Gospel Story Finder

As a young boy, not quite 13 years of age, in September 1939, it was natural to have some momentary fear when I heard that war had been declared. Some of the children even speculated about the end of the world coming in those dark days that followed when the invasion of England seemed imminent and bombs were falling all around. We were not really afraid, however, for we had faith in God. We prayed and worked for deliverance, and miraculously it came.

You can see where this is going. With Rebecca’s permission, who is here with family in the Conference Center, I share her family’s story.
My parents, Elder Rulon and Sister Verda Rasband, were serving as a senior couple in the Florida Fort Lauderdale Mission. They were proselyting and by divine guidance knocked on the door of Rebecca’s home. She was just a teenager and loved listening to the music of the Osmonds, in particular our friend Donny—who is here with us today. She had listened to their media interviews and learned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt there was something different about them, and thinking it might be their religion, Rebecca spent two years researching the Church’s beliefs in the school library. So, when a kindly-looking couple knocked on her family’s door and introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries, she was taken back.
“My mother told me to get rid of them,” Rebecca later wrote, “but my heart said, ‘No.’ I looked into their faces, and I felt so much warmth and love. The memory still brings tears to my eyes and deep emotion to my heart.”
Rebecca invited them in, and my missionary parents shared a message with her, her two younger sisters, and, despite her objections, her mother.
Rebecca described to me: “Both your parents were wonderful in explaining any questions we had. I can still see their faces as if there was light surrounding them. We always hugged your mother when she left, and she always made a point of helping my mother feel comfortable and respected. Your father always had a sparkle in his eyes as he was teaching us about Jesus Christ. He tried to include my father in discussions and eventually won him over. My father was a chef at a local country club and started cooking dinners for your parents, including making your father’s favorite, key lime pie.”
When Elder and Sister Rasband asked Rebecca and her family to read the Book of Mormon, Rebecca did so in five days. She wanted to be baptized immediately, but the other members of her family were not ready. After four months, Rebecca insisted she be baptized and join the true Church. She recalled, “Every fiber of my soul knew it was true.” On April 5, 1979, missionaries baptized 19-year-old Rebecca, her mother, and two sisters. My father was a witness at the baptism.

Everyone’s done it. You go for a Church interview and find yourself waiting with time on your hands. The Mia Maids of the American Fork 15th Ward, American Fork North Stake, decided to put something else in their hands while they’re waiting. They tie quilts.

Every month they have a personal progress interview with their adviser, and before and after their interviews, they tie lightweight quilts on a frame set up in the adviser’s living room. Ward members donate the materials. The quilts are then finished and donated to the residents of a local rest home. Actually, delivering the quilts is the best part, according to the girls. The residents are very appreciative—so much so, in fact, that the girls have decided to continue the project indefinitely.

In January 2018, we laid to rest a giant of a man, a prophet of God—President Thomas S. Monson. No words can do justice to the magnitude and magnificence of his life. I will forever cherish our friendship with gratitude for what he taught me. Now, we must look forward to the future with complete faith in our Lord, Jesus Christ, whose Church this is.
On January 14, all of the living Apostles met in the upper room of the Salt Lake Temple. There, they made a unanimous decision, first, to reorganize the First Presidency now; and second, that I serve as President of the Church. Words are inadequate to tell you what it felt like to have my Brethren—Brethren who hold all the priesthood keys restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith in this dispensation—place their hands upon my head to ordain and set me apart as President of the Church. It was a sacred and humbling experience.
It then became my responsibility to discern whom the Lord had prepared to be my counselors. How could I choose only two of the twelve other Apostles, each of whom I love so dearly? I’m deeply grateful to the Lord for answering my fervent prayers. I am very thankful that President Dallin Harris Oaks and President Henry Bennion Eyring are willing to serve with me as First and Second Counselors, respectively.

I had an experience like yours. I wanted so much to be able to tell the bishop, but I thought he would have little respect for me as a member of his ward. I prayed about it for a long time. I was finally comforted enough by the Spirit to be able to tell the bishop about my problem. After I told him what I had done, he let me know that what I had done was wrong but that he still loved me and so does my Heavenly Father. He let me know that there is a way back and that is by repentance. Repentance is such a wonderful process. I beg you to give it a try. The Lord is waiting for you!
Name withheld

It was early on Sunday when Dad called the family together.
“Where’s Mom?” six-year-old Katie said.
“I took Mom to the airport this morning,” Dad answered. “Grandpa called to tell us Grandma is very sick. Mom has gone to help them.”
“Is Grandma going to die?” Melanie worried.
“Mom will call us after she talks to the doctor,” Dad explained. “Meanwhile, there is something we can do.”
“We can pray for Grandma,” Katie said.
“Exactly right,” Dad said. “And we can fast for Grandma today, too. Let’s begin our fast with a prayer.”
The family knelt together, and Katie prayed, “Heavenly Father, please bless Grandma. Bless Grandpa, too, so he won’t worry too much. And help Mama to come home soon. We are fasting for them.”
Everyone felt peaceful as they prepared for church.
At home later, the family looked at photo albums and talked about Grandma. When it was time to end their fast, they knelt and prayed again.
Mom phoned as the children were getting ready for bed. “Grandma is going to be fine,” she said. “I’ll stay to help Grandpa for a few days while Grandma rests.”
After talking to Mom, the family gathered for family prayer. Dad said, “Tell me what you learned today.”
“Heavenly Father answered our prayers,” Rachel said.
“That’s true,” Dad agreed. “He always answers our prayers. Sometimes the answer is yes, as it was today.”
“Sometimes it’s no,” Melanie added, “like when I prayed for my team to win and we lost.”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “And sometimes the answer is not yet—just wait and be patient. But He always answers our prayers in the way that is best for us. Did you learn anything else?”
Katie said, “I felt close to Heavenly Father.”
Natalie added, “Fasting wasn’t as hard as usual. I didn’t feel hungry!”
“Fasting helps us learn to control our bodies and to develop faith,” Dad said. “When we are baptized, we promise Heavenly Father we will bear one another’s burdens. We kept that covenant as we fasted and prayed for Grandma.”
Family prayer was a prayer of gratitude—for Grandma feeling better, for Mom coming home, and for their baptismal covenant.

The sixth annual Super Challenge was freckled this year with sunshine, laughter, headaches, dirt, sunburn, shaving lotion, sore muscles, jokes, learning, and testimonies. In the summer of 1976, 225 Glendale and Los Angeles youth made their plans to invade Santa Catalina Island for a youth conference they called Super Challenge. They and their 50 adult leaders were all members of the Glendale California Stake. It was the youth steering committee, consisting of Julie McGuire, Sal Palilla, Jeff Harrison, Kim Slight, Renelle Gubler, Tina Tittle, and Eric Torgeson, who spent hundreds of hours of planning to come up with all the zany and fruitful things they did. The theme of the conference, “A Generation of Excellence,” was emphasized in the first hours when two competing groups spelled excellence in human figures on the hillside.
In addition to workshops and seminars given by stake leaders, Bishop Vaughn Featherstone had sent a specially prepared 20-minute tape on his book A Generation of Excellence from which the theme was taken. The young people were counseled to “cover up cesspools and plant new gardens,” to act as though the Savior were at their side, and to enrich their lives by becoming excellent.
At a three-hour fast and testimony meeting on Sunday, 69 young people stood and bore their testimonies. Four of them were nonmembers.
The rest of the weekend was filled with basic football, crab-ball soccer, speed croquet, boat racing, swimming, rock throwing, volleyball, and treasure hunting.
The waiters at meal times were “celebrities:” the person at the table who was the most blonde, the one whose birthday was closest to July 4, etc. When the lot fell to “the tallest,” special guest speaker and BYU basketball coach, six-feet-six-inch-tall Frank Arnold, accepted the honor and served his table with the flare of a French maître d’.
What a happy time! The leaders could see it in every face, and they were sure of it the night they heard noises outside and looked to find the hillside dotted with young people singing, “I Am a Child of God.”

As I began preparing my first general conference talk, I realized what a daunting task that can be! Speakers in general conference are not assigned topics, so I needed to discover for myself what the Lord would have me say.
I prayed and waited for direction. After some time, my wife, Isabelle, who is wise and knows me well, saw me struggling to begin.
“Look, you have got to do something,” she said. “Get started and write something!”
That is what I did. In the process, I started six or seven possible talks. As I pondered the various possibilities, I became comfortable with one of them and felt it was the talk I should give. The Spirit settled my mind, and the rest of the talk flowed.

A grouchy neighbor became a friend to one family who chose to serve him rather than take offense. “We felt prompted to go over as a family and offer Mr. Sloan some service,” says the father. “We took him some homemade bread and washed his outside windows because they were hard for him to reach.
“The children claimed they had never seen him smile before. But they’ve seen that smile a lot since that day. Bobby, seven, collects Mr. Sloan’s mail for him every day after school. Susie, twelve, walks Mr. Sloan’s dog on a leash around the block. And Peter, fifteen, mows his lawn.
“Serving Mr. Sloan has taught our family to love him, and we think he has learned to love us.”

The bed felt soft and warm. Melissa hoped her sister Shelly wasn’t asleep yet in her bed. As Melissa watched the shadows made by the moonlight streaming through the window and across the dressers and beds, they made curious gray shapes on the wall.
“I wonder what the sharpest thing in the world is,” Melissa said.
“Who cares about that?” responded Shelly, who thought Melissa was a nuisance when she asked so many questions.
“Well, it couldn’t be shadows,” Melissa said. “Even though they have corners, they’re very soft.”
“Oh, are they really?” Shelly declared sarcastically.
Melissa lay quietly for a moment, but she kept thinking. Soon she said, “If I wanted to find out what the sharpest thing in the world is, I’d start by letting every single horse bite me.”
“Oh, no,” moaned Shelly.
“Then I’d let every dog bite me.”
“What a dumb idea,” said Shelly. “You couldn’t do that.”
“Pins are very sharp,” Melissa continued, undeterred. “They can go through most anything. Or Mama’s best scissors might be the sharpest thing in the world. Remember how easily they cut my hair?”
“Go to sleep!” Shelly said crossly.
“Our sharpest knife cuts through a loaf of homemade bread in a second. But Daddy’s nails go through wood. Oh!” Melissa cried excitedly, “I think I know what the sharpest thing in the world is. Great-great grandpa Johnson’s sword! If you got poked with that it would really hurt.”
“Will you please be quiet, Melissa, so I can go to sleep!”
“If I could try all the horses and dogs and pins and scissors and knives and nails and swords, then I’d know what the sharpest thing in the world is.”
Shelly suddenly sat up in bed. “Melissa,” she shouted, “if you don’t be quiet, I’m going to tell Dad. I wish I had a bedroom of my own. I wish I didn’t have to share a bedroom with a sister who talks all night!” Then she lay down again, turned her back to Melissa, and pulled the covers over her shoulder.
Melissa was quiet for a long time. Finally, out of the darkness came a wistful voice. “I know what the sharpest thing in the world is.”
“Please, be quiet,” said Shelly.
“It’s words,” Melissa said quietly. “They hurt the most.”
Shelly turned over and looked at Melissa with a mixture of surprise and affection. “Oh, Melissa,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean those things I said. I like sharing my bedroom with you. And I like having you for a sister.”
The girls were both silent for a few minutes thinking. Suddenly Melissa whispered, “Shelly.”
“What now?” Shelly asked laughingly.
“I know what the softest thing in the world is,” Melissa declared thoughtfully. “Softer than shadows and darkness and pillows and kittens and blankets and moonlight.”
“Tell me,” said Shelly good-naturedly. “What’s the softest thing in the world?”
“It’s words,” said Melissa.
Through the darkness she could almost see her sister smiling. And then she felt soft arms around her and Shelly whispered, “Oh, Melissa, I love you.”

Jake could hear his little brother and sister arguing in the other room.
“Give it back! It’s mine!” Jared shouted.
“No! I had it first!” Lily argued back.
This sounds like a job for Super Jake! thought Jake.
In his superhero cape, Jake ran down the hall. He saw Jared and Lily arguing over a new toy truck. Jake leaped onto the couch. He raised his arms straight into the air.
“Super Jake says no fighting!”
He jumped off the couch, pushed Jared, and grabbed the truck from Lily. He held it up high so they couldn’t reach it. Super Jake had stopped the fight! He had saved the day! He was a hero.
So why were Jared and Lily crying?
“What’s going on?” Dad said as he came into the room.
“Jake pushed me!” Jared said.
“And he took the truck!” Lily said.
Dad frowned. “Jake, is this true?”
“I’m Super Jake,” he said. “I had to stop the fighting.”
“So you were being a hero?”
“Yep! And heroes do whatever it takes to stop the fighting.”
“Hmm,” said Dad. He patted the couch for Jake to sit down. “You know that superheroes on TV and in movies aren’t real,” he said. “They’re just pretend.”
Jake looked at his cape and nodded. “Yeah. But I like to play like I’m a superhero.”
“I know, and nothing is wrong with that,” Dad said. “But let me tell you about a real hero. He is the greatest hero ever. He has saved everyone.”
Jake’s eyes grew wide. “What powers does he have?”
“Well, he could walk on water, stop storms, and heal people who were sick.”
Jake’s mouth fell open. “Really? I bet he beat up a lot of bad guys!”
“Actually, he never hurt people. He taught them to be kind. He showed them how to love and help each other.”
That didn’t sound like any of Jake’s favorite superheroes. But he did sound familiar.
“Dad,” Jake asked, “are you talking about Jesus?”
Dad smiled. “Yes. Jesus Christ is my hero. He saved us all from sin if we repent. He set a perfect example for us to follow. And because of Him, we will all live again after we die.”
“I knew that’s who you were talking about!” Jake said. “I’ve heard some of those stories about Jesus before!”
“And those stories are true,” Dad said. “Jesus Christ is real. He’s not a made-up character. He lives! He is kind to everyone, and He wants us to follow His example.”
“So I can be like Jesus if I’m kind to other people?” Jake asked.
“That’s right! And I know you have what it takes to be a real hero!” Dad said as he ruffled Jake’s hair.
Jake smiled. He knew what he needed to do. He went to Jared and Lily.
“I’m sorry for pushing you,” he told Jared. “And I’m sorry for taking the truck,” he told Lily. “Maybe we can all share it.” They sat in a triangle and pushed the truck back and forth to each other.
Jake couldn’t stop smiling. Super Jake saves the day! he thought. And this time, he felt like a real hero.

“I’m sorry, but no one is allowed in the garden area.” The tall Franciscan monk spoke with a firm voice in answer to my request to photograph inside the Garden of Gethsemane. Determined to return another day and try again, I walked down the gradual slope of the Mount of Olives and crossed the top end of Kidron Valley on the way to the old city of Jerusalem.
A paved highway runs down this upper end of the valley; it rises and winds around the base of the Mount of Olives on its way to Jericho. Gethsemane sits to one side of the road, next to the hustle of buses and taxis and donkeys braying with heavy loads of goods on the way to markets of the Old City.
Mount of Olives hillside
Gethsemane is just a simple grove of trees in a garden on the side of a rocky hill. It is a quiet place, except for the occasional tourist groups and hawking peddlers, and the nearby traffic.
Yet, in this grove of ancient trees one of the most important events in the history of mankind took place. In this little garden the Savior agonized as he suffered for the sins of all the world. He made it possible for us to return to the presence of God. That means that if we repent and live in sweet obedience to the Father’s will, we will not be required to pay the awful debt for the sins we have committed; Jesus did that in Gethsemane.
An olive tree in the Garden of Gethsemane
Leaving Gethsemane, you can easily see old Jerusalem above terraced hillsides. Next to the wall of the city, Arab shepherd boys often bring their sheep and goats to graze in the grass around the Moslem gravestones. Seeing the sheep silhouetted against the sky, it is easy to imagine what it was like here during the Savior’s lifetime.
Jerusalem seen from the Mount of Olives
Further up the hill, the road branches to one side, going up to Saint Stephen’s Gate and the base of the ancient temple mount. Here you can look back at Gethsemane from above. On this particular afternoon, the garden lay half in shadow with the sun glistening in several light-filled corners. A few Arab buses careened noisily around the serpentine curves of the highway below, but the air seemed somehow quiet. There in the stillness of my thoughts, I wondered about the little procession of disciples meandering across the valley toward Gethsemane, the Savior leading them in calm dignity as he approached the terrors of that incredible night.
Darkness falls swiftly in Jerusalem, and soon the blackness of the night was all around me. There was a slight chill in the evening air as I hurried home.
St. Stephen’s Gate in the wall of Jerusalem
Several days later I arrived after closing time, and the great iron doors to the garden were shut and locked. After much persistent bell ringing, a monk came to the gate and kindly allowed me to enter the empty courtyard. We talked for a minute, and then he surprised me with, “Would you like to go into the garden area?” Taking a handforged key from his belt, he opened the small iron gate that led into the garden.
I wandered along the flower-lined gravel paths, next to the great patriarch olive trees. The color of the red flowers reminded me of the blood that came from every pore of the Savior’s body as he suffered here. The old gnarled and pitted trunks of the olive trees spoke of the struggle and pain of spirit that Jesus felt in this garden. Pondering these things, I didn’t notice the darkness gathering around the garden.
A path in the Garden of Gethsemane
Reverently and privately knelt for a moment, there in Gethsemane, to thank God for the blessing of his Son. The trees were dark and gray as I left them. But looking up toward the city I could see one of its radiant sunsets. Jerusalem, the “City of Gold,” the hope of ages past, present, and future because of the atonement that took place here.

This brings me to my second “ship,” or relationship: courtship. Friendship should play a key role in courtship and marriage. I see friendship as the foundation in the courtship pyramid. A little story will help to illustrate this point.
It is the story of Isaac and Rebecca. This is not the biblical account, however. It is about our daughter Rebecca and her suitor Isaac. Our Rebecca was not persuaded to marry her Isaac nearly as easily as was the Old Testament Rebekah. Nor was she readily willing to give up her lifestyle and immediately leave her family to be part of another’s life.
Our Becky was 21. She had signed up to do a summer internship through Brigham Young University in Mozambique, Africa. She wasn’t sure if she should serve a mission, but she had at least started the paperwork by getting dental and doctor appointments. She was also thinking about applying for a master’s program in her field. In short, she was trying to decide what to do with the next phase of her life. We all wondered which would win out of the three Ms—Mozambique, mission, or master’s.
Meanwhile, Isaac came along in pursuit and soon offered a choice of a fourth M—marriage. He was headed for medical school in a few months, and he did not want to go without Becky. He later told us that he had his own three Ms that he hoped she would choose—marriage, medical school, and eventually motherhood. “If she did not,” he said, “I knew I would be the fourth M—miserable.”
Becky was a woman of the 21st century. The world and its many glamorous opportunities were available to her, and it was hard for her to set aside some of her dreams. What finally won her over were Isaac’s intrinsic goodness and his kindness to her. He did the romantic things too, like sending beautiful bouquets of flowers, taking her on nice dates, and so on.
But those things would not have won her over on their own. What was most winning to her was how he continually put her feelings and her needs above his own. He did little thoughtful things, the kind that one friend would do for another. For example, when he learned that her watch was too big for her wrist, he removed a couple of links from it and made it perfect for her. Another time she found her car spotless and sparkling inside and out because he had washed it, a deed unsolicited by her. Another time she found a little list he had made of ways to improve himself; many of his goals were service oriented. These kindnesses promised an enduring friendship; they expressed qualities of character that would last even when physical beauties eventually faded.
Becky realized that he had the qualities that would endure through good and bad times, the very qualities she would seek out in a good friend. So she did marry Isaac. And now she reflects that she was right about his great strengths being a wonderful asset to their relationship. She feels she is married to her best friend. And this is what marriage should be.

“Here we are,” Dad said softly as he turned off the car.
“Do I have to go in?” Lucy asked.
“No,” Mom said. “Not if you don’t want to. But this might be the last time you get to see Great-grandma Irma. She is very sick.”
Lucy thought about what Mother had said for a few minutes. She couldn’t imagine not seeing her great-grandmother, whom she called Grandma Irma, again. She had always liked to come here and visit. When Lucy was smaller, Grandma Irma read her the story of Pocahontas saving John Smith’s life. Lucy remembered how it felt to sit on Grandma Irma’s lap, all warm, soft, and safe.
Lucy swallowed hard. “I’ll come in,” she said.
“Good for you!” Mom told her.
Granny, Grandma Irma’s daughter and Lucy’s grandma, met them at the front door. She looked like she had been crying, and in her hand was a brush.
“Come in,” she said. “Mama isn’t doing very well today. She hasn’t had her hair combed for a while, and she says I can’t do it because I pull too hard and it makes her head hurt.”
The house smelled like the nursing home Lucy’s Primary class had visited at Christmastime.
Grandma Irma was sitting in the easy chair by the bookcase, just as she always did, but she looked different. She was smaller, thinner, and very pale. Lucy wasn’t sure what to do. Usually she skipped up to Grandma Irma’s chair for a hug and a kiss. But this time she went and sat down on the flowered couch.
“Hello, Grandma,” Lucy’s mom said, taking Grandma Irma’s hand.
Grandma looked up at her, frowned, and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Jane,” Lucy’s mom said.
“I knew that,” Grandma Irma said. Then she pulled her hand away and looked down at her lap.
Granny and Lucy’s mom started talking quietly in the corner of the room. Lucy’s dad sat down beside Lucy on the couch. They didn’t talk. Lucy kept glancing up at Grandma Irma. Her throat felt thick, like she was going to cry, and she wished there was something she could do to help.
Grandma’s hair was free of the long braids she usually wore wrapped around her head like a crown. Her white hair floated around her wrinkled face. Lucy thought she looked lost.
When Lucy had visited her in the past, she had watched Grandma Irma comb her hair. Lucy loved to watch her unbraid it and comb it until it hung down to her waist. Next, Grandma parted it down the middle and sectioned each half into three parts. As she braided, she flipped a piece of her hair over her shoulder with each twist. Then she wrapped her braids around her head, one in front and one behind, and fixed them there with funny, U-shaped silver hairpins. Over the braids went a hairnet as fine as cobwebs.
While she watched, Lucy liked to tell her about school and what she was doing with her friends. Grandma always told her that someday she was going to cut all her hair off so that there would be less of it to take care of, but Lucy knew that she’d never do it. On clear days, the sunshine came in through the window and touched the black-and-white picture of Grandpa Eddy that sat on the dresser. He had died a long time ago.
Slowly Lucy got up from the couch. The house was so quiet that she felt like she had to tiptoe and whisper. She crept up to Grandma Irma’s chair and put her hand on Grandma’s soft arm.
“Can I comb your hair for you?” she asked.
Grandma Irma turned her head and looked into Lucy’s face. She didn’t say anything.
“Grandma,” Lucy’s mom said, “This is Lucy. Do you remember?”
“Lucy?” Grandma Irma looked surprised. Lucy remembered that a long time ago Grandma Irma had had a baby girl named Lucy, who had died. “My Lucy?”
“No,” Lucy’s mom said softly, “she’s my Lucy.”
“Can I comb your hair, Grandma?” Lucy asked again.
“Yes,” Grandma Irma said. Granny handed the brush to Lucy. She took it and lifted a long bunch of Grandma’s hair and carefully started brushing. Her hair smelled like apricots and hair conditioner. It was hard to brush, with lots of knots, so she had to do it slowly.
After a few minutes, Grandma lifted her bony hand and put it on Lucy’s to stop her from brushing. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, sounding just like she used to. “If you hold my hair above where you are brushing, it won’t pull so much.”
“OK, I’ll try it.”
Grandma sighed. “That’s better.”
Lucy brushed and brushed. Grandma’s hair got softer and softer. Lucy thought about the day she had come to Grandma Irma’s house to visit and they had decided to drive over to the post office and get the mail. When they arrived home, Grandma discovered that she had locked the keys in the house. So they pushed out the screen in the bedroom window, and Grandma hoisted Lucy up. Lucy had climbed in the window, trotted through the house, and unlocked the door. When they found the keys on the kitchen table, they laughed until their tummies ached.
When Grandma’s hair was all combed out, Lucy parted it in the middle and then divided each section into three. She was glad that she had practiced braiding on her friends at school. But Grandma Irma’s hair was lots longer, so it was harder to braid. While she worked, she hummed a song that Grandma Irma used to hum while she watered all her plants.
“‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,’” Grandma Irma said.
“What?” Lucy asked.
“That’s the song you are humming,” Granny told Lucy. “Mama used to sing it really loud when she went out to milk the cow when she was a young lady. Then my daddy, who lived next door, would hear her and come and milk the cow for her.”
“‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,’” Grandma Irma said again, and smiled.
Lucy finished one long white braid and secured it with an elastic. Then she moved to the other side of Grandma’s chair and started on the other side.
“It’s time we left,” Dad said. “Are you almost finished there, honey?”
She nodded, concentrating on getting the braid smooth and even. When she was done, she put the brush on the armrest of the chair.
“I love you, Grandma,” she whispered.
“I know,” Grandma said, turning her head slowly to look at her.
Lucy watched while her mom and dad hugged Grandma good-bye. Mom was crying.
Lucy moved around to the front of Grandma’s chair and leaned over to hug her. Grandma lifted both her trembling hands and cupped Lucy’s face. Lucy tipped her chin down and Grandma kissed her on the forehead. Only Grandma Irma gave forehead kisses.
“Bye, Grandma,” Lucy said.
By the door, Granny put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder and said, “Thanks so much. You really helped out, more than you know.”
Lucy looked back at Grandma Irma. She was still slumped in her chair. She still looked tired and thin, but now her hair was hanging smoothly in two braids on either side of her face. As she watched, Grandma slid her fingers down one braid. For some reason, Lucy suddenly felt better. She smiled, hugged Granny, and skipped out into the sunshine.

When he arrived at stake youth conference, Jade Meynders got out of the car, picked up his things, including his sleeping bag, and started walking down a dirt road cut through a thick forest. Those around him were dressed as if from a day long past—the girls in long dresses and bonnets, the boys in shirts with full sleeves and some in long-tailed coats, styles from 150 years ago.
As they walked, they noticed markers set up several yards apart with years painted on them. Each step took Jade back in time. “It really helped prepare my mind to comprehend and feel what was going to happen,” said Jade.
At the end of the road, the groups walked into a full-size replica of a pioneer town, complete with the Whitney store and the Grandin press, although those two businesses, significant in the history of the Church, were not originally in the same town. The Abbotsford British Columbia Stake was taking the youth back in time so they could witness several events from a variety of locations in Church history.
So when Jade and his friends entered the town, it really felt like they had stepped back in time to the 1830s.
The town was dressed with garlands and flowers. The teens, their leaders, and members of the stake who agreed to play the parts of prominent Church members in history gathered for a typical fair from pioneer times. The group played games, held competitions, and enjoyed entertainment. At the end of the day, the mayor gathered everyone together and organized them into families. Under the direction of their leaders, the “families” set up their camps in a nearby wood, which would be home for the next week.
“I finally understood what the early Saints lived through and how their testimonies were their only possessions that were certain,” said Alex Loewen. “It inspires me to keep a strong testimony and rely on the Lord like they did.”

Years ago my father, as a young married man with several children, went nervously into the bank in Brigham City to ask for a loan to start in business. He was asked about collateral. He had none beyond his willingness to work and some mechanical aptitude.

The banker, in turning down his request, happened to ask father where he lived. “In the old box house on First West,” was the answer. The banker passed that corner on the way to work. He’d watched the transformation in the yard. He’d wondered who lived there, and admired what they were doing.

Father got the loan to start in business on the strength of the flowers that mother had planted in the yard of a very modest adobe house they were renting.

Close to the home where I lived as a child was a large house. It was located on beautiful grounds, enclosed by what was to me a towering fence made of wood paneling, probably six feet in height. I recall peeping through holes in the panels where knots of wood had dropped out. It was like looking through a telescope into a different world. The beautifully manicured lawns, the well-kept flower gardens, and a small orchard provided an idyllic setting for the distinctive dwelling. Unfortunately, the opportunity to enjoy the view was always brief due to the vigilant British bulldog that patrolled the gardens and was immediately attracted to anyone standing close to the exterior of the fencing. Even though the fierce dog was confined in the garden, the sound of his sniffing as he approached the fence caused me to retreat in fear as my vivid imagination conjured up a variety of possibilities.
Mr. and Mrs. Lyons, who lived in the home, were schoolteachers. They had a dignified demeanor and seemed to enjoy the privacy that the house setting afforded them. To add to the intrigue, Mr. Lyons had no right hand, using instead a steel hook that protruded below the cuff of his jacket. In my boyish mind, I could imagine Mr. Lyons pursuing me, catching me by the collar with the hook, and taking me captive.
I recall an August morning when I was 10 or 11 years old, following a night of unusually strong winds, being greeted by friends as I left my home. They were obviously excited by something and inquired, “Did you hear the wind last night?”
When I said that I had, they proceeded to tell me what they had discovered—that the wind had blown down sections of the fencing surrounding the Lyonses’ home. I could not understand why this would cause so much excitement and asked them to explain the significance.
They responded with even greater enthusiasm: “We have access to the apple trees!”
I was still very cautious and asked, “But what about Mr. Lyons?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Lyons are not at home; they are away visiting relatives.”
“Where is the dog?” I probed.
“The family has placed him in boarding kennels,” came the reply.
My friends had certainly carried out detailed research. So, reassured by their words, we headed for our target with all haste. Entering the grounds, we climbed trees and hurriedly plucked fruit, filling our pockets and also the space between our shirts and our bodies. My heart was pounding and my pulse racing since I feared that any moment the dog or Mr. Lyons, or both, would appear in the garden and apprehend us. We ran from the scene of our trespass to a secluded place in a nearby wooded area and, after regaining our composure, began to consume the apples.
It was August, and the apples were not yet ripe enough to eat. In fact, they had a very bitter taste, but the tartness of these green apples did not deter us as we enthusiastically consumed our spoils, acting out of a compulsion I cannot now explain. After devouring a significant number, I contented myself with taking a bite out of each remaining apple and throwing the remnants of the fruit into the nearby bushes. The frivolity diminished as our bodies began to gradually react to the invasion they had experienced. The chemical reaction between my gastric juices and the unripe apples caused me to experience stomach cramps and to feel nauseated. As I sat regretting what I had done, I realized that a feeling within me was producing even more discomfort than the unripe apples.
The greater discomfort resulted from the realization that what I had done was wrong.
When my friends had proposed that we invade the garden, I had felt uncomfortable but lacked the courage to say no and so suppressed my feelings. Now, after the deed had been accomplished, I was filled with remorse. To my regret, I had ignored the promptings warning me of the error of my actions.

With hymnbooks in their hands, a group of bleary-eyed seminary students packed pillows and quilts with them. They were barely awake as they gathered at the church on an early Saturday morning. But with the first chords of hymn number one, “The Morning Breaks,” the seminary students from Pleasant Grove, Utah, started a marathon. It would take them more than 13 hours to complete. There was no running involved—just singing. Lots and lots of singing. The seminary students were attempting to sing every hymn in the hymnbook in a single day.
The idea started two years ago when Mike Laudie and his older brother Jim were waiting to be interviewed for temple recommends. They started playing the piano and singing hymns. “We just thought, Wouldn’t it be cool to sing all the hymns in one sitting,” said Mike. At that time, Jim organized and held the first hymn marathon at the Pleasant Grove seminary. Then, this year, Mike was on the seminary council and proposed that the seminary try it again.
First, the seminary council asked the 1,200 seminary students to vote on their favorite hymns. After every 20 hymns, the group would sing a hymn from their top 25 choices. The plan was to save the top-10 vote getters for the last hour of the marathon. Fortified with plenty of doughnuts and juice, they started singing. A few students like David Anson stayed the whole 13 hours. He said, “Music means so much to my life. It has touched me for good.” Others had to come and go as their work schedules allowed. With some talented accompanists spelling each other, the number of singers fluctuated throughout the day between a few dozen to nearly 200. Even if they had come earlier in the day, most who participated came back for the last hour.
The message of the hymns came across strongly for some. They felt the power of beautiful words combined with pleasing melodies. Tyson Peery noted one meaningful line. “There are a lot of hymns we don’t know. But when we sang, ‘There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today,’ one of the lines says, ‘And Jesus listening can hear, the songs I cannot sing.’ That really hit me.”
Another meaningful hymn to the group was “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” Brett Munden said, “I love that song because when I sing it I think of Joseph Smith in Carthage Jail. He asked John Taylor to sing that song for him. It’s my favorite hymn because it was Joseph’s favorite.”
For many, the hymn marathon became more than just an endurance feat. Sarah Overson said, “I thought of the hymn that says, ‘Angels above us are silent notes taking’ (see Hymns, no. 237). I know that God was pleased with us singing praises to Him all day long. Singing hymns is like praying. It was to show Heavenly Father that I was willing to sacrifice my time to ‘pray’ to Him. I want Him to know that I’m willing and trying to improve my habits and keep the commandments.”
These are the 10 hymns the Pleasant Grove seminary students voted as their favorites:
The Spirit of God
A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief
Praise to the Man
I Stand All Amazed
How Great Thou Art
If You Could Hie to Kolob
Called to Serve
True to the Faith
We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet
Come, Come, Ye Saints

When I turned 17, all my friends were gone. They had moved far away, were serving missions, or had just stopped being my friend. Even though I had my family, I still felt alone. I felt I had no support outside of my home, and I couldn’t fit in with others even when I tried.
One day the new missionaries assigned to our ward showed up at our house to introduce themselves. They asked how they could help us. I didn’t care about what they were saying because I was thinking only about how sad and lonely I was. Then the missionaries said they would love my help in teaching some of their lessons. I was surprised! Why would they ask for help from someone who clearly wasn’t in the best emotional state?
I agreed anyway, and I went to some lessons with them. The missionaries not only helped the people they were teaching but were also a good influence on me.
When one of the elders was transferred, I realized my life had been getting better since I started spending time with the missionaries. I had a lot in common with the next elder who came to the area, and I continued to spend time with the missionaries. They encouraged, taught, and supported me. They helped me feel better on difficult days. Despite the language barrier and their busy schedules, the missionaries made an effort to help me. The missionaries helped me realize that I was not alone. Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, were watching over me and helping me through others.
When that new elder left, I thanked him for being an instrument in the hands of the Lord to rescue me. I am grateful he came to that particular mission because he was a blessing to me.
Before this time, I had almost no desire to serve a mission, but as I watched these missionaries, my desire to serve grew. I will leave for my mission soon, and I hope to give my all to the Lord as those missionaries did.

“Some two or three years after I was baptized, one day while I was studying, I began to reflect upon the fact that I had not obtained a knowledge of the truth of that work—that I had not realized the fulfillment of that promise, he that doeth my will shall know of the doctrine, (see John 7:17) and I began to feel very uneasy. I laid aside my books, left the house, and wandered around through the fields under the oppressive influence of a gloomy, disconsolate spirit, while an indescribable cloud of darkness seemed to envelop me. I had been accustomed, at the close of day, to go for secret prayer, to a grove a short distance from my lodgings, but at this time I felt no inclination to do so. The spirit of prayer had departed and the heavens seemed like brass over my head. At length, realizing that the usual time had come for secret prayer, I concluded I would not forgo my evening service, and, as a matter of formality, knelt as I was in the habit of doing, and in my accustomed place, but no feeling as I was used to feeling. I had no sooner opened my lips in an effort to pray, than I heard a sound, just above my head, like the rustling of silken robes, and immediately the spirit of God descended upon me, completely enveloping my whole person, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and O the joy and happiness I felt! No language can describe the almost instantaneous transition from a dense cloud of mental and spiritual darkness into a refulgence of light and knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the Holy Priesthood, and the fullness of the Gospel. It was a complete baptism—a tangible immersion in the heavenly principle or element, the Holy Ghost; and even more real and physical in its affects upon every part of my system than the immersion by water; dispelling forever, so long as reason and memory last, all possibility of doubt or fear in relation to the fact handed down to us historically that the ‘babe of Bethlehem’ is truly the Son of God; and also the fact that He is now being revealed to the children of men, and communicating knowledge, the same as in the apostolic times. I was perfectly satisfied, as well I might be, for my expectations were more than realized; I think I may safely say, in an infinite degree.
“I cannot tell how long I remained in the full flow of the blissful enjoyment and divine enlightenment, but it was several minutes before the celestial element which filled and surrounded me began gradually to withdraw. On arising from my kneeling posture, with my heart swelling with gratitude to God, beyond the power of expression, I felt—I knew that he had conferred on me what only an omnipotent being can confer—that which is of greater value than all the wealth and honors the world can bestow. That night as I retired to rest, the same wonderful manifestations were repeated, and continued to be for several successive nights. The sweet remembrance of those glorious experiences, from that time to the present, brings them fresh before me, imparting an inspiring influence which pervades my whole being, and I trust will to the close of my earthly existence.” (Preston Nibley, The Presidents of the Church (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1974), Chapter 5, paragraphs 10–12, pp. 139–140.)
Lorenzo Snow