children pressing upon her. He also resolved to go out alone each week with Susan, and to take frequent walks with her after the children had gone to bed. He was determined to lose his life in making his wife and children happy. And then an amazing thing happened: he began to enjoy the association with his family more than with his friends.

After 21-year-old Joseph received the plates in 1827, it was here—in the frame home and the cooper shop—that he hid the sacred records to protect them until he could translate their inscriptions and publish them as the Book of Mormon.
Joseph moved the wooden box and gold plates from beneath the hearth in the frame home. He hid the plates in the loft of the cooper shop and buried the empty chest under the floorboards. That night a mob tore up the floor and smashed the empty chest but failed to search the loft just above their heads.

The noise is what Gordon Daniels remembers most. The relentless crash of the surf as waves ten to fifteen feet high thundered against the rocks and filtered the atmosphere with heavy mist, until the air itself was almost liquid. That sound made talking almost impossible.
The sky was cloudy that day—not with fluffy white puffs floating gently in an azure blue—but dark and ominous, and the wind howled its way along the cliffs.
Twenty-four teenage boys were sightseeing on the north shore of western Maui in Hawaii that afternoon after picking pineapples for more than two months. It was their last day off before one final week of work, then a week-long fun tour of the islands and home to the mainland. Most of the boys Gordon supervised already had traveler’s checks tucked away in the pockets of their jeans. They’d heard about a spectacular blowhole set in the middle of a smooth table of rock on the other side of the island, and they’d asked to see it.
They were all surprised. The north area was desolate, not lush or green like the Hawaii they were familiar with by then. Its terrain reminded them of pictures of the moon. No blade of grass, tree, or other living vegetation in any direction, or even a grain of sand to line the beach. Sharp, jagged lava rocks tapered down to disappear under the water’s edge.
Two groups of 12 boys—each with its own supervisor—drove in tandem that day, and they traveled in a pickup truck and a van.
Doug Carlsen’s boys reached the spot two or three minutes ahead of Gordon’s. Inching their way down the rugged slopes to the flat surface of the table, Gordon and his group noticed that six or seven of their friends were already sitting around the hole with ankles dangling over the edge.
Nobody thought of that as particularly dangerous. Pulling their feet away seconds before the onslaught of water made an exciting game. Every 35 or 40 seconds another wave pounded against the rocks below them and catapulted a spray through the hole in a pressurized stream of fury that shot up 50 feet into the air, hung suspended for a moment or two, and dropped back through the three-foot opening with a whoooshh! It was exciting!
The whole area was moist and slippery, and as Gordon’s charges hurried to meet their friends, they warned each other not to stray to the seaward side of the hole. They shivered at thoughts of slipping over the cliff, but the thought was academic. Nobody expected that to happen.
Then, without warning, a blast much more powerful than the rest exploded with a force that sent them scurrying back a full 25 feet into the overhanging rocks. Immediately the cry went up, “Where’s Mike?” And one answering voice wailed, “I think I saw him sucked into the hole!”
Funny how different sounds of the elements appear to our ears after they become the voice of the enemy. Excitement seconds before gave way to full-blown terror.
The two horrified leaders leaped to peer down into the depths of the blowhole—and it was pitch black. Driven away almost instantly by the next geyser, they returned to vainly search the inky blackness where Mike had disappeared.
Frantically they called his name, but no answer. Three times the water shot into the air and forced them to retreat, and three times they ran back to shout his name downward against the opposition of the wind.
Between the third and fourth eruptions there was an answer, and it was remarkably clear: “Yes, I’m down here, but I think I’m okay.” They were weak with relief. With each upcoming spout they’d expected to see bits and pieces of Mike’s broken body.
In unison the boys slipped out of their jeans and tied them together in a makeshift rope. Response from below had stopped. They lowered the rope into the darkness, yelling hoarsely for Mike to grab it as it came.
But the waves—the never-ending, frustrating, immutable waves—pounded the shore, and the endless spouting action continued. Twice they lowered the rope, and twice it was flung back in their faces. To say that they were frantic is, of course, a drastic understatement.
One of Mike’s special friends volunteered to climb down himself, but that idea was quickly vetoed. Centuries of rising and falling currents had smoothed all suggestion of a foothold from the rock’s surface. Brave as he was, that idea could never succeed.
Doug Carlsen sat hunched over, staring into the hole, his face a chalky white. “What am I going to do? We’ve got to save him!”
At that moment an object out in the bay caught someone’s attention, and they could make out that it was Mike. He bobbed up and down like a cork and was obviously unconscious, but strangely, his head remained fairly upright and clear of the water.
Doug leaped to his feet, shouting, “I’ve got to go get him!” Gordon yelled back, “Can you swim?” “Not that well, but he’s one of my kids—I’ve got to try!”
Greg Parker spoke up quickly. “I can swim,” he shouted against the beat of the surf. “I’m an Eagle Scout. I’ve got my lifesaving merit badge and I’m sure I can do it.”
So Greg, good looking, athletic, with lots of natural self-confidence, picked his way across the rocks and slipped down into the waves while Mike, meanwhile, bobbed closer and closer to the sharpened fingers of a dangerous outcropping of lava. With powerful strokes Greg reached Mike’s side and pulled him back into the open sea. He grabbed him across the chest in the swimmer’s carry. Mike was in shock, and Greg, holding him with one arm, attempted a sidestroke.
But where could they go? If they swam to shore, the pounding waves would batter them against the boulders. Water continually broke over their heads, and it was impossible not to take it into their lungs. Brackish sea water is salty and when swallowed causes involuntary retching action, sapping the strength from the strongest of swimmers, and Greg’s whole system was affected.
By this time they were back to 20 feet from the table. The helpless onlookers could barely distinguish Greg’s words: “Can’t make it. We need some help.”
A scream came from Steve Dudley’s lips: “Greg’s my best friend.” And before anyone could move, he dove into the raging water. Now instead of one boy to worry about, there were three.
But he succeeded in reaching the other two as Mike regained partial consciousness. Later, a typical teenager, Mike joked, “I knew I wasn’t in heaven because I looked around and Greg was there!”
He remembered the horror of being sucked through the blowhole by the rush of returning water and dropping with a thud onto a ledge 12 feet or so below. He had managed to wedge himself there temporarily but not for long. The flow of tons of water hurrying back to the sea dislodged his tenuous grip, and together they hurtled along a horizontal tunnel and were unceremoniously spewed out at its end.
Now Greg and Steve, working together, eased Mike farther out to sea away from the boulders, and they were comparatively safe for the moment. Gordon turned to the other group leader. “I’ve got to be by myself to think. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He stepped behind a huge rock where he could be alone and offered up a mighty appeal to the Lord. He promised everything he had or ever would have, anything God wanted of him he was willing to give if only He would help bring the boys safely out of the water.
Walking out from behind the barrier, Gordon noticed a small cove about 40 feet to the right. It was rocky still, but slightly sheltered. Perhaps if the boys could get to that point they could hang on until a Coast Guard helicopter could be summoned. They’d been fighting the waves for 20 minutes, and he could see they were tiring rapidly. Above the wind and waves he heard them pray, “Oh, God, please—help us!”
The boys on shore gathered, kneeling, into a prayer circle. Gordon stood off to one side. In the back of his head a definite thought sprang full-blown. It was almost, but not quite, a voice and the words were, “You’ve got to calm the seas.”
His first reaction was shock at the presumption that he could attempt to call forth that kind of power. Moses parted the waters, but he was plain Gordon Daniels. The thought of trying something so far out of his realm of identification scared him.
The impression came again and for a third time. “You’ve got to calm the seas.” It became all-consuming and pushed everything else to the background, except for the nagging worry, “Will I be held accountable someday for misusing my priesthood authority?”
He raised his arm toward heaven and in the name of Jesus Christ he commanded the waves to be still until the boys in peril were rescued. The prayer circle dispersed, and they gathered around Gordon as he repeated his command a second time.
Immediately the surges that had rolled in so relentlessly were calmer. Then two giant waves from opposing directions—directions where no waves had originated before—formed and came together in the shape of a V. Their point of intersection was exactly where the limp and nearly lifeless swimmers struggled to stay afloat. The point lifted and nudged them 45 feet closer to the cove.
One of the boys had previously run back to the pickup for a styrofoam cushion. He threw it toward the swimmers with every ounce of his strength as a second pair of waves converged in an identical manner and tossed them the remaining distance. Now they were within ten feet of the protection of the cove. Steve caught the cushion and slipped it under Mike like a surfboard and in seconds they were within their rescuers’ reach.
The remaining problem was that the shoreline of the protected area was no different than was the rest of that bleak, forbidding stretch. There were still boulders to deal with and the distinct possibility that those miraculous waves that appeared out of nowhere and boosted them, twice, might also dash them to pieces on the unyielding rocks.
Gordon started to run the instant he saw the V begin to form. He had to reach the cove before the exhausted swimmers did.
He waded in to midthigh and reached out for Mike. As he did, the waves hit again and a surge of water covered them both completely. With hands high over his head, he held his breath and passed Mike up through the water to waiting hands on the boulders above, then repeated the process with Greg. Steve let go of the cushion and was flung into the rocks before Gordon got to him. He was badly scraped on his ribs and sides.
Mike was incoherent and babbling, but all three were out of the water and they were alive.
Everybody felt drained. Roughly 45 emotional minutes had elapsed since the first startled cry of “Where’s Mike?” They sagged against the closest support they could find, expecting to rest there long enough to catch their breath. But Gordon was filled with a terrible urgency to get them completely away, and they started to climb.
One boy remembered traveler’s checks in the pockets of jeans they’d left tied together on the rocks of the cove. He started back to retrieve them. Gordon screamed out, “No! Leave them. Let’s get out of here!”
They carried Mike in their arms, and Gordon was the last to walk out. He turned for one last look, and a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds. It was nearly 5 o’clock. He was exhausted but grateful.
As he looked out over the sea, a new type of wave rushed toward him, not rough at the edges as the others had been, but smooth. He watched in fascination as a black hole opened up on its crest. The blackest part curled over and touched down precisely on top of the jeans (the spot they’d all occupied only seconds before, and where at least one boy would have been standing if allowed to go back). When it oozed back to sea the rocks were bare; all traces of the jeans had disappeared, swallowed up as completely as if they’d never existed.
They carried Mike as far up the cliffs as they could manage, and there they stopped to wrap him in semi-dry towels before heading back to camp. Quite a stir was created when they walked in late for dinner hour in dripping wet underwear.
The local fire department transported the three to a hospital in Kahalui. Their only injuries were cuts on Steve’s ribs and some salt water in Mike’s lungs. Doctors kept Mike overnight for observation and were amazed he lived to tell the tale. Others had fallen into that hole; no one else ever came out alive.
Steve and Greg were presented with the Key to Maui County by Mayor Cravalhe in recognition of their exceptional heroism.
As for Gordon, he still feels a chill thinking back to the hopelessness of that afternoon on the desolate shores of Maui, and a sense of wonder at being permitted to take part in the miracle. He hasn’t forgotten his promise.

I think of Elder Neal A. Maxwell and some of the challenges he faced during his teenage years. His parents were very poor. It was embarrassing to him that early on they did not have indoor bathroom facilities like so many of his friends. He raised pigs, and that didn’t gain him a lot of popularity at high school either. He suffered from severe acne that challenged his confidence and sense of self-worth. He wondered if he would ever be socially acceptable to others.
He was intensely interested in athletics—particularly basketball—and was good enough to be able to play on the team as a freshman. But in later years, he was cut from the team and the sport he loved. Consequently, as he described it, “I turned to the world of words.” That became an immense blessing for him in his political, university, and educational assignments and to all of us he now serves as one of the Lord’s prophets, seers, and revelators.

When I was in my final year of elementary school, all of the students went camping in Negros Occidental, Philippines, before our graduation. We pitched our tents at the campsite and had a good time exploring among the guava and mango trees. When night came, my parents came to check on me. They told me to be very careful, and then they left.
One of my classmates invited my friends and me to take a ride with him and his older cousin. His cousin drove us around, and we had fun until—to my surprise—my classmates brought out beer and cigarettes. We parked the car near the campsite, and they began to drink the beers and smoke in the car. They invited me to join them, but I refused.
I said I wouldn’t join in because smoking would shorten my lifespan. I also said that it is against my beliefs, because I have been taught the Word of Wisdom. I told them that the Word of Wisdom is a law that teaches that we should keep our bodies clean, because they are temples of God. I told them we must avoid smoking; drinking alcohol, tea, and coffee; and taking drugs. My best friend and I left the group and slept in our tent.
When I went home, I was happy to tell my dad that I had not joined my classmates but instead had taught them about the Word of Wisdom. I was happy the Holy Ghost was there to guide me and give me the courage to speak to my friends.
From this experience I learned that our obedience will be tested when we are on our own, without parents or others to support us. I feel grateful for the Word of Wisdom and am committed to obey it. When I am old enough, I will go on a mission and teach many people the importance of the Word of Wisdom.

Another dedicated pair of visiting teachers in the Democratic Republic of Congo walked great distances to visit a woman and her baby. These sisters prayerfully prepared a message and wanted to know how they could make a difference in the life of the dear woman they were visiting. The woman was thrilled with their visit. For her their visit was a message from heaven given just to her. As the visiting teachers met in her humble home, the sister, her family, and the visiting teachers were all lifted and blessed. The long walk didn’t seem a sacrifice. These visiting teachers had compassion, making a difference for good and blessing the life of this woman.

I was baptized with my wife and three children on September 27, 1980. When we became part of the Paniqui Philippines District, I was called to be on the district high council. As part of my calling, I visited seven branches. In each branch, I noticed that very few members had a copy of the scriptures in Tagalog. I began giving them the Liahona in Tagalog for Christmas. Even now, I still give away copies of the Liahona as Christmas presents.Pablo M. Butolan, Philippines

Yet with undaunted faith, President Woodruff requested sufficient funds from the Saints to finish the temple. Among those who sacrificed to meet that request was a young boy who had found employment on a nearby farm where, after several long hours of work, he was paid twenty-five cents. “I clutched the coin and ran home,” he recalled. He immediately sought out his father. “Pa, look what I have!” he announced. “The next time you go to Provo,” he continued, “I can get a new pair of Levis with this money.”

The father reminded his son of President Woodruff’s request. “President Wilford Woodruff needs ten cents of this quarter for the Salt Lake Temple. Here, I’ll give you fifteen cents for the coin, and we’ll go together to give the dime to our bishop, who will send it to Salt Lake City,” the father gently suggested.

With funds donated by many faithful Saints, the stonework was finished to the point that the last stone—the capstone—could be placed on the temple. Truly, constructing this temple had become a labor of faith and fierce endurance in the teeth of adversity.

It was with a sense of celebration, then, that the Saints gathered on 6 April 1892, thirty-nine years from the time the cornerstones were laid, to rejoice together in the laying of the capstone. President Woodruff, who had pounded in the marking stake forty-five years earlier, wrote impressively in his diary that it was “the greatest day the Latter-day Saints ever saw in these mountains.”

The city, already crowded for the semiannual conference, received thousands more who came for this historic event. Fifty thousand jammed the Temple Block, while thousands more watched from adjoining rooftops, windows, and even power poles. Many more thronged the streets.

Lorenzo Snow, then President of the Quorum of the Twelve, reminded the congregation that the first Hosanna Shout had been given in the heavens “when all the sons of God shouted for joy.” He exultantly urged the people, “We want every man and every woman to shout these words to the very extent of their voice, so that every house in this city may tremble, the people in every portion of this city may hear it and it may reach to the eternal worlds.”

At the climactic moment, Church Architect Joseph Don Carlos Young shouted from the top of the temple to President Woodruff, “The capstone is now ready to be laid!” The 85-year-old prophet “stepped to the front of the platform, in full sight of the assembled multitude in whose midst a solemn stillness reigned.” With uplifted hands, he exclaimed, “Attention, all ye house of Israel and all ye nations of the earth. We will now lay the top stone of the Temple of our God, the foundation of which was laid and dedicated by the Prophet, Seer and Revelator Brigham Young.” He pressed the switch, “a catch was released, and the top-most stone of the Temple fell into position.”

Then, under Elder Snow’s guidance, the Saints cried, “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! to God and the Lamb! Amen! Amen! Amen!” This heartfelt thanksgiving praise was repeated three times with increasing force as the participants waved white handkerchiefs in the air on the shouts of “Hosanna” and “Amen.”

John Lingren, a member of the Church, thrilled to the emotion of the moment. “The eyes of thousands were moistened with tears. … The ground seemed to tremble with the volume of the sound which sent forth its echoes to the surrounding hills.” Mary H. Nutting, a non-Mormon schoolteacher living in Utah, reported to friends back east that it “gave a peculiar sensation to hear the mighty shout! It made one realize very strongly that Mormonism is yet a great force, that it is by no means ‘dying out.’”

The congregation of thousands followed the clarion sound of the Tabernacle Choir in unitedly singing one of the Church’s most soul-stirring hymns, “The Spirit of God,” first sung at the dedication of the Kirtland Temple fifty-six years earlier and sung at the dedication of every temple since that time. “When the great song, ‘The Spirit of God Like A Fire is Burning’ was sung by the united audience,” wrote Charles Savage, Utah photographer and choir member, “a feeling different thrilled through me from any one I ever experienced. The hosannah shout was something long to be remembered and one I never expect to hear again during my life.”

Francis M. Lyman, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, proposed that those present “pledge themselves, collectively and individually, to furnish, as fast as it may be needed, all the money that may be required to complete the temple at the earliest time possible, so that the dedication may take place on April 6th, 1893.” John Dean, a temple construction laborer, reported that the result was “a deafening shout of ‘ayes’ from the assembled host” as they raised their right hands.

After the capstone-laying ceremony, many remained to see the unveiling of the statue of the angel Moroni. The statue, designed by Utah-born sculptor Cyrus Dallin, was made of hammered copper covered with 22-karat gold leaf. Before nightfall, the massive figure was lowered into position on the stone ball of the 64-meter-high central east spire.

In the year that followed, carpenters, painters, plasterers, and other skilled craftsmen worked unstintingly to complete the interior of the temple. The inside of the temple was adorned with fine wood and plaster ornamental carvings, beautiful murals and paintings, mirrors, elegant curtains and draperies, the best carpets and furniture available, fine light fixtures, chandeliers, and specially ordered stained-glass art windows. All things were made ready for the dedication ceremonies, which were to begin on 6 April 1893. In an effort to complete the temple on time, workers labored even on holidays. On Thanksgiving Day 1892, “nearly all the men were at work as usual,” one worker noted.

As the physical preparations began to wind down, there began a renewed spiritual preparation. In March 1893, the First Presidency issued an epistle calling for tender soul-searching and self-purification:

“The near approach of the date for the dedication of the Temple of our God moves us to express with some degree of fullness our feelings … to the end that in entering into that holy building we may all be found acceptable ourselves … and that the building … may also be acceptable unto the Lord. …

“We feel now that a time for reconciliation has come; that before entering into the Temple to present ourselves before the Lord in solemn assembly, we shall divest ourselves of every harsh and unkind feeling against each other; that not only our bickerings shall cease, but that the cause of them shall be removed, and every sentiment that prompted and has maintained them shall be dispelled; that we shall confess our sins one to another, and ask forgiveness one of another; that we shall plead with the Lord for the spirit of repentance … so that in humbling ourselves before Him and seeking forgiveness from each other, we shall yield that charity and generosity to those who crave our forgiveness that we ask for and expect from Heaven. …

“Asking God’s blessing upon you all in your endeavor to carry out this counsel, and desirous of seeing it take the form of a united effort on the part of the whole people, we suggest that Saturday, March 25th, 1893, be set apart as a day of fasting and prayer.”

Some Saints began arriving in the city weeks before April 1893 general conference. Lucy Flake and her husband started their trip from Arizona to Utah on 8 March 1893. “We went by team,” she noted in her journal, “as we hadn’t the money to go on train.” The group “consisted of William, myself, Sister Lanning, Joel and John, Henry and Emma Tanner and two of their children,” she wrote. The journey by wagon was “a cold hard trip, through snow and mud.” At Beaver, Utah, the Flake family finally boarded a train. “William and I took our first train ride together,” Lucy recalled. “We went with a large company of our friends and relatives from Beaver City to Salt Lake. We were joined at every station by others who were going to the Dedication.”

The evening before the first dedication service, President Woodruff conducted nonmember guests through the building on a first-of-its-kind tour. This act was a step in reconciliation by Church leaders anxious to rebuild harmony with non-Mormon neighbors after decades of hostility. Even federally appointed Utah Territorial Supreme Court justice Charles S. Zane, a longtime critic of the Church, was impressed by the quality of design, decorations, and craftsmanship. “The building is furnished opulently,” he noted in his journal after attending the open house.

Finally, the culmination of forty years of effort and sacrifice climaxed when President Woodruff entered the temple the morning of 6 April 1893. “The Temple Block gates opened at 8:30, and the street was packed long before that hour,” one priesthood leader noted. Two hours were required “to admit, one by one, the 2200 people” into the large upper assembly hall of the temple.

Thomas Griggs, a member of the Tabernacle Choir, arrived at the south gate at 8:20, but the line was so long that “it was 9:55 a.m. when I was 10 feet [3 meters] from the [gate],” he wrote. “Wind, dust and a little rain had come and it was very uncomfortable, to be ended by the door keeper announcing … ‘No more can be admitted.’ … Being well known as a member of the choir [I was] … soon at the south west entrance and hurriedly passed through.”

The focus of the service was the prayer of dedication offered by the aged prophet, “kneeling on a plush covered stool provided for the purpose” and reading the prayer he had prepared that would be read in each of the successive forty-one sessions.

Brigham Young Academy student Amy Brown recalled: “It was one of the most thrilling spiritual experiences of my life. … [As President Woodruff] stood there before the people with hair and beard as white as snow, the essence of purity, gentleness, and faithfulness, he reminded me of the prophets of old.”

For President Woodruff, the occasion was the fulfillment of a dream. He confided in his journal, “Near[ly] fifty years ago while in the city of Boston I had a vision of going with the Saints to the Rocky Mountains building a temple and I dedicated it.”

During the dedication sessions the Saints experienced an outpouring of the Spirit in the temple. The “spirit of God filled the house,” noted a participant. Susa Young Gates, who served as official stenographer for the dedication services, recalled: “The early days of April in the year 1893 were heavy with storm and gloom. A leaden sky stretched over the earth; every day the rain beat down upon it, and the storm-winds swept over it with terrific force. Yet the brightness and the glory of those days far outshone the gloom.” (See pages 44–48 of this issue.)

Annie Cannon Wells, an editorial contributor to the Woman’s Exponent in Salt Lake City, wrote, “I am only one of thousands who have watched the rearing of those walls and seemed to be a part of them, so much have our thoughts dwelt upon and longed for the day of completion. … This dedication is to the Saints the greatest event for many years. How long we have watched the building of the Temple and as stone has been laid upon stone our faith and prayers have been offered for the safe and perfect completion of the building and now that it is so handsomely completed well may we feel proud and happy.”

For many of the Saints, the temple dedication provided a spiritual seal for their efforts to gather with the people of God in the Rocky Mountains. It also confirmed the Lord’s acceptance of the covenants they had made with him and the sacrifices entailed in fulfilling the vision of modern and ancient prophets that a temple would be “established in the tops of the mountains” in the last days.

Another Church leader, Elder J. Golden Kimball, expressed the theme of united effort and sacrifice when he spoke in general conference in 1915. He said of the Salt Lake Temple, “Every stone in it is a sermon to me. It tells of suffering, it tells of sacrifice, it preaches—every rock in it, preaches a discourse. When it was dedicated, it seemed to me that it was the greatest sermon that has ever been preached since the Sermon on the Mount. … Every window, every steeple, everything about the Temple speaks of the things of God, and gives evidence of the faith of the people who built it.”