Gospel Story Finder

During my last year of junior high school, it was my privilege to be responsible for taking care of the flag at our school. Each morning just before school began, the bugle sounded and we would raise the flag on the pole out in front of the building. All of the students would then stand at attention in their classrooms and repeat the Pledge of Allegiance to our country.
We really cared for the flag—it meant something special to us! Whenever it rained, we would be excused from class to run out, lower the flag, and carefully put it away until the weather was clear to display it again. Each night before leaving school, the flag would be lowered, gently folded in a triangle with only the white stars on a blue background visible, and put away until the next day.

One time Bessie got tangled up in some barbwire and had deep, bleeding cuts on both hind legs when we found her.
Papa came out of the house with a curved needle and some black silk thread.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“To sew her up—like you do a tear in your dress,” he explained and showed me how to take a stitch, tie a knot, cut the thread, and take another stitch.
Quickly the wound was pulled together and Papa washed off the blood.
“It’ll soon be good as new,” he assured us.
After that, whenever an animal had a bad cut, I ran to get the curved needle and thread for Papa and watched while he sewed it up.

In the year following that September, life had been kind of hectic for me. I told my wife, Helen, who was going to the annual meeting with me, “Let’s take the train to Chicago so that we can relax and get away from the hustle and bustle.” But no sooner had we checked into our hotel room, than the telephone rang. When I answered it, the hotel operator said, “Mr. Fyans, you have been getting telephone calls from Salt Lake City. They’ve been trying to reach you for some time, and they asked if they could make an appointment to talk with you in two hours. It was just about noon when they last called, so at two o’clock can you be available?”
“Yes, I can be available. Who’s calling, operator?”
“A Mr. Moyle.”
I said, “Thank you very much” and hung up. Helen and I sat down and said, “Mr. Moyle? Why would any Mr. Moyle want to talk with us? We only know of one Mr. Moyle—Henry D. Moyle of the First Presidency—but he doesn’t know us, and he’d have no interest in us.”
So we sat there, and at two o’clock on the dot the telephone rang and the caller was President Moyle. He said, “I’m glad that I found you at last. We’d like you to go to Uruguay and preside over the mission there. Will you go?”
I said, “Why, certainly.”
He said, “I understand that your wife is with you. May I speak with her?” When she got on the phone, he said, “Is it all right if your husband goes to Uruguay on a mission?”
“If I go with him.”
He chuckled. “That’s exactly the situation. He’d be the mission president.” Talking to me again, he said, “We want you to move as fast as you can. In fact, why don’t you make some contacts there in Chicago about getting your passports started?”
“All right. Whatever you suggest.” I hung up the receiver and thought, Oh, boy, what’ll I tell the corporation? Not only have I come here at their expense, but I’m supposed to make a presentation at the meeting tomorrow! Well, I called them and said, “You know, I really have a serious problem. I’m sorry, but I’ll not be able to stay for the meeting. I have to return to Salt Lake City immediately. And you’ll have to relieve me from this responsibility, because I’ll not be in the country for several years.”
“Well, where are you going to be?”
“I’ve been asked to go to South America and represent the Church there.”
They asked, “How did you get that information?”
“I just received a telephone call.”
“We don’t understand you. We made a special trip out to Salt Lake City to visit you, spent several days with you there, then gave you ten days to think about whether you’d come to Chicago or not. After all that, you decided against coming here. But you just got a telephone call and decided that fast to go a third of the way around the world! We don’t understand you.” Then, “Yes, we do. And when you return, get in touch with us, if you will, please.”
In life we find challenges of various kinds. Some of them are obvious, and some of them are not quite so obvious. In this case the challenge was not quite so obvious. But because I had met the challenge and had not had an alcoholic drink that night at the restaurant, I was thrice-blessed for sticking by my principles. First, I was offered a key position in an international organization. Second, even after I had turned them down, they let me know that their doors would always be open to me. Third, I was called by the Lord to spend my life in the best possible way—working full-time for Him.

One afternoon during my internship as an air traffic controller at the airport in Tijuana, Mexico, my instructor and I noticed that a fogbank from the ocean had covered the airport and a large part of the city. Visibility, however, was within the limits allowed for aircraft to land and take off.
Soon, we detected on radar a Cessna 172 coming from the south along the coast, flying via visual flight rules (VFR). Under VFR, pilots locate themselves visually with reference points on the ground to reach their destination.
Unfortunately, the pilot had gotten lost in the fog. Flying in circles around the coastal area, he tried to locate himself in relation to the airport, but the poor visibility restricted his vision. I asked my instructor what we could do to help him.
“He needs to tune in to the tower’s airband frequency and communicate with us,” he replied. “Otherwise, we can’t do anything for him.”
I didn’t understand why the lost pilot didn’t communicate with us. Did he have a problem with his radio? Did he feel that he could get out of danger by himself?
Minutes passed. Finally, the pilot tuned in to the tower frequency. With a worried tone, he asked for help. Immediately we gave him directions to lead him safely to the airport runway. He just had to trust our instructions and his flight instruments.
Seeing the plane emerge from the fog a few minutes later and then land safely gave us indescribable joy.
On the way home, I pondered what the pilot had experienced. Calling us on the right airband frequency made the difference between receiving help or flying in circles—or worse.

“Let’s grab the gear. It’s fishing time!” Dad said.
Hayden grinned as he looked around. Everything was bright and buzzing. They had the whole lake to themselves!
Following Dad, Hayden walked behind the car and lifted the big fishing tackle box out of the trunk. It was heavy, but he didn’t mind. He’d carry one twice this heavy if it meant fishing with Dad.
Fishing poles rattled together as Dad pulled them out. “Looks like Dan fell asleep,” he said. “Will you wake him up?”
Hayden held back a sigh. “Uh, sure.”
He’d almost forgotten that his little brother, Dan, had come too. Dan was always running around and talking loudly. He’d scare all the fish away!
He looked in the open window. “Dan, time to wake up.”
But Dan was still fast asleep.
Hayden paused. With any luck, Dan might sleep right through the whole trip.
Hayden quietly hauled the tackle box to Dad’s fishing spot on the shore.
“Here’s the bait, worms and all!”
Dad took the tackle box from him. “Great, thanks.” Then Dad looked up. “Where’s your brother?”
Hayden glanced at the car. All of a sudden he wondered how he would feel if he woke up alone in a new place. Not good, Hayden decided. In fact, he’d probably feel pretty scared. And Dan was only five.
“Just a second, Dad. I’ll be right back.” But when he looked in the car, Dan was gone!
Hayden couldn’t hear the buzzing insects any more. Everything seemed to go quiet.
“Dan’s not here!” Hayden yelled.
Dad hurried over and quickly checked the car.
“He’s probably just looking for us,” Dad said. “It’s only been a minute. He won’t be far.”
Hayden tried to stay calm, but his stomach was turning somersaults. “Can I say a prayer?”
“I think that’s a very good idea.”
Hayden thanked Heavenly Father for his little brother and asked that they would find Dan right away so that he wouldn’t feel afraid.
When Hayden finished, his heart stopped feeling so tight.
Dad put a hand on Hayden’s shoulder. “What if you were Dan? Where would you go?”
Hayden noticed the door on the other side of the car was open. Dan probably hadn’t seen them on the shore. Hayden pointed to a trail nearby. “I’d probably start walking that way,” he said.
They hurried along the trail.
Every second felt slow and heavy. As he walked, Hayden kept saying prayers in his heart. After a few steps, they came around a bend in the trail and saw Dan up ahead.
“Dan!” Hayden shouted.
Dan spun around and smiled. “Hey, where did you guys go?”
Time sped up again. Hayden raced to Dan and hugged him tight.
“I’m so glad we found you,” Hayden said. He said a quick prayer of thanks in his heart.
Dan just grinned. “Where are the fish?”
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Hayden said. His feet were itching to run to the lake. “Let’s see who can catch the first fish. I’ll help you bait your hook.”

As I walked to teach my Primary class, I remembered my new goal. I greeted each child at the door. Each smiled back, radiating the sweet spirit each one has. I wanted now to teach the gospel, which I know is true, to each child—not to the whole class. I wanted each four-year-old to feel important, to feel the love I had for him. When Primary was over, I felt my relationship with each child had improved; I had felt a little of the beauty each held. Longfellow and the missionaries were a little smarter than I thought.

I read the “Let Your Light Shine” article (Jan. 2018) and had a chance to let my light shine with my friend. I had a feeling that I should grab a bag of my favorite chips before school. After lunch my friend looked sad, and I asked him what was wrong. He said he had forgotten his lunch. I remembered my chips, so I gave them to him. After school he came up to me and said, “That was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me at school.”
Durham M., age 11, Utah, USA

It seemed like ever since we left Sugar Creek, the plains had been fighting us with wind, rain, and bad trails. Father said, “We have done well to cover seven miles today, but our wagons are in bad shape and we’ll be spending the next few days repairing them. Besides, if there is a storm tonight—and the sky gives every appearance of delivering one—the ground will be too muddy tomorrow for the few tired teams we have to move the wagons.”
Just as we finished setting up camp, another storm set in. But in spite of the rain, the Jacksons came over to our tent and ate their dinner with us as was their custom. After dinner we sang a few songs, to the accompaniment of the wild wind and thunder. When the Jacksons left, we fetched our bedrolls and had prayer. Then father put out the lantern.
The dark tent suddenly seemed less homey. The wind shivered its sides and the icy rain drove right through the canvas. I felt sad thinking about our comfortable home we had abandoned in Nauvoo. But I was too tired to be bothered for long and was soon sleeping soundly.
It seemed like I had only been asleep for about five minutes when I awoke to find Father clutching my shoulder, trying to rouse me. “What’s the matter?” I grumbled.
“The storm frightened off some of the horses last night. All of the boys and men in camp are going out to round them up.” Father handed me my boots and added, “I don’t know about the rest of the families, but we’ll never get anywhere without all of our animals.”
I sure will be glad when we catch up with the other Saints, I thought. I missed my friends who had gone ahead and hated the idea of our family being stranded out on the plains alone for even a week waiting for another horse. I pulled on my boots and tucked in my shirt. Just then my stomach growled noisily. Father laughed. “Come on. Sister Jackson’s fixing some breakfast for us, then we’ll have prayer and start out.”
If there was anyone whose breakfast could make me get out of bed, it was Sister Jackson’s. She made the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten. On the way over to the Jackson’s tent, I noticed that the wind was still blowing, but it wasn’t as vicious as the night before. The sky was cloudless. We might be cold while we search, I thought. But at least we won’t get rained on.
After everyone finished breakfast, we had a prayer and then all the boys and men in camp divided up into pairs. I was to go with Brother Jackson. We headed out on foot toward the southeast, with some leftover breakfast biscuits in our pockets and two canteens of water. We searched for a good four hours and found nothing but a few blurred tracks on the muddy plains.
Brother Jackson and I finally stopped to rest and eat the biscuits we’d brought. We were discussing whether we should head back to camp when I heard it. At first I thought the sound was just the whimpering wind. But it kept coming, mournful and low, even when the wind dropped for a minute.
“Do you hear that, Brother Jackson?” I asked.
He cocked his ear forward as though he thought it would sharpen his hearing. “Don’t hear a thing, Jonathan,” he answered.
“Sounds like it’s coming from over there.” I pointed toward a patch of scrub not far off.
Brother Jackson plugged his canteen and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. “We better go and see,” he said.
About a quarter mile away we found our family’s horse, Josy, lying between two large bushes.
“She’s been bit by a rattler,” muttered Brother Jackson.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Just look at that leg! Sore as can be. And her nose is all swelled up too. It was a rattler, all right, no doubt about it.”
“What can we do?”
“Not much.” Brother Jackson’s eyes looked a little misty.
“We can’t just leave her here to die!” I shouted. “We need her too much.” I was almost in tears.
Brother Jackson put his hand on my shoulder. “I know how you feel, son.” He paused and then added. “She might make it on her own if she keeps still and has water. Then again, maybe there’s time to get back to camp for some snake-master root for her. Anyway we won’t give up.”
“Let’s head back to camp then,” I said, ready to run all the way back if necessary in order to save Josy.
“Hold on, Jonathan!” Brother Jackson grabbed both my shoulders and looked straight at me. “You need to stay here to keep Josy calm and give her some water every now and then.” My face must have shown how much I didn’t want to be left alone. Brother Jackson gently added, “It may save her life.”
I looked around at the empty surroundings. Then I looked at Josy. She might die if I didn’t stay. All I could say was, “All right.”
“Good,” said Brother Jackson. He helped me build a fire and then took one last drink from his canteen and handed it to me. “Keep these canteens warm by the fire and try to get Josy to drink a bit. But mind you save some water for yourself, and don’t go getting yourself bit by no rattler either.” He gave me an encouraging slap on the back and then strode off toward camp.
I sat on a rock and put my head in my hands to pray, but mostly I just shed a few tears. A moan from Josy brought me around. I took off my neckerchief and wet it with the warmed water.
“There, girl, everything will be all right,” I murmured as I wiped the horse’s forehead. I wondered if she could tell how frightened I was. “Just relax.” I put a little water in my cupped hand for her to drink, and she was able to take some.
I reckon I nursed Josy off and on for about three hours. Between times I just lay next to her and tried not to think of the lonely plains. But every time the wind stirred a bush, my heart jumped, and I thought it might be another rattlesnake.
Finally the wind died down and it was warmer. I guess the sun made me drowsy because I fell asleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember where I was for a minute. It was getting dark and a mist was coming up. Then Josy made a noise. She was not lying by my side anymore, but was standing up! The swelling of her nose had gone down some, and her leg didn’t look too bad either.
Brother Jackson wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I thought he should have returned by now, so I called, “Hal-loo!” hoping that he would be close by searching for us. The mist made my voice sound like I was in an empty room. There was no answer.
The fog increased, and the little light there was began to fade. I decided to head back to camp. “Come on, girl,” I said, “let’s go home.” Josy seemed to understand and quietly followed behind me as I started back in the direction we had come.
The farther we walked the darker it got. The fog was setting in good and thick. At first I kept calling out, “Brother Jackson!” every few minutes. But after a while I quit. Josy seemed to be doing well. I thought she’d be fine if I could get her back to camp and let her rest.
We walked on and on. I wasn’t certain any longer in which direction we were going. All the time we walked I kept praying that we’d get back to camp and that Josy would live. I prayed for Brother Jackson, too, wherever he was. I had almost decided we should stop for the night when I heard a wisp of music. This is it, I thought. I just knew I was done for and that it was angels singing their choruses while coming to get me.
Then I recognized the song. It was “Gentle Annie!” And our camp band was playing it!
It was hard to tell exactly which way the music was coming from, because the fog did strange things to sound. But the music was getting louder, so I knew we must be headed in the right direction. I think Josy heard the music, too, for her spirits seemed to pick up just as mine had.
Before long I could see the glow of a campfire through the fog, and gradually the outline of the wagons appeared.
“Jonathan, is that you?” my father called as he ran out to greet me. He grabbed me and swooped me up off the ground. “I’m sure glad to see you. The band’s been playing for two hours, hoping you’d hear it—ever since we found Brother Jackson.”
“Brother Jackson?”
“Yes. Brother Edwards and I found him as we were coming back from searching for the horses. Seems he fell and hit his head and knocked himself out. We couldn’t figure out what he was saying about you.”
I explained about finding Josy and the snakebite as we entered camp.
“We organized a search party for you, but the fog became too thick and we all had to come back.” Father looked at Josy’s leg and shook his head unbelievingly. “And to think that you made it back—and with Josy too.”
I smiled. “Will Brother Jackson be all right?” I asked.
“Yes, but he needs to rest for a few days. By the time we get the wagons repaired I hope both he and Josy will be ready to travel.”
I was happier at that moment than I had been for a long time. Josy was going to be fine. And I had learned that it didn’t matter where I was as long as I was with my family, for that’s where home really is!

Another rewarding encounter came with a post-doctoral research student who was studying early Christian history at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome. As far as I could tell, this bright scholar had been given every possible honor and privilege of study within the vast Vatican libraries. A mutual friend introduced us at a meeting specifically to examine the Book of Mormon, particularly some of its ritual and historical texts. For instance, we discussed the description of Lehi’s attitudes in the context of contemporary international affairs. Israel’s rulers had formed an alliance with Egypt against their traditional enemy, Babylon; but Jeremiah had vehemently criticized this choice, and there seems to be evidence that Lehi’s political sympathies were as unpopular as Jeremiah’s. One of Babylon’s allies was Sidon; but Sidon’s twin city, Tyre, had allied with Egypt. The people of the Book of Mormon frequently used the name Sidon. There is a city named Sidon, a river named Sidon and, even a man named Gidgiddonah, which, as Dr. Hugh Nibley of Brigham Young University points out, is the Egyptian name for Sidon. But the name Tyre never appears in any form in the Book of Mormon, whereas in the Old Testament the two names are constantly linked; one hardly ever appears without the other. This apparent preference for Sidon over Tyre in the Book of Mormon fits perfectly into the world situation that Lehi knew and may support Brother Nibley’s deduction that Lehi may have been a trader with close personal connections in foreign cities, his safety and prosperity guaranteed by the Chuwa, or “contract of friendship” that protected an alien in another city-state. Naturally, even though he knew Egyptian, he (as did Jeremiah) would still deplore Israel’s alliance with Egypt, since he saw his nation turning away from safety. (Approach to the Book of Mormon, Melchizedek Priesthood Course, 1957, p. 52.)

That was only one of the many areas that I wished to discuss with this eminent scholar; and at first I feared it might be a difficult meeting. He had read several chapters in the Book of Mormon and had understood them fairly well, considering that it was his first reading of them. But he had concluded that the book was without substance. We looked again at what he had read. Then again, first from one angle and then another. Many hours and many words later, he was to admit willingly that the book was anything but meaningless. “Your book,” he said, “will have to be dealt with.”

This became clear to me some years ago when, as a young father, I needed to purchase some temple clothing. When I entered the store, my attention was drawn to a sign on the counter that read “For Latter-day Saints Only.” The message jolted me. In my mind, an argument ensued. “Why does it say ‘For Latter-day Saints Only’?” I asked myself. “Why doesn’t it say something like ‘For Endowed Church Members’?” Why does it raise this issue of being a “Latter-day Saint”?

The years since have tempered my impetuous nature. That argumentative encounter of long ago has become a treasured, defining moment. The experience taught me that just being a member of this Church is not enough. Nor is merely going through the motions of membership sufficient in this day of cynicism and unbelief. The spirituality and vigilance of a saint are required.

Many times we don’t comprehend the meaning of the ordinances of the temple in their fulness until after we have known affliction or passed through experiences that could have been extremely sad without the knowledge of the plan of salvation.
When my wife and I had only been married a year and a half, she was ready to deliver our first baby. We had decided that she would have the baby in the Chihuahua colonies, where she had been born. At that time I was working in Mexico City, and we decided that she would be there a month ahead of the delivery date. I was planning to join her later.
The delivery date arrived. I was at work when I received a call from my father-in-law. The news was good: “Octaviano, your wife has given birth, and you now have a little daughter who is beautiful.” So, in my happiness, I began to announce this to my friends and partners at work, who in turn asked me for chocolates to celebrate the birth of my little one.
The next day I began to give out chocolates throughout the four floors of our office building. When I reached the second floor, I received another call from my father-in-law. This time the news was different: “Octaviano, your wife is fine, but your daughter has passed away. The funeral will be today, and you don’t have time to come. What are you going to do?” I asked to speak with Rosa, my wife, and then asked her if she was OK. She replied that she was fine, depending on how I was feeling. Then we talked about the plan of salvation, remembering this scripture:
“And I also beheld that all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven” (D&C 137:10).
I asked her, “Do you believe that?” And she said, “Yes, I do.” Then I replied, “We should be happy then. I love you. And if you are OK with that, I’ll take my vacation in two weeks, spend some time with you, and return back together to Mexico.”
We knew that one day we would be reunited with our daughter because we were sealed by the power of the priesthood in the temple. We ended the telephone call, and I resumed giving out the chocolates in my office building.
Seeing me do this, one of my co-workers was surprised and asked me how I could do this after such terrible news. I answered, “If you have three hours, I can explain to you why I am not feeling too sad and about my knowledge of what happens after death.” He didn’t have three hours at that moment but did later. We ended up talking for four hours. He accepted the gospel and, together with his mother and brother, was baptized into the Church after receiving the discussions.
I know that thanks to the power of godliness manifested in the ordinances of the temple, I will now be able to know my daughter. I will embrace her, and we will be with her for eternity, just as we are now with our three surviving children.

My road to BYU–Hawaii began with my conversion to the gospel. After reading the Book of Mormon and attending church regularly with my mom, I experienced a profound conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ at the age of 16. Although my mom was quite active in the church, my parents were divorced when I was young, and I mostly stayed at my dad’s house.

I grew up in a Hawaiian community outside of Hilo on the Big Island, called Keaukaha. I was raised by the ocean there. In my youth, the water and waves served as a kind of pu‘uhonua or sanctuary for me, a buffer from life’s stresses on land.

So, I surfed a lot. And I got pretty good at it. By the time I was 15, I was ranked as a top amateur in Hawaii and the United States. But right about that same time, I found myself turning to my mom with some serious life and death kinds of questions. She, in turn, gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon, and I started attending church. Through my experiences reading the Book of Mormon and praying, my belief and confidence in God and myself began to rise.

I'll never forget the first time I read the Book of Mormon. It was a cool, sunny, and very green Saturday in Keaukaha. I was in my room, it was quiet, and I had just finished the first 30 pages of the book of Mormon. Although I had already been accustomed to prayer, I remember feeling closer to Heavenly Father after praying that day.

After completing the book of Mormon and investigating the church rather thoroughly, I was baptized in the ocean by my Bishop, Alley Auna. It was a cold early misty morning. The service was held at James Kealoha or 4-miles Beach Park near my home. Sanford Okura confirmed me a member of the church just afterward. In that blessing, he said that I would do great things for the Lord. As the blessing progressed, I noticed that it had a familiar ring to it. You see, a couple of years earlier, my grandfather, Mal Helekunihi Duke, gave me a similar blessing: saying that I would go on a mission, and eventually be an influential leader. At that time, however, all that was going through my mind was, "Yeah right grandpa, I am not going to join your church." Years later, as I sat, wet, in a white jumper getting confirmed a member of the church, my grandfather's voice returned to me, and I realized that I had received this blessing before. But this time, I believed it.

After my baptism, my focus in life shifted from a religious-like devotion to competitive surfing to a deep desire to understand God and his will for me. This quest led me to a pursuit of knowledge: first through spiritual education in the form of personal study and seminary classes, to a desire to pursue higher education.

The rest of the week was a buzz of activity. I aced my biology test, and Jill Langston won the election by seven votes. I stayed up late for the election dance, and Saturday night I worked until midnight on my research paper. By Sunday morning it was all I could do to keep my eyes open in fast and testimony meeting. I was leaning my head on the bench in front of me when somebody started talking about Brother Davidson. People were always talking about my dad. The woman was explaining how Brother Davidson was an answer to her prayer when he had gone over and helped start their mower and cleaned …

Suddenly I straightened up. Sister Long was speaking. And crying. And she wasn’t even talking about Dad. Nobody had ever called me Brother Davidson. I was just Kyle, Frank Davidson’s kid. And as far as I knew, I had never been an answer to anyone’s prayer.

A few moments later Christy Hudson was at the pulpit, dabbing at her eyes and fighting back tears. “I felt so alone,” she explained, “like no one cared and there was no one to turn to. I was angry with the Lord, the bishop, and everyone else for leaving me stranded. Then Brother Kyle Davidson, my home teacher, showed up with his friend Joel. They were like two angels. Nothing has seemed quite so dark and dismal since Thursday evening. I couldn’t ask for a better home teacher.”

My hand went to my eyes and I felt the lump in my throat. Dad reached over and squeezed my shoulder, and I knew he understood what I was feeling.

Thirty minutes later as I was leaving the chapel, someone called my name. I turned to face Steve Wellman. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you, Kyle,” he said quietly. “Sounds like I have a lot to learn. Let’s go early this month. I’ll make the appointments. You just tell me when.”

I looked over at Dad, and for the first time in my life I understood why Dad got all choked up and hyper about home teaching. It was then that I discovered that my home teaching families were not the only ones who had received the home teaching bonus deal.

Many of these pioneers not only had walked away from comfortable homes and farms in Nauvoo and had buried babies in shallow graves on the plains, but they had also made other painful sacrifices because of the fire of faith and the commitment to their covenants that burned within their souls. One such was Catherine Spencer. When she joined the Church, her parents became embittered and angry, disowning her and refusing to allow her to ever return to their home or even to correspond with them. During the Saints’ final days in Nauvoo, Catherine became extremely ill. Fearing that she would not be able to survive the difficult journey west, her husband Orson Spencer wrote to her parents asking if they would not take her back into their home and nurse her back to health and care for her until Orson could establish a home in the west with the Church. No answer came to this heartfelt plea.

At last the time arrived for the Spencers to leave Nauvoo. A bed was made for Catherine in Orson’s wagon. As they traveled in the miserable conditions of March 1846, Catherine became sicker and increasingly weak. About five days out from Sugar Camp, they encountered a torrential freezing rainstorm that poured down through the canvas that covered their wagon. It was apparent that Catherine was failing fast. At this discouraging moment a messenger with the latest mail that had earlier arrived at Nauvoo found the couple. In his hand was a letter from Catherine’s parents. In the letter they expressed no interest in allowing her to come home or in caring for her unless, as they declared, she “renounce her degrading faith, and she can come back, but never until she does.” Without a murmur or complaint, the letter was folded up and put away, and Catherine asked Orson to get his Bible and read to her Ruth 1:16:

And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

As Orson finished reading this passage, a calm, peaceful smile spread over Catherine’s face as she closed her eyes and lapsed into the quiet sleep of death.

With the call to serve as a mission president 12 years ago and this subsequent call that took my wife and me to several international assignments, the long bike rides had to be put on hold for a period of time. I did, however, take my bicycle with me wherever my assignments were in hopes that I would be able to find time to ride occasionally. I wanted to be prepared so if the opportunity for a long ride ever came again I would be able to do it. That opportunity came once again this past fall when I was given permission to take a few days away from the office. At the invitation of that same son who years ago suggested we ride to Flaming Gorge, and now joined by another son and our only daughter, we flew with our bikes to Bozeman, Montana, where we then proceeded to ride to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. At my age, preparation continues to be very, very important in order to survive such a ride.

“I hated being in the hospital, and I felt like I was in prison,” says Diane. For one month of the five she was in the hospital, she was in traction and couldn’t move at all except when the nurses came in and turned her a few centimeters every two hours. Diane had no idea she’d be in the hospital for so long. “In fact, when I was first injured I thought for sure that in a month I’d be back on the tour. I thought, ‘If I have enough faith and believe in God and in myself, I’ll be okay.’ And I just knew it.”

Recovery wasn’t quite so easy though, and things seemed to get worse. “I was a horrible patient,” says Diane. “In the hospital I was really miserable because I was so restless. I was really impatient with people.” Finally Diane came to a turning point.

“One day I was in the depths of despair. I just felt like I couldn’t bear it anymore,” Diane says. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She knew the power to heal her was present, “but I only wanted that to happen if it was Heavenly Father’s will. I had this blessing and I felt the greatest sense of peace. It was like I knew that no matter what happened it would be okay. If I didn’t walk away from the hospital there would be a reason for it. I knew that I had always tried my best to live the gospel and do what I was supposed to do, so if anybody was worthy to have that blessing, I was. But from that point on I was a different person. I was totally comforted.”

Several years ago we had a young paperboy who didn’t always deliver the paper in the manner intended. Instead of getting the paper on the porch, he sometimes accidentally threw it into the bushes or even close to the street. Some on his paper route decided to start a petition of complaint. One day a delegation came to our home and asked my wife, Frances, to sign the petition. She declined, saying, “Why, he’s just a little boy, and the papers are so heavy for him. I would never be critical of him, for he tries his best.” The petition, however, was signed by many of the others on the paper route and sent to the boy’s supervisors.
Not many days afterward, I came home from work and found Frances in tears. When she was finally able to talk, she told me that she had just learned that the body of the little paperboy had been found in his garage, where he had taken his own life. Apparently the criticism heaped upon him had been too much for him to bear. How grateful we were that we had not joined in that criticism. What a vivid lesson this has always been regarding the importance of being nonjudgmental and treating everyone with kindness.

When the doctor released Tracy’s father from the hospital, it was to send him home to die. The cancer had been discovered too late and was too widespread for there to be much that could be done.
It wasn’t entirely for his father’s benefit that he wasn’t told he was dying; his mother needed some time to deal with the situation before she talked to her husband about it.
Tracy, then eighteen years old, numbly endured the last few weeks of high school, then it was summer. He worked on a highway department survey crew, which left him his weekends free to wait.
His three older brothers and their wives each took turns flying into town on weekends, spending a day or two with their father before returning to their jobs in faraway places.
One day his father called him into his room. It was dimly lit and smelled of pain; the bedside table was littered with glasses and bottles of pills.
“Have I ever lied to you?” his father asked.
“No.”
“Then don’t lie to me. Am I dying?”
Tracy suddenly found it difficult to speak. He tried to remember hopeful words about “being up in no time” that his brothers and their wives had used so easily. But it was no use.
“Am I dying of cancer?” his father again asked.
“Yes,” Tracy answered.
His father sighed and said quietly, “That’s what I thought.”
Over the next few weeks, his father made all the necessary preparations—calling in a lawyer to complete the will and other financial matters, and picking out a reasonably priced casket and a cemetery lot for his burial.
Then he lay back and patiently waited to die. But death, like sleep, does not always come when invited.
He even seemed to improve a little.
One warm summer day in July he looked out his bedroom window and said, “I want to go fishing.”
Of course, it was impossible. That was what his mother said; that is what the older brothers and their wives said; that is what the neighbors said.
The doctor said, “If he feels up to it and somebody can go along to do most of the work, why not let him go?”
Tracy was put in charge of taking his father for one last trip into the mountains. After a busy few days of planning and buying groceries and stocking up on pills and reading his mother’s never-ending list of how to care for his father, finally one Saturday morning, Tracy stepped inside the small camping trailer to make his last inspection before getting his father.
For all the years I was growing up, he thought as he looked at the worn path in the cracking linoleum floor of the camper, this has been dad’s church.
For as long as he could remember, his father had not been active in the Church. Long ago someone in the Church had offended him—about what and by whom no one could now remember. But it had been enough to keep him out of church, except to watch his sons perform, for twenty years.
For all the years that Tracy had been alive, his father treated Sunday as his day. “I work hard at the store six days a week. At least one day I ought to be able to do what I want to do.” And that meant fishing in the spring and summer, hunting in the fall, and doing some home carpentry in the winter.
Tracy drove the camper up the canyon, and his father sat in the front seat and silently watched the twisting mountain stream beside the road.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here,” his father said. “I know this country as well as anyone. Every road, every hill, each turn in the river—I know it all. See that place where the river goes under the railroad bridge? Right down there on that point is a good place to fish. If you use the right fishing equipment, I’ll guarantee you could catch two or three nice brown trout.”
“You make it sound easy, dad, but it never is when I try it.”
“Well, I’ve spent the last twenty years fishing this river. I should’ve learned something. You know, I should write down all the good places for you. Somebody ought to benefit from all I’ve learned about this river.”
They drove in silence for several kilometers as his dad studied the river and the condition of every fishing area.
Tracy wondered if his father knew that he didn’t care at all about fishing.
“We should’ve come out here more often, just father and son.”
“Mom never would’ve let me come on Sundays.”
“No, she was strongly opposed to your doing that.”
“But we could’ve come on Saturdays, dad.”
“Sure, we could’ve done that,” his father said wistfully, “if I’d ever had an assistant manager I could trust to leave the store with. You know Saturday was our busiest day.”
“I know; that’s what you always used to say.”
We’re strangers, Tracy thought as he drove. I really don’t know much about him. And what does he really know about me?
Soon they arrived at the lake. They discovered that the campsite, which for years had been his father’s favorite, was still vacant. It was the last one along the road to the lake and was located on a hill, giving a good view of the lake and mountains.
After lunch his father took his pills and lay down for a nap.
About mid-afternoon he woke up. “I feel terrific!” he announced happily. “This mountain air has done more for me than all the doctors in the world. Let’s go fishing!”
First Tracy carried down two folding chairs, next the fishing equipment, and after that a sunshade that his mother had made him promise he’d set up for his dad to use. After everything was ready, he escorted his father down the trail to the lake.
Not much happened for a couple of hours, but suddenly, his father shouted and his fishing rod bent over sharply. At the same time thirty meters out into the lake, a large trout jumped out of the water, shaking its head back and forth in an attempt to get rid of the hook.
“He must be about nine kilos!” his father yelled excitedly.
It was a long battle between man and fish. When the fish relaxed, the slow, steady reeling in of the fishing line brought it closer to shore. A couple of times it was within six meters of them before it surged its way back into deeper waters.
“Dad, I can see it now. It’s huge.”
Finally the fight was over.
“Get the net, Tracy. Careful now.”
Tracy stood near the water and waited for the fish to get close enough, then dipped the long-handled net into the water and pulled the exhausted fish into the air, causing it to frantically writhe.
“It’s beautiful,” his father said reverently.
Tracy picked up the large knife and prepared to strike the fish sharply on the head with the handle to put it out of its suffering. That was something his father had taught him.
“Don’t kill him!” his father cried out. “I don’t want to keep him.”
“No?”
“I want him to stay alive. He belongs in these waters. He fought too bravely to die. Can you remove the hook very easily?”
Tracy grabbed the fish by the gills and looked to see where the hook had lodged. It was deep in its throat.
“He swallowed the hook, dad. I can’t get the hook out without killing him.”
“Then cut the line and put him back in the water. Quickly now.”
He took his knife and cut the line a few centimeters from the fish’s mouth, then gently lowered it into the water. For a second or two, it just lay still; then sensing freedom, it quickly swam away from them into the deep.
Tracy looked back at his father, wondering why he let loose the largest fish they’d ever seen in the lake.
“He’s free now, isn’t he? Free to move through these waters. He can go places we’ll never see. I’m glad we didn’t keep it, aren’t you?”
Since anything else after that fish would be anticlimactic, they quit and packed everything back to the trailer.
“How’d you like to go to California with me for a few weeks this summer?” his dad asked, the excitement of catching the fish still bubbling over. “There’s a hospital there where they treat people with diseases like mine. We could drive down there. They claim they can cure people even worse off than me.”
His father was as positive as Tracy had seen him for years.
“We can fight back at disease, can’t we? We don’t have to just sit and accept defeat, do we? We’ll leave in a week or two, just you and me. And when I’m all cured, we’ll have mom fly down and meet us. We’ll take a little vacation and show her all of California, just the three of us. Maybe we’ll even go down to Mexico and Central America and take a boat through the Panama Canal. How does that sound?”
Even as Tracy cooked supper, his father talked about visiting Mexico. He cooked hamburgers and opened a can of beans. His father took the pills and then they had their meal.
Thick clouds had moved in during the late afternoon, and by evening they were in the middle of a violent thunderstorm. Looking out, Tracy watched the wind drive sheets of rain across the lake in sporadic patterns. Several times lightning crashed around them.
His father, suddenly looking much older, his forehead drenched with sweat, went to bed after taking his pills. Tracy stayed up reading a book.
At eleven o’clock his father woke up coughing and retching, and vomited the food he had eaten for supper.
Tracy got out of bed and turned on his flashlight. His father was sitting up, his body hunchbacked with pain.
Tracy got a pan of water and a towel and began to clean up the mess on the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his father repeated over and over again. “It must’ve been the effect of the pills.”
Tracy finished with the floor and then took a wash cloth and cleaned up his father as best as he could. They got him out of his sweat-soaked pajamas and into a pair of old pants and a shirt.
At first his father was afraid of taking any more pain pills that night. As the night progressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth, his head down, his teeth clenched, fighting against the pain.
Finally, at one o’clock, unable to stand the pain any longer, willing to risk vomiting again, his father asked for a slice of bread and his pills.
“Does the fish hurt tonight?” his father asked after taking his last pill.
“I don’t know, dad. It’s only a fish.”
“It’s out there swimming around with the hook digging in with each breath.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Do you think it’s grateful to me for sparing its life, or is it cursing me for allowing it to continue to suffer?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Every time it tries to eat, every time it swallows, the hook will be there, tearing at it. Maybe it’d be better off dead. Maybe we should’ve let it die.”
“Dad, please, you’ve got to sleep.”
“Maybe it’s already dead; maybe it’s floating belly up in the water.”
His father stood up and walked to the window to look out at the lake. The rain had turned to a steady drizzle.
“It’s so hard to know what we should’ve done—so hard to play God even for a fish.”
Tracy lay back in bed, hoping his father would soon go back to his bed and rest, but he remained standing there by the window looking out into the blackness of the night.
Tracy must have fallen asleep, but a few minutes later, he heard the door shut and his father walk out into the darkness.
He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and ran out.
A few minutes later, he found his father standing at the edge of the lake, flashlight in hand, shining the light across the surface of the water.
“Dad, what are you doing down here?”
“I want to know if the fish is dead.”
Suddenly Tracy was terrified. He knew he couldn’t forcibly move his dad up to the trailer. He was too big.
“Dad, please go back inside. It’s raining.”
“I know it’s raining,” his father said, shining his light back and forth across the water.
“You know mom would be mad if she knew you were out here in the rain. Please go back.”
Finally satisfied, his father turned around to face Tracy. “He’s not belly up. He must still be alive. We can go back now.”
Tracy put his arm around his father’s waist and helped him up the trail.
“Do you ever pray about me?” his father asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“What do you pray about?”
“That you’ll get better.”
“Don’t pray for that anymore. Pray that God’s will be done. We’ve got to trust him to know what’d be best. You and I can’t even decide that for a fish.”
Back in the trailer, his father slept the remainder of the night.
When Tracy woke up the next morning he discovered a gray, dull, rainy day. His father woke up at ten o’clock. Tracy fixed them both some hot cereal and his father a cup of instant coffee.
“This is Sunday, isn’t it?” his father asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s the first Sunday I ever recall you missing church. I shouldn’t have come up here with you. Especially with this weather. We’re not going to get much fishing today, are we? Of course, fishing is sometimes very good when it rains—if you want to.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about what I said yesterday—about going to California. It would use up all our savings if we went. One thing’s for sure, the insurance money would never pay for it. And if the treatment is no good, then where would your mother be without any money?”
Tracy ached inside as he realized that California was his father’s last hope for recovery, and that hope had slipped away.
“I guess I’ll never see the Panama Canal, will I?” his father said, looking up from his cup. “Well, we’ll just have to make the best of what we’ve got here while we can.”
Tracy, still drying the pan he’d cooked the cereal in, looked away as the tears fell.
“I’ve got some money set aside for your mission and part of your schooling, but if there’s anything else you need from me, let’s talk about it now, before we head back home.”
Tracy knew what he wanted but didn’t know if he dared to ask his father. He knew it wasn’t what his father expected him to say.
“Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”
His father sadly shook his head. “You know I can’t give you that. I’m not an elder. Why do you want that?”
“All my life I’ve been ordained and given priesthood blessings by other men, sometimes by men I don’t even know. But what I wanted was for you to do that, my own father.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”
“I used to think that I if tried hard to be the best kind of boy that you’d see what the Church was like and become active again. Dad, I never did any of the things that other guys in school were doing. Why didn’t that make you love the Church?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t even notice, did you? You took it all for granted. And now it’s too late. Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”
“I can’t do it. If you want a priesthood blessing, you’ll have to see the bishop or the home teachers.”
“They’re not my father. You are.”
“I can’t do it. I don’t hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.”
“Dad, you can give me a father’s blessing even if you don’t hold the priesthood. But if that makes you uncomfortable, just put your hands on my head and say a prayer,” Tracy pleaded.
“No, I can’t. Please don’t ask me. I don’t know how. God wouldn’t hear anything I say anyway.”
“I’d hear it. Doesn’t that matter to you? Please, this may be my only chance to receive a father’s blessing.”
His father sat on the kitchen chair and looked out the window for a long time.
“Please, dad.”
“What do I do?”
“Stay in the chair, and I’ll kneel down so you can put your hands on my head.”
Tracy kneeled down in front of his father.
“What do I say?”
“Just say a prayer.”
He felt the big hands of his father rest gently on his head.
“God,” he began slowly, “Tracy wanted me to do this. I don’t have the right priesthood, but he thought if I just said a prayer.” He paused for several seconds and then began again. “He’s been a good boy, always has been. Not that I can take any credit for that. I should’ve been a better example for him, but there was always enough food on the table, and I taught him about honesty and about work. When he’s given a job to do, he does it. There’s a lot of people, even Mormons, who can’t finish a job.”
Tracy knew there were tears streaming down his face, but he didn’t care about that.
“I wasn’t everything I should’ve been, I guess you know that, but I think he’s turned out okay—well, better than okay. I think he’s the most wonderful boy a father could have. God, you better take care of him. He’s going to need that, because I’m dying. You’d better help him, that’s all I can say.”
Suddenly all the heartache that had been locked inside Tracy was gone.
“Maybe he could remember,” his father continued with a strange calmness, “the good things I did as a father and not think of my failings. And maybe when he’s a father, he won’t be too busy to take his son out and play ball with him. I used to do that, you know. And maybe he won’t be too eager to look down on people in the Church who drink coffee or have a beer now and then. Instead, maybe he’ll try to help them, and not be like those who sniff their noses when somebody who smokes goes to church.”
His father paused and then began again. “I want him to go on a mission, but only if he works hard. And I’d like him to be married in the temple. I never was, but I think it’d be a nice way to start a marriage. You’d better bless him. He’s a good boy, and I love him.” There was a long pause. “I guess I’m through. Tracy, how do I end it?”
Tracy told him, and his father ended the prayer.
Tracy wiped the tears away on his sleeve and stood up.
“Was it okay?” his father asked.
Tracy silently nodded his head, unwilling to trust his voice to explain what it meant to him. Then he reached out and threw his arms around his father and hugged him.
“It wasn’t so bad. I just hope the blessing works,” his father said with a slight smile through the tears.
The rain continued through lunch.
After lunch, his father suggested that they go back home, because if they left then, they would be in time to go as a family to sacrament meeting.
They went to church for the next three Sundays, and then the pain became too much for his dad and he had to stay at home. They had the home teachers help Tracy with the sacrament each week for the family in their home until the end of August, when his father died.

I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was 20 years old. I was in my second year of community college and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I learned the fruits of the gospel by watching the example of others who didn’t even know I was paying attention. I learned the godly attributes of kindness, patience, perseverance, forgiveness, integrity, and so much more, by being in spaces with people who were striving to be like the Savior. After serving a full-time mission, I applied and was accepted to BYU–Hawaii. My twin sister, Leilani, and younger sister, Tiffany, also joined the Church and graduated from this university.

Brothers and Sisters, I want to pause here to share my incredible love with you. I've yet to meet all of you and yet I love you. When I was a student here at BYU–Hawaii, I was amazed by the talent and heart that was in every one of my friends, my classmates, and my professors. I didn't know what to expect when I had joined the Church, went on a mission and came home to Hawaii. I lived in Hawaii prior to joining the Church without knowing God and when I learned of him, it was life-changing to know that I'm a child of God, that I was loved no matter what. This changed the entire trajectory of my life.
Serving a mission gave me the opportunity to be loved by strangers, people I just met in England and Wales, and people along the way. I got to stand tall in these new beliefs. These new beliefs that had touched my heart and had made me a different person. When I came here to this incredible place, I was surrounded by so many good people, and they didn't even know how much they impacted my life for good. When I stand here today and I see you, I see a mirror of that time. Good people doing good things, striving to be their best. I want to thank you for giving your heart and soul to God, to this institution, and to the future that looks so bright.

After college, I worked full-time as a camp director and an adventure therapist. For one of my responsibilities, I oversaw a camp for adjudicated youth. During one session of camp, I received an urgent call from my brother, who conveyed that my oldest step-sister had been killed from a senseless act of violence, and my step-brother was fighting for his life. I hung up the phone. In the silence of my office, a few months out of college and 2000 miles from home, I felt overwhelmed and alone.

On that difficult day as a recreational therapist, I knew it would matter how I used my time after my day’s work. I needed renewal. Sitting in my tiny cabin to agonize over this tragedy would lend little comfort. I decided to go to the local pool. Donning my swim cap and goggles, I began the slow cadence of laps. The silence of the water created a timeless moment in which I could focus on one thing. I prayed. With no outside stimuli of flashing screens or pinging notifications, my skill matched the task at hand, allowing me to be immersed in my toil. [2] The benefit of clarity of thought, emotional regulation, and physical satisfaction outweighed the exhaustion I knew would come from the swim.