Gospel Story Finder

Sometimes I think about the little notes that Mom puts in my school lunch box. One last week read, “Thanks for clearing the table last night. I love you.” My best friend, Matt Nielsen, read it, and at first I was kind of embarrassed, but then he said that I had a cool mom. So I showed him two other notes that I had in my coat pocket, along with the big marble I won from Larkin Gipson, the best marble player ever.
Right now I’m looking down at the water under the bridge and thinking about getting baptized next Saturday. I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. I’m glad that the water in the font will be warm and not cold like the water under the bridge. A kid could freeze in it. And the water in the font will be deeper than in the creek because I have to go all the way under, just as Jesus did.
A pale gold leaf just dropped off a big cottonwood tree and landed on the water, and right beside it there is something else reflected in the water—my dad! He often comes and sits beside me, and we look and listen and think together.
Yes, I like it here. The red and yellow woods. The bridge. My dad. And that new feeling that I keep feeling on the inside—warm, deep down.
Maybe I’ll show the missionaries my secret bridge. After all, they shared something special with me!

The glistening morning sun cast its warming rays over the dilapidated old barn, transforming it into a painter’s dream. On the sagging barn door was a large poster—
STRAY-ANIMAL AUCTION
June 10, 1894—10:00 A.M.
All critters sold to highest bidder
CASH ONLY
Clouds of dust rose from all the roads leading to the barn as a colorful crowd began to gather. There were cowpunchers in worn chaps and ten-gallon Stetsons, sitting cross-legged in their saddles, and be-whiskered farmers in bib overalls and straw hats, tying their horses and wagons to fence rails. A sprinkling of better-dressed townsfolk arrived in black-top buggies. A pair of Navajo Indians had taken up squatter’s rights beside the barn, hoping to trade one of their bright handmade blankets for a goat or a sheep.
Wow! thought nine-year-old T. J. as he scrambled to the top of the high pole fence and stared down at the corral filled with animals churning about. This is better than a circus. He opened his little, ragged purse and counted his coins for the umpteenth time, “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two cents. It’s not much, but I don’t care. I’m going to bid anyway!”
The old auctioneer chided him, “Back again, T. J.? Are you going to buy yourself a horse today?”
He’s just poking fun at me, T. J. thought and gave him a disgusted look. “I’ll show you,” he muttered to himself. “I’m really going to bid today.”
In the corral beneath T. J. were several large horses, three old milk cows, a young steer with long horns, two nanny goats, and four sheep.
The auctioneer climbed on top of the auction box. Just as he was about to speak, T. J. lost his balance and plunged headlong into the corral, landing on the back of the steer. The startled animal took off, kicking and bellowing. T. J. grabbed hold of its horns and managed to stay on top as it bucked and plowed in and out among the other frightened animals.
Everyone clapped and hollered, “Hang in there, T. J.” “You can do it.” “Whoopee!”
Suddenly the steer stopped, and T. J. sailed off, landing sprawled out in the dust of the smelly corral. Everyone cheered.
“Humph,” grunted the auctioneer. “Now that the show’s over, we’ll get started.”
A big, bay mare was led out for inspection. “How much am I bid for this fine mare?” the auctioneer asked.
Before anyone else could say anything, T. J. waved his arms wildly and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Everybody snickered, and one of the men hollered, “Well, kid, I’ll just have to bid ten dollars and sixty-two cents.”
T. J.’s hopes were dashed. The horse was eventually sold for eighteen dollars and sixty-two cents. Then the next horse was brought forward.
“How much am I bid for this fine gelding?” the auctioneer queried.
Once again young T. J. bravely shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
This time the crowd really laughed and hooted. After several bids, the gelding sold for twenty-two dollars and sixty-two cents. Still determined, T. J. bid unsuccessfully on the third horse.
For a change of pace the auctioneer sold two milk cows and a sheep. Soon there was only one horse left, another mare. As she was led out for display, T. J. could see big, shiny patches of hide here and there between dust and dirt where she had been rolling around in the smelly corral. “All she needs is to be brushed and wiped down,” T. J. sighed. “She’s just beautiful, and I want her.”
As he longingly gazed at the mare, he heard the auctioneer roar with feigned admiration, “I’ve saved the best for last! How much am I bid for this beauty?”
T. J. was shocked to hear Old Pete sneer, “The best? Why she’s the worst-looking critter I’ve seen in all my life. She must be sick, and you must be crazy!”
Pete’s son added, “Yeah, Pa! Worse still, I hear that she’s a stumpsucker.”
Someone else volunteered, “Besides that, I know for a fact that she has a mean streak a mile wide.”
Then they all stopped talking and looked at T. J. The boy felt sorry for that horse; he even loved her. And he didn’t believe one word of what he’d just heard. But he’d given up all hope of being able to buy a horse with sixty-two cents. He just sat there, staring sadly at the horse he wanted so badly. Then he heard a farmer say, “Tell you what—I’ll bid five cents for the nag.”
Somebody else hollered, “I’ll go you one better, Jake. I bid twenty-five cents!”
Old Pete jumped up and shouted, “I’m going to get that mare for fifty-five cents!”
T. J. came to life and wildly waved both arms and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Dead silence followed. The auctioneer was very disgruntled to have the bidding go sour. In fact, he was furious. “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. How about ten dollars and sixty-two cents?”
Not a single word was spoken; not a single head nodded.
“Then how about five dollars and sixty-two cents?”
When no one offered to up the bid, he exploded, “Well, I’m not going to sell this horse for sixty-two cents, and that’s final!”
“Oh, yes, you are!” Old Pete yelled. “You’ll sell to the highest bidder, or none of us are paying for our animals.”
The other men shouted in agreement.
Realizing that the men meant business, the auctioneer meekly declared, “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. Do I hear any more bids? Going once, going twice, …” Down went the gavel. “Sold to T. J. for sixty-two cents.”
The crowed went wild. They whistled and clapped and threw their hats into the air and slapped each other on the back. T. J. was speechless. He scrambled down off the fence and reached into his pocket for his purse—but it was gone! “I’ve lost my money!” he wailed. He scurried under the fence and ran frantically in and out among the startled animals.
“Hold on, everybody. T. J.’s lost his purse!” shouted Old Pete as he jumped down and began to help T. J. search. Soon there were as many men in the corral as there were animals, all running hither and thither. Dogs were barking, cows were bellowing, and sheep were bleating.
All at once T. J. spied his purse in the muck under the hoof of a cow. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” he screamed.
“Hurray!” shouted the men as Old Pete lifted T. J. over the fence.
T. J. counted out his sixty-two cents for the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper gave him a leg up, and there sat T. J. astride his very own horse. “I’m going to call her Beauty,” he proudly announced, lovingly stroking her tangled mane, “‘cause she’s the most beautiful horse in the world, and she’s all mine.”

A wise first step is to guide each deacon to a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling. In one ward, this lesson was effectively taught pertaining to the collection of fast offerings.

On fast day, the ward members were visited by deacons and teachers so that each family could make a contribution. The deacons were a bit disgruntled, having to arise earlier than usual to fulfill this assignment.

The inspiration came for the bishopric to take a busload of the deacons and teachers to Welfare Square here in Salt Lake City. Here they saw needy children receiving new shoes and other items of clothing. Here they witnessed empty baskets being filled with groceries. There was no money exchanged. One brief comment was made: “Young men, this is what the money you collect on fast day provides—even food, clothing, and shelter.” The Aaronic Priesthood young men smiled more, stepped higher, and served with a willing mind in the filling of their assignments.

About twenty-two years ago, the late Senator Joseph McCarthy was finally condemned by his colleagues. I was involved in a peripheral way in that episode. I remember, after the votes were taken, that McCarthy went off the Senate floor into a small room with three or four reporters. I went in to watch the final scene. The reporters, who had over the months disagreed with him, in some ways still liked him. In their final exchanges in that room I saw how symbiotic sensationalism can be. McCarthy had been good copy, and now it was over. Some commentators concluded that erring politicians get their just due, that “time wounds all heels.” But I saw, too, the realities that crucial causes often fall into the hands of those least able to champion them effectively and also that the media use people—sometimes cruelly.

The third week of every month we hold a special home evening for a large group of ward members who come to my home. But one night was a particularly memorable one for everyone involved.
Our group of “regulars” consists of widows, widowers, recent converts, new move-ins, and others. We have something to eat, good conversation, and what we have come to call our “sharing time”—when one or two people tell the rest of us about their lives and let us get to know them better.
We had all been particularly eager to get to know one older brother and his newly converted wife and wanted to include them in our family home evenings. But although they always came to church, it seemed they could never come to our monthly gathering. As a result, I was really happy one week when they said they would join us.
Then, the evening before our gathering, this brother telephoned. My heart sank when I heard his voice, and I teasingly said, “Don’t tell me you are going to turn us down again and not come!” Laughingly he responded, “Wait until you hear why we can’t make it this time. The bishop called me this afternoon and said I’ve been cleared for rebaptism.”
I had always assumed that he was a member in full fellowship in the Church and was thrilled to hear the news. He continued to tell me that the wait had been long and painful for him. “You just can’t imagine what this means to me,” he said. “I want to be baptized immediately. The ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow.” I expressed disappointment that none of us could attend because of our planned home evening, but wished him well.
But when the next evening arrived, a telephone call with the frantic voice of our bishop’s wife on the other end interrupted our evening’s preparations. The bishop, a doctor, had been called to the hospital for an emergency, she explained. To make matters worse, the ward mission leader had been called out of town on business. The brother to be baptized was waiting at the chapel with a few members of his family.
While the bishop’s wife tried to contact the stake president, my husband explained to our home evening group, “No one is at the chapel but the man’s family,” he said. “Would you all be willing to go to the chapel and support this brother in this important event of his life?”
His words filled our hearts with the Spirit. We quickly drove to the chapel to meet a worried stake president. As we took our seats, a strong spirit filled the room, so much so that tears began filling everyone’s eyes. When the brother to be baptized walked out and saw all of the tearful, smiling faces—full of support and love for him—he whispered, “I just knew everything was going to turn out all right and that you were all going to be here.”
What followed was a powerful, beautiful meeting I’m sure none of us will ever forget. When it was over, we congratulated our newly baptized brother and said, “We love you.” He hugged us, weeping openly. We returned to our home evening and enjoyed a profoundly spiritual night together, bearing testimonies of baptism, repentance, and the wonders of the gospel.

Let me conclude by telling you that at eighty years of age my father had to have his leg amputated, and because of that operation the last year of his life was particularly difficult. At his funeral Elder Thomas S. Monson spoke. He said:

I suppose his greatest battle has occurred in the last few months, but he rose to the occasion, and he demonstrated to each one of us that he is the man that we knew him to be. I’ve seen courage many times—in the navy, in life. I’ve read about courage. But I don’t know when I’ve seen courage to excel that of my friend as he overcame the handicap of his lost limb and, to the amazement of the doctors, at his age developed the ability to use his artificial limb in such a way that he could be proud of his accomplishment and could do many things that other people felt he never again would do.

These words and my father’s example have been a rich legacy of continuing strength for me and for my family, far more important than the earthly treasures of wealth or position he probably would like to have left us, but didn’t.

As impressive as each of the presenters was that night, describing the various accomplishments of President Nelson, I was even more spellbound by a conversation I struck up with a man seated next to me in the audience. He didn't know who I was, but he knew President Nelson, then Dr. Nelson, director of the Thoracic Surgery Residency Program of the University of Utah Medical School in 1955.

This man described to me how he was a student of President Nelson's at the time. He shared with me many memories, affirming what I was hearing from the lectern. Most interesting to me was his description of the teaching style of President Nelson, which he said brought with it a large measure of notoriety. He explained that much of the teaching of residents who were to become heart surgeons was conducted by faculty members in the operating room. Here they observed and performed surgery under faculty supervision--which served as a laboratory classroom. He shared that the operating room environment under certain faculty surgeons was chaotic, competitive, filled with ego--a pressure cooker where resident surgeons felt their career was on the line each and every moment. He described how it was very difficult, sometimes even demeaning. He then explained the unique environment found in President Nelson's operating room. It was a peaceful, calm, and dignified atmosphere. Residents were treated with deep respect. However, following the demonstration of a procedure, Dr. Nelson expected the highest standard of performance from each of the residents. This man described how the best patient outcomes and the best surgeons came out of Dr. Nelson's operating room. This doesn't surprise me at all. This is the exact leadership style that I have experienced and observed firsthand and have been the recipient of in the Quorum of the Twelve. I feel that I have been, in a sense, one of his "residents in training."

As I went into surgery a few years ago, I was still conscious when the doctors and nurses were standing around me waiting, I said to the specialist, “There are numerous people full of faith who are praying for you this morning.” He quietly replied, “I’ll need their prayers.” It is my firm conviction that the numerous prayers were heard, that his hand was steadied and guided, that his judgment increased, and that as a result of the blessings of the Lord, healing followed and my voice returned to a satisfactory extent. The skeptic might have other answers.

Certainly there are times when firmness, tempered with love, is required. I like the example of a well-known lecturer who, after the speech to a group of college students, was answering questions from the audience. One young man prefaced his question by commenting on some of the negative effects of television on our society. In particular, he mentioned “women and their lousy soap operas.”
The speaker didn’t let the remark pass. “Before I try to answer your question,” he said, with kindness in his voice, “let me say that I am uncomfortable with the feelings you expressed about women and soap operas. I think it’s an unfair and inaccurate stereotype. And even if it were true, we men have enough bad habits of our own that we should be very timid indeed about giving any kind of criticism …” And then he went on in a friendly way.
No one in the audience was offended. In fact, an invisible wave of approval swept through the audience, and, to his credit, the young man nodded, acknowledging that he felt chastened but not offended. The rest of the discussion was very relaxed and open.

Hai Lan and his father climbed out of the sampan (boat) carrying a basket of fish.
“Such a hot day to fish,” Hai Lan said, wiping his sweaty face. “And such hard work! All day since before the sun we worked, and only these few fish have we to sell.”
“It will be better tomorrow, my son.”
“That is what you always say, my father. But it is not always so.”
“The fish we catch buy us food and shelter,” Father reminded. “What more can one wish for?”
“I wish for an easier way,” Hai Lan answered.
Father laughed. “There is no easier way, my son. Nothing worthwhile is easy.”
Silently the two walked to the marketplace, but Hai Lan’s mind was full. I am tired of the scorching heat on my head and the blisters from fish nets on my hands, he thought. There must be an easier way!
They soon reached the market and traded their fish for vegetables and rice and bamboo shoots. Then they started for home.
“Wait!” Father said. “There is the old storyteller. Let us hear his tale. It will give our minds rest.”
But Hai Lan’s mind could not rest. He didn’t even hear the old man’s story.
A storyteller! he thought. That is much easier than being a fisherman. All the old man does is sit on his bamboo stool in the shade and talk while people drop pennies in his basket. That is what I want to be—a storyteller!
Hai Lan was so excited he could hardly keep from running home. When they finally arrived at their mud and straw hut, he could barely sit still through dinner.
“I will make my father proud,” he said to himself. “I will make us rich! I will buy us a nice new house so we will no longer live in a hut. And Grandfather’s eyes will regain the sparkle they lost when he became too old to go out with us on the sampan. Now he will be able to spend his old days in comfort.”
“What is wrong with the boy?” Grandfather asked Father after they had eaten.
“I do not know,” Father said. “He has acted strangely ever since we stopped to hear the old storyteller at the marketplace.”
“He must have told a very good story,” Grandfather said, smiling.
Father shook his head and said, “It was only about the fishing wars. I do not know what is wrong with the boy.”
Hai Lan wanted his plan to be a surprise. He waited until time for bed and then said, “Father, I think I need a day of rest. Tomorrow I do not wish to go on the sampan.”
“Then how will you earn money to go to school?” Father asked.
“I can earn it another day.” Hai Lan smiled as he thought of his surprise.
“Let him go,” Grandfather said. “He is restless and needs a change.”
“But I need his help,” Father protested.
“I will go with you tomorrow,” Grandfather promised. “These old hands have not forgotten the feel of the sampan sails or the fish nets.”
Father sat silently for a moment. Finally he said, “All right, my son, but only for one day. I do not want a lazy son.”
Hai Lan lay on his bamboo mat and listened to the sounds of night as he thought of the many things he would buy.
The next morning while it was still dark, Hai Lan heard the men leave, but he did not get up. He knew that storytellers could sleep until long after sunrise. Their work did not begin until the market opened and the streets were crowded.
Already, he thought, I like this new work.
Much later that morning Hai Lan got up and dressed in his finest suit of clothes. He ate a bowl of rice, took a basket and bamboo stool, and left for the marketplace.
He found just the right spot next to the bamboo shop where all the tourists came. There he put his stool in the shade, placed his basket by his feet, and waited for the people to gather. He waited and waited, but no one stopped. Suddenly he realized that the people did not know why he was sitting there.
“Stories, stories from this storyteller,” he called just like the old storytellers. “Stories for your ears to hear and for your lips to smile at.”
“Oh, look!” a lady cried. “A little boy storyteller.” She stopped to listen, and then one by one others stopped in the shade too, until finally a large crowd had gathered.
Hai Lan smiled as he imagined all the pennies the people would drop in his basket. He sat back on the stool, tilted his straw hat back as he had seen the old storytellers do, and began to speak.
“Once upon a time …” So far Hai Lan had done just as the old storytellers, but suddenly he realized he could not tell their stories. That would be stealing. He must tell his own stories. But he had none!
“Once upon a time …” he said again, but he could not think of a story.
“Once upon a time …” he tried once more, but still he could think of nothing.
“That is what you said,” a man shouted, and the crowd began to laugh.
Hai Lan felt his face grow hot, hotter than the sun shining down on the sampan. His palms began to perspire. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and began again.
“Once upon a time … a … a … there was a man.” Hai Lan could not think of anything more.
“You should wait until you are a man,” someone shouted, and the crowd roared with laughter as they picked up their baskets and left.
Hai Lan’s eyes stung with tears of shame, but he held them in his eyes. It would even be worse if now he were to cry!
“I thought it would be so easy,” he said to himself as he pulled the straw hat down to cover his face. “But Father must be right. Nothing worthwhile is easy.”
Being very careful to walk behind the shops where few people could see him, Hai Lan went back to the hut. He put the stool and empty basket back and quickly changed his clothes. Then he went down to the river to wait for Father and Grandfather. Soon the sampan drew near.
I hope they will never know how I have shamed them, Hai Lan thought as the men stepped out of the sampan.
“Hello,” Grandfather greeted. “What a wonderful day it has been!”
Hai Lan looked in the basket, expecting to see it filled with fish. “But you do not even have as many fish as yesterday,” Hai Lan cried.
“Oh, but it was wonderful just to have the nets in my hands, to move with the rhythm of the sampan, and to feel the marvelous sun on my head,” Grandfather said.
Hai Lan could see the old sparkle had returned to Grandfather’s eyes.
It is his work he longs for, Hai Lan decided, not the comforts money can buy.
“I will tell you something, my son’s son,” Grandfather began. “There is nothing like good work to make a man’s soul happy.”
“I will remember that,” Hai Lan said, forgetting his shame as he thought about his grandfather’s words. “And I am ready to go out with my father tomorrow.”
“That is well,” Father said. “One day for my father is good, but he is too old for two.”
“Together we will work hard and catch many, many fish,” Hai Lan said. “You will see, my father.”
And Hai Lan bowed his head and vowed that he would always work hard and make his father proud to have such a son.

One of my favorite books is the British classic Jane Eyre, written by Charlotte Brontë and published in 1847. The main character, Jane Eyre, is a penniless, teenage orphan who exemplifies what it means to be true. In this fictional account, a man, Mr. Rochester, loves Miss Eyre but is unable to marry her. Instead, he begs Miss Eyre to live with him without the benefit of marriage. Miss Eyre loves Mr. Rochester as well, and for a moment she is tempted, asking herself, “Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?”
Quickly Jane’s conscience answers: “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God. … Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this. … If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed. … Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.”8
In a desperate moment of temptation, Jane Eyre was true to her beliefs, she trusted in the law given by God, and she planted her foot in resistance to temptation.

About Sister Ferguson
Mary Tyndale Baxter Ferguson (1826–1909) was born in Glasgow, Scotland, and orphaned at a young age. After she was introduced to Mormon missionaries, Sister Ferguson was apprehensive, but the more she studied, the more she knew that the Church was true. She was baptized in October 1846 and recorded that as a result, “all my companions left me and I had my good name cast out as evil, for the gospel’s sake.”
At a Church conference in Scotland, Mary met John Baxter, whom she married in 1849. They emigrated to the United States in 1851. She nursed her husband through his poor health, the result of years of working in a coal mine. John died in 1869, leaving Mary to care for their seven children. Her obituary later noted her “hard struggle to rear and care for so large a family of small children, but the Lord heard her cry and blessed her and fitted her back for its heavy burden.”
Sister Ferguson supported her family as a nurse and midwife. She eventually remarried and moved to Spanish Fork, Utah, serving for several years as president of the Relief Society there. Her experiences revealed her commitment to God despite the challenges of her life. The talk excerpted here was given to young women in 1879.

An example of a person who was more concerned about others than herself is Queen Liliuokalani, Hawaii’s last reigning monarch. In January 1893, a group of American and European businessmen determined to overthrow the Hawaiian Kingdom and depose the queen. John L. Stevens, a U.S. government official, ordered a company of U.S. marines from the USS Boston to come ashore in order to ostensibly preserve neutrality. This action put the Queen in a very precarious situation. She could have ordered the military under her command to confront the Marines. However, in an official statement Queen Liliuokalani said: “to avoid any collision of armed forces and perhaps the loss of life… I do yield my authority.”

The Queen chose to give up her throne in order to avoid bloodshed. Her concern for the lives of her people exceeded her desire for her own political power. Her nobility and her love for her people were evident in her desire to protect them from physical harm. Her actions stand in sharp contrast to some heads of nations who are willing to sacrifice their own people in order to maintain their own power.

As a youth he decided early to read the scriptures. According to his sister Edith, he had read the Book of Mormon twice by the time he was ten.

“When I was a small boy, too young to hold the Aaronic Priesthood,” President Smith remembered, “my father placed a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hands with the request that I read it. I received this Nephite record with thanksgiving and applied myself to the task which had been assigned to me. There are certain passages that have been stamped upon my mind, and I have never forgotten them.”

I will never forget a sauna-hot day in the lush rain forest of southeastern Nigeria. My husband and I had traveled to one of the most remote locations in our mission so he could conduct temple recommend interviews with members in the Ikot Eyo district. Some in this growing district had been Church members less than two years. All the members lived 3,000 miles away from the nearest temple in Johannesburg, South Africa. None had received their temple endowment.
These members knew the appointed day each month we would come to their district, but even we didn’t know the exact hour we would arrive; nor could we call, for telephones were rare in that part of West Africa. So these committed African Saints gathered early in the morning to wait all day if necessary for their temple recommend interviews. When we arrived, I noticed among those waiting in the searing heat were two Relief Society sisters dressed in bold-patterned wrappers, white blouses, and the traditional African head-ties.
Many hours later, after all the interviews were completed, as my husband and I drove back along that sandy jungle trail, we were stunned when we saw these two sisters still walking. We realized they had trekked from their village—a distance of 18 miles round trip—just to obtain a temple recommend they knew they would never have the privilege of using.
These Nigerian Saints believed the counsel of President Howard W. Hunter: “It would please the Lord for every adult member to be worthy of—and to carry—a current temple recommend, even if proximity to a temple does not allow immediate or frequent use of it.” In her hand, carefully wrapped in a clean handkerchief, each sister carried her precious temple recommend. I carry their examples of faith carefully wrapped in my heart.

Be clean for your own peace of mind. I spoke the other day with a young man who wished to go on a mission. In previous months he had been immoral. He and the girl with whom he had been associated thought they had done a clever thing. But he had come to realize that he had taken from her something precious that could never be restored, and that he had lost something of his own for which there was no compensation. With tears running down his cheeks he made his own judgment that he was unworthy to go into the world to teach to others a standard of behavior he had been unable to live himself. He had neither peace nor gladness.

Jeffrey Holland’s father, Frank, was a different kind of pioneer. An Irish convert to the Church, Frank ended his formal schooling with the seventh grade. But he diligently sought education on his own, becoming a public accountant and civic leader in St. George. Some who came under his influence still speak of the impact of his love of the Book of Mormon and still remember his Sunday School lessons. He was the kind of father who helped organize Little League baseball in the community after his son lamented that there were no baseball teams for boys his age.

Let me share another experience where the healing balm of music brought comfort at a time of death and taught THE central doctrine of Heavenly Father’s plan.

While doing some graduate study in London, England, I was introduced to the recordings of a Welsh boy soprano. I brought home some cassette tapes (this was long before we had digital music files) and shared them with anyone that would listen. At that time, I was living with the Dixons, the parents of a friend I had served with in the mission field and worked with in Africa, while I completed my master’s degree in Provo.

On the fourth of July, again, early in the morning, I received a call that my father had died. He had been ill, and unlike my brother Jim, his death was more expected.

That evening to celebrate the Independence Day holiday, the Dixons invited family and friends over, and since one of them was a music teacher, Sister Dixon played the recordings I had brought from London. One piece we all loved the most, and I have invited a nephew, Jared Wells, studying now in Provo, to sing a portion of it for you through a recording. He is accompanied by his mother.

He will sing “I Know My Redeemer Liveth” from Handel’s Messiah. The words come from Job 19:25-26 and 1 Corinthians 15.

"For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; And though after my skins worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God." (Job 19: 25-26)

"For now is Christ risen from the dead and become the first fruits of them that slept." (1 Corinthians 15:20)

[Interlude: "I Know My Redeemer Liveth"]

Imagine how I felt trying to sit with visitors I didn’t know very well and listen to that music when my father had just died. I couldn’t do it. I had to leave the room, but neither could I go far away. The music and the message pulled me strongly to them. Job’s testimony and the music Handel wrote to beautify that testimony kept me just out of sight on the stairs.

In the verses previous to those used by Handel in his music, Job says, "Oh, that my words were now written! Oh that they were printed in a book! That they were graven with an iron pen and lead in rock for ever!" (Job 19:23-24)

Well, these words are in a book, and they are engraved on my heart and soul forever. That day, as I sat on the stairs just out of sight, crying about the death of my father and listening to this magnificent music, a testimony came into my heart of the actuality of the resurrection and of our redemption from death and hell by the power and Atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ. Although my father had just died, he would again, in his body, see God, and I would see my father again, also.

That testimony, that light of true doctrine and the comfort from that experience with a song of redeeming love, has not left me in 27 years! Instead of being a sad memory, it is a memory filled with light and warmth and love and truth.

Bodyboarding has been my greatest passion since I discovered it. It is my outlet, my decompression. From the outset, I always wanted to excel in it.
To get to the highest level, I practiced tirelessly, surfing all day whenever possible. I focused on my goal to become the best drop-knee rider in Tahiti. I won the title two or three times in that category at the Tahiti Taapuna Master surfing tournament as well as at other tournaments.
When I started, the competitions gave me a thrill, and I wanted to show everyone how good I was. Soon, I started getting offers from local and overseas sponsors.
Tournament finals are always held on Sunday, and I often had arguments with my wife about competing on the Lord’s day. She was right. Surfing was taking over too much of my life, but I didn’t want to lose my sponsors. Sponsors allowed me access to top-end, professional surfing equipment, which is expensive. I had to make a choice.
My wife and children motivate me to be an example of faith. They help me determine what I want to become. And of course, my personal faith, the upbringing I received from my parents and leaders, the example of others who have made sacrifices to honor the Sabbath, and the impressions I received from the Spirit also helped me to make my decision. I decided to give priority to my responsibilities as a husband, father, and member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
When I decided to devote myself entirely to the Lord on Sunday, I explained to my sponsors why I no longer surf in the finals on Sunday. I told them that my spiritual and family life takes precedence.
They supported me in my choice. In return, out of respect for Sunday, they asked me to do photo shoots and surf videos on other days of the week. My friends in the circuit also know and respect my religious beliefs and often ask me to pray for them.
I’ve qualified for the finals of the Taapuna Master every year since I turned pro, but I stopped competing on Sunday after winning the title in 2006. I still compete, but now, when they call my name for the finals on Sunday, everyone knows I won’t be there.

I trudged back from the bathroom, my stomach rumbling and my head pounding. Falling back into bed, I grimaced. For the second time in two months, I was sick with a stomach virus. I had missed school classes and work. I could hear others having a good time and laughing in the kitchen, but I was curled up in bed, feeling miserable.
I pulled the blankets tighter around me and turned to face the wall. I was frustrated, but I didn’t know where to aim my anger. It wasn’t my fault I got sick. The more I dwelt on the injustice of it all, the more upset I became. My frustration turned into sadness, and I started crying. I just wanted the pain to go away. Hoping for some type of encouragement, I reached for the scriptures and turned to 3 Nephi 17, my reading for the day. I was amazed by the words of comfort found in verse 7:
“Have ye any that are sick among you … or that are afflicted in any manner? Bring them hither and I will heal them, for I have compassion upon you; my bowels are filled with mercy.”
I was still crying, but I was no longer upset. Instead of dwelling on the pain, I focused on the invitation of the Savior to come unto Him and be healed. I read the chapter over and over, lingering on the phrase “all the multitude, with one accord, did go forth with their sick and their afflicted, … and he did heal them every one as they were brought forth unto him” (3 Nephi 17:9).
The Savior was opening His arms to me, inviting me to be healed, if not of the virus, then definitely of my frustration at that moment.
Reading that chapter didn’t stop the stomach pains or headache, but that night the words of the Savior healed my heart. I was no longer bitter, because I understood that this stomach virus, like other trials, was simply a fact of life. Heavenly Father knew I was sick, and although He didn’t instantly cure me, He reminded me of the individual love and concern He feels for each of His children. This love is manifest through the gift of His Son, Jesus Christ, who came to show us compassion. As we soften our hearts and come to the Savior with sufficient faith, we can all receive His healing grace.