Gospel Story Finder

Joel was worried. He was almost sure he had started down the right canyon, but he should have been able to see smoke from their cabin long before now.
Mother was probably worrying because he was so late. She had reminded him when he left home that morning everything would look different if it should start to snow.
“I know you have to check the sheep today, Joel,” she said, “even if it is Thanksgiving. But with those black clouds building up behind Gap Mountain, there will be snow before noon.”
Joel tied a scarf around his neck and pulled on his gloves. “I’ll be careful,” he said, wishing his mother would remember he was eleven now and could take care of himself. “Besides, I’ve been up to the sheep range nearly every day this month. I won’t get lost.”
Mother still looked worried, though, when Joel opened the cabin door to leave. He turned to look back. The big room was bright and warm and already smelled good from the pies that were baking in the oven. On the sideboard three chickens were ready to be stuffed. Joel hoped Father would make it home from the settlement in time for the special dinner.
It was a long walk up winding Lost Canyon and across Nameless Ridge to the flat meadow where the sheep were kept. But Joel finally checked the sheep and then started home.
While he was walking home, he remembered how he and his father and mother had come to this valley three years before. Then they had only two horses, a few sheep, and no home. He had helped his father build the cabin. Now they had more than fifty sheep and four cows. Their garden grew well too.
Even the Ute Indians who lived in the valley on the other side of Nameless Ridge were friendly now. Joel remembered how Chief Kanosh had threatened them when they first moved to the valley. But that seemed a long time ago. Joel’s father and mother had done many things to help the Indians, and in return the Indians had helped them a great deal. Kanosh’s wife visited with Joel’s mother often, and Joel enjoyed watching them talk in sign language.
Joel stopped walking and bent his head back. If he only knew where the sun was, he would be able to tell whether he was going the right way, but dark weighted clouds filled the whole sky.
Which way was home? Joel looked in every direction. He knew he was going down a canyon, but how could he tell if it were the right one!
Before long big snowflakes began to strike his cheeks. Joel could scarcely see the nearby trees.
He remembered how his father always said, “Now don’t be nervous.” It helped Joel to remember Father’s calm voice.
Joel wiped snowflakes off his nose and began to walk very fast, looking to his left to be sure the slope of the hill was still there. If so, he was near Nameless Ridge and couldn’t be lost. Home was only half a mile east of where the ridge ended.
Joel began to wonder if he were really following Nameless Ridge. The pine-covered slopes looked alike through the thickly falling snow.
Joel walked steadily on. The swirling white snow that lit on the ground was beginning to pile up. Walking seemed to be harder with each step.
After what seemed a long time, Joel felt the ground under his feet begin to rise steeply. Although he couldn’t see ahead, he knew he should not be climbing. If anything, he should be going downhill to reach the clearing where the cabin stood.
Joel took a shaky breath. He stood still. Then he slowly turned around and around. The whole world was white. Everywhere he went looked exactly the same.
“I’m lost,” Joel said aloud. “I’m really lost.”
Blinking hard, Joel looked around once more, but it was no use. He didn’t know which way to go. But he couldn’t stop moving or he might freeze. The world was cold and silent. All he could hear was the crunch of wet snow beneath his boots.
Then Joel stopped as he heard another sound. Was something coming behind him? Or did something move to his left? He held his breath to listen, but the snow muffled sound and changed it.
Coming from the trees behind him, Joel caught sight of a dark moving figure and two others following behind. The frightened boy watched the figures plod steadily closer.
As they came closer, Joel saw it was Chief Kanosh and his wife and their little boy! Joel was so happy to see the big Ute chief and his family that he grinned from ear to ear.
“You go wrong way,” said Chief Kanosh when he reached Joel. He pointed to the right. “Cabin is over there. We go together.”
Joel didn’t say a word as he fell into step behind Chief Kanosh. The four people pushed through the snow. In a short time Joel saw a break in the trees. Dark smoke rose from the chimney of their cabin.
A wagon was behind the barn. Father was home too!
Later that night after everyone had eaten all the roast chicken and stuffing, creamed corn, and squash pie they could hold, Chief Kanosh and his wife pulled their chairs in front of the fireplace beside Joel’s mother and father. Joel sat on the floor by the Indian boy.
“Well, Joel,” said his father, smiling. “We certainly have lots to be thankful for today.”
“We surely do, Father,” Joel agreed. “And one of the things I’m most thankful for tonight is that Mother invited Chief Kanosh and his family here for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Years ago a friend told this experience. He was 17 years old and with his companion stopped at a cottage in the southern states. It was his first day in the mission field and was his first door. A gray-haired woman stood inside the screen and asked what they wanted. His companion nudged him to proceed. Frightened and somewhat tongue-tied, he finally blurted out, “As man is God once was, and as God is man may become.”
Strangely enough, she was interested and asked where he got that. He answered, “It’s in the Bible.” She left the door for a moment, returned with her Bible. Commenting that she was a minister of a congregation, she handed it to him and said, “Here, show me.”
He took the Bible and nervously thumbed back and forth through it. Finally he handed it back saying, “Here, I can’t find it. I’m not even sure that it’s in there, and even if it is, I couldn’t find it. I’m just a poor farm boy from out in Cache Valley in Utah. I haven’t had much training. But I come from a family where we live the gospel of Jesus Christ. And it’s done so much for our family that I’ve accepted a call to come on a mission for two years, at my own expense, to tell people how I feel about it.”
After half a century, he could not hold back the tears as he told me how she pushed open the door and said, “Come in, my boy. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

Another time when prayer was significant in my life was when I had just graduated from high school and was working on a ranch in Idaho. I worked with two other fellows who were involved in athletics with me but who were at that time not very active in the Church. They went off in the evenings and did things that I didn’t want to do.
That left me with a lot of time alone. For six to eight weeks, I was mostly by myself after dinner so I began to study the scriptures. There were no computer games and no television to distract me, and soon I began to love the scriptures. I could hardly wait to finish work and get back to my reading. Scripture study, coupled with prayer, really made my testimony grow. I recommend that everyone be alone with his scriptures for a while.

Illustration by Joel Castillo
I was introduced to the Church by my aunt and uncle, who live near my home. I was only seven years old at the time, and I loved going to church to be with the other children. My parents were not members, but they did not mind that I went to church every Sunday with my aunt and uncle. My parents said that it was much better for me to be involved with a church that taught of Jesus Christ than to be out in the streets getting into trouble.
The missionaries came often to our home to teach us. My parents loved the discussions, but they did not want to embrace the gospel. They said that they were not ready because entering the waters of baptism is a serious commitment. The missionaries continued to come to our home, but they always left disappointed with the answers my parents gave. I knew, however, that one day they would be baptized.
When I turned eight, I was ready to make the baptismal covenant. My mom asked me if that was what I really wanted. She told me that once I was baptized, I could not change my mind and that baptism would change my entire life. I said that being baptized was something I had dreamed about since I first started going to Primary.
After I was baptized and confirmed, I continued to go to church, but my parents rarely came to our Primary activities. It was painful for me to see all the other children with their parents. But I hoped that one day they would be baptized and we would be sealed in the temple, and my greatest dream would become a reality.
When I was a teenager, the missionaries continued to teach my parents, but they still did not want to be baptized. However, they would occasionally come to church, which gave me a little hope. I still dreamed that my parents would join the Church, but I began to think that it would never come to pass in this life.
Then one beautiful Sunday morning when I was 17, my mother again went to church with me. On our way home she told me something that I can still hear in my thoughts and in my heart. She said that she had decided to be baptized. I was shocked! After waiting for so long, I wondered if this was real. In May 2010, my mother entered the waters of baptism. It was such a happy day.
After the baptism I looked at my father and said, “You’re the only one left now.” He responded that it would not be soon because he didn’t feel the desire to be baptized. I was again sad—part of my dream had come true, but the rest seemed far away. Although it was hard, I was certain that things would change. To my great happiness, my prayers were again answered two months later when my father entered the waters of baptism. It was the greatest joy of my life. I felt as though the heavens were singing.
After my parents joined the Church, I realized that another part of my dream had come true but that we needed to be sealed for eternity in the house of the Lord. My parents told me they didn’t feel ready, that they didn’t have enough money for the long trip to the Recife Brazil Temple, and that they didn’t have anyone to watch our home while we were gone. I was sad, but I kept praying for that blessing, knowing that the Lord would answer my prayers.
In time my mother began to feel a strong desire to go to the temple, even though my father continued to put it off. After many conversations with the bishop, they both decided to go. I felt so much joy I could barely contain it!
In September 2011, my mother, my father, and I went to the temple for the first time in our lives. I was sealed to my parents the next day, and I can truly say that, after 11 years of waiting, it was the best day of my life.
I am very grateful to Heavenly Father for everything He has given to me, especially for answering my prayers and fulfilling my greatest dream: the dream of seeing my whole family in the house of the Lord.

My mother taught us when we were very young that we must never ridicule the unfortunate. Her mother died when she was six. My mother worked in the fields from a very early age. One day some teenagers were picking fruit. One of the girls laughingly mimicked one who suffered from cerebral palsy, saying, “Look who I am,” and she named the handicapped person. They all laughed as she threw herself into a stumbling walk. Suddenly she fell as if struck down. They gathered around her in great fright. Presently she recovered, but there was no more fun at the expense of the handicapped. Mother never forgot what she saw, nor to teach a lesson from it.

A few years ago I was at beautiful Jackson Lake in the Grand Teton National Park of Wyoming. Not far from the shore of that exquisite body of deep blue water at the foot of the Teton peaks, I bumped unexpectedly into a very close friend from my hometown. He was sitting in the shade of some tall pine trees, painting a scene of the beautiful Teton Mountains. I had known him intimately for many years but had no idea that he knew the first thing about a brush and landscape.

“For heaven’s sake, Jack, what are you doing up here in the mountains with a paint brush in your hand? How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

“I’ve been puttering around for just a few months, and it’s the most fun I’ve ever had. I’m almost done with this one. What do you think of it?” He showed me his painting. I was absolutely amazed that he could paint.

“But how did you learn to do this? A guy can’t just pick up a brush and start painting.”

“I guess my boy is the one who started me,” he said. “He took an art class in high school and went crazy over it. He showed me a few of the fundamentals. It’s much easier than you would think. And it’s fun!”

Whenever my car is sputtering and needs the careful diagnosis of a good mechanic, I take it to a particular friend of mine. This fellow’s brothers all prepared for life by studying law, medicine, or engineering. But my friend just seemed to love to tinker with cars. He has his own automotive repair shop (rather small), and it is a joy to take a car to him for repairs. He is the picture of contentment because he is doing what he really enjoys doing. He bubbles with enthusiasm as he repairs an ailing part. He perpetually flashes a warm and genuine smile, and it is a complete joy to see how much he enjoys mending an automotive ailment. He’s a very good mechanic, and each time I visit him I get the strong impression that he is much happier in life than his brothers who are in supposedly more lofty professions.

Another friend of mine is a prominent corporation lawyer. For years he’s had trouble sleeping at night. An ardent fisherman, he decided one restless night that he would try making the flies that fishermen use. The next day he bought some inexpensive equipment. He went completely overboard on flytying. He enjoyed it even more than fishing. In the space of a few years he must have tied half a million of those things, and he was proud of every single one of them. He became an expert.

A few summers ago our family visited Catalina Island just off the coast near Los Angeles. While there we visited the excellent aviary, which has the most interesting collection of birds I have ever seen. But even though the birds were fascinating, the most important part of the visit for me was the acquaintance I made with a man whom I shall never forget. He told me something that still lingers vividly in my memory, even though this must have been ten years ago.

He worked at the aviary. I first noticed him as he was feeding the birds in the cages. He seemed to know each bird individually, calling them by name and chatting with them as though they were children gathered around him. It was easily apparent that he loved every bird in the place, and the birds seemed to feel the same way about him. After he had finished his feeding chores, I felt compelled to talk to him for a moment.

“It was interesting to watch you feed the birds,” I said. “It’s easy to see that you enjoy your work here.”

“Yes sir, I enjoy it here more than I can tell you. In fact, I can’t think of a single person I would trade places with—none of the movie stars, none of the bankers or lawyers, none of the merchants, none of the presidents, premiers, or kings. I like it right here, and I like what I’m doing.” We chatted a few minutes longer. Then he said, “You know, mister, there is one important thing I’ve discovered in life—at least as far as I personally am concerned. It’s this: If you like what you do, and if you’re doing something that is really worthwhile, and if you do the best job you can do, then, brother, you’ve got it made!”

I have a friend who makes a living selling women’s shoes. But this fellow is much more than a shoe salesman. You should see his garden. What a gift! His yard is the envy of everyone within miles of his place. Talk about a green thumb! His petunias and marigolds and other plants just seem to realize that they are destined to be the best in the land, and I don’t think a clump of crab grass would dare invade his yard. But the nicest thing about this is to see the complete enjoyment he gets out of his great talent of gardening.

I have a friend named Doug whom I must tell you about. He went through school with an unexciting C+ average, and his current earning power is about in the same class—comfortable but not lavish. He has his share of aches and pains, and life has dealt him a full crop of the tougher problems that seem to accompany just about every family. Yet Doug is a man with a gift that is worth more than money can buy. He is a tremendously happy man, and there is no doubt that his happiness comes primarily from his one polished and perfected talent. Perhaps it might be called a knack rather than a gift or a talent. At any rate, it works.

Doug has the knack of absorbing real enjoyment out of the simple and ordinary happenings of each day. I suppose it could be called the knack of enjoyment—and he utilizes it in a fantastic fashion. A normal dinner at night with his wife and kids is a memorable thing for this fellow because he knows how to reap an unusual amount of enjoyment from the carefully set table, the taste of the food, and the conversation of each person, no matter how trivial. It’s as though he had been looking forward to this particular occasion for weeks. A day on the job to Doug seems a challenge, with new decisions and opportunities, while others doing the same thing may feel they’re in a repetitive rut. He can go to church and find a half-dozen worthwhile pearls in a sermon and make plans for adopting them in his own habits, while others sitting in the same service may grumble to themselves about how boring and empty the spoken word has been. When Doug’s golf game is sour, with a score that soars to 105, and his pant cuffs are filled with sand from the traps and prickly weeds from the rough, this guy can actually smile and talk about how great it was out there in the beautiful out-of-doors.

You see, Doug discovered many years ago that most people expected and anticipated a great wad of happiness to come to them when certain events or accomplishments just over the horizon of the future would materialize. Such events could be graduation, or marriage, or the birth of children, or the betterment of a job, or the acquiring of a home or a car. Anyway, Doug has always felt that life is now, and it should be enjoyed now. He taught himself how to enjoy the simple and ordinary things of each day that so often are taken very much for granted.

I once asked Doug to tell me the secret of this unusual gift that he possesses. He told me there were three things that he accentuates every day of his life. First, he tries to slow down in his path through life. He stops to listen to the laughter of children playing in the neighborhood. He takes time to notice flowers, gardens, and homes as he walks along a street. He enjoys each day and wants it to last. Secondly, he reminds himself many times each day that he is going to find happiness on that day! He always seems to be alert in the search. And third, he emphasizes how necessary it is to develop the ability to genuinely appreciate the many things in life for which we should be grateful. Appreciation!

Doug taught me that anybody can acquire his gift if they will strive diligently for it. It doesn’t take great intellectual ability, great physical strength, great heritage, great wealth, or great accomplishment. It’s open to anyone who is looking for a talent. Try it. It works.

“Gramps!” Esther Sue ran toward the white-haired man, then stopped short, afraid to hug him. This was hardly the hard-muscled giant she had visited every summer at the farm. He looked like a small, wrinkled, worn-out imitation. So instead of greeting him with the usual bear hug, Esther Sue took his hand and guided him to the comfortable overstuffed chair in a corner of the living room. At least his hands were the same—big and sandpapery yet gentle from years of tending the soil.
“I’ll fix some lunch,” Mama said. “Then you might take a little rest, Papa.”
“A rest?” Gramps sneered at the idea. “All my life I worked from sunup to sundown, and I never needed a nap. I’d feel like some baby, needing a rest.”
Esther Sue patted his hand. “But the train ride must have been awfully hard, Gramps. Maybe you need a rest just this once.”
“Maybe so, little Susie. Or maybe I’m just not good for anything, now that I’m old. Having to sell the farm—I might as well have cut off my right arm, it pained me so much.”
“I know. I’m going to miss it something awful too.” Esther Sue remembered the long, happy days of previous summers, helping Gramps weed the melons and snapping beans under the shade of the crab apple tree. Now they would both be stuck in the city for the entire summer.
As the weeks went by, Gramps looked older and older, more and more tired.
“He needs something to do,” Mama said. “And he misses the open spaces and green growing things. You take him to the park, Esther Sue.”
So almost every day after school, even though it was still damp and chilly, Esther Sue and Gramps walked to the park. They passed rows of tall apartment buildings, the old vacant lot full of trash and dead weeds, and Murphy’s Market and Deli. Then they came to Bradley Park, just an empty patch of winter-brown grass and leafless trees at this time of year. Sometimes on the way home, Gramps stopped at the market and bought a couple of apples. He’d hand one to Esther Sue, and they’d chomp on them the rest of the way to the apartment.
“They’re not like the ones back home,” Gramps would complain. “They’ve lost all their crunch.”
As the weeks passed, Gramps and Esther Sue started looking for signs of new life. The vacant lot turned green with new weeds that almost hid the empty cans and broken glass scattered there. Little weeds sprouted between the cracks in the sidewalk too. And leaves started to pop out on the bare branches of the trees in the park. But Gramps looked more sad, more tired, more stooped.
“Sorry, Gramps,” Esther Sue said one afternoon. “I can’t go to the park today. I have to write a paper for school. It’s going to be a tough one.”
“That’s OK, little Susie. My arthritis is acting up, anyway.”
Esther Sue knew that he didn’t really care about going to the park. After years of walking on good black farm soil, Gramps didn’t like asphalt, and now that spring had come, he wanted to plant, not just look at trees and grass. So when he asked about her homework assignment, she was glad to give him a chance to think about something besides the home he had had to leave.
“I have to write an essay, Gramps: ‘What I can do to save the earth.’ The trouble is, there isn’t much one kid in the middle of Chicago can do.”
“Let’s see. You and your mama take all the old newspapers and cans to the recycling place, and you always write on both sides of a paper before you throw it away. That helps.”
“Oh, Gramps, I know those things are important, but everyone will write about recycling. I want to do something different.”
“Different like what?”
“Well, I read this article about a whole class who went out and planted trees, hundreds of them, to help reseed a forest. But that was in the mountains out west. A city kid can’t do anything like that.”
“No, I don’t suppose they want any more trees in that park of yours.” Grandpa scratched his head as he thought. Then he jumped up. “Come on, we’re going for that walk.”
“But what about my paper?”
“Come on. The fresh air will get your brain working.”
Esther Sue dragged along behind Gramps. What was he thinking? Why did he have to go today? Didn’t he know how important her paper was? But Gramps hadn’t been so lively in a long time. He even whistled as he walked along. When they got to the vacant lot, he stopped. “This is it,” he said. “This is your paper.”
She gave Gramps a blank look. What did this dirty old lot have to do with saving the earth? Gramps just stood there, staring at some vision, expecting her to see it too.
“Is it trees, Gramps? Do you expect me to plant trees here. I don’t think—”
“Not trees, little Susie—a garden! A garden with snow peas and eggplants and fresh red tomatoes. Maybe even a few pansies to pretty the place up.”
“A garden here? Oh, Gramps, do you think we could?”
“I know about gardens. There’s plenty of space and enough sunlight. We’d have to clean it up and see about getting some water, but I think we could manage that.”
“We’ll have to find out who owns the land and get permission.”
“We can go to city hall tomorrow.”
“I don’t think we can farm the whole lot, Gramps. It’s pretty big.”
“We’ll invite the neighbors to help. I can teach them.” The old man stood almost as tall as he had in the fields at the farm. “Just think, garden-fresh vegetables for the city folks here!”
“Just think, a garden right here in the middle of Chicago!”
“A place to dig.”
“It will be a great paper.”
“It will be a good summer.”
“I can make a difference, right here in the middle of Chicago.”
Both of them whistled all the way home.

I had an experience a few years ago of receiving a call from my son, Lee. He told me that my first missionary companion was in his neighborhood, and he wanted to spend a few minutes with me. Lee and I both went over to the home of my first companion’s daughter, whom he was visiting. We had a special experience of being together after many years of not seeing one another. As missionaries we were given the opportunity of opening up a new town in Ohio to missionary work. Because of this assignment, we were allowed to labor together for 10 months. He was my trainer, my first companion. He came from a family that had taught him the value of hard work. It was difficult for me to keep up with him, but as we served together we drew close together as companions.
Our companionship did not end with the 10-month assignment. World War II was raging, and when I returned home I had only a short time to adjust before I was drafted into military service. On my first Sunday in boot camp, I attended an LDS service. I saw the back of a head that was very familiar to me. It was my first missionary companion. We spent most of the next two and a half years together. Although circumstances were very different for us in military service, we tried to continue the practices of missionary service. As often as we could, we prayed together. When circumstances allowed, we had scripture study together. I recall many companion study sessions under the light of a Coleman lantern in a shrapnel-scarred tent. Several times our reading of the scriptures was interrupted by the sound of an air raid siren. We would quickly turn off our lantern, then kneel together and close our study class with a prayer.
We were both set apart as group leaders, and we again had the opportunity to serve and teach together the glorious gospel of our Lord and Savior. We were more successful in the military than we had been as full-time missionaries. Why? Because we were experienced returned missionaries.
My visit with my first missionary companion was the last opportunity I had to be with him. He was suffering from an incurable disease and died only a few months later. It was a wonderful experience to relive our missions together and then tell about our lives following our missionary service. We recounted our service in bishoprics, high councils, and stake presidencies, and, of course, we bragged about our children and our grandchildren. As we sat and thrilled at the opportunity of being together again, I couldn’t help but think of the account in the 17th chapter of the book of Alma:
“And now it came to pass that as Alma was journeying from the land of Gideon southward, away to the land of Manti, behold, to his astonishment, he met with the sons of Mosiah journeying towards the land of Zarahemla.
“Now these sons of Mosiah were with Alma at the time the angel first appeared unto him; therefore Alma did rejoice exceedingly to see his brethren; and what added more to his joy, they were still his brethren in the Lord; yea, and they had waxed strong in the knowledge of the truth; for they were men of a sound understanding and they had searched the scriptures diligently, that they might know the word of God.
“But this is not all; they had given themselves to much prayer, and fasting; therefore they had the spirit of prophecy, and the spirit of revelation, and when they taught, they taught with power and authority of God” (Alma 17:1–3).
I wish all of you could have an experience similar to the one I had with my first missionary companion, that you could pause and reflect on a time of service when you gave diligently of your time and your talents in building our Father in Heaven’s kingdom. If you try to make it happen, I promise you that it will be one of the thrilling experiences of your life. You are a great army of returned missionaries. Go forward with new zeal and determination, and through your example shine the light of the gospel in this troubled world. This is the Lord’s work in which we are engaged. God lives. Jesus is the Christ. We belong to His Church. This is my witness to you in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

After sacrament meeting the bishop called me into his office for a talk. Here it comes, I thought. I’m going to be the new teachers quorum president, I’ll bet. I was filled with pride and excitement. Wow, is the ward ever going to heap handshakes on me. Mom will be so proud!
I sat in the big chair across from the bishop. He was a pleasant man, smiling as always, but I felt that even so, this conversation was going to be an important one.
“Steve, we have an assignment for you,” he said. My heart raced.
“This is a special ‘good neighbor’ assignment. We’re concerned about Hasty McFarlan. He’s a pretty sad old man, you know. He needs someone to befriend him. He’s not a member of the Church, but God’s love reaches to all people, and we as members of his church have the responsibility to show it. Maybe I should say we have the privilege of showing that love.”
I guess I must have looked stunned.
“You know Hasty, don’t you, Steve?” asked the bishop.
My memory jumped back a couple of weeks to when some friends and I had made fun of the old man by singing jingles and shouting the jokes we had made up about him.
“Yes, I know him,” I said, choking down my disappointment and guilt. “He’s the old hermit who lives outside of town.”
“Right,” said the bishop. “I would like for you to go out and visit him two or three times a week.”
“Okay,” was the only answer I could manage.
The bishop must have detected my crestfallenness, because he leaned forward in his chair and looked at me carefully.
“Now, if this assignment will be too much, don’t be afraid to say so.”
I sighed. “Oh, I’ll do it, sir,” I said.
“Good,” said the bishop with a smile, and before I could catch my breath, he went on. “You can chop wood for the fire, and get him food, blankets—whatever he needs to help him feel wanted. Be a friend. Your father is aware of the assignment, and he told me he would help you. Your Heavenly Father will be prompting you, too.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I was 15 years old then, and there were other things I would rather do—play football, hunt, fish, or just do the things my friends were doing. But I had told the bishop I would carry out the assignment, and I knew it wasn’t good to go back on my word.
Hasty lived in a little log cabin at the foot of a mountain, just outside the Idaho farming community I grew up in. On the long hike to his cabin after school that first afternoon, it seemed to me that every pine along the trail whispered Hasty’s loneliness.
Once a year at Christmas the old man got a free bath at the hotel, compliments of the sheriff. Probably, we all thought, it was the only bath he got all year. We used to say he looked like a pirate with that growth on the side of his head and his black eyepatch. Most of the kids and even some of the townspeople had the habit of making unkind remarks or doing something “clever” whenever Hasty was around. Would he remember me as one of the tricksters? By the time I reached the cabin, I was genuinely frightened.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. I knew he had to be in there. Where else could he go?
“Hasty?” My voice broke halfway through the word. I don’t know how long I must have stood there before I decided to go inside. The thick oaken door creaked as I pushed it open.
“Hasty?” I called again. “Hasty, are you there?”
Hearing a rustling, I poked my head in as far as I dared and peeked around the door. It was cold in Hasty’s cabin and very dark. I could just make out the figure of a man on the bed. Hasty was all slouched down, but not like he’d been asleep, or even like he’d been thinking. He looked like he was slouching because there was no reason to do anything else. I noticed that the soiled, mildewed blanket he was sitting on was more hole than blanket.
My heart was beating in my throat. I swallowed hard.
“Hasty, is there anything I can do for you?” I managed to blurt out.
I told him my name and that the bishop from the LDS Church had sent me to see how he was doing and to help out. He said nothing. The silent, staring troll was freezing my nerves.
“Hasty, your fire is out.”
No reply.
“Can I chop some wood?”
No reply.
I went outside, found an axe and some stacked stumps, and began chopping kindling. With every strike of the axe my brain pounded. What am I doing out here? Why me? Why?
“Quit grumbling,” a voice inside me said. “The old man is cold and lonely, and you can help him.”
I got a fire going and tried to talk to him, but after a few minutes I decided he wasn’t really listening. He needed a new blanket, so I told him I would get a thick, clean, comfortable one, and the next day I did. After that I came every other day. Slowly, over the next several weeks, he began talking.
One day after we had talked some he said, “Boy, why do you come? I’m sure a kid your age can find better things to do than visit a sick old varmint like me. But I’m glad you come.” And then he smiled.
At Thanksgiving I invited Hasty to our house for dinner. He didn’t come, but our family took part of the dinner to him. There were tears in his eyes as he tried to thank us.
I discovered as our visits continued that Hasty had been a sheepherder. Once he had had a wife and children, but they had gotten a terrible fever and died of it.
Feeling in his grief that his life had been shattered, Hasty wandered the whole country as a vagabond. A diseased growth on the side of his face made one eye blind. And the teasing and practical joking had begun.
But to me the old man didn’t seem as ugly and frightening anymore. In fact, after school I hurried to his cabin to help him and to listen to his stories.
When Christmas arrived, we invited him to dinner once again. This time he came, and what’s more, he came in a suit, all cleaned and handsome. He looked great. A smile curved his lips. Hasty was happy because we showed him he was needed.
As we finished dinner, the old man bowed his head for a second, and then raised it and said, “You people sure are wonderful. My life has been a shambles for a long time, but the love you’ve shown is making me a different person. I’m very grateful.”
As he said that, I could feel a little fire in my chest getting big. It felt good.

“Soldier!”
Meltiar Hatch leaped to his feet and saluted the man on horseback. The Mormon Battalion had been on the march since dawn. Meltiar had taken advantage of a break to bring his 16-year-old brother, Orin, to rest in the shade of a tree. He hadn’t heard the officer’s horse until it was right next to him.
Lieutenant Smith returned Meltiar’s salute. “At ease, soldier.” He looked down at Orin, who lay unmoving, his eyes closed. “Your companion looks to be very ill.”
“Yes, sir,” Meltiar said sadly. “He contracted the fever at Fort Leavenworth, but I know that in time—”
“Time? Time?” Lieutenant Smith loudly interrupted. “This troop has no time. The untimely death of our former commanding officer has set us back two weeks. We cannot defer to the sick and the weary. Leave him.”
Meltiar’s protests were ignored as Lieutenant Smith turned and gave the order to assemble. As the drums sounded, men began to scramble to collect their provisions and line up. Meltiar sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.
“Meltiar,” Orin’s voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I joined up only because I wanted to finally be useful, like you were in Nauvoo. I never imagined it would end like this.”
“Well, none of us imagined we’d ever be led by Lieutenant Smith, either. Few of the non-Mormon leaders have been unkind; he’s just the worst of the lot. Let’s not forget the promises given by Brigham Young and the Twelve,” Meltiar said with conviction. “If we conduct ourselves properly on this march, our lives will be spared.” He put his pack and canteen in Orin’s hands. “Here is some extra food and some water. I must go now, but I’ll be back, I promise.” He got to his feet.
“I never meant to be a burden.”
“Brothers can never be burdens.”
When the battalion made camp for the night, Meltiar quietly slipped away and began his journey back to the place where Orin waited. Much in need of rest, he sat down by a tree and quickly fell asleep. Later, he awoke with a start. He couldn’t remember why he was alone in the woods in the middle of the night, but sensed that someone’s life depended on him. Meltiar shook his head to clear his jumbled thoughts.
His first thought was that he was still a messenger in the Nauvoo Legion.
He spoke aloud to himself. “The Prophet Joseph is dead. I couldn’t have prevented his assassination. However, I should have found help when my horse went lame, instead of trying to walk to Carthage. Then I might have been able to deliver the last message from his loved ones before he died.” He shook his head sadly. “But I was young and full of pride, just as Orin is now.”
At the thought of his brother, Meltiar stumbled to his feet. That’s whose life depended on him now! Weary as he was, he had to keep walking. The two previous nights, Meltiar had another soldier help him bring Orin back to camp on horseback. Each morning, when Lieutenant Smith discovered what had happened, he angrily ordered that Orin be left behind again. Last night Lieutenant Smith had informed Meltiar that if he wanted to keep up his “foolhardy venture,” he could no longer disturb the sleep of other men or beasts. That was why he was now alone and on foot. And he knew that he must be only about a third of the way back to where he’d left his brother.
Meltiar had prayed fervently for help when he’d set out. He knew he had an impossible task. Even if he had not been exhausted from lack of sleep, it would take him most of the night just to reach Orin on foot. Although Orin was much improved and could probably walk, he couldn’t travel very fast in his weakened condition. Meltiar knew that if he didn’t get back to the battalion before it pulled out at dawn, it would leave them both behind. But he also knew that he could never leave Orin.
Several times on these night trips, Meltiar had had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Now he was certain he saw movement by a large rock up ahead. He stopped walking and slowly reached for his pistol. But the pistol was gone! He must have dropped it back where he had fallen asleep. He started to reach for his knife but froze when an Indian stepped out of the shadows. In the light of the moon something glinted in the Indian’s hand. It was Meltiar’s pistol!
As Meltiar stood wondering what to do, he heard the sound of a horse approaching. Could someone from the battalion be following me? he wondered. Or could it be another Indian? The Indian appeared not to have heard the sound, but stood unmoving, the gun down at his side.
When the horse came into the clearing, Meltiar’s heart sank when he saw that it was an Indian pony with two riders. Meltiar closed his eyes and prayed for help.
“Meltiar?” a familiar voice said.
Startled, Meltiar opened his eyes to see that one of the riders had dismounted and was approaching him cautiously.
“Meltiar?” the voice repeated. “Is that you?”
“Orin?”
The two brothers rushed together in a brief, fierce hug, then turned to face the waiting Indians. The Indians had both mounted the pony, leaving the brothers’ guns and packs on the ground. One Indian slowly raised his hand in a salute. “Brothers,” he said before they turned and rode off into the shadows.
“That’s what he said when he came and got me,” Orin said. “I thought he meant that something had happened to you, so I went with him, even though I was scared. How did they know we were brothers?”
“They’ve been watching us these past few nights,” Meltiar said with sudden realization. “And maybe they could see how much we cared for each other. They could also see how much we needed their aid, so they helped us! Or—” he smiled at Orin— “maybe he meant that we are all brothers.”
“I’m grateful for their help,” Orin said softly, “but sometimes it isn’t easy to accept help from others.”
“I know what you mean.” Meltiar leaned on Orin. “But if you are as strong as you look, now it’s time for you to be useful. I need your help to walk back to camp. I hate to be a burden, but I am very tired!”
“I am much stronger now, Meltiar. Don’t worry,” Orin told him with a smile. “Brothers can never be burdens.”

I was born in 1986. Soon after birth, I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy secondary to congenital hydrocephalus. Hydrocephalus, called “water on the brain,” is a condition in which an individual has either too much or too little cerebrospinal fluid. In my now 28 years of life I have had more than 50 surgical procedures for these conditions.
Nevertheless, the Lord has richly blessed me. One of my first doctors counseled my parents, “Take him home and simply love him. He will never be anything more than a limp noodle on the sofa.” Thankfully, my parents didn’t listen. Throughout my life, they have encouraged me to do and accomplish many things. They never treated me any differently than they did my siblings. Thanks to them, in spite of my disability, I lead the fullest life that I can.

Many years ago it was my opportunity to serve as president of the Canadian Mission. There we had a branch with very limited priesthood. We always had a missionary presiding over the branch. I received a strong impression that we needed to have a member of the branch preside there.

We had one adult member in the branch who was a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood but who didn’t attend or participate enough to be advanced in the priesthood. I felt inspired to call him as the branch president. I shall always remember the day that I had an interview with him. I told him that the Lord had inspired me to call him to be the president of the branch. After much protest on his part, and much encouragement on the part of his wife, he indicated that he would serve. I ordained him a priest.

It was the beginning of a new day for that man. His life was quickly put in order, and he assured me that he would live the commandments as he was expected to live them. In a few months he was ordained an elder. He and his wife and family eventually went to the temple and were sealed. Their children served missions and married in the house of the Lord.

To my brethren, the fathers in this Church, I say, I know you wish you were a more perfect father. I know I wish I were. Even so, despite our limitations, let us press on. Let us lay aside the exaggerated notions of individualism and autonomy in today’s culture and think first of the happiness and well-being of others. Surely, despite our inadequacies, our Heavenly Father will magnify us and cause our simple efforts to bear fruit. I am encouraged by a story that appeared in the New Era some years ago. The author recounted the following:
“When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I slept on the couch in the living room. …
“My dad, a steelworker, left home very early for work each day. Every morning he would … tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. I would be half-dreaming when I could sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I slowly awoke, I became embarrassed to have him there. I tried to pretend I was still asleep. … I became aware that as he stood beside my bed he was praying with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
“Each morning my dad prayed for me. He prayed that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he prayed for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day. …
“At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.”

Some years ago a lovely young woman, Jami Palmer, then 12 years of age, was wheeled into my office by her parents. She had been diagnosed with cancer. Surgery would be required. The treatments would be many and the time of recovery long. It was a solemn moment as we visited. Father requested me to join him in blessing his crestfallen daughter who had just had her dreams, her hopes, her plans placed on hold. All of us were weeping. The priesthood blessing was provided.

I have maintained contact with Jami and her family. The years have flown by. She has rendered unlimited service to others through being a spokesperson for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, which blesses youth afflicted with life-threatening diseases. Jami has grown into a beautiful young woman. She is now a student at Brigham Young University. She is healthy. She has been through the refiner’s fire and has had her life prolonged. She gives thanks to all who aided her through these difficult years and especially to her Heavenly Father for her very life today.

A turning point in Jami’s life came early in her treatment for cancer. She and the youth in her ward had planned a hike to Timpanogos Cave. You who have made that hike know the way is steep, and it seems to take forever to reach the cave. Sadly Jami said to her friends, “I won’t be able to make the hike with you.”

“Why not?” they asked.

Jami replied, “I can’t walk.”

There was a silent moment, and then one replied, “Jami, if you can’t walk, then we’ll carry you.” And they did—up and back!

Tonight I would like to talk to him and tell him some things he may not know about the priesthood he holds. I’d also like to visit with his friends—the members of his deacons quorum—and, in fact, with all of the young men—the deacons, teachers, and priests—throughout the Church. I’d like to visit with you about this very special Aaronic Priesthood authority you now have.
I recognize that to some of you this special authority may not mean so much right now. Others of you may really be excited about it, but you may not know why you feel as you do. And some few of you may not yet have qualified yourselves to receive it.
Now, to my grandson for a moment: Darren, I remember a few weeks ago when we visited your ward sacrament meeting in Arizona. I was seated on the stand and you were assigned to pass the sacrament to those seated there. You passed the bread and the water to me in remembrance of the Savior. In your office as an Aaronic Priesthood bearer, you actually helped me rededicate my life to keeping the commandments of God. Even though I am your grandfather and a Melchizedek Priesthood holder, you used your authority to help me renew my covenants. I was thrilled with that experience we shared together. As I saw the reserved smile on your face I sort of thought you had figured it to be pretty neat too. Did you know that I’ve passed the sacrament during sacred times to the Presidency of the Church, as well as to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and the other General Authorities? Isn’t it terrific that you and I use this same priesthood authority to help each other make these covenants with the Lord?
Sacrament time is a very special time, and you are now an important part of it. You are different now than you used to be. The Lord has said he is going to share with you some of his power and authority to help others through life. He is going to let you do some sacred things now that you couldn’t do before. Let me tell you some more of them.
If you live worthy of it, as a teacher you will be able to go into the homes of some of the members of your ward with the responsibility to help them understand some of the gospel teachings. You don’t need to be afraid; you’ll be surprised and thrilled when you feel the inspiration to say certain things to your families. One of our home teachers is an Aaronic Priesthood bearer. He comes every month. Three weeks ago he prayed with us and left a blessing on our home. We all felt good.

In the November 2008 Friends by Mail section, I liked reading about how the children received answers to their prayers. It reminded me of how my own prayers have been answered. I once told my mom that I didn’t think Jesus was real. My parents asked me to pray to Heavenly Father to ask Him if Jesus is real. I prayed and was excited when I could tell my mom a week later that I felt a good, warm feeling when I prayed that let me know Jesus is real. I’m glad that I can ask Heavenly Father for help and get answers to my prayers.

If you were an explorer in Antarctica, you’d have the opportunity to meet another fantastic father, the emperor penguin. This stately bird has a seemingly impossible task as a father. In the middle of winter the mother penguin lays a single egg on an ice pack. For a few days she and the father penguin take turns incubating it. Then, because the mother needs to go to the sea to feed, she leaves the egg to the father to keep warm while she is gone. Through the worst part of the Antarctic winter, with temperatures ranging from -40° F (-40° C) to -100° F (-73° C) and with raging winds, the father covers the egg with his sagging belly. For most of two long, hard months this father stands faithfully holding his egg, usually huddling for warmth with a group of other penguin fathers.
When the penguin chick hatches, the father continues keeping it warm and protected as it huddles at his feet. If the mother has not yet returned, he also feeds the chick with a fluid secreted in the lining of his stomach. When the mother does return, she takes her turn caring for the chick while the father goes to feed at sea—finally! After gorging on fish and restoring his needed body fat, he returns and both he and the mother collect food for the chick. The father penguin continues providing warmth, protection, and food until the young penguin is about six months old and can fend for itself.

Joseph’s mother stayed in the Nauvoo area rather than going west, for her remaining family was there, including three daughters. “Here in this city lay my dead,” she explained in an impromptu 1845 talk, “my husband and my children.”12 But her interest remained lively in the work of the western Saints. Enoch Tripp visited her in 1855, the year before her death. They had been close friends when he taught school in Nauvoo. Finding her very feeble. Enoch stepped to her bedside and identified himself: “She arose in her bed and, placing her arms around my neck, kissed me, exclaiming, ‘I can now die in peace, since I have beheld your face from the vallies of the mountains.’” After inquiring after her Utah friends, she remarked that she was on the verge of meeting “with her beloved ones beyond the veil.” As he left, Enoch received a “farewell blessing from this great mother in Israel.”13

Brothers and sisters, when we met in general conference six months ago, none of us anticipated the coming changes that would tug at the heartstrings of the entire Church. Elder L. Tom Perry delivered a powerful message about the irreplaceable role that marriage and family occupy in the Lord’s plan. We were stunned when just a few days later, we learned of the cancer that would soon take him from us.

Though President Boyd K. Packer’s health had been declining, he continued to “soldier on” in the work of the Lord. He was frail last April, yet he was determined to declare his witness as long as he had breath. Then, just 34 days after Elder Perry’s passing, President Packer also stepped across the veil.

We missed Elder Richard G. Scott at our last general conference, but we’ve reflected upon the powerful witness of the Savior he had borne in many previous conferences. And just 12 days ago, Elder Scott was called home and reunited with his beloved Jeanene.

I had the privilege of being with all of these Brethren during their final days, including joining members of President Packer’s and Elder Scott’s immediate families just before their passing. It has been difficult for me to believe that these three treasured friends, these magnificent servants of the Lord, are gone. I miss them more than I can say.

As I’ve reflected on this unexpected turn of events, one of the impressions that has lingered with me is that which I observed in these surviving wives. Etched in my mind are the serene images of Sister Donna Smith Packer and Sister Barbara Dayton Perry at their husbands’ bedsides, both women filled with love, truth, and pure faith.

As Sister Packer sat next to her husband in his final hours, she radiated that peace that passes all understanding. Though she realized that her beloved companion of almost 70 years would soon depart, she showed the tranquility of a faith-filled woman. She seemed angelic, just as she was in this photo of them at the dedication of the Brigham City Utah Temple.

I saw that same kind of love and faith emanating from Sister Perry. Her devotion to both her husband and the Lord was obvious, and it moved me deeply.

Through their husbands’ final hours and continuing to the present day, these stalwart women have shown the strength and courage that covenant-keeping women always demonstrate. It would be impossible to measure the influence that such women have, not only on families but also on the Lord’s Church, as wives, mothers, and grandmothers; as sisters and aunts; as teachers and leaders; and especially as exemplars and devout defenders of the faith.

This has been true in every gospel dispensation since the days of Adam and Eve. Yet the women of this dispensation are distinct from the women of any other because this dispensation is distinct from any other. This distinction brings both privileges and responsibilities.

Thirty-six years ago, in 1979, President Spencer W. Kimball made a profound prophecy about the impact that covenant-keeping women would have on the future of the Lord’s Church. He prophesied: “Much of the major growth that is coming to the Church in the last days will come because many of the good women of the world … will be drawn to the Church in large numbers. This will happen to the degree that the women of the Church reflect righteousness and articulateness in their lives and to the degree that the women of the Church are seen as distinct and different—in happy ways—from the women of the world.”

My dear sisters, you who are our vital associates during this winding-up scene, the day that President Kimball foresaw is today. You are the women he foresaw! Your virtue, light, love, knowledge, courage, character, faith, and righteous lives will draw good women of the world, along with their families, to the Church in unprecedented numbers!

We, your brethren, need your strength, your conversion, your conviction, your ability to lead, your wisdom, and your voices. The kingdom of God is not and cannot be complete without women who make sacred covenants and then keep them, women who can speak with the power and authority of God!

President Packer declared:
“We need women who are organized and women who can organize. We need women with executive ability who can plan and direct and administer; women who can teach, women who can speak out. …

“We need women with the gift of discernment who can view the trends in the world and detect those that, however popular, are shallow or dangerous.”

Today, let me add that we need women who know how to make important things happen by their faith and who are courageous defenders of morality and families in a sin-sick world. We need women who are devoted to shepherding God’s children along the covenant path toward exaltation; women who know how to receive personal revelation, who understand the power and peace of the temple endowment; women who know how to call upon the powers of heaven to protect and strengthen children and families; women who teach fearlessly.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed by such women. My departed wife, Dantzel, was such a woman. I will always be grateful for the life-changing influence she had on me in all aspects of my life, including my pioneering efforts in open-heart surgery.

Fifty-eight years ago I was asked to operate upon a little girl, gravely ill from congenital heart disease. Her older brother had previously died of a similar condition. Her parents pleaded for help. I was not optimistic about the outcome but vowed to do all in my power to save her life. Despite my best efforts, the child died. Later, the same parents brought another daughter to me, then just 16 months old, also born with a malformed heart. Again, at their request, I performed an operation. This child also died. This third heartbreaking loss in one family literally undid me.

I went home grief stricken. I threw myself upon our living room floor and cried all night long. Dantzel stayed by my side, listening as I repeatedly declared that I would never perform another heart operation. Then, around 5:00 in the morning, Dantzel looked at me and lovingly asked, “Are you finished crying? Then get dressed. Go back to the lab. Go to work! You need to learn more. If you quit now, others will have to painfully learn what you already know.”

Oh, how I needed my wife’s vision, grit, and love! I went back to work and learned more. If it weren’t for Dantzel’s inspired prodding, I would not have pursued open-heart surgery and would not have been prepared to do the operation in 1972 that saved the life of President Spencer W. Kimball.

Sisters, do you realize the breadth and scope of your influence when you speak those things that come to your heart and mind as directed by the Spirit? A superb stake president told me of a stake council meeting in which they were wrestling with a difficult challenge. At one point, he realized that the stake Primary president had not spoken, so he asked if she had any impressions. “Well, actually I have,” she said and then proceeded to share a thought that changed the entire direction of the meeting. The stake president continued, “As she spoke, the Spirit testified to me that she had given voice to the revelation we had been seeking as a council.”

My dear sisters, whatever your calling, whatever your circumstances, we need your impressions, your insights, and your inspiration. We need you to speak up and speak out in ward and stake councils. We need each married sister to speak as “a contributing and full partner” as you unite with your husband in governing your family. Married or single, you sisters possess distinctive capabilities and special intuition you have received as gifts from God. We brethren cannot duplicate your unique influence.

We know that the culminating act of all creation was the creation of woman! We need your strength!

Attacks against the Church, its doctrine, and our way of life are going to increase. Because of this, we need women who have a bedrock understanding of the doctrine of Christ and who will use that understanding to teach and help raise a sin-resistant generation. We need women who can detect deception in all of its forms. We need women who know how to access the power that God makes available to covenant keepers and who express their beliefs with confidence and charity. We need women who have the courage and vision of our Mother Eve.

My dear sisters, nothing is more crucial to your eternal life than your own conversion. It is converted, covenant-keeping women—women like my dear wife Wendy—whose righteous lives will increasingly stand out in a deteriorating world and who will thus be seen as different and distinct in the happiest of ways.

So today I plead with my sisters of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to step forward! Take your rightful and needful place in your home, in your community, and in the kingdom of God—more than you ever have before. I plead with you to fulfill President Kimball’s prophecy. And I promise you in the name of Jesus Christ that as you do so, the Holy Ghost will magnify your influence in an unprecedented way!

I bear witness of the reality of the Lord Jesus Christ and of His redeeming, atoning, and sanctifying power. And as one of His Apostles, I thank you, my dear sisters, and bless you to rise to your full stature, to fulfill the measure of your creation, as we walk arm in arm in this sacred work. Together we will help prepare the world for the Second Coming of the Lord. Of this I testify, as your brother, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Elder McKim, 19, was actually born in Glasgow, Scotland. “We moved to Australia when I was five. My parents are converts to the Church. Most of the children were born after my parents were sealed in the London Temple. My father was a stake patriarch in Glasgow. He was set apart by President Kimball, who was at the time a member of the Quorum of the Twelve.
“I was brought up in the Church, and when I was a little boy I knew I was going to go on a mission. But as the time grew near, I planned to put it off until the end of the college year. Then one night I just had this feeling that I had to go on my mission and I wasn’t to put it off. I talked to my bishop and put my papers in. And I’m glad I did. My mission has drastically changed my life and my ideals. Things which I thought were important are so trivial now. And things which I really didn’t think of before are now so important.”