Gospel Story Finder

The power and influence one person can have is enormous. It was one Sarah Ann Meeks who paid what seemed to be her ultimate sacrifice as she stood alone on the doorstep of her home in far-off England nearly a century and a half ago. Her father met her there with a small bundle containing a few of her belongings and with these words, “You join that church and you must never set foot in my home again.” Unfortunately that was the last she saw of her family. Alone? Very much alone! She could have bowed to that impossible, heart-wrenching rejection. But no—she loved the Lord. She had been touched by the Spirit and knew that the gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored to the earth in its fulness. She knew that she must stand as a witness to the truthfulness of this message. She knew that she could make a difference.
From that one stalwart woman has sprung a progeny of faithful Latter-day Saints difficult to number. Literally hundreds of her descendants have stood as witnesses all around the world testifying to the reality of the Restoration of the gospel—the same message she embraced as she stood alone. One of those descendants now stands here as an especial witness of the Savior Jesus Christ, bearing solemn testimony to all the world that God the Eternal Father lives, that Jesus is the Christ, the Savior of the world, and that leading The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints today is a living and loving prophet of God, serving with all the meaning that sacred title implies.

I was so excited to know if Heavenly Father wanted me to be a member of the Church or not and to know if the Book of Mormon was true. But I was confused about how to get an answer. My mom told me to stop and feel when I pray. She told me that if you feel the same, you should keep praying. If you feel bad, the answer is no. And if you feel happy, then the answer is yes. That night I prayed and said, “Heavenly Father, thank you for my day. Please tell me if the Book of Mormon is true. I want to be a member of the Church, and is that what I should do?” I waited, and then I felt joy. I said, “Thank you for answering me. Amen.” Heavenly Father said yes, and I know that Heavenly Father loves me.
James H., age 8, Arizona, USA

Like so many other young married couples, Jeff and Pat struggled through their student years at Brigham Young University. Nearing graduation in 1965, he was not eager to become a teacher of English, his academic major. Then came an opportunity to teach religion half-time at BYU while he worked on a master’s degree in religious instruction. He regarded it as an answer to prayer and felt privileged to be hired as an institute teacher in the Church Educational System on completion of his graduate work in 1966.

After a year in Hayward, California, teaching at several institutes in the area, he was appointed director of the institute in Seattle. Seattle Temple President Brent Nash, who was called as stake president during that time, says Jeffrey Holland reached out to many young members who might otherwise have faded into anonymity on campus. “Youth were drawn to him. If he was able to bring some of those young people into the institute, the gospel changed them.”

It was a time when uninformed comments about the Church had generated controversy on campus, but the young institute director’s ability to make friends and touch hearts helped erase ill feeling among students and organizations allied with other faiths. He became a sought-after speaker for firesides and other Church programs, and his wife frequently spoke along with him.

But anticipating a lifelong career in the field of education, Jeff knew he would need more schooling, including a doctoral degree. Years earlier, at BYU, he had opened a Yale University catalog and felt prompted that one day he would go there. A Yale-educated professor at the University of Washington recommended him for Yale’s American Studies program, and the Hollands moved to New Haven, Connecticut, in 1970.

“I was only 12 years old when you and your companion taught me the gospel in Taranto, Italy. The year was 1975.” My mind raced as I tried to recall the writer. “You are probably asking yourself if you baptized me. No, you didn’t, because my mother and father refused permission.” The writer went on to explain how painful and embarrassing it was for him and his brother to stop the missionaries on the steps of their apartment building as we were going to ask his parents for permission to baptize him. He recounted how he kept coming to church for a while but eventually stopped because he could not be baptized. “But I kept the teachings in my heart and never betrayed the principles I was taught,” he wrote.
I served in the Italy Rome Mission from 1975 to 1977, and Taranto was my first city. But I could not recall the story that was unfolding in this e-mail. The writer explained that when he was 22 years old he was called into compulsory military service in northern Italy. There he suffered a spiritual crisis that caused him to pray for the first time as an adult. He received an answer to his prayers, and because of this, he sought out the missionaries in that area. He found them at a fast-food restaurant and told them he wanted to be baptized. “Nothing like that ever happened to me on my mission,” I thought. Those elders must have been shocked.
He was baptized and later married in the temple at Friedrichsdorf, Germany. He now had three children, had moved to Canada several years ago, and was an active member of the Church.

There are so many who are not—or feel they are not—understood. Recently our family visited with a dear friend, Sister Louise Lake, who has lived her gracious, sharing life in a wheelchair for more than a quarter of a century.

Perhaps because our 12-year-old son was with us, Sister Lake told us of another 12-year-old with whom she became acquainted in a rehabilitation center in New York where she was working. The boy had been blind and for most of his 12 years had lived a sad existence, thought to be uneducable, incapable of learning. Then he was given a chance, thank the Lord, and a marvelous spirit and fine mind were discovered. He told his friend that he had thought all his life that being blind was the worst thing that could happen to one—until he met Campy. Campy was Roy Campanella, great athlete, who at the height of his career was rendered physically helpless in an automobile accident. The blind boy said he had decided after meeting Campy that his condition was worse than not being able to see. “But there is something even worse than that,” he said. He talked of feeling his way down the hall at the hospital, hearing the scuff of feet as people passed him by. “There is something worse than being blind or crippled, and that is to have people not understand you,” he said. “I guess they think that because I am blind I can’t hear or speak either.”

The young women from a ward in Virginia, USA, wanted to create these shirts for Mutual and then wear them to school. Emily C., 14, had recently moved from out of state. Many of her friends at school didn’t yet know she is a member of the Church. “A lot of my friends pointed out my shirt and thought it was so cool,” Emily says. “They asked a little bit about the Church, and I told them about the temple.”

It is this last point I would like to enlarge upon. I had the honor recently of being assigned to visit the Samoa Apia Mission and attend some stake conferences in that country. I found the missionaries all well and the work progressing. One afternoon following our meeting, the mission president, Patrick Peters—who is a native Samoan—said, “Elder Dunn, there is something I’d like to show you.” We drove a few miles from the mission home and climbed the brow of a small hill to a place that was isolated by palm trees and other tropical vegetation. I suddenly realized that we were in a very old graveyard. At the center of this graveyard was a plot that was surrounded by a cement wall low enough to step over. President and Sister Peters told me this was where some of the first missionaries in Samoa were buried. There were eight graves.
The thing that struck my interest was that out of the eight graves, four represented children under the age of two and one was a twenty-one-year-old wife and mother. What role could these have possibly played in missionary work in Samoa?
During the next two days, when time would permit, I searched the history of the mission for an answer. While I was unable to gather information on all of the eight, I did discover the following.
In the early days of the Church it was common for young married couples to be called on missions and some of these young couples were called to Samoa. The first person to be buried in that plot was Sister Katie Eliza Hale Merrill. She and her husband had only been on a mission for three months when she took sick and gave birth to a premature child. The child died the next day. The history says the following: “An hour after the death of the child, the mother called Sister Lee (wife of the mission president) to her bedside and, after thanking her for waiting on her during the sickness, said that she was ‘going to die’ that she ‘could not stay because they had come for her.’ She then talked with her husband, kissed him goodbye, and all was over. The mother and baby boy were buried in one coffin.” After his mission, Brother Merrill took the remains of his wife and infant son back to Utah for burial.
Elder Thomas H. Hilton and Sister Sarah M. Hilton were serving on a mission in Samoa, where they lost three of their children, between 1891 and 1894. Little Jeanette lived less than a year, George Emmett for only seven days, and Thomas Harold for a year and a half.
Of the death of Thomas Harold the record says: “On Sunday the 11th, he was not feeling very well. … For two days following he appeared to be improving, but on the morning of the 14th, his mother again became concerned about his welfare. From then until his death, on March 17, 1894, everything that loving hands could do was done for his recovery, but he grew rapidly worse. …
“Oh how loath we all were to believe that it was so! How sad to see our dear sister again bereft, and her so far from dear parents and friends who she has left for the gospel’s sake.
“Thomas Harold Hilton was about one and a half years old, a beautiful little boy and very dearly beloved by all the missionaries, as well as the natives who knew him. Much sympathy is felt for the bereaved parents and the blessings of the Lord are invoked upon them.”
At twenty-nine, Ransom Stevens was president of the Samoa Mission when stricken with typhoid fever, which was complicated by a heart problem. He died on April 23, 1894.
His widow, Sister Annie D. Stevens, started for home by steamer on May 23. She reached Ogden on Sunday, June 10, where she was met by President Joseph F. Smith and Elder Franklin D. Richards. On June 11, she had an interview with the First Presidency in Salt Lake City and then went on to her home in Fairview, Sanpete County, arriving at 6:00 p.m.
The history states, “The greetings by her friends were necessarily brief for Sister Stevens was ill and had to retire to bed early, and at 11 p.m., five hours after her arrival home, she gave birth to a nice boy.” She had gone through the whole ordeal in the advance stages of pregnancy.
Another entry was Friday, March 2, 1900, “Little Loi Roberts was given up to die by Dr. Stuttaford at the sanatorium [in Apia]. The patient little sufferer was administered to daily, and each time he would get relief. … His parents [Elder and Sister E. T. Roberts] were untiring in their efforts to allay pain and sufferings.”
Saturday, March 3, “Little Loi died at the sanatorium in Apia in the morning, making another sad day in the history of the mission.” Small wonder that the tombstone contained the words, “Rest sweet Loi, rest.” He was one and a half years old.
And that brings us to Elder William A. Moody and his bride, Adelia Moody. They were called on a mission from Thatcher, Graham County, Arizona, arriving in Samoa in November 1894. They must have had the same hopes and aspirations of any young couple just starting out. She gave birth to an eight-pound daughter on May 3, 1895. Three weeks later she passed away. The daughter, little Hazel Moody, was taken care of by local Saints while her father continued his mission. Finally, one year later we read the following about a steamer leaving for the United States, whose passengers included four returning elders and “also Elder Moody’s daughter, Hazel, one-year-old, who will be delivered to loving relatives in Zion.”
A price has been paid for the establishment of the gospel of Jesus Christ in the land of Samoa. It is interesting to note that much of that price was paid by little children. I suspect that there are many obscure cemeteries in many of the nations of the world similar to that little plot in Samoa. They are a mute witness to the trials and suffering that went into the beginnings of missionary work in this dispensation.
Because of advancements in the standard of living and medical technology, these kinds of trials are almost a thing of the past. In Samoa, for instance, I found the missionaries well. There are even health missionaries, including a young couple and their two children who are helping to improve the health standards of the members and looking after the health of the missionaries where needed.
The sacrifice today is mostly a sacrifice of time and money. A sacrifice of 24 months for a worthy young man to help move the cause of the Lord forward. Others gave their lives to get the work started, but the Lord only requires that we sacrifice some time and our means to keep his work moving throughout the world.
The story is told that toward the end of World War II an allied general came to the front lines one night to inspect his troops. As he walked along he would point out into no-man’s-land and say, “Can you see them? Can you see them?”
Finally, someone said, “General, we can see nothing. What do you mean?” He said, “Can’t you see them? They’re your buddies; they are the ones who gave their lives today, yesterday, and the day before. They’re out there alright, watching you, wondering what you are going to do; wondering if they have died in vain.”
My dear brothers and sisters, as members of this Church we can ask ourselves the same question, “Can you see them?” They are the ones who paid, and some with their lives, that the gospel of the kingdom might be established in these, the last, days. They are the Hiltons, and the Robertses, and the Stevens, and the Moodys, and many others—people like you and me, who answered a call from God. I am sure they are allowed to look in on us from time to time to see how the work is going, to see what we are doing with their spiritual heritage, to see if they have died in vain.
I wonder, young man, how successful you would be in convincing a young father who had buried three of his babies in an obscure graveyard halfway around the world because of the gospel of Jesus Christ that a mission is too much of a sacrifice because you want to buy that car or that stereo, or you don’t want to interrupt your schooling, or for some other reason.
As members of the Church, I wonder how convincing we would be in telling someone that we are just too busy and maybe just a little embarrassed to share the gospel with our neighbor, especially if that someone were a young father who had buried his bride while on his mission and sent his little girl home to be taken care of by relatives while he finished his service to the Lord.
Is it not time that we listen to a prophet’s voice? Is it not time that we lengthen our stride? Is it not time that we teach the gospel of the kingdom to the world, to our neighbor? In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Illustration by Greg Newbold
I have been active in the Church all my life. I served a full-time mission, married in the temple, and helped raise four wonderful daughters. As the years passed, however, I noticed that some of my friends had given up their Church membership. Some family members were using social media to question and criticize Church leaders. And I was beginning to have my own doubts about the Church for the first time in my life. My doubts caused me to fear the future. At times, I felt overcome with hopelessness.
During this difficult time, I forced myself to attend stake conference. As my stake president spoke, he said, “If we are to survive the difficult times ahead, we need to move from casual feasting to urgent feasting upon the word of God. We need to make regular and focused scripture study a priority in our lives. If we do, I promise that we will not fear.”
The word “fear” caught my attention. I realized that I had allowed my gospel study to become casual. As a result, fear took hold of my life. I decided to give my stake president’s counsel a try.
I went home and created a space for gospel study. In the corner of a room, I set up a small desk with a comfortable chair. I put a few pictures of the Savior on the wall. I gathered my scriptures, some pencils, and a notepad. I began my study with a prayer.
After a week or two, I developed a daily routine. I would first listen to a general conference talk and then study a particular gospel topic. Then I would read a few chapters of the Book of Mormon and finish my study with heartfelt prayer to my Heavenly Father.
Despite various distractions, I rarely missed a day of gospel study for six months. I gained a greater understanding of many gospel topics and strengthened my relationship with my Heavenly Father through regular and sincere prayer.
My testimony was again becoming something I could lean on. My doubts faded because of the new witnesses I had received of the restored gospel. I found myself worrying less because I was trusting God more. I felt fear and despair leaving me. I also lost interest in time-wasting activities and noticed that I was becoming more generous and gentle to others.
As I heeded my stake president’s counsel, God was able to transform me. I was healed and restored by the Master Himself as I feasted upon His word.

When missionaries returned to Iceland in 1975, Sveinbjörg Gudmundsdóttir was one of the first Icelanders to investigate the Church. She spoke fluent English, and soon after her baptism in 1976, she began her 20-year career as a translator for the Church. “My first assignment was to translate the Book of Mormon,” she recalls. “I knew I wasn’t qualified—I had never really translated anything but pamphlets for the missionaries.” She spent many hours on her knees in humble prayer. “I knew I could not do it without the help of the Lord,” she says. The task was overwhelming, but Sister Sveinbjörg felt the guidance of the Holy Ghost. The Icelandic Book of Mormon was published in June 1981.

Waiting for the realization of that dream was an exercise in faith. In 1981, Sister Sveinbjörg had been assigned to go to Salt Lake City to translate the temple ceremony; However, that translation was never recorded. A decade passed before she made that long journey once again—this time to update the translation and prepare it for recording.

During those 10 years of hoping and waiting, the Church in Iceland was growing. Testimonies were being nurtured, and new members were continually adding their strength. Gudmundur Sigurdsson and his wife, Valgerdur Knutsdóttir, were baptized in 1982. He was called to be the Reykjavík Branch president in 1983, and he became the first Icelandic district president in 1986.

Gummi (as he likes to be called) remembers the struggles they faced as the Church was gaining a foothold in Iceland. “We felt so isolated because we had no background for the Church in Iceland—we had no one to ask how things should be done. Sometimes people would offer to help me, but the problem was, I didn’t know what to ask for! Now we have built a base of leadership, and they are ready to be of assistance as new leaders are called.”

One of those more recently called leaders is Bárdur Á. Gunnarsson, current president of the Reykjavík Branch. He, too, first heard of the Church in 1982, but that was a time in his life when his thoughts were far from religion. Even though his lifestyle was not so different from most other young men in his country, he had many obstacles to overcome. “I tried several times to quit smoking and drinking, but I didn’t have the strength to do it,” Bárdur recalls. He had a family, but it was one that began without the blessing of a marriage ceremony. Finally, four years after the elders first knocked on his door, his desire to unite his family and to seek forgiveness led him to be married to Ólöf Bjarnadóttir, the mother of his three daughters. Ólöf was not ready to be baptized at that time, but she did give her consent for him to take their three little girls to church every Sunday. “My patriarchal blessing told me I would go to the temple with my wife and children, and I worked very hard to make this happen,” said Bárdur.

Bárdur’s dream of uniting his family began to come true in 1994 when word was received that the Icelandic temple ceremony was scheduled to be recorded in the Salt Lake Temple. In May of that year, Ólöf accompanied him to Salt Lake City, along with the small group who had been called to make the recording. While there, surrounded by their friends, Bárdur baptized his wife in the baptistry of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. They were sealed in the London Temple one year later.

After five days, the recording project was completed. Before the group who did the recording left the temple, they were allowed to view a small portion of the finished product. “Seeing just a part of the film and hearing those first few words in our own language touched me deep in my heart—it was something I will never forget,” said Gummi. “That increased our fervent desire to share this wonderful experience with all our brothers and sisters at home.”

It was now possible to think about organizing a trip to the temple for the members of the Reykjavík Branch. There was much preparing to be done—in addition to becoming worthy for temple recommends, branch members had to do genealogical research to find family names, and they had to save money for the trip. When whole families were planning to go, this became a sizable amount!

“There was a wonderful excitement, an extra amount of love and care shown among the members as they prepared for this experience,” recalls district president Ólafur Einarsson. “It brought a feeling of unity to the branch that we had not felt before.”

The necessary preparations were completed, and 38 members of the Reykjavík Branch—adults and children—journeyed to the London Temple in June 1995. For a week, they devoted themselves to the work of the Lord. “It was an unforgettable experience to see the joy on the faces of our group as the Spirit touched our hearts,” recalls one branch member. “The love and kindness we felt toward one another continued to grow as we shared the joy of our temple experiences.” They returned to their homes and families with strengthened testimonies and a renewed love of the gospel.

As the Church becomes stronger, the saga of the Saints in Iceland continues. In June 1996—still filled with memories of their experiences the previous year—some of the members of the Reykjavík Branch made a second trip to the London Temple. There, they once again were blessed to participate in holy ordinances as they renewed their covenants with the Lord—in the language of their Viking ancestors.

Malo e lelei! I’m Lui, and I shine my light by sharing what I have with others.
I live on a big island in Tonga. I have six sisters and four brothers, and I live close to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple.
We have many beautiful plants and animals on our island. I’m in class four at the Ocean of Light Primary School, and science is my favorite subject.
My father grows crops, so we have plenty to eat. But many widows (women whose husbands have died) and other families don’t have their own crops. So my parents take them some of ours. I like going along to help!
The widows we visit use coconut husks to make fires to cook their food. When we take food to them, I always remind my parents to take coconut husks too. I help load the husks into the van and unload them when we get to the widows’ houses.
Heavenly Father gives me great blessings when I help others—not blessings of money but blessings of wisdom and knowledge. I always want to help and share what I have with others.

Then Jolene asked Todd to help her in the nursery at church. After high school graduation, Jolene had been called to be a nursery leader. One Sunday, when the other nursery leader was going to be out of town, Jolene asked Todd to help her. This was going to be good.

There were 14 children in the nursery. When I came by the nursery after Todd’s first Sunday, I almost felt sorry for him. He had several wet streaks down his suit coat, his tie was flipped over his shoulder, and he had what looked like the remains of an animal cracker stuck in his hair. I could see a perfect half-moon of tiny teeth reddening on his hand.

“Man, those kids are monsters,” he said. “They wouldn’t sit still for the lesson, they just stared at me when I asked the questions, and they spent most of the time crying.”

The next week the bishop called Todd to be a nursery leader. I thought Todd would turn him down flat, but he surprised me. He accepted the calling. Then I realized it meant more time with Jolene Sparks.

Still, even Jolene was not enough to induce him to take on the nursery one Sunday morning. Todd limped around the house trying to call Jolene to tell her he couldn’t make it; he’d beaten up his leg on a mountain biking trip on Saturday. He’d just hung up the phone after trying to call when Jolene called him.

He hung up the phone, panic all over his face.

“You gotta help me, Marce,” he said. “Jolene had to go out of town to her cousin’s farewell. I’m gonna have to go to the nursery, but I need your help.”

I’d heard that song before—all nine verses—usually when Todd’s allergies flared up or he had a headache. Work or responsibility often brought out terrible illness in Todd. But he did have a legitimate bruise on his shin, so I begrudgingly pitched in.

“I’m not doing all of it, Todd, just helping out. Don’t get me in there, ditch me and run,” I told him. “Even if you could run.” I scrambled to find pictures and the lesson manual. Then I found a box of Scottie’s goldfish crackers and made up some salt clay in five different colors.

When we got to church, Todd said, “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble. They’re just kids.”

I glared at him as he hobbled down the hall. What did he do in there every week? Just sit and stare at the children? I got things set up for the lesson, and the children started coming in.

Todd sat in a chair wincing and rubbing his leg while I set out the snack of fish crackers and tiny cups of water.

“Hey, Marce. Aren’t these lessons a waste of time?” Todd said. “I mean, those kids don’t have a clue, do they?” He pulled up his pant leg to inspect his bruise again.

“Man, this really hurts.”

Tara gathered her crackers in her paper towel, her favorite blanket in her other hand, and approached Todd. She handed him her crackers, carefully putting them one by one, into his palm, then stood with her thumb in her mouth, holding the tired-looking piece of cloth, staring at Todd. Scottie and two other boys, curious, came over too.

“You got a owie?” Tara asked. She poked his leg gently. Tara then laid “blankie” on Todd’s leg and wrapped it clumsily around it. Then she kissed his knee and said, “All better.”

The other children found a puzzle to play with, but Tara sat near Todd, playing with a toy cash register, occasionally patting Todd’s leg. “Don’t cwy,” she said, as though Todd were continually on the verge of bursting into tears.

I looked at Todd.

“You can’t tell me they don’t understand the lessons,” I said. “Those children probably understand service and empathy for others better than a lot of adults.”

Todd didn’t say anything but nodded, a stunned look on his face.

When nursery was over, Tara’s mother and brother came to get her.

“Where’s your blankie?” she asked.

Tara pointed to Todd.

“It’s on his owie.” Tara went out the door with her big brother.

Tara’s mother looked startled.

“She must really like you,” she told Todd. “She drags that blanket with her wherever she goes. I can’t even get it in the washer because she won’t let go of it.”

“I need to tell you something, Mom,” Melissa said, looking at the floor. She took a deep breath and started to cry.
“My teacher is really mad because someone wrote on the bathroom wall,” Melissa said. “I know I shouldn’t have done it, but someone else started writing and I thought it was funny, so I did too. I feel so bad inside. What can I do?”
Mom gave Melissa a hug and pointed to a picture on the shelf. It was taken on the day Melissa was baptized. “Do remember what Uncle Brett talked about at your baptism?”
Sniffling, Melissa nodded. “That the Holy Ghost can help us know what is right and wrong,” she said. “He said if I did something wrong I would get a bad feeling. Is this what he was talking about?”
“Yes,” Mom said. “What else did he say?”
Melissa thought for a moment. “When we mess up we can repent by asking for forgiveness and fixing what we did wrong,” she said. “And promising to never do it again.”
As Melissa said those words, she knew what she needed to do.
Before the school bell rang the next morning, Melissa was at her teacher’s desk.
“Mrs. O’Dell, I wrote on the bathroom wall,” Melissa said, her heart pounding. “I’m really sorry, and I will clean it up.”
Mrs. O’Dell looked at Melissa for a moment. “You’ll have to stay after school to clean it,” she said. “And you need to tell your mother what you have done.”
“I know, I already told her. I promise to never do anything like this again,” Melissa said.
Melissa smiled as she walked to her desk. The bad feeling she had yesterday was gone.

Shelley and I began buying basic foods for our home storage in January 1977 and continued to purchase bit by bit until we were married in April of that year. Prior to our wedding, we stored the food at my parents’ home.
Shelley wore the leather band as a wedding ring for a long time while I finished undergraduate studies and then dental school. Over the course of pursuing education, our family moved many times. We became accustomed to lugging buckets of wheat from apartment to apartment, house to house, and city to city. Our friends started to avoid us every time we moved, but in later years, we felt profound gratitude for having followed the counsel of Church leaders.
When I graduated from dental school and began a dental practice, Shelley and I had two children and literally no funds. Gratefully, we were able to live on part of what we had acquired in food storage just before our marriage. Our obedience to prophetic counsel blessed our lives again more than a decade after we were married, when I had completed more schooling and was in an orthodontic residency. We were again out of money, and instead of paying for groceries with credit cards or borrowed funds, we were blessed to be able to feed our family (which now included four children) from our supply.

The large classroom in the hospital for crippled children is full of children and laughter and clowns with rainbow-colored wigs and giant smiles.
The children have already laughed and shouted through exploding balloons and fun games. Now it’s time for clown bowling. The clowns are the bowling pins. A nurse is invited to bowl. She successfully aims a large ball at the clowns. But it never makes contact because the clowns jump and twist out of the way.
Now a little girl tries. Sitting in her wheelchair, she pushes the ball at the clowns as hard as she can, but it dribbles weakly off her lap and barely reaches the human bowling pins. The little bowler sighs, underestimating clown magic. As the ball gently nudges the foremost clown he hurls backwards as if struck by a truck, knocking down a second clown who ricochets into a third. The whole clown pile explodes like a grenade and falls apart, vanquished. The children cheer. When clowns are present, children always win.
With this wild bunch of clowns, it’s one crazy thing after another. They’re the young men of Explorer Scout unit 207 of the Riverside Ward, Colville Washington Stake. If laughter is the best medicine, these young men are physicians. They can cure sadness with smiles and cure tears with giggles. Children they visit enjoy a period of time free of thinking about operations or hypodermic needles or pain.
When this day’s performance ends, the clowns move among the patients, making balloon animals and objects—dogs, cats, swords, giraffes, airplanes. They’ll try anything the children request, and even the failures are good fun. They also draw clown stars on the children’s faces.
All too soon the good times must end. The nurses who have laughed and cheered right along with their patients begin taking them away for medical treatment. The children devise delaying tactics, stretching out the farewell moment as long as they can. One little girl hugs a clown tight, then looks into his eyes. “I love you, clown,” she says. Finally, all the good-byes are said. The children go back to their rooms, feeling as if they have been touched by some special magic.
The clowns are still full of the spirit of what they’ve been doing. So they keep their costumes and their funny faces on as they leave the hospital, pack into two cars, and drive off for a hamburger. Motorists along the way, especially little ones, gape in wonder as they see the two cars full of smiling and waving clowns.
While they eat at a hamburger restaurant, the clowns share experiences from their hospital performance. They have made many such visits.
Clown Unit 207 began when the ward youth planned a visit to the hospital. The Explorer Scouts decided to present a clown act as their part on the program. Their adviser, Ron Buchanan, asked the help of his next-door neighbor Howard Pressy, who just happened to be a professional clown. With Howard’s help the scouts prepared an act and presented it at the hospital. Brother Buchanan (also known as “Classy Clown”) recalls, “It gave us all a new perspective. Those young patients weren’t worried about social activities. They were worried about whether they were ever going to be able to walk! You can’t be the same after that experience. You come out of there changed.
“We talked afterward about the words of King Benjamin, ‘When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God’. (Mosiah 2:17.) We decided that we were going to keep right on clowning. We would serve through laughter.”
There followed a period of training in which they worked hard to learn their art. They spent hours designing their faces and costumes and learning how to put them on perfectly. They practiced comedies and learned to twist long, thin balloons into animal shapes. Then they used their talents to bless the lives of children in hospitals, orphanages, and through other worthwhile causes. Each of the young men developed some special talent. “Painter” (Donald Anderson) could fall and stop himself only centimeters from the ground. “Jasper” (Karl Watts) became spokesman for the group. “Giggles” (Aaron Griffith) developed a great Charlie Chaplin walk.
Meanwhile, Howard (also known as “Bungles”) helped them understand what it meant to be a clown. He emphasized right from the start that being a clown is very serious business.
“Anybody can paint his face and put on a silly looking costume, but that does not make you a clown. When a real clown puts on his makeup and his costume, he also assumes certain character traits which he has a moral obligation to uphold. A good professional clown doesn’t smoke, drink, or use profanity at all in costume. It just isn’t done. He doesn’t pay any attention to whether a child is black, green, yellow, or purple. He treats them all the same.
“He doesn’t ruin the impression, no matter what happens. If a child walks up and kicks you, you still love that kid—because you’re a clown.”
As the fame of the clowns spread, the younger boys in the ward began looking forward to their sixteenth birthdays when they would enter the Explorer phase of Scouting. By the time Tony Romish and Bryan McGinty came of age, they already had names waiting for them. Tony became “Digger,” and Bryan was “Doctor Funnybones.” They practiced hard and soon were full-fledged clowns.
Not content with merely being very good, the boys gets together every Wednesday to practice their routines and become even better. There is a camaraderie here, a warmth and love, but there is also a serious sense of taking care of business. The young men have often prayed that they can make a difference in the lives of those they clown for. Now they are working hard to become part of the answer to their own prayers.
Howard and Ron have always emphasized to the members of the unit that when they put on their clown outfits and makeup, they are themselves no longer. They can no longer allow their own personal fears and inhibitions to keep them from doing their duty as clowns. “When you’re in costume you have no identity of your own. You’re not yourself; you’re a clown. And you owe it to the people to make them happy.”
The Explorers soon realized that they could do things as clowns, good things, that it was hard to do as themselves.
“When I perform as a clown,” Don says, “I’m no longer Donald Anderson. I’m ‘Painter’. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I like people more because of ‘Painter’s’ influence. I’m definitely going on a mission. I used to wonder about that, but I see that ‘Painter’ helps people a lot, and I want to be able to do that as Donald Anderson too.”
All of Painter’s wonderful qualities are, of course, really Don’s own. They have merely been waiting inside for a good excuse to come out and shine.
In addition to personal growth, the clowns have been rewarded for their hard work with wonderful memories. “The first time we visited the hospital, we were all scared to death. We weren’t sure how we were going to work with crippled children. But they really responded, and it was a wonderful experience. When we finished we asked the nurse if there were any children who hadn’t been able to come.
“She took us to the room of a boy who had literally had his face ripped off in a car wreck. It looked like his face had been run through a meat grinder. He was so self-conscious that he wouldn’t come out of his room.
“So we were very careful. We walked in and said ‘Hi, we missed you. We wanted to give you a special balloon.’ At first he was really timid. But then he started to respond. And I was so proud of the clowns. They didn’t look away from him. They looked right at him and let him know that they cared about him.
“By the time they were finished, that boy was talking. He was friendly. He knew that he was somebody important, and that there were three or four clowns in that room who cared about him. He told us about his upcoming surgery, and we all wished him the best. It was one of the most giving experiences of our lives.”
Once at a baseball game for handicapped and retarded youth, the clowns adopted a team that was losing by an impossible margin. The team members had given up—until they found themselves with a real clown cheerleading squad. “We’d find out the name of the boy up to bat and then we’d start calling, ‘Come on, Charlie, you can do it. Come on, Fred!’ In that one part of the game they more than doubled their score. They still lost, because it was the last part of the game, but when they left they were so excited that someone had cheered for them.”
Sometimes it can take so little to make a difference, but to a clown that little is not optional—it is a duty. For example, at one hospital there were two Spanish-speaking boys in the audience. They were feeling a little neglected because they couldn’t understand the English jokes. The clowns combined their meager knowledge of Spanish and started some bilingual clowning. The result? “Those boys seemed to come to life.”
Working with those less fortunate than themselves has given the clowns a sensitivity and love for all of God’s children. Tony Romish reports, “As a clown, you want to help other people who are different from you. You feel a unity with everyone. We all seem to divide ourselves into different groups—the able-bodied and the handicapped, black and white, young and old, rich and poor. As clowns we feel close to everybody. We feel less separate. At school people often tease those who are mentally or physically handicapped. Before, I’d just walk on past, but now I can’t. I have to stop and defend whoever is being hurt.”
One of the secrets of the clowns’ success is Brother Buchanan. He loves these young men with all his heart. He sacrifices most of his Saturdays and many week nights for them, and considers it no sacrifice. “They’re very very special to me,” he says. “They’re wonderful young men. They give of themselves continually. And they have fun doing it. They’re my second family.”
Clowning is a uniquely unselfish form of entertainment and service. The clown receives applause, but the people applauding him don’t know who he is. They know his clown name, but they will never know his real name. There is no personal fame—only the wonderful feeling of making people happy.
But the love these clowns feel for the children they serve is far sweeter than any fame. Several of them have gotten up when they have been sick in bed to perform rather than miss that good feeling.
Clowning is hard work. But it may also be the most enjoyable form of service ever invented. “I mentioned to one of the boys that it was fun doing service projects. He said, ‘This is service, isn’t it? I’m having so much fun that I never stop to think about it.’”
Fun and service. Service and fun. And brotherhood and love and the sweet, healing joy of pure laughter. The Explorer Scouts of unit 207 specialize in lifting hearts, and you can’t lift hearts without lifting yourself.

After having been set apart to serve in the Second Quorum of the Seventy, I, with my wife and one of our children, visited my father. We asked him to give me a blessing, something which I have always striven to do when I have received a new priesthood assignment. He laid his hands upon my head and gave me a short but grand blessing. He said, “Son, I bless you that the Holy Spirit may accompany you, your wife, and your children in everything you do.” What more could I wish for?

Although severely wounded with grief and beset with major problems that made the going anything but smooth, from that time President Young acted with inspired single-mindedness and effectiveness to shepherd the stunned Church and unite it under the authority of the Twelve, as he was certain Joseph had intended. He led the apostles back from the East on August 6, amid rumors that some of the mob were still lying in wait to kill them. They found that Sidney Rigdon, the only remaining official member of the First Presidency, had returned from Pittsburgh, where he had gone over a year before when a rift had developed between him and the Prophet. Now he was claiming the right to act as guardian of the Church for Joseph. The President of the Quorum acted swiftly to unify the leaders, and then the body of the Saints, against this and other claims that threatened the Church with disintegration. The next morning he met with all the apostles at the home of John Taylor, who was still recovering from terrible wounds received at the martyrdom, and then in the afternoon with all the Church leaders at the Seventies’ Hall, where he effectively rebutted Sidney Rigdon’s claims. With inspired assurance Elder Young moved to the next day a general meeting that had been called for a week later and there brought about an orderly and unifying succession of leadership. As he described it to his daughter in that letter of August already quoted:
“The Brethren were overjoyed to see us come home, for they were little children without a father, and they felt so, you may be sure. All things are now reviving up again. The brethren prayed with all faith for us to return. … I have been in council almost all the time since I arrived here. But this much I can say, the spirit of Joseph is here, though we cannot enjoy their persons. Through the great anxiety of the Church there was a conference held last Thursday [August 8]. The power of the priesthood was explained and the order thereof, on which the whole Church lifted up their voices and hands for the Twelve to move forward and organize the Church and lead it as Joseph led it, which is our indispensable duty to do.”
All things were, in fact, “reviving up again,” despite the unsettled conditions only a few days earlier, and the process was successful mainly because through the power of the Lord “the spirit of Joseph” did indeed manifest itself in remarkable, to many witnesses even miraculous, ways.
There is much evidence—from Brigham Young’s own account of the meeting, from the record of the speech he gave there, and from the accounts of others—that he spoke in a new voice that day, yet one that was familiar to those who knew Joseph Smith. In his own diary Brigham recorded:
“This day is long to be remembered by me. … Now Joseph is gone, it seemed as though many wanted to draw off a party and be leaders. But this cannot be. The Church must be one or they are not the Lord’s; the saints looked as though they had lost a friend that was able and willing to counsel them in all things; in this time of sorrow … I arose and spoke to the people. My heart was swollen with compassion towards them and by the power of the Holy Ghost, even the spirit of the prophets, I was enabled to comfort the hearts of the Saints. … I laid before them the order of the Church and the power of the priesthood. After a long and laborious talk of about two hours in the open air with the wind blowing, the Church was of one heart and one mind. They wanted the Twelve to lead the Church as Br. Joseph had done in his day.”25
The speech shows that Brigham Young indeed had the “spirit of the prophets,” that through the power of the Holy Ghost he spoke with a new sense of authority that both recalled to the people their lost Prophet and yet encouraged them to look forward to the great destiny of the Lord’s Church that had been restored:
“Attention all! … For the first time in my life, for the first time in your lives, … without a prophet at our head, do I step forth to act in my calling in connection with the Quorum of the Twelve, as Apostles of Jesus Christ, … who are ordained and anointed to bear off the keys of the kingdom of God in all the world. …
“You did not know who you had amongst you. … He loved you unto death—you did not know it until after his death; he has now sealed his testimony with his blood. There is much to be done. … as for myself I am determined to build up the kingdom of God. …
“Brother Joseph the Prophet has laid the foundation for a great work and we will build upon it. … There is an almighty foundation laid, and we can build a kingdom such as there never was in the world.”26
Wilford Woodruff recounted, long after, “Just as quick as Brigham Young rose in that assembly, his face was that of Joseph Smith— … the power of God that was upon Joseph Smith was upon him, he had the voice of Joseph.”27
This miraculous descent of the mantle of the Prophet upon Brigham Young was later recalled by many who were in the audience,28 but the crucial thing was that whatever they remembered of the miraculous was confirmed in the following months by the reality of President Young’s leadership as he did in very fact become a Joseph—a clearly inspired prophet—to his people. As William Burton wrote the next May: “But [Joseph’s and Hyrum’s] places were filled by others much better than I once supposed they could have been, the spirit of Joseph appeared to rest upon Brigham.”29

“Come here, over by the light.” Kitty joined him by the window. “Do you remember this?”
He held out to her a piece of white cloth. When she took it in her hand, she saw it was a dress, a tiny frothy dress, all white, with many tucks and flounces; and across the yoke in front were red and blue marching figures. It was beautiful, and somehow, she knew it had been hers.
“You looked like an angel,” her father said softly. “Your hair was blonde then, and you were all dolled up in this dress and little white shoes and white socks with—I’m almost certain—red and blue stripes matching the whatsit on the dress. It was a Primary thing, Easter, I think, and you stood right in the front row and sang every song without missing a word—three years old and you didn’t miss a word—and me sitting on the back row blubbering when you sang that one about “I Am a Child of God.” l was embarrassed like the dickens until I noticed that both of the men beside me were sniffing and honking too. Oh, your mother was so proud of you, and that dress! I guess she took a whole roll of film of you in that dress. Still has ’em someplace.”
Kitty looked more closely at the dress. Tiny stitches, many of them handmade.
“Mother made this?” Her father nodded. “But she doesn’t sew.”
“She doesn’t now. Obviously, she couldn’t do it all. She loved sewing for you, Kitten. And for herself, and Jenny, and the house. But finally she said it took too much time from other things.” He took the dress from her and began folding it very carefully.
“But she didn’t give up painting.”
“Of course not. Didn’t give up breathing, either. Your mom’s like—well—like a well that people come to, to be refreshed. But she has to be filled herself, or she’ll have nothing to give. Her painting is one place she gets renewed. Those scriptures of yours are another place too. And have you ever heard your mother make an appointment for Saturday night?”
Kitty thought a long minute, then shook her head.
“Nope, because that’s our time, hers and mine. We go out, to a movie, or to dinner, or for a drive, or a walk, or sometimes she drags me to an art gallery and sometimes I drag her to a hockey game. But it’s strictly our time.”
“You think it’s okay for me to have some ‘me’ time, even though I’m not married?”
“Absolutely. You ought to be able to take off, oh, say after noon on Saturday and not answer to anybody. Lie up here and watch the dust motes dance in the sunlight. Take your bike out in the rain. Spend the whole long afternoon getting acquainted with just what it feels like to be 13, so’s you’ll never forget. To kind of help you along with that, I hereby relieve you of your Saturday garden chores.”
“I guess mom gave up a lot of stuff besides sewing, didn’t she? I just never thought about it before.” Kitty looked again at the red and blue figures marching across the white dress.
“Sure. But she kept a lot, too. That’s what I’ve been saying. She never considered giving up painting, and you mustn’t ever consider giving up your music.”
How did he know, Kitty wondered. How did he know that of swimming and chorus and reading and all the other things, her cello was the one set apart, different, in its own special world?
“Look, Kitten, all your life you’ll be called on to do things because you have the brains and the talents and the unselfishness to do them. But you’ll have to use some of those brains to figure out how to give to others and still have something left for yourself. Now take Tami, for instance. You’ve been great with her. You’ve done things for her that her own parents didn’t seem able to do. But she takes a lot of your time. Still, she is your cousin and she does need someone to love her and work with her, so she can be every bit as much as she possibly can be, whatever that is. Now what does that brain say about a solution to that?”
Kitty got up and walked over to the window. Down the street, she could see Tami’s house. She imagined Tami helping her mother set the table, and remembered how proud she’d been when, after hours of Kitty’s help, she’d managed to do it perfectly by herself. She didn’t want to desert Tami.
“Jenny!” she suddenly said “Jenny’s old enough now, and she’s good with Tami. In fact, it would be good for her to get her nose out of that TV and start working with Tami. I could coach her in the things she’d need to know—”
“Sure you could,” her dad said. “She’s ready for that job now, just like you’re ready to take on a different leadership job.”
“The Beehive class?”
“Yep. That’s a totally different challenge—a whole bunch of girls your own age, instead of one retarded cousin. But you’ll handle it. Kitty, I really think you ought to talk with your mom. She can tell you a dozen hints about juggling these things. But never think it’s easy. It’s not, not for her, not for you. Some things you give up, some you keep, some you compromise. And sometimes you move from one thing to another because you’ve learned what you needed to learn, or given what was most important for you to give, like with Tami.”
Suddenly, from the house, Kitty heard her mom’s voice.
“Carlyle? Kitty? Where are you two? Dinner’s ready!”
“Come on, Kitten. Let’s not keep her waiting.”
“Sure thing, dad. And then after dinner, I’ve got to have a long talk with that woman. Oh, but wait—” She ran over to the window seat and picked up the neatly folded little white dress.
“I think I’ll just hang on to this for a while,” and she clambered down the stairs after her father, whistling softly “I Am a Child of God.”

Recently at a stake conference a young man was called to the pulpit with only a few moments’ notice. He said he had been away to school and had come home to find a very dear friend in trouble. She had become enmeshed in the drug scene and had been tragically hurt. The young man sought the Lord in prayer, crying out for strength to help his friend. “For the first time in my life I truly forgot myself,” he said. “While I prayed I came to a consciousness I had never before possessed. My concern for her was honest and intense and without self-reference, and I knew as I prayed that the love and concern of Almighty God for me and for my friend were pure and real and very personal.”

The other day I was talking to an enthusiastic returned missionary who had been a member of the Church for only five years, and this is the story he told me, which I found most interesting.
He said he was raised in a good home by fine parents with high ideals; but he had never thought of, let alone been told, many of the things which the Church teaches, such as a prophet of God being on the earth today, of a literal resurrection where the body and soul will be reunited after death and continue on throughout eternity, and particularly of the beautiful and most important concept that he was literally a spirit child of God. He had never been taught of the restoration of the gospel, that there was a living personal God, and that Jesus Christ, the Savior of the world, lives; that he was literally the Son of God in the flesh.
While working at a summer resort where a number of young people were employed, and where all seemed to be having a good time, this boy’s attention was drawn to three young men who seemed to be living apart from the others and not participating in the smoking, drinking of alcoholic beverages, and using drugs, etc. They were living very high standards in every way and seemed to be morally clean.
He said, “I became attracted to them and engaged in conversation with them to find out why they were different. They told me they were Mormons, that they observed a Word of Wisdom, which they explained to me, and that the Lord had said, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’ (Ex. 20:14), and that sexual transgression was considered by the Church as one of the most grievous sins.”
He said further, “I became very close to these young men and liked what they taught and the way they lived. They were very free in telling me about the Church. They seemed to be proud of it and were not ashamed of the fact that they were not living as other young men were living. They did point out, however, that some of the young men who were members of the Church and living in the camp were not living the principles of the gospel.”
I thought how sad it was that these other members were not living as they should, had succumbed to temptation, and were not strong enough to stand up for what they knew was right. If they had been converted and not ashamed of the gospel of Christ and its teachings, they too could have been influencing some others for good and changing their lives in preparation for ultimate blessings promised to the faithful.
My friend continued, “One of the three young men was a returned missionary, and as I became more interested, he taught me the gospel as he had taught it in the mission field. I corresponded with my parents and told them what I had found. They were very disappointed and unhappy; but when I returned home and told them all about it, and they saw the good effect all this had on my life and the change in habits, they gave me permission to be baptized, for which I was most thankful.”
He was just 19 when he joined the Church. He went on to say what a great privilege it was when he was given the Aaronic Priesthood and he was able to administer and pass the sacrament in remembrance of the Lord’s crucifixion. He said it made him very humble as he felt the sacredness of this ordinance, and he always tried to be worthy and well-groomed and to act as the Lord would have him do were he standing by his side.
He felt greatly blessed when as a priest he was given the privilege of baptizing new members, realizing that this gave him the same privilege and authority that was given to John the Baptist who baptized the Savior. And as he talked, I wished that every young man could feel and realize just how important that is and what a great privilege it is to be able to perform these ordinances and know that the Lord depends on all of us to live worthy of and magnify the priesthood which we hold.
Then this young man said how pleased he was a year later as he was interviewed to go on a mission to be able to tell his bishop and stake president that he was keeping the Word of Wisdom strictly, keeping the Sabbath day holy, paying his tithes and offerings, and keeping himself morally clean in every way, and that he really honored womanhood and had never treated a girl friend differently from the way he would want a young man to treat his sister. He felt so good about this and was so very glad that he could go into the mission field as an ambassador of the Lord, feeling that the Lord would approve his going as his representative. He told of the glorious feeling he had as he baptized and confirmed his first convert.
These were humbling experiences for him, he said, as was also his being called upon to confer the Melchizedek Priesthood upon a man and ordain him an elder. He realized how important it is that a man be worthy of these privileges to act in the name of the Lord and that the man he ordained was just as much an elder as if the president of the Church had ordained him. He felt most humble and grateful to the Lord.
He concluded by telling me that he was going to be married soon, and his countenance beamed as he expressed his gratitude and happiness that he and his sweetheart were clean and worthy to go to the temple where they could be sealed for time and all eternity.
Then I said to him: “No greater privilege or responsibility can be placed upon any young man than for him to be given the priesthood of God, which is the power of God to act in his name. And now you will enjoy all the added blessings and privileges that will come from being sealed by the holy priesthood in the temple of God.”

A convert to the Church once said, “As a father I believed in caning my children. The slightest infraction of a rule was answered with prompt physical punishment. Then the gospel came into our home. I saw my children in a new light. They were my children, yes, but they were also children of our Eternal Father. How could I abuse a child of God? I began to develop an entirely new point of view toward my children, and they reciprocated with a new attitude toward me.

“Do we have discipline in our home? Yes, but of an entirely different kind. We are no longer adversaries. There are still some penalties for wrongdoing, but such penalties are of a different nature and are accepted as properly deserved, and not resented with bitterness as they once were. Now there is respect for one another, and more than that, love. What a difference the gospel makes,” he concluded.

“Yes,” I added, “what a difference the gospel makes when it is accepted and lived.”