Gospel Story Finder

As a further example of rising to life’s challenges as a Christlike child, I’m reminded of one of my father’s experiences in World War II. He was the pilot of a B-17, flying daylight bombing raids over Germany and experiencing and inflicting horrific deaths when he was younger than almost everyone here. Thanks, Dad, to you and to other men and women like you. At one point, after completing a bombing run over Germany, his formation was attacked by German fighters and flack, and his plane lost an engine. This meant that the rest of the formation had to leave them behind since they could not keep up. They knew full well that they would probably be killed because they had lost the protection of the interlocking fields of fire and the protection that a formation with its many guns provided. Then they lost a second engine. B-17s weren’t necessarily able to fly with only two engines, but my dad broke the throttle quadrant and could over-rev the engines, buying time for some airspeed and altitude.

The fighters swarmed to this lone plane, ready to finish it off with relative ease away from the protection of the other gunners and planes. Dad began to pray, and he also thought, “Dad, pray for me.”

In the Gila Valley in Arizona, his father—my grandfather—Ether Samuel Ferrin, got his wife and said, “Leven’s in trouble. We need to pray for him.” They knelt in humble prayer for his safety far across the world. These discrete actors’ stories were obviously pieced together later. My Dad recounts that when they were sure they were going to be destroyed, it seemed as if they suddenly became invisible to the fighters, which would just fly past.

They were able to return home to England with that plane, which Dad safely landed. After that the plane was useless in the war effort. The ground crew presented Dad with the placard from that now useless B-17. He has that placard in his home in the Gila Valley today. The key point for me in recounting this story is that as a courageous child, my father not only prayed but cried out for his father to be alerted and pray as well, because he knew and believed in his father’s faith.

“Hi, Mom,” Tanner called as he took off his shoes and hung up his backpack.
“Hi, Tanner,” Mom said as she looked up from washing the dishes. “How was school?”
Tanner liked school, so when Mom asked him that question, his answer was usually the same.
“Good. How was your day?”
“It was fine,” Mom said softly.
Tanner wasn’t so sure. Mom didn’t sound very happy. And she wasn’t smiling like she usually did when he came home from school.
“Is something wrong?” Tanner asked.
“No, nothing’s really wrong,” Mom said. “I’ve just had a bad day.”
“I’m sorry,” Tanner said. He gave Mom a big hug, hoping it would help.
Tanner walked to the pantry and began to look for a snack. While he looked, he thought about some bad days he had had—like the time someone stole his scooter, or when he crashed his bike and skinned his knee. “I guess moms can have bad days too,” Tanner thought.
Tanner wondered what he could do to help Mom feel better. He thought of a few things that made him smile—frogs, video games, and spaghetti—but he was pretty sure Mom didn’t care very much about any of those things.
After grabbing a handful of crackers, Tanner had an idea. He walked across the kitchen and stood next to Mom. “Mom,” he said, “what was the best part of your day?”
Mom stopped washing the dishes. Tanner could tell she was thinking hard about his question. A big smile spread across her face. “You are,” she said. “You are the best part of my day.”
Tanner smiled too. Mom seemed happier. He was glad he could help make her bad day better.

Like any self-respecting teenager in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I attended seminary for four consecutive years. This meant long hours of gospel learning in addition to Sunday and family study hours. It was sometimes a difficult and trying experience.
I began seminary in 2017 in our Pare Ward of the Arue Tahiti Stake. I was in 9th grade in school at the time, and I was eager to be part of this youth group.
During my first year, I woke up before 5 am every weekday to get to seminary on time. I did my readings, and I was very attentive in class. I realized seminary contributed to deepening my relationship with God. Without Him, I would not have been able to successfully pass my school’s National Certificate Exam at the end of year 9.
Over the next two years, I gradually became lax in my duties, missing seminary or arriving late more often. I lost my desire to attend seminary, so I was less consistent in my efforts.
Accordingly, my 10th year in school was difficult, but I was unaware at the time of how this was related to my performance in seminary.
In year 11, I started going out with classmates who dabbled in things our Church doesn’t recommend, like alcohol and cigarettes. I even felt a little ashamed of not being like these friends and not hanging out more with them.
Consequently, my annual grades were low and if I had to take the bachelor exam that year, I doubt I would have passed.
Then, the COVID pandemic changed our daily lives, which I thank God for. When seminary classes started up on our smartphones, it was as if to counteract the evil that is also rampant on there.
Although I still had moments of weakness, I decided to hang in there and tried to sincerely follow the lessons of seminary, to benefit from God’s help in my studies.
I am grateful for my parents. Without them, I would have dropped out of seminary and followed the same path as my nonmember friends. As my favorite seminary teachers, they watched over me, making sure I stayed connected to God.
Then, healthy social relationships with the youth of the ward became my lifeline. Our activities together renewed me each time I was not in the mood. Among these friends was Corail Sommers, who never judged but always listened and encouraged and raised me up by her example.
In their own ways, they each contributed to my personal balance.
The discipline of daily immersion in the scriptures paid off in my last year of seminary, which was also my 12th and final year of school.
My seminary study habits allowed me to be better organized. While I’m not a fan of reading, I strove to read daily. It allowed me to maintain my relationship—even a fragile one—with Heavenly Father.
That year, I passed my bachelor diploma with honors. I got my driver’s license on my first try. I received my call to serve a mission in Paris. All in all, the hand of God was in my life the whole time I was in seminary and at school.
Looking back, I testify that God will always help because He loves us.
Seminary is exactly what we need as young people to help us to trust God and to let him prevail in our lives. He always trusted me.

On another occasion, I had the opportunity to work with a woman who had experienced the trauma of domestic violence. Her experience had forged distrust of herself and others. During one activity, she climbed to the top of a telephone pole and stood. The object was for her to leap and ring a bell. The invitation was given for her to identify what she wanted to leap toward in her life. Standing on the swaying pole, she declared that she wanted a better life, to be a stronger person, and to be a courageous mother. She leaped and rang the bell. Her feet firmly planted on new ground, this would impact her family and her future. We all witnessed the intentionality of re-creation.

Our third part of the formula is: Fill your heart with love. I remember watching on television a very exciting baseball game between evenly matched teams. One of the teams had one of the greatest home-run hitters of all time. After the game a reporter interviewed him. He didn’t talk too much about home runs or runs batted in. He talked about his father. The ball player was Hank Aaron. He did not have very much of this world’s goods when he was a young boy, but he loved baseball. It consumed his life. He said that he and his father used to sit in an old, abandoned car that was in the rear of their lot and talk for hour after hour.

One day Hank said to his dad, “I’m going to quit school, Dad. I’m going to go to work so I can play baseball.”

And Herbert Aaron said to his son, “My boy, I quit school because I had to, but you’re not going to quit school. Every morning of your young life I’ve put 50 cents on the table, that you might buy your lunch that day. And I take 25 cents with me, that I might buy my lunch. Your education means more to me than my lunch. I want you to have what I never had.”

Hank Aaron said that every time he thought about that 50-cent piece that his father put on the table every day, he thought how much that 50 cents meant to his father. It conveyed to him how much his schooling meant to his father. Hank Aaron said, “I never had too much difficulty staying in school when I reflected upon the love my father had for me. As a result of reflecting upon the love of my father, I obtained my schooling and played a lot of baseball.”

That was putting it mildly from the greatest home-run threat that ever stepped up to a baseball diamond—Henry Aaron.

Many years ago my husband, Ken, and I moved to Provo, Utah, so he could attend Brigham Young University. Before our move, Ken had traveled there, bought a mobile home, and arranged for water, gas, and electricity to be turned on when we moved in.
We arrived in Provo on a cold December night. All our belongings were packed in the back of a rental truck. We were tired and tense from the long trip. Six months pregnant, I was feeling the effects of cleaning, packing, and traveling. Shawna, our 15-month-old daughter, was tired and crying.
As we opened the door to our home, a blast of cold air greeted us. The electricity and water had been turned on, but for some reason the gas had not. Too exhausted to do anything else, we put a mattress on the floor and plugged in an electric blanket to keep us warm. We tried to sleep with our daughter between us, but she cried most of the night. When morning came we were almost as tired as when we had gone to bed.
After we unloaded the truck, Ken left to return it, check with the gas company, and arrange for a phone to be installed. I dressed Shawna in her snowsuit. Then I placed her in her highchair to play with a few toys while I started to unpack the boxes.
When I unpacked our electric frying pan, I decided to heat water in it to wash out the cupboards. As I turned on the kitchen sink, the faucet came off and water shot up into the air. I tried to turn off the water valve under the sink but could not get it to turn. Frantically, I searched for the water shutoff valve for the house. By the time I found it, the kitchen and living room were flooded.
As I desperately started moving boxes out of the water, Shawna sensed panic and began to scream. Carrying her with one of my arms, I continued trying to lift boxes with the other arm.
At that moment I started into premature labor. Now I was truly panicked. I didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood, and I didn’t have a phone to call for help. Desperately I prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me!”
I’ll never forget the knock that came at the door minutes later. The woman standing there was shivering, with soapsuds up to her elbows. She introduced herself as Amalia Van Tassel, the branch Relief Society president, and told me the Spirit had sent her.
I would later learn that Amalia had been standing at her sink washing dishes when she felt prompted to check on the new family who had just moved in. Sensing that it was urgent, she called to her oldest daughter to watch her other children and, without even stopping to dry her hands or grab her coat, ran to my door.
Amalia had me lie down, comforted Shawna, cleaned up all she could, and invited our family to dinner. She brought light, safety, and comfort into that dark December day. Rest stopped my premature labor, Ken fixed the sink, the gas man turned the gas on, and portable electric heaters dried the soaked carpet.
I have always been grateful to Heavenly Father for answering my prayer that day and for the loving Relief Society president who quickly followed the promptings of the Holy Spirit.

Many teens in the South run to Florida beaches for spring break, but cousins Marty Craig, an elder in the Newnan Ward, Jonesboro Georgia Stake, and John ‘Mac’ Williams, a recent convert and priest in the Woodstock Ward, East Marietta Georgia Stake, headed to Honduras.
And it wasn’t for fun and games. They worked hard to help finish a dam for an 11-acre reservoir to power a generator for a boys’ school. Not only that, but they helped collect shirts, hats, candy, and machinery in Georgia to take down to the school. Oh, and of course they milked cows, helped build a new building, and shoveled and bagged rice. The school, “El Sembrador,” is almost self-sufficient now.
They also brought four copies of the Book of Mormon with them and personally presented them to some of the young men at the school. Marty is now continuing his missionary work full-time in the Dominican Republic. Mac will follow him into the mission field as soon as he graduates.

Peter Hagen sat at the kitchen table in their small cabin and watched his mother remove four loaves of bread from the oven. Usually the smell of freshly baked bread made him feel happy, but today he was worried.
“Will we have a Christmas this year?” Peter asked his mother.
“Of course we will,” Mother replied. “We’re not in Ohio anymore, but I think our Christmas will be just as good as if we were. You’ll see.”
Already Peter missed the gaily decorated Christmas tree, wrapped presents, delicious cookies, and the friends with whom he’d spent so many happy hours.
It was just ten months ago that ten-year-old Peter, his five-year-old sister, Ruthie, and their parents had journeyed west from Ohio by covered wagon to settle on the plains of the Dakota Territory. Peter couldn’t understand how his father could think that living on a farm in such a lonely area was worth leaving their comfortable home in Ohio.
“How can Christmas be the same?” Peter asked his mother. “There aren’t any stores where we can buy presents, or any friends to enjoy shopping with even if there were stores.”
“Well, Peter, there are many kinds of gifts we can give besides the ones we buy in a store,” answered Mother.
That evening at supper Peter was still worried about celebrating Christmas in their new home. “Dad, will we at least have a Christmas tree this year?” he asked.
“We’ll have a tree,” Father said as he smiled at Peter and Ruthie. “We couldn’t bring our tinsel and glass ornaments with us, so we’ll have to depend on you to make the decorations for our tree.”
“That might be fun,” said Peter. He noticed Ruthie was smiling too.
“I’d like a doll for Christmas,” Ruthie said suddenly. “A big doll with a pretty dress.”
“Maybe, Ruthie,” Mother answered finally. “But don’t count too much on it.”
Oh, I hope she can have a doll, Peter thought. I still wish we were back in our old home where there were stores so we could buy things.
“What would you like for Christmas, Dad?” Peter asked.
Father thought a moment and answered, “I suppose a new saddle for our horse.”
“And what do you want, Mom?” Ruthie asked.
“I would like a piano just like the one we left behind,” Mother replied. “I do miss my music.”
Peter couldn’t help but join in with a wish for himself. “I’d like some ice skates. It’s not easy to skate on the pond in my boots.”
After supper Peter and Ruthie started making Christmas decorations. Mother showed them how to carve stars out of yellow lye soap. They tied bows out of different colored ribbons and cut yarn into short strips.
“The yarn can be our tinsel,” Peter told Ruthie. “I can hardly wait to see our tree!”
The new ornaments were stored on a shelf until Christmas Eve, when it was the family tradition to decorate the Christmas tree.
As Christmas drew near, Ruthie continued to talk about a new doll and Mother hummed some of the songs she used to play on her piano. It made Peter feel sad to think that each one couldn’t have the gift he or she wanted most.
Peter went to his room and pulled out a wooden box from under his bed where he kept his most prized possessions. He opened the box and took out a pocketknife given to him by his best friend back in Ohio, some stones he found in a stream along the way to Dakota, two drawing pencils, a pair of scissors, a spelling award he won last year in the fifth grade, and an old catalog.
As Peter slowly turned the pages of the catalog, he noticed a page full of pictures of saddles. An idea flashed into his mind. They’ll have to use their imaginations, Peter thought, but I can make sure everyone will have a special Christmas present this year!
On Christmas Eve Peter and his father brought in a small evergreen tree and placed it in the center of the kitchen on a wooden stand. Ruthie hung the soap stars and bows on the tree while Peter draped the yarn tinsel over the branches. Then Peter hung some oddly shaped paper ornaments on the tree. One had a dark brown picture on it.
“What have we here?” asked Father as he turned the picture over so he could look at it. “Why, it’s a saddle!” he declared.
“It’s your Christmas saddle, Dad. Now all you need is a paper horse,” Peter said with a big smile.
Peter handed Ruthie a picture he had neatly cut out of the catalog. “Here’s your doll, Ruthie. It’s only a paper picture, but she’ll be part of our wishing game. Maybe next year you’ll have a real doll.”
Ruthie held the picture gently in her hands and said, “She’s pretty. If we put her on top of the tree, she can be our angel.”
Father picked Ruthie up, and she hung the doll on the top of the tree.
Mother could see a picture of a piano dangling near the saddle ornament. “And I have my piano,” she said as she hugged Peter.
“I wanted us to have what we each wanted most for Christmas,” Peter said. He held up a picture of a pair of skates and hung it on the tree. “And here are my ice skates.”
“Well, Peter, I think we’re having a nice Christmas. After all, Christmas is in our hearts, and as long as we’re together, we’ll always have the same good Christmas we used to have back in our old home,” his mother said.
“Next year we’ll probably have some of those gifts sitting under the tree instead of hanging on the tree,” Father laughed, but Peter thought that Father seemed to have a sudden hoarseness when he spoke.
“Are you all ready for popcorn?” Mother asked.
“Popcorn!” cried Peter and Ruthie. That was a real Christmas treat!
Ruthie and Mother seemed happy as they roasted the popcorn. And Father was getting ready to read the story of the first Christmas from the Bible.
Peter smiled and looked around. The tree was gaily decorated, and there were presents—even if they were only paper ones.
It is a nice Christmas, he thought. Suddenly he knew just what his mother meant when she said, “After all, Christmas is in our hearts!”

“Nice pants,” a girl giggled as she walked past me into class. I stood in the hallway of my new junior high school, confused by her sarcasm.
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I whispered to myself.
It didn’t take me long to figure it out. In this school, designer clothes were the standard, and my jeans didn’t have the right label. I just didn’t fit in.
As the unkind comments grew, so did my feelings of inferiority. Along with my schoolwork, I started studying the other students’ styles. Time and new clothes helped end the teasing. Yet I still spent hours worrying that I didn’t measure up.
My craving to feel accepted continued into high school, where luxury cars in the student parking lot were a common sight. I would rather have been seen careening through the halls in a baby buggy than caught driving our family car. It was a minivan, old and turquoise. A recent accident supplied the final touch—a white hood. The van reminded me of a blue-and-white suede loafer, so I named it Old Blue Shoe.
Since I walked to school, Old Blue Shoe didn’t concern me much—that is, until my parents bought a new car and offered me the ancient vehicle. Was I grateful for something to drive? Hardly—I’d rather walk.
A short time later in history class, my teacher assigned a joint research project. Instead of the usual disappointment, though, I was overjoyed—my teacher had announced that Rick and I would be in the same group. Not only was Rick one of the smart kids, but he was also seminary president and an athlete. This was my chance to impress him, to prove that I could fit in with the popular kids. Before class ended, we’d agreed to do our work at the university library. Then I walked home, smiling the whole way.
That night, my parents dropped me off at the library so I wouldn’t have to drive the van. But I cringed when my parents said, “Get a ride home from one of your friends, okay?”
The library research time flew by, and I felt relieved when Rick offered to take me home. We walked down the library stairs and outside, talking about school. As we reached the parking lot, my insecure feelings poked at me, and I felt the need to explain why I was reduced to begging for rides. “My parents bought a new car and offered me their van,” I said, “but it was this ugly dinosaur, and, you know …” I shrugged, hoping to suggest I was too stylish to ride in a car like that.
I wondered why Rick got so quiet. He pulled out his keys and stopped in front of his car. The reason for his silence hit like Old Blue Shoe’s ghost on a rampage. It was a blue minivan—a newer model, but otherwise identical to the car I’d just ridiculed.
My stomach dropped. I opened the car door and slid into the seat, wishing I could hide in the glove box instead. I wanted to apologize, explain that his car was nice, in much better shape than my parent’s van. Yet I was too mortified to say a single word.
Rick didn’t speak either, except to ask for directions to my house. He pulled up to my curb, then left with a simple “Bye.”
My face burned with humiliation as I walked to my front door. Worse, I knew I deserved every bit of my embarrassment. I went inside and sank onto the couch to think. Until that night, I’d thought self-confidence came from appearance. Although my comment bothered Rick, driving that car didn’t. He had an assurance based not on looks, but an internal quality I lacked.
I realized I’d wasted years studying the “in” crowd, when I should have been working on what was inside. I wanted to change, to be more like Rick—a person who could have a “bad car day” without letting it ruin my feelings of self-worth.
I made a goal to stop just following others and try to become more like our Savior, Jesus Christ. As I looked to Him, I began to gain a confidence based not on how I looked, but how I served.
I learned a secret I wish I’d known before Rick gave me that ride home. I was much happier when I spent my time thinking of others instead of worrying about what they thought of me.

I talked with a Relief Society member about a visit she had made. It was to a woman who would soon lose her husband suddenly and tragically. In recent years the woman had only intermittent contact with Relief Society.

The visitor prepared by stopping at a shop to buy flowers. It was a season when the tulips were stacked for sale in many colors. She chose one color, her favorite, but then felt impressed to try another. She didn’t know why she selected yellow, but she did.

When she presented the yellow tulips at the door, the woman smiled and said, “Come. See my backyard garden.” It was filled with yellow tulips in full bloom. The woman said, “I was just wondering if I should cut some for the house. But now I can leave them and enjoy them a little longer in my garden because you brought me these.” They chatted pleasantly as if they were old friends. From that impression to bring some flowers and to choose yellow tulips, that visiting teacher had evidence that she was on the Lord’s errand. When she told me, I could hear the joy in her voice.

When she spoke with me, she didn’t know what the widow felt after the visit. But if the widow felt that God loved her and that He had sent an angel to her, the visiting teacher had helped her move down the road to success in the Lord’s eyes. That visitor may verify success from her faithful effort only in the world to come.

Last year while Elder David S. Baxter and I were driving to a stake conference, we stopped at a restaurant. Later when returning to our car, we were approached by a woman who called out to us. We were startled by her appearance. Her grooming (or lack of it) was what I might politely call “extreme.” She asked if we were elders in the Church. We said yes. Almost unrestrained, she told the story of her tragic life, swamped in sin. Now, only 28 years old, she was miserable. She felt worthless, with nothing to live for. As she spoke, the sweetness of her soul began to emerge. Pleading tearfully, she asked if there was any hope for her, any way up and out of her hopelessness.
“Yes,” we responded, “there is hope. Hope is linked to repentance. You can change. You can ‘come unto Christ, and be perfected in him.’” We urged her not to procrastinate. She sobbed humbly and thanked us sincerely.
As Elder Baxter and I continued our journey, we pondered that experience. We recalled the counsel given to a hopeless soul by Aaron, who said, “If thou wilt repent of all thy sins, and will bow down before God, and call on his name in faith, … then shalt thou receive the hope which thou desirest.”

Some time ago I was invited to speak at a youth conference, which is the kind of invitation that I have had to decline routinely for years. But something about this one kept gnawing at me, and I answered that I would come. It seemed a foolish thing to do. It meant a morning drive of about four hours into a neighboring state and then the same drive back that night. But I felt I should go, and I did. I put my wife and children in the car with sandwiches and a Scrabble board, and off we went.

After I dropped them off at the local city park and swimming pool, I went over to the youth conference held at a local stake center. The trip was worth it all to me for one brief testimony that I heard there. At this very moment I honestly cannot tell you what I said to that group as their invited speaker. It’s gone from my memory and undoubtedly gone from all of theirs. But this young convert’s testimony is still with me, and I leave it with you today.

She described her conversion to the Church and what the gospel of Jesus Christ had come to mean in her life. Her home life was something out of a horror story—broken marriage, mother living with a man not her husband, brother on drugs, sister expecting a baby. It was as bizarre as any social worker would ever need to see. But into her life had come the Church, and for this young fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl it was everything, and she was hanging on. She described opening her school locker one day, only to have her paperback edition of the Book of Mormon fall to the floor. She used it in seminary, and to her it was a prized possession. She was still a little insecure about all of this, however, for the world around her had made her pretty insecure. And she was not yet certain what her new faith and friends held in store for her. She was happy but still tentative and very anxious to be stronger in the faith. She was embarrassed. She had not wanted anyone to see the book.

She hastily stooped down to pick it up before someone noticed. But someone had noticed, and they were standing right next to her. Three girls looked first at the book and then at her. Her heart sank, and she clutched at the little blue paperback cover. She said nothing, and neither did they for a moment. But then one of them asked, “Is that a church book?”

She said “Yes.”

The other girl said “What church is it?”

And my young friend stuttered, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

“Is that the Mormons?” shot back the inquirer.

“Yes,” whispered the frightened little Latter-day Saint, “that’s the Mormons.”

There was a long pause, and then her interrogator said, “Are you true?”

After a pause that was both instantaneous and eternal, my little friend said, with her head slightly more erect and her back slightly straighter and her hands trembling a little less, “Yes, I’m true.”

I must confess that when I first heard that young girl’s testimony, I did not quite understand all that I was hearing. I’ve thought about it since, and obviously what the one girl, in her own way, was asking was, “Are you active?” That’s the way we would have phrased it. But what a tragic loss to so phrase it. How much more meaning there is in the straightforward inquiry, “Are you true?”

There was no reprisal. The heretofore undisclosed copy of the Book of Mormon in a school locker had not brought on physical torture or social ostracism. A little confidence came, and a little conviction increased. There was just one young soul saying to another, “Are you true?” “If you are a Latter-day Saint, are you a good one?”

Ryan found himself wandering along an unfamiliar trail. A minute later he came to a clearing in the trees and there she was, a proud dark-haired stranger with gray-blue eyes, sitting on an ornate Persian rug. She wore a full-length silk gown and a regal cape.
“Excuse me,” he said, “you haven’t seen a mountain bike around here, have you? I wiped out going down a hill. I must’ve got knocked out. When I came to, I couldn’t find the bike … or the trail I’d been on either.”
“Art thou mad?” she asked with a strange accent.
“Let me guess—the drama club is on a field trip, right? Look, if you or any of your buddies have ripped off my bike, I’m calling the cops. Just tell me where you put it so I can go home.”
“Thy words indeed condemn thee! Thou art demented.”
“Hey, c’mon, the play’s over, okay? Where’s the rest of the cast anyway? I bet the guys’ll come in waving little cardboard swords.” He touched his forehead. “My head is killing me. I must’ve hit it on a rock when I landed. Mind if I sit down?”
“I sit not with commoners.”
He sat down anyway. “You’re really carrying this too far you know.” He decided to see if he could get a normal conversation going. “You like football? I pretty much go with the Bears.”
“Doest thou expect me to believe thou livest with bears?” She stood up. “Guards!”
Nothing happened. “Missed their cue, huh? I wish they’d come too, so I can find out what happened to my bike.”
She sneezed.
“Hay fever? I get it too this time of year. My doctor gave me a prescription that seems to work. Here, I’ve got ’em here with me.” He handed her two pills. “Just don’t operate any heavy machinery for a couple of hours.” He smiled. “Of course in that outfit I doubt you’ll be doing much of that.”
“Thinkest thou to tempt me with an evil potion?” She threw the pills on the ground.
He stood up. “That’s it. I’m out of here. When I come back I’m bringing the cops. That bike cost a lot of money. Oh, I suppose you’d like to know what it cost me in farthings, right, your majesty?”
Suddenly four soldiers with swords drawn rushed into the clearing. “Oh, wow, real swords, like I’m really impressed. Okay, which one of you took my bike?”
“Throw this demon into the dungeon!” she called out.
The guards rushed him.
“Hey, cut it out!”
They started dragging him down the hill. He called out to her. “I’m going to report this. When I get done, you people will never have another drama club picnic in your entire life!”
He lay in his cell, listening to water dripping down the rough-hewn rock wall, and tried to figure out where he was. First of all, it was not a stage set made out of cardboard and wire. It was a real castle. A castle with a moat, working drawbridge, and plenty of armed guards. Why would there be a castle around here, he thought. Was Disney secretly building something?
At dusk a guard opened the door and placed a wood bowl of soup and some bread on a table and started to leave again.
“Wait. Where am I?”
“Where, indeed, but the dungeon of King Frederick, as indeed thou shalt be until the end of thy days, which because of the way Princess Kathryn raileth against thee, shouldst not be many more days hence.”
“Look, you’re not scaring me. I know this is just a dream.”
“Are the chains which bind thee a dream also?”
He pulled at the chains as hard as he could and pinched himself at the same time, hoping it would wake him up, but it didn’t do any good. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“The king will have thee brought before him. Be wise how thou answerest the king. If thou doest not answer well, thou wilt surely be put to death.”
The next morning Ryan was taken before the king.
“This is the cur who dealt so poorly with me yesterday,” Princess Kathryn said. “I want him put to death for insulting my honor.”
“My daughter says thou art a demon,” the king said.
“That’s not true, your majesty.”
“Didst thou not say to her that thou livest with bears?”
“They’re not real bears. And I don’t live with them. I just like to watch them carry the ball.”
“Seest thou what I mean,” she said to her father.
“To the dungeon!” the king called out.
“No, wait! I can explain this. I come from another kingdom. There must’ve been some kind of a time warp. Anyway, now I’m here, I can help you.”
“How?” Kathryn asked.
“I have powers.”
“Prove these powers to us,” she challenged.
Ryan set his digital watch alarm and it started buzzing. The king, the queen, and the guards quickly backed to the wall—everyone except Kathryn. He thrust the arm which held the watch in her direction. “Be careful, Princess, or I’ll turn you into a frog. No, that’s not horrible enough. I’ll turn you into a fly that’s eaten by a frog. No, that’s not lasting enough. I’ll turn you into an ox that pulls a peasant’s plow all the day long. Do not trifle with me, Princess, or you will meet my wrath.”
He was surprised, but she believed him and was frightened. He smiled. “Sorry, just kidding.” He turned to the king. “It’s okay. You can sit back down again.”
The king returned to his throne. “Thou hast spared my daughter. Wouldst thou like to marry her?”
“Well, that’s real nice of you to offer, but see, the thing is, I always planned on graduating from high school and then going on a mission before I got married.”
“When wilt thou go on this mission?” Kathryn asked.
“What year is this?”
“The year of our Lord fifteen hundred and forty.”
“Oh, well, I guess I’ll have to wait about 453 years before I can actually go.”
“I canst not wait that long for him,” Kathryn complained.
“I know, I know. Art thou interested in this stranger?” the king asked.
“Perhaps a little. Would that he were a prince; then might I have interest.”
The king stood up. “If thou canst pass the Test of Life, thou shalt be a prince.”
“You mean I have to take tests here too? Is it multiple choice? I can usually do okay on them.”
“Thou shalt surely have choices. If thou doest well, thou shalt receive my daughter to wed as well as half my kingdom and the right to be king someday.”
“All that for passing a test? I wish they’d do that in the school I go to. Especially the part about half the kingdom. I’d study a lot more.”
“Thou must first do battle with the Swordsman of Keldar. Tomorrow at dawn. My servant Michael will help thee prepare for the contest.”
Once they were alone, Ryan asked Michael. “How good is this Keldar, anyway?”
“There is a field of graves that telleth how good he be. But I have a plan how thou canst defeat him.”
“How?”
“I can steal into his tent and place a potion in his drink. It shall take away his strength. Or I can take his jousting stick and cut it part way through.”
“No, that’d be cheating. Just give me a few hints of how this game is played. We’ll set up torches and practice tonight.”
They practiced until two in the morning, and then Ryan went to the stable and spread out some straw and tried to sleep.
At dawn, he sat on his horse in a suit of armor, facing at the other end of the field the dreaded Swordsman of Keldar. The king and queen and Princess Kathryn sat in their royal chairs surrounded by other nobility of the kingdom.
A trumpet sounded. The two armored opponents spurred their horses. Both held their jousting poles ahead of them. Ryan leaned first one way and then the other, catching the swordsman in the chest and knocking him off his horse.
Ryan got off his horse and knelt down beside Keldar, who opened his eyes slowly. “You okay?” Ryan asked.
Keldar got up. “I submit to thee,” he said solemnly and then walked off the field.
Ryan watched him leave. “What does that mean?”
“It meaneth he surrendereth his house and everything he owneth to thee for pillaging.”
An hour later he and Michael entered Keldar’s house. “Anybody here?” he called out.
“All have fled to the woods,” Michael said. “They have fear of thee. Thou mayest commence pillaging.”
“Uh, could you give me a couple of hints? I’m kind of new at this.”
“Behold yon window of stained glass. Throwest thou a rock through it. Behold the curtains. Setteth them on fire. Behold the fine set of pottery. Throwest thou everything down and breaketh it.”
Ryan paused. “See, the thing is, where I come from this is called vandalism.” Ryan picked up a brick and faced the stained glass window. “What happens when I finish pillaging?”
“Keldar returneth with his family. If there remaineth an abode, they enter unto it again.”
“Keldar has a family?”
“Aye. Three children.”
“What if I break this window? How will that affect his kids?”
“It shall be even more cold than usual for them at night, but worry thou not; it is thy right.”
“Pillaging isn’t much fun when you think about how it will affect the people you’re doing it to.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to do it. Let’s go.”
“People shall not respect thee if thou doest not pillage Keldar’s house. People shall say thou art not a man.”
“I don’t care what they say. I’m still not going to do it.”
Later that night Ryan met with the king and queen and Kathryn. “Why didst thou not pillage Keldar’s house?” the king asked.
“Well, he has a family. I kept thinking of his wife and kids coming back and seeing how much damage I’d done to their home.”
The king spoke again. “Tomorrow is thy final test. Thou shalt face the Dragon of Doom. Art thou willing to face a fire-breathing dragon?”
“Sure, why not, especially since there’s no such thing as a dragon.”
“He shall go against the dragon!” the king called to the royal court. They all shouted their approval. “We will prepare a great feast for thee tonight. It may be thy last.”
“There’s no such thing as dragons.”
“Explain that to the brave souls who have died fighting him,” the king said.
Before the feast Ryan took a walk with Kathryn. “Have you ever had a date?” he asked.
“Dates I have had not, but once a fig had I.” There was a low rumble in the distance. “The dragon knowest thou art coming to meet it on the morrow. If thou doest kill it, then we shall wed.”
“Oh, yeah, right. I haven’t thought much about that part.”
“Doest thou find me beautiful?”
“Well, yeah, pretty much I’d say … overall.”
“Thou doest not sound certain.”
“Well you don’t use as much makeup as the girls I’m used to. You know, eyeshadow, stuff like that. Anyway, I’d say you’re real good looking for the 1500s.”
“Some say I am the most beautiful in the kingdom.”
“I guess it depends how big the kingdom is.”
She was insulted at first, but then began to laugh. “Thou makest me mirthful. I liketh that. Tomorrow I will accompany thee to the entrance of the dragon’s cave.”
Before the sun was even up, the entire king’s court rode out with him to the dragon’s cave. They stopped far away, but Kathryn insisted on riding with Ryan and Michael to the cave. “I shall wait for thee out here,” she said.
Michael handed Ryan a large sword and a torch. He stepped inside the cave. There was a strange smell inside. Up ahead he saw a vaporous cloud. He turned around and returned to the cave entrance. “Uh, excuse me, can I ask a question? The others who went in the cave and never came out, did they all take a torch with them? I mean nobody took a flashlight, right?”
“Flashlight?” Michael asked.
“Oh yeah, right. Well anyway, I think I know what your problem is. Move away.” Ryan stepped to the entrance of the cave, tossed the torch inside, and jumped to the side. A large explosion rocked the cave and fire flashed out of the entrance, lighting up the predawn sky. “There never was a dragon, Michael. It was just a natural gas buildup. Everyone who went in the cave with a torch set it on fire.”
“Enter therein with thy sword and makest thou large noises. Return then with a tale of how thou hast fought the dragon. Thou couldst become the most famous knight of all.”
“Making up stories wouldn’t be right,” Ryan said.
That evening at a royal banquet, the king spoke. “The test thou didst take wast designed to determine thine integrity. By refusing to take unfair advantage of Keldar, by refusing to pillage another’s property, by not inventing stories about the dragon, thou hast demonstrated integrity. One who has control of self can rule a nation. Thou shalt be the next king. I dub thee Man of Ethics and Integrity. On the morrow thou and Kathryn shall wed.”
“But we haven’t even had a date yet.”
“‘Tis no matter; we will have figs,” Kathryn said.
Suddenly Ryan opened his eyes and saw Kathryn wearing a white uniform and holding a clip chart in her hand.
“Thank you for wearing some makeup,” he said.
She smiled. “Ryan, you’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness since they brought you in here after your mountain bike accident. You must have been dreaming.”
“Does that mean we’re not going to wed on the morrow?”
She smiled. “Yes, that’s what it means.”
“I thought it was a little fast.”
“Just relax, okay? Your folks went down to the cafeteria for something to eat. They’ll be back in a minute.”
“In my dream I was dubbed a man of ethics and integrity.” He paused. “But it was all just a dream.”
“You can still be known as that kind of person,” she said.
Ryan thought about it. “I think I’d like that.”
“Can I get you anything to eat?”
He hesitated. “I don’t suppose you could get me some figs, could you?”

But you know something, I have great faith in the young women and young men of the Church. Everywhere I go I find them standing for what is right. Modesty is still popular. Good manners are still to be found and Christ-like behavior is still the model. All over our young people are saying, "Enough is enough." I recently was told of a group of young women who simply got tired of trying to buy modest clothing. They arranged a meeting with the buyer for the local store. Their message was simple: "We don't like what you carry. Either buy clothes that meet our standards or we're going somewhere else even if we have to make our own." I understand the buyer and the store management listened.

Dawn turned the sky a rosy red above the Idaho mountains as Toby helped Pa load the last of the wheat into the wagon. There was still room for Ma’s crocks of butter and the small basket of eggs packed in straw. Pa shook his head as he limped around the side of the wagon and pulled the canvas tarp down tightly over the load.
“I was counting on our winter wheat to make the mortgage payment,” Pa told Toby. “But since that storm ruined most of the crop, I hope that the cow will bring enough to keep the bank happy.” Pa tied down the tarp and added, “I know that you wanted to come along, Toby, but somebody has to stay home and tend the stock. Maybe your ma can trade her butter and eggs for a few supplies and enough material to make you a new shirt.”
Toby swallowed hard, and vigorously scratched Shep’s ears to hide his disappointment. The dog wagged his tail and followed Toby and Pa as they walked back to the cabin for breakfast.
When the meal was over, Pa led the brindled cow from the barn and tied her to the back of the wagon. Ma stopped and stroked the cow.
“Now that her calf is weaned, I’ve been hoping to sell her milk and butter to the miners.” Ma sighed and climbed aboard the wagon. “Mr. Pauley says that they’ve been asking for fresh milk and eggs and butter.”
“We’ll be home around nightfall,” Pa said to Toby, picking up the reins. “You take good care of things while we’re gone.”
“And see to it that my hens are safe,” Ma cautioned. “We need what few eggs they lay to get us through till the crops are harvested.”
Toby hung his head and dug his toe into the dirt, remembering that the fix they were in with the hens was partly his fault. It was his job each evening to close the little door that the chickens used to go into and out of the coop. But one night last month there had been a terrible thunderstorm, and he’d been too scared to go out and close the door. That night a fox had gotten into the coop and killed half the flock. Worst of all, it had carried off Biddie, Ma’s only setting hen, before Pa could run him off. Now there were only four hens and a rooster left.
“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll take good care of the chickens,” Toby promised as he waved good-bye to them. Slowly the wagon disappeared around the bend at the edge of the clearing.
Toby went to the barn to feed the calf and pigs; then he fed the chickens. It was past noon before he finished the list of other chores that Ma and Pa had left for him. He made himself a sandwich and sat out on the porch in the sun while he ate. Shep sat down beside him, hoping for a piece of crust.
“We have time to go fishing before evening chores,” Toby told Shep. “We’ll surprise Ma and catch her a nice mess of trout for supper.” He tossed Shep the last bite of his sandwich and got his fishing pole from the barn.
With Shep at his heels, Toby was halfway across the clearing before he remembered the chickens. He stopped and looked back. The hens were pecking contentedly around the barnyard. “I guess no old fox is going to bother them while we’re gone,” he told the dog. Shep wagged his tail and plodded along beside Toby as they went down the path to the fishing hole.
Toby settled himself on the bank of the creek and dropped his line into the water. “I bet we catch a big one,” he said. But Shep just turned and wandered off through the bushes along the creek.
Toby pushed his hat back and leaned back on his elbows to look up at the blue, cloudless sky. He watched a black speck grow bigger and take shape. The bird glided gracefully through the air on motionless wings. An eagle, Toby thought idly. He watched and admired the bird as it made wide, lazy circles overhead. Suddenly Toby sat straight up. “That’s not an eagle,” he said aloud. “That’s a chicken hawk after Ma’s hens!” Toby dropped the fishing pole and took off running. He didn’t even wait to call Shep. He pounded up the path from the creek. The chickens were squawking fearfully by the time he burst into the clearing.
The hawk swooped down, just missing a red hen. Still too far away to scare away the hawk, Toby prayed, “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to get there in time.” Still running, he scooped up a handful of stones. “Get out of here, you old hawk!” he yelled, peppering the air with stones. The hawk gave a startled cry and excitedly flapped its wings. It screamed its anger as it swooped down one last time, then flew away.
By the time Toby reached the barnyard, all the hens had disappeared. Only the bedraggled rooster was hiding in the chicken coop. Toby sat down on the chopping block and held his head in his hands. “Now I’ve lost all the hens. What will we do without eggs?”
Just then a speckled hen stepped cautiously from the bushes. She took several jerky steps, then ran for the chicken coop. Toby rushed to close the little door behind her.
The rest of the hens must be out there, too, he thought. Maybe I can find them all before Ma comes home. He ran to the barn for a burlap sack to drop over the chickens in case they were still too excited to be caught with his hands.
By sundown Toby had found all but the red hen. He circled deeper into the woods, hoping to drive her into the clearing. It had grown almost dark under the trees. If the hen were still there, she would be roosting by now. Toby peered into the lower branches of the trees and under the bushes, watching for her dark shape. He saw nothing at first, then just ahead in a patch of tall grass, he saw several birds.
They must be quail or grouse, Toby thought as he crept closer. If I can catch them for Ma, it will make up a little for losing the hen. Toby took off his hat and sneaked up on the birds. As he slipped his hat over the first bird, he was startled to see that it was a hen with eight half-grown chicks. Slipping the hen from his hat into the burlap sack, he reached for one of her chicks.
It was fully dark when Ma and Pa came home. Toby grabbed his lantern and rushed from the cabin to meet them. “You brought the cow back!” he cried. “I thought that you were going to sell her.”
Ma smiled and climbed down from the wagon before Pa drove the team into the barn. “Pa got a hauling job up at the mine. It’s only two days a week, but it will pay enough to make the mortgage payment. Did you close the chicken coop?”
“Yes, Ma, but you’d better come have a look at the hens.” On the way to the chicken coop he told her about the hawk. Inside he held his lantern high and moved toward the roost.
“My goodness!” Ma cried. “Where did all these chickens come from?”
Toby grinned. “It’s Biddie’s brood, Ma. See—there’s Biddie too. I found them roosting in the woods while I was searching for the red hen. The young ones will soon be laying size, Ma. You can sell eggs to the miners after all. I’m just sorry that I never found the red hen.”
“That’s all right Toby. You did the best that you could, and I’m very proud of you.”
Toby and Ma both turned when they heard scratching noises at the coop door. Toby cautiously opened the door, then stood back as the lost red hen jerk-stepped into the coop.
Ma put her arms around Toby and hugged him tightly. “Heavenly Father certainly has been watching over us this day. With His help we’re going to make it just fine.”

Thirty-four gifted and inspired speakers have preceded me, and now on this autumn day I feel like the last leaf on the tree as I say a few words before President Lee gives his final counsel and blessing. It is not a new experience for me to speak immediately preceding President Lee. I have had that privilege a score of times recently. Each time I have felt like the freshman team before the varsity comes out for the big game.
But I regard this as a great opportunity to add my testimony. I humbly seek the direction of the Holy Spirit as I speak upon a sacred theme.
We have sung in this conference a marvelous hymn, a hymn we have sung in conferences for more than a century: “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.” It is distinctive with us. As a people we sing some hymns that have come from other churches, and others sing some of ours. But only we can properly sing, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet to guide us in these latter days.”
It was written more than a century ago by a man of humble circumstances who lived in Sheffield, England. He worked in the steel mills and was discharged because he joined the Mormon Church. But there burned in his heart a great and fervent testimony; and out of an overflowing spirit of gratitude, he penned these marvelous lines. They have become a grateful expression of appreciation for millions over the earth. I myself have heard them sung in 21 different languages as a reverent prayer of thanksgiving for divine revelation.
How thankful we ought to be, my brethren and sisters, how thankful we are, for a prophet to counsel us in words of divine wisdom as we walk our paths in these complex and difficult times. The solid assurance we carry in our hearts, the conviction that God will make his will known to his children through his recognized servant is the real basis of our faith and activity. We either have a prophet or we have nothing; and having a prophet, we have everything.
Twelve years ago, in company with the mission president from Hong Kong, it was my opportunity to initiate the work in the Philippines. On April 28, 1961, we held a meeting that will never be forgotten by those of us who were present. We had no hall then in which to meet. We made a request of the United States Embassy for permission to meet on the beautiful porch of the marble memorial in the American military cemetery at Fort McKinley on the outskirts of Manila. We convened at 6:30 in the morning. In that hallowed and sacred place, where are remembered the tragedies of war, we commenced the work of teaching the gospel of peace.
We called upon the only native Filipino member we had been able to locate. He recounted a story which I have never forgotten.
When he was a boy he found in a garbage can an old tattered copy of the Reader’s Digest. It contained a condensation of a book giving the story of the Mormon people. It spoke of Joseph Smith and described him as a prophet. The word prophet did something to that boy. Could there actually be a prophet upon the earth? he wondered. The magazine was lost, but concern over the presence of a living prophet never left him during the long, dark years of war and oppression when the Philippines were occupied. Finally the forces of liberation came, and with them the reopening of Clark Air Base. David Lagman found employment there. His supervisor, he learned, was a Mormon, an Air Force officer. He wanted to ask him if he believed in a prophet, but was afraid to do so. Finally, after much inner turmoil, he mustered the courage to inquire.
“Are you a Mormon, sir?” the young man asked. “Yes, I am,” was the forthright reply. “Do you believe in a prophet, do you have a prophet in your church?” came the anxious question.
“We do have a prophet, a living prophet, who presides in this church and who teaches the will of the Lord.”
David asked the officer to tell him more, and out of that teaching came his baptism. He was the first native elder ordained in the Philippines and today serves as president of the Northern Luzon District of the Church, now knowing for himself that there is indeed a living prophet on the earth.
Could any people have a greater blessing than to have standing at their head one who receives and teaches the will of God concerning them? We need not look far in the world to know that “the wisdom of the wise has perished and that the understanding of the prudent has come to naught.” That wisdom for which the world should seek is the wisdom which comes from God. The only understanding that will save the world is divine understanding.
“Surely the Lord God will do nothing, but he revealeth his secret unto his servants the prophets.” (Amos 3:7.)
It was so in the days of Amos and in all the years when holy men of God spake as they were moved upon by the Holy Ghost. (See 2 Pet. 1:21.) Those ancient prophets warned not only of things to come, but more importantly, they became the revealers of truth to people. It was they who pointed the way men should live if they were to be happy and find peace in their lives.
I think today of a young man I know who, as a Christian, trying one church after another, could find none that taught of a prophet. Only among the Jewish people did he find reverent mention of the prophets, and so he accepted and embraced the Jewish religion.
In the summer of 1964, he went to New York City and visited the World’s Fair. He entered the Mormon Pavilion and saw pictures of the prophets of the Old Testament. His heart warmed within him as he heard the missionaries speak with appreciation of these great men of ages past through whom Jehovah revealed his will. Then, as he progressed through the pavilion, he heard of modern prophets—of Joseph Smith who was called a prophet, a seer, and a revelator. Something stirred within him. His spirit responded to the testimony of the missionaries. He was baptized. He served a mission in South America where he had many converts. He returned home and has since become the means of bringing his family and others into the Church. It is heartwarming to hear him testify that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God and that all who have succeeded him have been legal successors in this high and sacred calling.
Could anyone, willing to read without bias the story of Joseph Smith, doubt that he was a great foreteller of events to come? Nearly thirty years before a shot was fired, he foretold the tragic American Civil War and stated that following that, war would be poured out upon all nations. You and I of this generation are witnesses to the fulfillment of those remarkable words.
He foretold that this people, then living in Illinois, would be driven out, would suffer much affliction, and would become a great and mighty people in the midst of the Rocky Mountains. Our presence today in this great Tabernacle on Temple Square in Salt Lake City is evidence of the fulfillment of those marvelous words of prophecy.
It has been so with his successors. On a cold winter day in 1849, when our forebears in this valley were hungry and living on sego roots and thistle tops, while gold was being found in California, Brigham Young stood in the old bowery on this square and spoke prophetic words to those who felt they might leave the hardships of life here to go to greener pastures in California. Among other things, he said:
“We have been kicked out of the frying pan into the fire, out of the fire into the middle of the floor, and here we are and here we will stay. …
“We shall build a city and a temple to the Most High God in this place. We will extend our settlements to the east and the west, to the north and south, and we will build towns and cities by the hundreds, and thousands of saints will gather in from the nations of the earth.
“This will become the great highway of the nations. Kings and emperors and the noble and the wise of the earth will visit us here. …”
How could anyone stand in the Visitors Center to the north of us and witness the hundreds of thousands, yes, the millions, who come each year to visit us, and have any doubt that Brigham Young spoke other than as a prophet? Over the years there has been a veritable parade of notables who have found their way to the office of the First Presidency, there to meet particularly the man whom we sustain as the president of the Church and as the prophet of our day. They include leaders in the governments of the earth, in business and commerce, in education, in the professions. These are among “the noble and the wise of the earth” of whom Brigham Young spoke when we were an outcast people, isolated in a mountain wilderness.
Two weeks ago we were riding a plane from San Francisco to Sydney, Australia. We noted a young man in a nearby seat reading the book Joseph Smith, an American Prophet. When opportunity presented itself, I spoke to him. I told him that I had read the book, that I had known the author, and asked him what his interest was. He said, among other things, that he had an interest in prophets and that this matter of a possible modern prophet had intrigued him. He had picked up the book at the library. We had a lengthy conversation in which I bore my witness that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet. Not only did he speak of things to come, but more importantly, he was a revealer of eternal truth and a testifier of the divine mission of the Lord Jesus Christ. I am hopeful that that young man, as he continues his studies, will have come into his heart a similar testimony. I feel confident that he will.
I am profoundly grateful, my brethren and sisters, not only for Joseph Smith as the prophet who served as an instrument in the hands of the Almighty in restoring this work, but also for all of those who have followed him. A study of their lives will reveal the manner in which the Lord has chosen them, has refined them, and has molded them to his eternal purposes. Joseph Smith declared on one occasion: “I am like a huge, rough stone rolling down from a high mountain; … with all hell knocking off a corner here and a corner there, and thus I will become a smooth and polished shaft in the quiver of the Almighty.”
He was hated and persecuted. He was driven and imprisoned. He was abused and beaten. And as you read his history, you see the evolution of which he spoke. There developed a power in his life. There came a refinement. There grew a love for others which even overcame his own love for life. The corners of that rough stone were knocked off, and he became a polished shaft in the hand of the Almighty.
It has been so with those who have succeeded him. Through long years of dedicated service, they have been refined and winnowed and chastened and molded for the purposes of the Almighty. Could anyone doubt this after reading the lives of such men as Brigham Young, Wilford Woodruff, and Joseph F. Smith? The Lord subdued their hearts and refined their natures to prepare them for the great and sacred responsibility later thrust upon them. It has been so with him who stands as President of the Church today, our beloved leader, President Harold B. Lee. I hope he will pardon me. I do not wish to embarrass him. But can one who knows something of his life deny the same influences at work? He came out of circumstances that would today be classed as poverty. From firsthand experience he knows the meaning of hard manual labor. He served as a missionary and was rejected by most of those upon whom he called. He sacrificed for an education. He has known serious illness when life seemed to hang by a thread. He has walked through deep and dark valleys of sorrow. Looking back upon the history of his life, it all appears to be part of a pattern, a refining process that he might better understand the trials, the afflictions, the sorrows of others. And yet, with all of this, there is a great buoyancy of spirit that rises above the tragic and the sorrowful and lifts to higher ground all of those he touches and influences.
As one who recently walked with him as a junior companion in the missions of Europe and England, I have seen young people eagerly press about him with tears in their eyes and smiles, sweet and beautiful, upon their faces. I have seen missionaries sit enraptured as he taught from the scriptures, speaking, like the Master, “as one having authority.” I have seen little children sit almost motionless as he spoke their language and led them to understand sacred truths of the sacrament. I have seen elderly men and women weep as he blessed them.
I have seen few things more touching than a strong young man embracing the President and then later with tear-moistened eyes saying, “Never have I been so near to heaven.”

Although we were much better off now, there still wasn’t enough food or clothing to go around. It was still cold, it was still stormy, and I still had no shoes. Our company found a ravine that we later named Martin’s Ravine, and we set up camp there. For three days there was a terrible blizzard. It was so cold! Even after the storm ended, we had to wait several days before we could travel over the fresh snow. Although there were now wagons and horses, I walked every step of the way. Only those who had frozen feet got to ride.
We camped at Fort Bridger for a few days of rest. More help came at that time. We kept right on traveling. We reached Salt Lake City on November 30, 1856, eleven months after we had left our home in England. Of the 576 people who had started with our company, about 150 of them had died and were buried along the trail, including my father.

Even though John’s eyes were still closed, he knew by the feel of the sun’s sudden warmth on his face that someone had opened his bedroom curtains. Squinting, he saw his mother cranking open the window to let a pine-scented breeze fill his room. Looking to the bed across from his, John saw that Rob had been up for a long time. His bed was already made, and the clothes, laid out the night before, were gone.
John’s attention shifted back to his mother. Standing sideways and looking at the huge blue spruce near the window, Mama looked different. She was wearing a shirt that John had not seen her wear for a long time. But what was really different about her was that she was bigger.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said with a smile.
John did not jump up and ask about breakfast as he usually did. Instead, he lay there very still and serious. Although pretty certain that he knew the answer already, John asked, “Mama, are you going to have another baby?”
Mama smiled again and walked over to John’s bed. Sitting down beside him, she ran her fingers through his curly hair. “Yes, Johnny. You will get a new little baby brother or sister sometime in October. Won’t that be fun?”
John did not think that it would be fun. He looked at his brother’s bed. He thought of his sisters’ two beds down the hall. He was not going to give up his bed for a new baby. There was not enough room. “Where is he going to sleep?” he asked.
“Oh, he or she will sleep in Mama and Daddy’s room for a little while,” his mother answered. “And Daddy has been talking about making a new bedroom for you and Rob in the basement. Would you like that?”
John answered, “Maybe.” But the bed was not the real problem.
While John dressed, his mother fixed breakfast. When he arrived at the table, she had spread out six plates and was spooning fluffy yellow scrambled eggs onto them. Daddy’s and Mama’s plates held the most. Then Mama dished up the rest of the eggs equally. As John watched her, he said, “If we have a new baby, there won’t be enough breakfast for everybody.”
“Sure there will,” laughed his mother. “I’ll just add another egg. Of course, by that time, I’ll have to add extra eggs because you and Rob are getting so big.”
“I’m big today,” said John. So his mother put some jam on an extra piece of toast for him. John ate his toast and jam, but he knew that a big-enough breakfast was not the real problem.
After breakfast, John said, “I need you to read me a story.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t read to you now,” said Mama. “It’s time to give the baby her bath. Maybe I can read to you after lunch.”
While Mama was dressing Rebekah, John said, “I need you to get my blocks out of the top of my closet.”
“I’m still taking care of the baby,” said Mama. “Can you find something else to do?”
“There’s nothing to do,” mumbled John. “You spend all of your time with Rebekah. When we get a new baby, it will be even worse.”
Mama said, “It seems like that sometimes, doesn’t it, Johnny. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. As soon as I’ve washed the breakfast dishes, I’ll take you all to the park.”
An hour later, John, Mama, Rob, Jenny, and Rebekah were all at the park. John and Rob went exploring in the trees and rocks that were on one side of the park. Jenny played in the sand with Rebekah. Mama read her book for a little while.
Then Jenny and Rebekah wanted to swing. Mama strapped Rebekah inside a little baby’s swing and pushed her with little baby pushes. Mama pushed Jenny in a big swing with big pushes. From the branch of the tree he had climbed, John listened to their laughter, then climbed down and ran to the swings. Soon Rob followed him, and for a while Mama went down the row of swings, pushing Rob, then John, then Jenny, then Rebekah.
Finally Mama laughed and said, “I’m sorry, kids, but I’m just too tired to push anymore.” She took Rebekah out of the baby swing and put her back in the sandbox. Rob and Jenny went to play on the slippery slide.
After John’s swing had come to a stop, he trudged over to where his mother was sitting on their picnic quilt, reading her book. “If you have another baby, I guess you’ll be too tired to swing me anymore, won’t you?”
“Well,” said his mother, “I might get tired faster, but I will always swing you, if you want me to. Of course, you’re six now and know how to pump yourself as high as I can push you. But if you want me to, I will push you until I’m ninety-six and you’re seventy-two, and then I’ll just be too old and you’ll have to get one of your grandchildren to do it.”
Mama went back to reading her book, and John laughed as he thought about Mama being ninety-six and himself seventy-two and sitting in a swing. But even though he laughed, he knew that he still hadn’t solved the real problem.
After lunch, Mama passed out candy bars for them to eat as they walked home. John noticed that there were six candy bars in a box, and he figured that that was just right for a mama and a daddy and two boys and two girls. If a new baby came, he wondered, who would not get a candy bar? Maybe they would have to buy a whole new box for just one silly little baby. But John didn’t say anything because he knew that even candy bars were not the real problem.
After Mama put Rebekah down for her nap, she read Where the Wild Things Are to the bigger children. It was John’s favorite book, but today he hardly listened to the story. He was noticing that Jenny was sitting on Mama’s lap and that he and Rob were on either side of her. That way everyone could see the pictures. When Rebekah was old enough to go without naps and wanted to hear stories, where was she going to sit? There were already too many babies in John’s family. Why did his mother need another one? But again John did not ask the question—there was a bigger question that needed to be answered.
After story time, Jenny and Mama lay on Mama’s bed for a nap. Rob went to a friend’s house. John sat on the top step of the front porch and thought.
A little while later, John heard his mother moving around in the house. She usually got up and did some housework after Jenny fell asleep. But this afternoon Mama came outside and sat by him and put her arm around him. John didn’t look at her because he didn’t want her to see that there were drops of water on his face.
“John,” Mama asked quietly, “is something bothering you?”
“No,” he said. But he knew that Mama would notice that his voice sounded funny.
Mama scooped John up onto her lap. “Are you worried about the new baby, Johnny?”
“No,” he said again. “Not exactly. It’s just that everything is even now. We have three boys, counting Dad, and three girls, counting you, and it’s all even. Another baby will make more boys or more girls.” But John knew that he still had not told Mama the real problem.
“Well,” said Mama, “maybe we will have another baby in a couple of years to make things even. Or maybe you’ll decide when the new baby gets here that it doesn’t really matter if things are even.”
John thought for a minute, then decided to tell Mama the real problem. “You know,” he began, “I bet Rebekah will miss being the one you love the most.”
“Whatever do you mean by that, Johnny?” Mama asked. She looked as serious as John was.
“Well, when Rob was born, you loved him the best. Then I came along, and you loved me the best. When Jenny was born, you loved her best and me second best. And now that you have Rebekah, you love her the best, Jenny second best, me third best, and Rob fourth best. When you have another baby, you won’t love Rebekah the best anymore.” Then a lot of tears came into John’s eyes at once. “But, Mama, Jenny came to our family so fast that I don’t even remember when you loved me the best. I was too little to notice. And now I won’t ever get that chance again!”
John’s mother rocked him on her lap a little until he had settled down. Then she put her hand on his cheek, very gently, and wiped away some tears. She said, “Oh, my little Johnny, you haven’t really been worried about scrambled eggs and swing rides and candy bars at all, have you? You’ve been worried about love.”
John nodded, and Mama gave him a big hug. She said, “You know, honey, love isn’t like scrambled eggs that you dish out and when they’re gone, they’re gone. Love grows and gets bigger the more people there are inside it, like”—she thought a second—“like a special balloon that never pops but just gets bigger and bigger the more air you put into it.”
That night Mama told the children to get their pajamas on but not go to bed yet, because they were all going to do something later. Then, when it got very dark out, Mama and Daddy led them to the treehouse. It wasn’t in a tree anymore, but they still called it that.
When everyone was inside, Mama opened a box and gave everyone a big white candle. John could barely see the outline of Mama’s face as she handed him his candle.
Suddenly John could see Mama’s face very well. Daddy had struck a match and was lighting his candle. He said, “In the beginning, I got my light—my love—from my mama and daddy. Then I met your mama, who had her own light. And when we put them together, we had more light and more love than either of us ever had separately.” Daddy had touched his candle to Mama’s, and the treehouse looked much brighter.
“And then,” Daddy continued, “we shared our love with Rob and John and Jenny and Rebekah. And each time we shared our love, our world grew brighter and happier.” Each time Daddy said a name, he or Mama lit that child’s candle. “Do you see how bright this room is now?”
Then Mama said, “Johnny, look at my candle. Is my flame any smaller because I helped you and Jenny light yours?”
John understood and smiled all over his face—and inside too. “No, it sure isn’t.”
“Then,” said Mama, “what is a new baby going to do for our family?”
“Make it even brighter and happier,” laughed John.
“That’s right,” said Mama. “There will be times when we have to share more of our time and our room, and even more of our scrambled eggs and candy bars than we might want to. But when we share our love, it only gets better.”

They became involved in this work in an unusual way.

“My friend and I were assigned to perform some vicarious ordinances in the Brisbane Australia Temple,” Michael said. “I had driven to the temple in my business van, and when I was returning to it after the completion of my assignment, a fellow approached me in the car park and said he was the facilities manager for the Church in the area.

“He asked if I would be interested in doing some work for the Church.”

Michael says, “We were asked if we would be willing to do some gilding (painting with special gold paint) on a statue of the angel Moroni. We told him that we were willing, submitted a bid, and we did that very interesting work and have since been fortunate enough to work on many other projects.”

Some of you may have read in the March issue of the New Era the story of a handicapped girl named Jenni. She was lonely and not very attractive. One day she said to her classmates, “I need a friend. I need someone who will eat lunch with me. Who will be my friend?” One girl stood and said, “I will be your friend,” and then another did likewise. They ate lunch with her. They encouraged her. They helped her. They brought new life into the dark world of this handicapped girl. And in the process they brought new happiness into their own lives. (See Victor W. Harris, “The Miracle of Jenni,” New Era, Mar. 1996, 12–14.)