Gospel Story Finder

Let me share with you for a few moments the positive, progressive attitude of a friend of mine formerly confined in the Utah State Prison. “I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I was involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the people [parents] who had been assigned to me through this program, many times I would have given up. These people loved me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now with their help and the help of others I believe I can make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of having been in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us this fine young man would be justified in knocking his parents, knocking society, and knocking our systems, but he didn’t. Instead, he is thanking those who have helped him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
Church attenders in prisons are, unfortunately, in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified as a member of “God’s Squad.”

“FSY Conference can change lives of the youth and the leaders too. Last 2023 I attended my first and last FSY Conference as a participant, I wasn’t feeling well mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, but my mother still counselled that I should go. I didn’t know that it would really change my life. I met a friend that really cared and listened to me, to my heartaches and sorrows. She was there when I needed a friend who would listen to me without any judgment. I felt God’s love after we talked and that’s one of the reasons why I accepted the calling as an FSY Counselor, I want the rising generation to feel God’s love, that no matter what circumstances and challenges they go through God is always there for them and he would send an angel (like a friend) who would help them and uplift them.” – Joemerly Hular, 20, Bacoor Stake

“Wake up, everyone!” Dad called from the hallway. “We’ve overslept!” Mom pulled her robe around her and shuffled into the kitchen to make breakfast. As she opened the curtains, she frowned. “That’s funny,” she said. “The sun is coming up later than usual this morning. But what a beautiful sunrise!” She called everyone into the kitchen to see the bright orange ball coming up through the pink clouds. In spite of their hurry, everyone paused in wonder.
“Gorgeous,” Dad said.
“Wow!” Karen said.
“Awesome,” Julie said.
“Can we have pancakes?” Aaron said.
Mother pulled her attention back from the window to look at Aaron. “I’m not sure we have time for pancakes, but I’ll see what I can do.” She put the frying pan on the stove to heat and started mixing up the batter.
“I wonder why Nicky hasn’t called yet,” Karen wondered aloud. “She usually calls by now to see if I can walk to school with her.”
Dad straightened his tie. “I don’t know, honey, but I’m wondering where the bus is. It’s never been this late before.”
“Those pancakes sure smell good,” Aaron said. “I’ll set the table.”
Mother smiled. “That would be great. But shouldn’t you get dressed first?”
Julie hurried into the kitchen carrying her backpack. “I can’t be late. I have a test today.”
“Then you need a good breakfast,” Aaron pointed out as he put the plates on the table. “And maybe a song or two. And a story.”
Julie stared at him. “What are you talking about? We don’t have time to do all those things.”
“We do today,” Aaron said mysteriously. And he began to hum as he put the forks beside the plates.
Mom and Dad exchanged a puzzled look. “Do you know something we don’t know?” Dad asked Aaron.
Aaron smiled. “Somebody needs to change the calendar,” he said.
“So?” Karen flipped up the next month’s page on the wall calendar. April it said in big letters.
Mom laughed. “It’s April Fools’ Day!”*
“What have you done?” Karen asked.
“I set everyone’s clock ahead an hour.” Aaron beamed. “Now we all have time for a nice big breakfast, a song or two, and a story. Isn’t that a great trick?”
“You mean I could have slept for another hour?” Julie asked. She looked at Aaron, who wasn’t smiling anymore. Now he looked worried.
“You could have. But you would have missed that awesome sunrise,” Mom said.
“And this delicious breakfast,” Karen added.
Julie put down her backpack. “All right, Aaron, you win. I’ll pick out a song to play on the piano.” She patted him on the head before going to the living room.
“And I’ll get my flute.” Karen hurried to her bedroom.
“And I’ll pick out a story,” Dad said, opening his scriptures.
“Mom,” Aaron said softly. “I know you sometimes don’t like it when people play April Fools’ tricks. Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not.” Mom gave Aaron a hug. “What I don’t like is when tricks make other people feel bad. Your trick is great because it’s making us feel good by giving us time to be together. And that’s a wonderful way to start any morning, especially April Fools’ Day!”

The youngest elephant, the one called Mija, was missing. Choon’s father told him about it while they ate their breakfast.
“Late last night Mija pulled up the stake that holds her tie-chain and wandered away. Into the forest, no doubt.”
Choon stared at his father in dismay. He knew that elephants could move on their huge feet without making noise. “But her bell!” he cried. “Did no one hear it tok-tok?”
“All the elephants wear wooden bells that tok when they move in the night,” his father gently reminded him. “This is a sound we are used to.” There was worry in his eyes. He was the foreman of the lumber camp, and an elephant, even a young one, was valuable and must not be lost.
Choon’s own heart was troubled. Mija was his playmate. Because she was not yet old enough or big enough to work at carrying logs, she had plenty of time to walk with him in the forest. There they listened to the jabbering of the monkeys and watched little birds dart among the trees. They waded together in the river. With her trunk, Mija would squirt water over her back and shoulders. Swoosh! She would squirt water on Choon, also, while Choon ducked and laughed and shouted and splashed water back.
Now as his father made ready to search for Mija, Choon said, “I know the forest. I will go with you.”
His father answered firmly, “No, Son. Runaway elephants often become frightened. Then they are dangerous. Besides, who would carry food to the workers at noontime?”
This was Choon’s job, the boy well knew. Sighing a little, he trotted after his father through the door of their small house and across the clearing to the edge of the teak forest, where the elephants stayed at night. There were more than twenty of them—great, strong, wise creatures that did tasks too heavy for other animals or men.
Choon’s father patted the leathery trunk of his own elephant and spoke softly, “Ah, Mem Chang, fine one! This morning we go on a very important mission.”
Mem Chang gave a shrill squeal of welcome. Lowering her head, she wrapped her trunk around the man and lifted him onto her flat, broad forehead. Choon’s father didn’t use a pointed goad stick. Instead, he tucked a brown foot behind each ear and pushed against one or the other to tell Mem Chang which direction to take. Choon watched as the elephant shuffled down the forest trail. Her feet, as big as cooking pots, made scarcely a sound.
Soon there was noise from another direction. The elephant riders were coming to work. They shouted to one another and to Choon. “Sawaddii (hello)!”
Mahouts (elephant masters) these men were called. They wore white turbans on their heads. Tied around their waists were bright-colored panungs (long cloths).
At one of the mahout’s command, his elephant dropped to the ground and pushed its long ivory tusks beneath a teak log. Wrapping its trunk around the log to secure it, the animal rose slowly and carried it to the river. The log would float downstream to a mill, where it would be cut into boards. Teak logs from Thailand were strong and much sought after, Choon’s father had told him. They were used all over the world for making furniture and fine carvings.
Someday, when I am older, maybe I can be a mahout, Choon thought wistfully. He would willingly scrub his elephant clean with coconut husks. He would polish its long ivory tusks and whisper in its ear and sing to it. Choon knew that an elephant must love and trust its rider, or it would do little work and cause much trouble.
“And there will be trouble if I stand here daydreaming,” Choon scolded himself. The sun was climbing higher and higher. When it reached the top of the sky, the men and their animals would stop to rest. And they would be hungry.
Choon ran back to the house. Hanging from the pole outside the door was a great stalk of bananas that his father had brought from a nearby grove. Choon began to pull ripe golden fruit from the thick stalk. “Nueng, song, sahm! Si, hah, hok …” He counted rhythmically as he placed the bananas one by one into a net bag.
All at once he stopped counting. Had his ears really heard a tok-tok? Then he heard another sound, a kind of rattle. Choon gasped. “It is an elephant’s tie-chain.”
His heart beat fast. As the sounds came closer, he made himself turn slowly—until he was looking into the small eyes of a young elephant. “Mija!”
At the sound of her name, Mija’s big ears fanned the air. She shuffled, rattling the tie-chain that was still around one foot. A shiver of fear ran up Choon’s spine and down again. Mija was a runaway. Was she frightened and dangerous now?
Mija grunted and struck the ground with her trunk. Choon laughed out loud with relief. He knew what this meant. “Of course, Mija. You are hungry.”
Quickly he reached into the net bag and picked out an especially fine banana. Mija took it with her trunk and popped it into her pointed mouth. Choon gave her another, and another. The elephant ate eagerly. Then she wrapped her trunk, like an arm, around his shoulders and gently nuzzled his cheek. Choon, in turn, fondly rubbed her trunk.
They were still standing there when his father rode up on Mem Chang. “Choon!” he exclaimed. “You have found Mija!”
“No!” Choon laughed. “Mija found me!” Then he told about hearing Mija’s bell and tie-chain. “I was afraid,” he said truthfully. “But Mija wasn’t dangerous. She was only hungry—and lonesome, I think.”
“You have been a kind friend to Mija.” Choon’s father looked pleased and thoughtful. “When Mija is old enough to carry logs, she will need a mahout—someone she loves and trusts. I think, Choon,” said his father, “that Mija will want you to be her rider.”
Choon’s heart leaped for joy. “Mija! Oh, Mija, did you hear?”
Mija heard the happiness in Choon’s voice. She lifted her trunk and whistled—a squealing, singing, little whistle of pleasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a small accident, I have to use a cane, and I walk slowly. Stairs are very hard for me. At church I always felt scared of falling down the steps—until that Sunday when I heard a soft voice and felt a little hand holding mine: “Come on. I’ll go with you.”
I looked down and saw nine-year-old Gabriel’s confident smile.
“Very well!” I said. “From now on, you are my helper. Let’s go!”
No one sent Gabriel. He just saw a grandma needing help and presented himself.
Now each Sunday, Gabriel and I go down the stairs without fear.
I later told Gabriel’s parents: “It is not physical strength that makes me unafraid. It is the bucketful of love that he gives me each Sunday. Gabriel is a giant of kindness!”

As I was about to have my 12th birthday, my bishop invited me for an interview and taught me how to prepare to receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon. As the interview was coming to an end, he pulled out a set of forms from his desk and challenged me to fill them out. They were mission call papers. I was astonished. After all, I was only 11. But that bishop had a vision of the future and of the blessings that would be mine if I prepared properly to serve a mission when my time came.
He showed he really cared about me. He told me the steps I should take to prepare both financially and spiritually to serve the Lord. After that day, he, and then the bishop who was called after him, interviewed me at least twice a year until I was 19 and encouraged me to remain faithful in my preparation.
They kept my missionary forms in the files and mentioned them whenever we had an interview. With my parents’ help and with the encouragement of loving and patient bishops, I served a mission. The mission helped me gain a perspective of the blessings God has in store for all who endure to the end.

7. Strive for Moderation
Part of the spirit of the Word of Wisdom is moderation in all things, except those things specifically forbidden by the Lord. It is well to avoid extremes in dress, hairstyles, makeup, conduct, speech, and music. Extremes may attract the attention of some, but they are more likely to turn off those you really want to impress.
When I was a young man, my friends and I went to an amusement park, where we rode the flying saucer. It was shaped something like an upside-down plate that went round and round. Most of us tried to get to the middle so we wouldn’t be thrown off by the centrifugal force as the saucer picked up speed. Sometimes those on the edge would grab a friend who was closer to the middle, but that would pull them both completely off the saucer. I soon recognized that the centrifugal force was far less powerful in the middle. I was quite safe in the center even though the saucer was still spinning. But it was risky when someone on the fringe latched on to me. I learned that safety comes from staying close to the center.

As the years go by, I continue to reflect on the Sabbath days of my youth and young adulthood. I still remember the first day I passed the sacrament as a deacon and the little glass cups I passed to the members of our ward. A few years ago a Church building in my hometown was remodeled. A compartment in the pulpit had been sealed. When it was opened, there were some of these little glass cups that had remained hidden for years. One of them was presented to me as a memento.
As I think about those sacrament cups from my youth, one in the sheltered valley of my boyhood home and the other thousands of miles away in the Pacific, I am filled with gratitude that the Savior of the world was willing to drink from the “bitter cup”17 for my sake. And because He did, I can say with the Psalmist, “My cup runneth over”18 with the blessings of His infinite and eternal Atonement.

When asked about the reasons for his gauged ears and pierced tongue, one young man says, “I was just curious. Now, it’s my play toy,” referring to his habit of clicking the barbell through his tongue against his teeth. His tongue piercing, however, has also affected his speech.
When pressed a little more, he admits his piercings convey an inaccurate image of what he is really like. “My teachers confronted me and said I was quite a surprise. They said I wasn’t anything like the way I look. They had been expecting the worst. Some people assumed I didn’t want to graduate.”
His body piercings have affected his relationship with some friends and their parents as well as his ability to get jobs. “My friend’s dad asked me, ‘Why the change of heart?’ He won’t let me hang around with his son, my friend, as much. We were supposed to room together at college, but his dad won’t let him.”
This young man has also been turned down for jobs he has applied for, and he knows that there are certain places of business that won’t even accept his application.
Why make things more difficult for himself? This young man just shrugs off the idea that his choice has affected his life, although he does not have a difficult time listing the areas in which his choice has actually made things harder.

“I was happy when my parents, my brother, and I were sealed in the temple,” says Juanita León, 12. She explains that her father used to own a restaurant and would drink a lot. “Then one day, a boy came by and talked to my father about the Church. We received all the discussions and were baptized two weeks later. A month after our baptism, my father was called as the president of the San Benito Branch. A year later, we were sealed in the temple. My father doesn’t drink anymore!”

Some years ago, some close friends of ours loaned us their cabin in Island Park, Idaho. When we arrived at the cabin, we found that the key that we had been given to unlock the front door didn’t work. We tried to undo windows and pry open screens, all to no avail.

Suddenly our son Steven, who was about seven years old at the time, shouted to us that he had just successfully opened the front door. Steven, with a big grin on his face, was standing triumphantly inside the front doorway. I was amazed. I asked him how he did that.

He responded with wonderful, childlike spontaneity: “I bowed my head and prayed. When I looked up, my eyes spotted this big rock by the front steps, and I thought, ‘There is a key under that rock.’ And sure enough there it was.” The prayer of a child had been heard. I thank the Lord for his mother, who had taught him to find keys in moments of crisis.

One winter’s night during a particularly nasty snowstorm, there was a serious automobile accident in a small Idaho town not far from the Utah border. A young child was critically injured. I was an air ambulance pilot in the Salt Lake City area and was dispatched in a fixed-wing aircraft to pick her up and bring her back to Salt Lake.
The closest airport to the accident was in Pocatello, Idaho. While it would take us only about 45 minutes to fly from Salt Lake City to Pocatello, it would take the ambulance crew nearly three hours to transport the girl from the accident site to Pocatello because of hazardous driving conditions. Even though the air transport team would arrive well before the ambulance crew, the doctor in charge wanted us there early to transfer the little girl from the ambulance to the airplane without any delay, getting her on her way to a major trauma center.
The weather was bad; these were the absolute minimum conditions we could land in. A small commuter airliner was also on approach to Pocatello, about 10 minutes ahead of us. I listened intently to the other pilot’s radio communications, knowing we would encounter the same conditions. His approach was routine, until he should have been able to see the runway. It wasn’t visible, however, and he had to give up the approach and go around.
Now it was our turn. I was very concerned—what if we couldn’t get in and had to return without the injured girl? I quickly said a silent prayer. I told Heavenly Father if He wanted us to pick up that little girl I would need His help.
I began the descent. It seemed to take forever. I couldn’t see a thing except gray cloud and snow blowing horizontally past the windshield. I was quickly approaching the point where, like the commuter airliner, I would have to break off the approach. I waited until the last possible instant, and then suddenly the runway lights came into view. They were dim but good enough. I reduced the power and landed and offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the miracle I had just experienced.
As I taxied to our parking spot, two things were obvious—the storm wasn’t going to let up, and the company that usually provided us with deicing service and a hangar to protect the aircraft from the weather had closed for the evening.
A few minutes later the commuter airliner landed safely. Immediately the control tower closed and the controllers went home. After the passengers and crew of the commuter plane left, the ground staff locked up the airport terminal building and went home too. My colleagues and I were left with no way to deice the airplane or to put it in a hangar, and the snow was beginning to fall even harder. There was a very real possibility we would not be able to leave until the next morning.
The transport team and I decided it would be best to wait and see what conditions were like when the ambulance arrived. As I looked out the plane’s window, I could see the snow starting to stick to the commuter airliner, parked not far from where we were. Knowing it would be unsafe to attempt a takeoff with any amount of snow or ice on our airplane, I went outside. The snow was falling very hard and beginning to stick to our wings. I walked around to where I would be out of view and offered another prayer.
Time seemed to pass very slowly that evening. Occasionally I would look out at the snow accumulating steadily on the commuter plane, but I avoided going outside again to check our own wings.
After nearly two hours the ambulance arrived with the little girl. I opened the cabin door and got out. The commuter plane was covered with snow and ice. I turned around to see what condition our plane was in. Although I had tried to have faith and be optimistic, I am ashamed to say I was astounded by what I saw. Tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes as I walked around the airplane. It was clean and dry—absolutely no snow or ice anywhere on it. It looked as if it had just come out of a heated hangar. The snow had also stopped falling, and visibility had improved to the point where it would be possible to take off.
Heavenly Father had provided the miracles we needed that night to get a little girl to the hospital. It was a very humble pilot who bowed his head in gratitude that evening for the great blessings he had received.
The flight back to Salt Lake was completely routine. Certainly my prayers and the prayers of that girl’s family and friends had been answered. I never did hear what the little girl’s final outcome was, but my testimony of the overwhelming love and compassion our Father in Heaven has for His children was strengthened that winter night.

On the large Idaho farm where I grew up in the 1940s, the work horses had been displaced by the tractor, so my father left them to graze, except when we children wanted to ride them. I always chose Banner, despite his thick, aging, work-worn body.
On summer evenings, my father helped me saddle Banner, then sent us off to bring the cows home for milking. The cows pastured in a field fenced on three sides but open on the fourth to the Teton River. Beyond the river’s main channel, a large flood plain was crisscrossed by lesser channels. In springtime, the swollen river formed many islands and swamps crowded with brush.
Occasionally the cows would notice untouched grass across the river and swim across the swift current to eat it. They then wandered into the thick brush and could be hard to find. Father had given me strict orders that if the cows ventured across the river, I was never to go after them but must return home for help.
One Saturday evening in early spring just after my seventh birthday, I was in a great hurry to bring the cows home for milking because my parents had promised that we could go to a movie if we got our chores done in time. I trotted Banner as much as he could endure at his advanced age, but when I arrived at the pasture, I saw that the cows had swum across the river, even though it ran at high flood stage.
I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I went for help, the movie would probably be half over before we could find the cows, milk them, and get the other chores done. I decided to go after the cows myself, even though I had been warned many times not to.
I knew that horses could swim well, as I had seen them cross the river before, but Banner hesitated as I urged him down into the cold, swift stream. As he swam with quick, jerking motions, his head barely cleared the water. An adult sitting on him would also have had his head above water, but at my age, the water quickly covered me. I had to grip the saddle horn to keep from washing downstream in the treacherous current. That kept me underwater, though, except when Banner lunged forward several times, bringing my head above water enough to gasp for air.
When Banner finally climbed the other bank, I realized that my life had been in grave danger and that I had done a terrible thing—I had knowingly disobeyed my father. I felt that I could redeem myself only by bringing the cows home safely. Maybe then my father would forgive me.
Banner and I wandered for some time across the flooded plain, crossing swamps and streams and searching in the thick brush for the cows. In the dusk I began to realize that I might not find them at all. Further, I didn’t know for sure where I was, and I began to fear that I couldn’t find my way back.
Finally I heard the cows in the distance and found them on a small island. We crossed to that island and began rounding up the cattle just as full darkness fell. Normally at milking time, the cows would be eager to return to the barn, but on this night, because of the darkness and the cold water they would have to swim across, they had no desire to leave. I tried every way I knew to get them to move, but just as we approached the water, they always turned and ran back to the center of the small island. Despair overwhelmed me. I was wet and cold, lost and afraid, and, worst of all, well aware that my disobedience had landed me in this fix.
I began to cry as I climbed down from Banner and fell to the ground by his feet. Between thick sobs, I tried to offer a prayer, simple but deeply sincere, as I repeated over and over to my Father in Heaven, “I’m sorry. Forgive me! I’m sorry. Forgive me!”
I prayed for some time with my head bowed, and when I finally looked up, I saw a figure dressed in white come up out of the river and walk toward me. In the dark, I felt certain it must be an angel sent in answer to my prayers. I did not move as the figure approached, but felt overwhelmed by what I saw. Would the Lord really send an angel to me, who had been so disobedient?
Then a familiar voice said, “I’ve been looking for you, Son.” I recognized my father and ran to his outstretched arms. He held me for several moments until I finally stopped the emotional sobs. He then said gently, “I was worried. I’m glad I found you.”
I tried to tell him how I felt, but only disjointed words—“Thank you … dark … afraid … river … alone”—came out of my trembling lips.
I will never understand how my father coordinated the next few minutes. We both climbed on Banner and started herding the cows. Father gave a piercing whistle, and the cows seemed to line up in single file and march through the numerous channels of the river toward home. I learned later that when my father noticed that I had not returned from the pasture, he drove the pickup truck out to investigate. When he couldn’t find me or the cows, he knew that I had crossed the river and was in danger. Because it was dark, he did not take time to go for additional help but removed his clothes down to his long white thermal underwear, tied his shoes around his neck, and swam the treacherous river in search of me.
He was a hero to me. He had saved me from the most terrible experience of my young life and replaced fear and danger with love and security. I will always remember what it was like to ride on Banner encircled by my father’s warm arms and hearing him say, “Everything is fine now. You’re safe.”
I had been disobedient and had learned the fear and regret that come with it. My father had searched for me, his lost son, and brought me safely home. I had never felt greater gratitude to my Heavenly Father, recognizing that when I exercise poor judgment and disregard his commandments, he still is willing to rescue me as I repent and turn to him again.

One night our ward held an activity that we had spent hours preparing for. After the activity a young investigator said goodbye to me but a few minutes later returned and asked, “Bishop, when do I need to come back?” I told him Sunday, and the boy quickly said, “No, isn’t there another activity?” He had had such a good time with the youth of our ward that he wanted to come back.
I also conversed with a visiting couple who had attended the activity and asked them what they had thought. The husband said, “Since we got here, we have felt peace and tranquility,” which his wife affirmed with a nod of her head. I was surprised by this because when they first arrived, there had been a lot of people talking and making a racket. But he continued and looked at me and asked, “That’s the Holy Ghost, right?” Surprised, I could only say yes.
There had been a lot to do to get ready for this activity, so that night when everything ended, the only thing I had wanted to do was go home and go to bed. Because of how tired I was, I had not been able to think over my conversations with the investigators. When I got home, I said my prayers and got into bed, but I couldn’t sleep; in my mind I pictured the Lord smiling. It was a smile of acceptance. At that moment I began to remember the wonderful things that had happened at the activity.
I understood that the diligence and love of the ward members had made it possible for the hearts of those three investigators to be touched. I understood that the smile of acceptance was for what we were doing. I couldn’t avoid crying, and I felt so grateful for the gift that the Lord gave us. He had given us a smile of acceptance. I testify that the Lord’s words are true; that when we bring but one soul to Him, great will be our joy in the kingdom of the Father (see D&C 18:15).

Jeff and his wife, Melissa, were attending general conference for his first time. Jeff played professional baseball (he was a catcher) and is now a physician anesthesiologist. He told me, “Much to my surprise, I am moving toward baptism because it feels like the most authentic and honest way to live.”
Earlier, Melissa had apologized to Jeff’s assigned ministering brother, “Jeff does not want ‘white shirts’ in our house.” The ministering brother said, “I’ll find a way.” Now he and Jeff are good friends. At Jeff’s baptism, I met a congregation of Latter-day Saints whom Jeff, Melissa, and their daughter, Charlotte, love.

The original dedication of the Suva Fiji Temple on June 18, 2000, was also remarkable. As the temple neared completion, members of parliament were taken hostage by a group of rebels. Downtown Suva, Fiji, was looted and burned. The military declared martial law.
As the Area President, I went with the four stake presidents in Fiji and met the military leaders at the Queen Elizabeth barracks. After we explained the proposed dedication, they were supportive but concerned about the safety of President Gordon B. Hinckley. They recommended a small dedication with no events outside the temple, like the cornerstone ceremony. They emphasized that anyone outside the temple could be a potential target for violence.
President Hinckley approved one small dedicatory session with just the new temple presidency and a few local leaders; no others were invited because of the danger. However, he emphatically stated, “If we do dedicate the temple, we will have the cornerstone ceremony because Jesus Christ is the chief cornerstone, and this is His Church.”
When we actually went outside for the cornerstone ceremony, there were no nonmembers, children, media, or others present. But a faithful prophet demonstrated his courageous and unwavering commitment to the Savior.
Later President Hinckley, speaking of the Savior, said: “There is none to equal Him. There never has been. There never will be. Thanks be to God for the gift of His Beloved Son, who gave His life that we might live and who is the chief, immovable cornerstone of our faith and His Church.”

At age 18 I decided to leave the Church. For a time, leaving my Savior’s side did not seem to have any repercussions in my life. In my home country of Chile I was able to live comfortably on my salary. I felt I would always be able to finance my worldly lifestyle and could continue to ignore the promises I had made at the age of 14 in the waters of baptism.
I pursued this course for a few years, but then things stopped working out for me. Everything seemed to grow dark around me. I lost my job and had difficulty finding work. I had to do whatever kind of work I could just to survive. This should have made me wake up and find the path once again, but it didn’t.
Not long after this, my father passed away in 1998. Because I was the eldest son, a large part of the responsibility for taking care of my mother and younger brother fell on my shoulders. I bid farewell to my carefree lifestyle and came to realize that sometimes the Lord allows things to happen that we don’t understand until we see the end result.
I believe He allowed me to be drained economically to show me that the only way out was to pay tithing, which I did after returning to church and renewing my covenants. In this manner He patiently and lovingly brought me back to the fold.

When I was 11 years old, my father died, and at his funeral I was very touched as I heard the people speaking about what a kind man he had been. At the cemetery as they were lowering the casket down in the grave and starting to throw those shovels full of dirt and rocks down on the casket, I stood watching, thinking he was my hero, and I wondered what would ever happen to me having lost my father. I saw good men exercising the priesthood and doing what was right—the men who had helped in digging the grave and taking care of things—and I saw a good man push a five-dollar bill back into the hands of my mother, who had offered him some money for helping to dig the grave. He pushed that money back toward my mother and said, “No, you keep it because you will need this later on.” And so I would like to declare to all of you in these assemblies tonight, in the Aaronic Priesthood and the Melchizedek Priesthood, isn’t it interesting to see the wisdom of our Heavenly Father and His Son in putting all of these things together, how in the lesser priesthood we learn to do the temporal chores? We’ll have temporal duties, learning in a humble, simple way those things that need to be done. This will teach us of service and of living the commandments of the Lord, preparing us so that we someday will be advanced to the Melchizedek Priesthood, with all of the majesty and the eternal glory that that entails.

Several months later, on one of my trips home, I arrived to find my father reading a book. I was curious, and so was my mother.

“What book is that?” she asked.

“The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ,” he replied, adding, “One of the neighbors gave it to me and invited me to read it.”

Two weeks later, two young men visited the house and introduced themselves as missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They seemed to really care about my father. The following day, they began to teach him the gospel.

Because I was living away from home, I was not able to talk to the missionaries. But about a month later, I received word that my father had been baptized. He sent me a message, telling me to come home so his whole family could learn about the true Church. My mother supported my father’s wishes wholeheartedly.

And that is how the missionaries came to teach us all. We were baptized on 19 November 1988. It was the most wonderful day of my life.

I am grateful for my father’s example, and I am grateful for that one person who cared enough to share the Book of Mormon with him.