Gospel Story Finder

Shortly after our training in the Missionary Training Centre as a senior missionary couple, we reported to the mission office to meet with our mission leader, President Mutariswa, for assignments which included supporting the implementation of Gathering Place and Children and Youth Development (CYD) initiatives mission wide.
To carry out these assignments effectively, we needed to travel extensively to minister personally to the congregations and offer trainings for which it was our privilege.
On one of such scheduled visits to Makurdi District, CYD training was to take place Sunday afternoon. Immediately after the church service, it was so amazing to observe a little primary child named Stephanie, daughter of the branch president where training was to take place, start cleaning the chapel with all the tools she needed. She disposed refuse properly and returned all tools appropriately to designated room.
We were touched that a primary child of three years old could lead the way in keeping the chapel clean. After obtaining consent from her father, we reviewed our training slides to incorporate pictures of Stephanie’s worthy example as a demonstration of how a child could grow in wisdom and stature.
Further interaction with the family showed that parents in the Makurdi District use the CYD children’s guidebooks to train their children and Stephanie’s example becomes a sure proof of the efficacy of the Children Youth Development initiative.
We can’t describe in words the happiness we feel knowing that this initiative is a simple but powerful divinely appointed tool in hands of parents and leaders in helping the rising generation remain on the covenant path as they develop along the four (spiritual, physical, intellectual and social) aspects of life. How grateful we are to serve as a full-time missionary couple at this time when the prophet of God has asked we get enlisted in supporting the rising generation.
And Stephanie grows in wisdom and stature!

A few years ago our teenage son traveled a long way from home. Distance made communication so difficult that we could send him only a brief written message with this postscript: “Read Alma 37:35–37.” Here Alma says, “O, remember, my son, and learn wisdom in thy youth. … Cry unto God for all thy support; yea, … let the affections of thy heart be placed upon the Lord forever. … And he will direct thee for good.”
In his equally brief reply, our boy concluded: “Read D&C 2.” There we found Moroni’s words to Joseph Smith, promising that prior to the Lord’s coming, the priesthood will be revealed by the hand of Elijah, who “shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers.
“If it were not so, the whole earth would be utterly wasted at his coming” (D&C 2:2–3).
I was moved by his response. I wondered if he realized what deep nerves of meaning he was touching. He reflected his acceptance of the fifth commandment, to “honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee” (Ex. 20:12).
Moroni’s adaptation of Malachi’s prophecy (see Mal. 4:5–6) extends the spirit and promise of the fifth commandment far beyond simply showing respect for parents, as important as that is. Moroni promised that the spirit of Elijah—the priesthood power that seals families together—would plant in the hearts of the children a desire to realize the same promises the Lord gave to Abraham. For many Latter-day Saint children, those are the promises made to their own earthly parents in the temple. And the realization of these promised blessings will save not only them but the “whole earth” from being “wasted.”
How miraculous, literally, that a thirst, even a yearning, for these marvelous blessings can take root in the hearts of our children! I suspect that many parents in the Church pray every night, as we do, that this hunger will be planted in the hearts of their children.
To explain why I was so stirred by our son’s response, I must share a story about his older brother, born shortly after my father’s death. We gave this older son his grandfather’s name as a middle name. He felt awkward about that old-fashioned name in his early years and didn’t use it. But when he took up debate in high school and learned that his grandfather had been a champion debater in the 1920s, he began feeling a tie to his namesake. My father had kept a personal journal during much of his adult life, and one day I showed my son an entry describing his grandfather’s big debate. I left that journal with him, hoping he would read it.
He was a good boy, but he wasn’t easy to rear. We prayed for patience. We prayed that the seeds of faith would take root in his heart, but we knew we couldn’t force that process. I thought during those days about my own older brother, who died in an accident during his turbulent adolescence. How my parents had prayed and grieved for him! Then one night my son left me a simple note: “I never want to do anything that would hurt you and Mom the way your brother’s problems hurt your parents.” I wondered how he could have known of something so personal from a generation ago. Then I remembered the journal, but I chose not to ask more.
A few weeks later, our son worked his way through a particularly trying experience and came to us late at night to tell us what had happened: “Dad, I never knew Grandpa Hafen, but I felt he was there, helping me.” I held him close that night, and I told him more about his grandfather.
Not long afterward, he was deciding how he should respond to a mission call. We were in southern Utah for a family reunion. One afternoon, with no explanation, he drove alone to the isolated little canyon where his grandfather had loved to ride his horse—the place, in fact, where he had passed away. Our son had read of this canyon in the journal and had seen it from a distance but had never been in it. In a secluded spot there, he knelt and asked the Lord’s help in sorting through his questions about his faith, his mission, and his life. At his missionary farewell, he alluded to the sacredness of that day and described the deep assurance and sense of direction he had carried from his grandfather’s canyon. Now, some years later, with children of his own, he reflects in his life that same assurance and direction, and I know the joy my father must feel.
I have no doubt that God’s promises to my father were planted in the heart of our child, just as they were in my own heart. There really can be a bond and a sense of belonging that ties together generations on both sides of the veil. This bond gives us a sense of identity and purpose. Our ties with the eternal world suddenly become very real, sharpening our life’s focus and lifting our expectations.
As we honor father and mother by turning our hearts to them, the Lord promises that our “days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with [us], in the land which the Lord [our] God giveth” us (Deut. 5:16). How is this promise to be fulfilled? We may hope not only that our “days may be prolonged,” but also that our days and lives may be blessed with personal security, happiness, and meaning. We can expect not only that “it may go well” with us individually, but also that our society will enjoy peace and liberty. The key to social as well as individual survival depends on children turning their hearts to their fathers and learning from the wisdom they have accumulated.
Today, those basic human relationships we call kinship and marriage are disintegrating. Many children, parents, and spouses are turning their hearts not toward one another but toward their own self-focused needs. “They seek not the Lord … , but every man walketh in his own way, and after the image of his own god, whose image is in the likeness of the world” (D&C 1:16).
Perhaps we are witnessing the negative aspects of the promise associated with the fifth commandment, namely, that the earth could be “utterly wasted” at the Lord’s coming. For “the earth will be smitten with a curse unless there is a welding link … between the fathers and the children” (D&C 128:18). The curse, like the blessing, was part of Malachi’s prophecy. Other prophecies also foretold the curse of an earth wasted by the loss of family bonds: “In the last days … men shall be lovers of their own selves, … disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, Without natural affection” (2 Tim. 3:1–3). “And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold” (Matt. 24:12).
Statistics reflect some results of this problem—rising rates of adolescent crime, births to unwed parents, divorce, and family violence. But the attitudes that produce these statistics are in some ways more revealing than the statistics themselves. As one anonymous writer said, we are seeing today a “general … transformation of our society from one that strengthens the bonds between people to one that is, at best, indifferent to them; a sense of an inevitable fraying of the net of connections between people at many critical intersections, of which the marital knot is only one.” This disintegration has at least one common cause: “The overriding value placed on the idea of individual emancipation and fulfillment, in the light of which, more and more, the old bonds are seen not as enriching but as confining. We are coming to look upon life as a lone adventure.”1
In addition to individual isolation, this trend leads us to forget our “group memory”—the essential knowledge each succeeding generation must possess to ensure social continuity, even survival of the culture. The loss of human connections is keeping knowledge and understanding from being passed from one generation to the next. “Our society requires, as a minimum for its survival, that its members share a common set of beliefs, abide by a common set of rules, and … recognize their mutual dependence.”2 In this sense, the connection between honoring parents and living long in the land seems especially strong.
The fifth commandment’s focus on child-parent relations calls attention to a modern trend—a “children’s rights” movement. In some ways, this movement has helped raise society’s awareness about the seriousness of child abuse, and it has made government agencies and schools feel more accountable for what they do. But rather than planting the promises made to the fathers in the hearts of the children, this movement has too often sought to release children from any sense of dependence upon, or even connection to, parents and other adults.
This movement to give children their “rights” can actually leave them feeling abandoned. In fact, children’s highest “right” is to be loved, taught, and nurtured by parents and communities who honor and protect them. Only in this way do we teach them to honor their parents and to honor the interests of their communities. Only this reciprocal honoring—and belonging—will deliver the promise of the fifth commandment.
Ironically, adults face some confusing conflicts of interest when thinking about the “rights” of children. Child rearing makes great demands on the time, energy, and financial resources of parents and communities. Giving “rights” to our children is a beguiling invitation, for it offers an escape from those demands—a liberation from the responsibility of long-term nurturing. The notion that we should “respect our children’s freedom” enough to “leave them alone” can too easily justify the attitudes of adults whose personal convenience is also best served by leaving their children alone. Such parents might decide it is not worth the patience and frustration required to provide children with meaningful discipline.
Those who give in to that temptation miss a wonderful opportunity for personal growth. Unqualified commitments to our children, spouses, parents, and brothers and sisters allow us to learn and grow in ways not possible in less-demanding relationships.
I once saw how this kind of learning can take place. One of our children was in great difficulty in his fourth-grade class. He needed to complete a certain project by the next day, or he would face disaster. After dinner, my wife, Marie, told me that she had thought of a way she could help him. I ushered our other children out of the kitchen, and the handicraft project began.
I periodically heard outbursts from our fourth-grader, who kept insisting that he wouldn’t do another thing on the project. At one point, I offered to send him to his room and tell him to forget it, but Marie calmly urged me to let her proceed with the plan.
After about three hours, as I was tucking the other children into bed, our son and his mother entered the bedroom. Carrying his project as proudly as if it were a birthday cake, he invited the other children to see it.
He had made every part of it himself. He placed it on a counter and started for his bed. Then he looked back at his mother with a broad, boyish grin. He ran across the room, threw his arms around her waist, and hugged her close. The two of them exchanged glances that carried great meaning. He went to bed, and we left the room.
“What happened?” I asked my wife. “How did you do it?”
Marie replied that she had made up her mind that no matter what he said or did, she wouldn’t raise her voice or lose her patience. She had also decided that leaving him was not an alternative, even if the project took all night. Then she made this significant observation: “I didn’t know I had it in me to do it.”
She had discovered within herself a reservoir of patience and endurance she never would have found without the deep commitment that grew from a sense of real belonging. Belonging is for thick and thin, and this was one of the thin times! Exerting such immovable loyalty to another person teaches us how to love—indeed, how to be more like the Savior.

I have experienced many opportunities. One occurred 21 years ago, prior to the time when the German Democratic Republic—or East Germany, as it was more commonly known—was freed from Communist rule. I was visiting with the East German state secretary, Minister Gysi. At that time our temple at Freiberg, in East Germany, was under construction, along with two or three meetinghouses. Minister Gysi and I visited on a number of subjects, including our worldwide building program. He then asked, “Why is your church so wealthy that you can afford to build buildings in our country and throughout the world? How do you get your money?”
I answered that the Church is not wealthy but that we follow the ancient biblical principle of tithing, which principle is reemphasized in our modern scripture. I explained also that our Church has no paid ministry and indicated that these were two reasons why we were able to build the buildings then under way, including the beautiful temple at Freiberg.
Minister Gysi was most impressed with the information I presented, and I was very grateful I was able to answer his questions.

Mary (names have been changed) expected her marriage to be happy and successful. She left her old life behind to immerse herself in her life with her husband. But after time, he made life choices that destroyed their union. She felt panicky, unprepared, and completely lost as she struggled to create another life for herself and her four children. She knew she needed to let God prevail in her life and allow Him to heal her, but it wasn’t easy.
Mary’s ministering brother and sister, the Watsons, lovingly reached out to her to offer assistance and support. At first, Mary stubbornly insisted she didn’t need help. But the Watsons and other members of her ward continued to offer their love and friendship in simple, natural ways: sitting with Mary’s family at gatherings, helping with yard work, and finding simple but personal ways to let Mary know they were thinking about her and serious about helping. She particularly appreciated the many priesthood blessings Brother Watson provided for Mary and her children, bringing peace to their hearts.
Mary knew the Watsons had been assigned to her, but she never felt like the service and friendship were out of obligation. She felt their sincerity and love because they treated her like a beloved sister. They became her family.

Many years ago I walked at dawn through the narrow cobblestone streets of Cusco, Peru, high in the Andes Mountains. I saw a man from a local indigenous group walking down one of the streets. He was not a big man physically, but he carried an immense load of firewood in a huge burlap sack on his back. The sack seemed to be as big as he was. The load must have weighed as much as he did. He steadied it with a rope that looped under the bottom of the sack and circled up around his forehead. He gripped the rope tightly on both sides of his head. He kept a rag on his forehead underneath the rope to keep it from cutting into his skin. He leaned forward under his burden and walked with deliberate, difficult steps.
The man was carrying the firewood to the marketplace, where it would be sold. In an average day he might make just two or three round-trips across the town to deliver similarly awkward, heavy loads.
The memory of him bent forward, struggling down the street has become increasingly meaningful for me with the passage of years. How long could he continue to carry such burdens?
I remember that man in Peru, hunched over and struggling to carry that enormous sack of firewood on his back. For me, he is an image of us all as we struggle with the burdens of life. I know that as we keep the commandments of God and our covenants, He helps us with our burdens. He strengthens us. When we repent, He forgives us and blesses us with peace of conscience and joy. May we then submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Mike and Lynn are a young married couple with two young children. They especially wanted to share this day with their children and make it special for the whole family. Their entire family worked hard that day to be nicer to each other. They spent the day in the canyons learning about each other and our Father in heaven. As Mike said, “You cannot have a perfect day and not improve your family life. It was wonderful.”
Lynn shared another experience that had happened to her. “Early that morning I arose and decided to fix a good breakfast. I started making pancakes first. I was whipping up the pancakes with a wire whip a little too vigorously, I guess, because suddenly the batter splattered all over everything—the cupboards, the floor, me. Then I looked down at my son and his face had dozens of tiny pancake batter specks on it, and his eyes were big as saucers. When I looked at him, I began to laugh. Usually I would have become very irritated in that kind of a situation.
“And just after breakfast, I received a call from my mother asking if I could give my sister a ride to work that morning. I bundled up the kids, warmed up the car, and drove out to mother’s. By the time I got there my sister had found another ride to work. Again I was able to accept the situation instead of becoming angry or disgusted.
“As I was driving home from Mother’s I began to cry. My son asked what the matter was, and all I could say was, ‘We are going to have a perfect day.’

Finally, I testify that we do not walk alone.
Stan, a dear friend of mine, was taken seriously ill and rendered partially paralyzed. He had been robust in health, athletic in build, and active in many pursuits. Now he was unable to walk or to stand. His wheelchair was his home. The finest of physicians had cared for him, and the prayers of family and friends had been offered in a spirit of hope and trust. Yet Stan continued to lie in the confinement of his bed at the university hospital. He despaired.
Late one afternoon I was swimming at the Deseret Gym, gazing at the ceiling while backstroking width after width. Silently, but ever so clearly, there came to my mind the thought: “Here you swim almost effortlessly, while your friend Stan languishes in his hospital bed, unable to move.” I felt the prompting: “Get to the hospital and give him a blessing.”
I ceased my swimming, dressed, and hurried to Stan’s room at the hospital. His bed was empty. A nurse said he was in his wheelchair at the swimming pool, preparing for therapy. I hurried to the area, and there was Stan, all alone, at the edge of the deeper portion of the pool. We greeted one another and returned to his room, where a priesthood blessing was provided.
Slowly but surely, strength and movement returned to Stan’s legs. First he could stand on faltering feet. Then he learned once again to walk—step by step. Today one would not know that Stan had lain so close to death and with no hope of recovery.
Frequently Stan speaks in Church meetings and tells of the goodness of the Lord to him. To some he reveals the dark thoughts of depression which engulfed him that afternoon as he sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the pool, sentenced, it seemed, to a life of despair. He tells how he pondered the alternative. It would be so easy to propel the hated wheelchair into the silent water of the deep pool. Life would then be over. But at that precise moment he saw me, his friend. That day Stan learned literally that we do not walk alone. I, too, learned a lesson that day: Never, never, never postpone following a prompting.

However, collaborating across the organization is not the same thing as giving up programs in which we have invested our expertise and identity. But, here again, I have seen people with great hearts respond beautifully to changes.

For example, a chief source of funding and positions for the new School of Family Life has come from the former department of Clothing and Textiles, which was just formally terminated this year. I can tell you from personal experience with our colleagues in that department that they were, to a person, opposed to the decision we finally made to close the department. They were articulate defenders of the programs they had so lovingly and skillfully developed. However, once the decision was made, they have made great efforts to find new ways to contribute. One faculty member is currently helping the Theatre and Media Arts program, another is in the Chemistry Department, and the rest of the faculty, along with the staff and office support, have gone to the new School of Family Life. This infusion of people and resources into the family work will prove to be invaluable. As I mentioned earlier, the opportunity to align with student, Church, and societal needs brings light and excitement and the opportunity to be a standard to the world. This was not a choice between good work and bad work. This choice, like almost all of our choices, was between two or more good things.

Mother’s closet was magic! It was full of wonderful fabrics. There were cottons, challises, and ginghams for the best doll clothes in the neighborhood. Denims for the strongest jeans and book bags. Velvets and satins for the prettiest dresses, and dozens of other fabrics that I wouldn’t know the names of for many years to come. The fabric closet was magic because it was never empty.
My father died when I was 14 (leaving Mother with eight children, ranging from 15 years to 5 weeks old), and the fabric closet became our clothing store. We would go to the closet and pick out what we wanted, and then mother would either sew it for us or help us make it ourselves. Even my brothers learned to sew this way.
Mother would often give fabric away, much to my disappointment. Boxes at a time would be given to struggling families or others in need. At a time when we were often uncertain about where our next meal would come from, my mother would give away the only source of clothing we had. She tried to console me by saying that there was still plenty of fabric for our needs, and how could we expect the Lord to help us if we would not help others? In all the selfish wisdom of a 14-year-old, I would try unsuccessfully to convince Mother that fabric does not reproduce itself and even her faith was not enough to do that. She didn’t seem to worry about it and continued to give fabric away to those in need. All this time the closet was never empty. It was a magic closet!

Jed, who is 13, hasn’t started seminary yet, but the example of his older brothers and sister has inspired him to read the Book of Mormon each morning before school with his mother. They read one chapter a day, and they have already read through the book three times. Because of this experience, Jed is sure he’ll have no trouble getting up for seminary when the time comes. As the youngest of this clan he has probably benefited the most from the 3F formula because it was well established by the time he came along. “I think all of these big brothers are great—I get to wear all of their old clothes!” he laughs. You don’t have to ask Jed twice if he thinks the 3F formula works. He has learned its power through example, and it’s not a lesson he’s likely to forget.

Sister Cook was parked in the driveway, the motor running. Molly hurriedly finished tying her Sunday shoes and ran for the front door.
She stopped midrun. Her scriptures were not on the table next to the door. “Where are my scriptures?” she called to Mom sitting in the living room.
“I don’t know. Sorry, honey.”
“They were right here,” Molly insisted. “Somebody moved them.”
“I guess you’ll have to find them later.”
Molly yanked open the door and ran to the waiting car. “Justin probably grabbed my scriptures,” she muttered angrily.
Three-year-old Justin liked snooping in his sister’s belongings. Her homework and books and baseball equipment were always disappearing. Later she’d find them in the strangest places. Her soccer shin guards ended up in the refrigerator once. Justin had put them in the vegetable bin. Sometimes it was funny.
But it wasn’t funny today. It never was on Sundays. Even though her Valiant A teacher picked her up every week for church, Molly felt like she was alone. She was the only kid in the ward whose family didn’t go to church with her.
On Saturday nights she set her alarm clock for 7 A.M. When it went off, she got up and took a quiet bath and fixed her own breakfast. Everybody else was still asleep, although sometimes Justin came out to the kitchen in his pajamas and ate a bowl of cereal with her.
By the time she left, Mom and Dad were in the living room, reading the Sunday newspaper, its pages spread out all over the couch. Later they would play tennis. In her mind Molly could imagine them hitting the ball back and forth across the net, laughing and enjoying the cool fall weather. Justin would be running after the stray balls and giggling.
Her parents never stopped her from going to church, but they never went with her, either. Most of the time Molly tried not to mind. But sometimes it hurt.
Mom and Dad had gone to a meeting at church only once—to see her baptism. Molly had insisted that she wanted to be baptized. She had been awfully disappointed that Dad wasn’t the one to baptize her. And afterward her parents had left without staying to visit with the other people in the ward who had attended.
Sister Cook always told Molly to give her family time to feel more comfortable with the ward members. Someday her parents would regain their testimonies that the gospel was true and would come back to church.
One Sunday morning Sister Cook had given a lesson about the bishop and the ward family. The bishop was like a father to the ward, she had said. He was there to help the ward members, to help and counsel them just as a father does. The members of the church were like brothers and sisters, and they could be like one big happy family.
Thinking of that had helped for a while, but when she looked around the chapel at all the families sitting together, Molly again felt sad. It just wasn’t the same sitting next to Sister Cook’s family during sacrament meeting.
Today, at the end of Primary, the Primary president, Sister Miller, passed out the speaking parts for the Children’s Sacrament Meeting Presentation. She gave Molly a folded slip of paper and winked at her. The paper read: “Your topic is ‘Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.’ Tell two or three reasons why your family is special to you.”
Molly read the paper twice on the way home. She felt as if someone had knocked the breath out of her. Why did Sister Miller give me a talk about families? I can’t do this assignment. Doesn’t she know how I feel? My family isn’t active at all. They don’t even like church! It isn’t fair!
When Sister Cook pulled up to her house, Molly mumbled good-bye, slammed the car door, and ran up the sidewalk. The entry hall shook when she slammed the front door too.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Mom asked. Still wearing her tennis clothes, she was putting the rackets and balls in the hall closet.
“Nothing.” Molly started for her bedroom, then turned back to look at her mother. “I have a part in the Primary Sacrament Meeting Presentation. I’ll get to speak at the pulpit, just like the bishop.”
“That’s nice.”
“It’s in three weeks. Will you and Dad and Justin come see me give my talk?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “We’ll see.” She smiled and went into the kitchen to fix lunch.
That’s what Mom had said last year when Molly had had a part in the Book of Mormon program. But they hadn’t gone.
Molly almost crumpled up her piece of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. Then she remembered last year when she had told the story of Nephi building the ship. Nephi had believed that the Lord would help him, and he’d prayed for guidance to build a ship so that he and his family could cross the ocean. Well, that’s what she would do too. Just like Nephi, she would pray for help and the Lord would help her.
Suddenly Molly had a warm, peaceful feeling. She felt that the spirit of the Holy Ghost was with her, just as she had been promised.
As she spent the next three weeks preparing and practicing her talk, she started noticing the many things that her parents did for her and how much they loved her.
Mom fixed her favorite snacks, helped her with science projects, and always rushed to hug her when she came home from school. Dad played soccer and softball with her, and at bedtime he’d tell her the most wonderful stories. It was always a warm, special time for just the two of them. Even though Justin sometimes seemed like a pest, she was happy that he was her brother. They sang funny songs and giggled, read books, and played at the park together.
Finally the day of the program came. Sister Cook picked her up, and she sat in her assigned seat near the pulpit.
When the Primary children sang “I am a Child of God” and “I Lived in Heaven,” Molly felt close to her ward “family.” And she remembered how much Heavenly Father loved her. She had three wonderful families—a heavenly family, a ward family, and an earthly family!
When it was her turn to go to the microphone, Sister Cook gave her an encouraging smile. And when she started her talk, saying, “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family,” Molly was glad that Sister Miller had given her this talk. She didn’t feel hurt or angry anymore about going to church alone. Even though they didn’t come to church with her, she really did have a special earthly family.
Just then the back door to the chapel opened. Molly’s heart began to pound as Mom, Dad, and Justin quietly walked into the chapel and sat on the back row. They smiled at her, and she couldn’t help grinning back. She started her talk over again: “Because Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, they have given me a special earthly family.” And she knew that it was true.

When I think about obtaining confidence in the presence of God, I think of an experience that occurred in the summer of 2006. I was called to serve as a mission president. As I anticipated this demanding role, I began to make a list of questions I could not answer. This list represented my anxieties.

We flew to Provo to attend the MTC for mission presidents. The last speaker was Elder Eyring. He was assigned a topic; "Teaching by the Spirit."  He was instructed not to prepare a written talk. He began by telling of his extended and agonizing preparation. He then told us of experiences with the love of God. I felt power fill the room. By the end, many of the people were weeping. Afterwards, I remained in my chair. I knew that we had just spent time in the presence of God. It was then that I noticed something astounding.

I glanced at my list of questions. The words were still on the page but my problems no longer mattered. I felt no anxiety whatsoever. How could this be? Elder Eyring never talked about my specific issues.
How could they be gone?

In the presence of God, I was taught directly by the Holy Ghost. He ministered to my specific needs. I suddenly had confidence that I had previously lacked.

“One of our favorite family activities,” Sister Cannon recalled, “was to go for a ride in our car. We would drive through the countryside and enjoy its beauty together.
“My family really enjoyed holidays. We could hardly wait for a holiday because it meant that we would go somewhere special. We would travel to the canyons, to the lakes, or to a resort such as Como Springs. These places were usually quiet and not very busy.
“Christmas was extremely special too. We weren’t allowed to go into the living room to see what Santa Claus had brought until Dad had gone in and made a fire and got things ready. Then we’d all go in together. It was a Christmas Day tradition in our neighborhood to go from one house to another to visit each other after family gifts had been opened. We spent most of the day visiting.
“Music has been important to us as a family. My father’s father was Ebenezer Beesley, who composed the music for ‘High on the Mountain Top,’ ‘Let Us Oft Speak Kind Words,’ ‘Sing We Now at Parting,’ ‘Tis Sweet to Sing the Matchless Love’ and other hymns in the Church hymnal. Although Grandfather Beesley died before I was born, I have always been very proud of him.
My mother’s parents lived about two blocks down the hill from us, and we visited often. I felt close to them. They were both musicians and sang in the Tabernacle Choir. My grandmother was a soloist. My mother was also a fine singer; she sang for performances in the Salt Lake Theater.
“I took piano lessons for many years. It has always been a blessing in my life to be able to play the hymns and Primary songs.”
Sister Cannon, who has served as a counselor in the General Primary Presidency for the past four years, previously served on the general board for many years. She remembers very well attending Primary as a child. “Of course, Primary was on a weekday then,” she said, “and I remember being a Zion’s Girl, a Lark, a Bluebird, and a Seagull. I had loving teachers, and I enjoyed going to Primary.
“I remember a teacher telling us about the Book of Mormon. She wanted us to understand it thoroughly, so she had us act out the time when Nephi and his brothers went back to Jerusalem for the brass plates. We learned a lot by reenacting such events. Of course, music always stands out—I will remember those Primary songs forever.
“My father was the greatest influence on me. He was such an example of one who quietly serves! He would sit back and listen to everybody’s opinion and then make a wise judgment. One day I decided I didn’t want go to sacrament meeting. My father wasn’t alarmed. He only said, ‘Just remember that when you don’t go once, it’s easier not to go the next time. That’s how we can fall into bad habits. I would suggest that you go every time, and then you won’t have to keep remaking that choice.’ That’s all it took. I didn’t argue with him, and I didn’t feel unhappy about going to church that day—or any other day. And l’ve always remembered that advice when I’ve been tempted.
“My message to children is to see the great blessings that come from service in the Church. If you try to obey your parents, it will be easier to answer the calls that come from Church leaders when you are older. By doing so, you will receive opportunities for growth that you can’t get any other way. I know how many times I have felt that the things I’ve been asked to do were way beyond my ability, and yet, when I tried to do them, l’ve succeeded. The Lord teaches us and helps us to grow. As we serve, we are blessed.”

On June 6, 1944, Hyrum Shumway, a young second lieutenant in the United States Army, went ashore at Omaha Beach as part of the D-day invasion. He made it safely through the landing, but on July 27, as part of the Allied advance, he was severely injured by an exploding anti-tank mine. In an instant, his life and future medical career had been dramatically impacted. Following multiple surgeries, which helped him recover from most of his serious injuries, Brother Shumway never did regain his sight. How would he respond?
Following three years in a rehabilitation hospital, he returned home to Lovell, Wyoming. He knew that his dream of becoming a medical doctor was no longer possible, but he was determined to move ahead, get married, and support a family.
He eventually found work in Baltimore, Maryland, as a rehab counselor and employment specialist for the blind. In his own rehabilitation process, he had learned that the blind are capable of much more than he had realized, and during his eight years in this position, he placed more blind people into employment than any other counselor in the nation.
Now confident in his ability to provide for a family, Hyrum proposed to his sweetheart by telling her, “If you will read the mail, sort the socks, and drive the car, I can do the rest.” They were soon sealed in the Salt Lake Temple and ultimately blessed with eight children.
In 1954 the Shumways returned to Wyoming, where Brother Shumway worked for 32 years as the State Director of Education for the Deaf and Blind. During that time, he served for seven years as bishop of the Cheyenne First Ward and, later, 17 years as stake patriarch. Following his retirement, Brother and Sister Shumway also served as a senior couple in the London England South Mission.
Hyrum Shumway passed away in March 2011, leaving behind a legacy of faith and trust in the Lord, even under trying conditions, to his large posterity of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.1

Later, when through the missionary effort I joined the Church, I gained as a new member that peaceful feeling of being safely placed in the environment of true gospel living and that Babylon had floated away from me. As it was expressed by an early European balloonist: “I felt as though I had left behind me, all the cares and passions that molest mankind.”
I testify—as one who twenty-three years ago was baptized into the kingdom of God in Toronto, Canada—that my flight since my baptism has been a magnificent one, with breathtaking scenes and spiritual panoramas and with the never-failing knowledge that my day-to-day flight plan is made available to me by an understanding, loving, forgiving Heavenly Father.

In 1957, Sister Naomi Randall was to make arrangements for a new song to be written for Primary general conference. She called Mildred Pettit, a former Primary General Board member who had written songs and operettas for children, and asked Sister Pettit to help with the music. Sister Randall said she would write the words for the song, then send them to Sister Pettit.
Before retiring that night, Sister Randall prayed for help in finding the right words for the song. Some hours later she awakened, got out of bed, and wrote the words for three verses. Then she thanked Heavenly Father for helping her. Later she mailed the lyrics to Sister Pettit in California.
Sister Pettit also wanted to have the music the way the Lord wanted it. She felt that she knew how the melody was supposed to go, but she worked on the closing phrase over and over and had her children sing it many times until she was finally satisfied that it was right. The two women worked on the chorus together, and within a week the song was completed.
Later Elder Spencer W. Kimball suggested that “Teach me all that I must know” be changed to “I must do.” He explained that “to know isn’t enough. … We have to do something.”

In a previous general conference, Elder Benjamín De Hoyos spoke of such an event. He said:
“Some years ago while serving in the office of public affairs of the Church in Mexico, [a companion and I] were invited to participate in a radio talk show. … [One of the program directors] asked [us], ‘Why does the Church have such a long name? …’
“My companion and I smiled at such a magnificent question and then proceeded to explain that the name of the Church was not chosen by man. It was given by the Savior. … The program director immediately and respectfully responded, ‘We will thus repeat it with great pleasure.’”

As time went on, being surrounded by the normalcy of others drinking alcohol made it difficult for me to keep my standards. Going to pubs with clients and coworkers was a regular circumstance I would find myself in. I grew tired of having to explain myself when I turned down a drink, and sometimes I just wanted to fit in.
But beyond wanting to fit in, I wanted to be an example of a disciple of Jesus Christ, so I learned a few ways to help me resist temptation:
I prayed for strength each morning to make good decisions.
I often listened to conference talks or hymns on my way to work.
I kept my favorite scripture taped to my bathroom mirror to read each day: “Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength I can do all things” (Alma 26:12).
I enlisted the help of my closest coworkers, asking them to support me when others would offer me “just one drink.” They could tell when I was feeling uncomfortable and would kindly jump in and order me a “sparkling water on the rocks” to help me avoid feeling awkward during these gatherings.
I worked with many other religious individuals who had similar morals. There were a few practicing Muslims whom I bonded with, and we often sat together during work functions so we could have strength in numbers. Surrounding myself with like-minded people who respected my standards helped me immensely (see Ecclesiastes 4:9–10).
I strove to focus on my baptismal covenant to “always remember Him” (see Doctrine and Covenants 20:77, 79), which helped me feel the Spirit more abundantly. I had promised to follow God and be a disciple of Christ, and seeking to always remember the Savior helped me keep an eternal and infinite perspective in the most finite moments of temptation.
But what has helped me most in resisting temptation is knowing that the Lord has a higher purpose for keeping all of His commandments, including the Word of Wisdom. And I know that remaining true to the commandments has always blessed my life in so many ways. (See Doctrine and Covenants 82:10.)
I’ve realized that the Word of Wisdom is more than just going without alcohol and other strong substances. Heavenly Father gave us this commandment to help us maintain good health and practice self-mastery, to protect us from potentially crippling addictions and other consequences, and to allow us to find greater wisdom and knowledge (see Doctrine and Covenants 89).
I’ve seen that when we demonstrate obedience to the simple things the Lord asks of us, our capacity and desire to keep all of His commandments grows, and we can learn to overcome even greater temptations and challenges (see 2 Nephi 28:30).
I know that Heavenly Father loves me and that through His strength and the Savior’s, I can overcome peer pressure and temptation. I always remember Alma 7:11–12, which explains how the Savior understands all we face—pains, afflictions, and even temptations. He knows how “to succor his people according to their infirmities.”
As I have relied on Jesus Christ to help me in my weaknesses, I have felt His strength enter my life, and I more fully see that He truly does understand us. And when we are faced with temptation, He is ready to help us see the bigger picture and choose well. All we need to do is turn to Him.

“Matthew,” sighed Mom, “you promised to clean your room right after school. Now it’s time for your den meeting, and you haven’t done a thing.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot,” said Matthew contritely. “I promise I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“I hope so,” she replied.
The den meeting was especially good. They made plastic skeletons with bones that actually moved.
“Please pass in your dues now,” said the den mother.
“Oh, no!” declared Matthew. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll bring mine next time.”
“Please do, Matthew,” she said.
Matthew awoke the next morning to the sound of the garbage truck rumbling past his house.
“Matthew,” called Mom, “did you put the garbage out last night?”
“Oh, no!” he groaned. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll do it next week, I promise.”
“But the cans are full now,” said Mom.
The next afternoon, Matthew’s teacher said, “Pass in your math homework, please. This assignment is worth one hundred points.”
“Oh, no!” wailed Matthew, hitting his forehead with his hand. “I forgot.”
“There will be no makeups,” said the teacher firmly.
On Sunday Matthew was startled to hear the Primary president say, “Matthew Lewis will give us a talk now.”
“Oh, no,” he whispered as he walked to the microphone. His face got very red. “I—I,” he stammered, “I’m sorry. I don’t have a talk ready. I forgot.”
He sat down, hunching over so that no one could see his face.
“You can give a talk next month, Matthew,” the Primary president said kindly.
“Hey, Matthew,” said Tom, poking him in the ribs as they entered their classroom, “that was a great talk. Why don’t you give the same one next month?” The boys around Matthew broke out in laughter. During the class, Matthew struggled to hold his tears back. He was the first one out the door after the closing prayer.
At home Matthew quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then went into the backyard. Crawling under the low-hanging branches of a huge bush, he settled himself against the heavy, main stem and let the tears come freely.
What can I do? he wondered, miserable. I forget everything! Other people remember. What’s the matter with me? He tore at a leaf. Maybe I should pray, he thought. It seemed like such a good idea that Matthew immediately bowed his head. “Heavenly Father,” he said earnestly, “I forget everything. I want to stop. Please help me to remember.”
Matthew felt so good after his prayer that he couldn’t sit still another second. Bursting out from under the bush, he somersaulted all the way to the house. “I’m never going to forget another thing!” he bragged at dinner.
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Mom.
On Monday morning, Matthew’s teacher asked for his book order. “Today is the last day,” she said.
Matthew was astonished as the truth sunk in. “I—I forgot,” he stammered. How did I forget? he wondered. I was sure it wouldn’t happen again!
On Tuesday morning Matthew awoke from a deep sleep and sat bolt upright. The garbage truck was rumbling around the corner. He felt cold all over. “I forgot again!” He whispered. “What’s wrong with me?” He felt very ashamed when he saw the empty cans sitting by the curb. Dad must have put them out before he left for work.
On Wednesday his den mother phoned. “We missed you at this week’s meeting, Matthew. Were you sick?”
“Sick?” said Matthew. “No.” But he was beginning to feel sick. “I guess I forgot.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. We passed off our physical fitness requirements. Maybe you can do yours with your dad.”
“OK,” said Matthew.
But Matthew knew that getting his physical fitness badge was only part of his problem. “Dad,” he asked after dinner, “can you help me?”
“I’ll try, Matthew. Let’s talk about it while we do the dishes,” answered Dad. “What’s the matter?”
“I forget everything. I don’t mean to, but it just keeps happening,” explained Matthew, dumping dirty silverware into the sudsy water.
“What have you done to stop forgetting?” asked Dad.
“I prayed,” said Matthew. “I asked Heavenly Father to help me remember.”
“Did He?” asked Dad.
“No,” said Matthew, “and I don’t understand. You always say He answers prayers.”
“He does, Matthew, but in His way. Once Oliver Cowdery had trouble trying to translate. Why don’t you read section nine of the Doctrine and Covenants and find out why he had trouble and decide if something similar is happening to you. Then come back and we’ll work out a plan to help you, OK?”
After the dishes were finished, Matthew went to his room and read about Oliver Cowdery. Matthew looked thoughtful as he finished reading.
On Sunday morning three weeks later Matthew stood behind the microphone in Primary. His hair was neatly combed, his shoes freshly polished, and his face scrubbed and shining. “When Sister Jordan asked me to give a talk last month, I promised that I would,” he began. “You probably remember what happened.”
Several boys on the back row snickered.
“I was pretty embarrassed about forgetting it. I was forgetting a lot of other things too. I wanted to stop, so I prayed and asked Heavenly Father to help me remember.
“What happened really surprised me. We’ve all been taught that Heavenly Father answers prayers. I was sure that He would answer mine, but I just kept right on forgetting everything.
“Then I read in the Doctrine and Covenants about Oliver Cowdery. He wanted to translate some records, but he couldn’t seem to do it. In section nine, verses seven and eight, the Lord told him why: ‘Behold, you have not understood; you have supposed that I would give it unto you, when you took no thought save it was to ask me.
“‘But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind.’ [D&C 9:7–8]
“I knew I had acted just like Oliver Cowdery. I expected the Lord to do all my work for me. Well, Dad helped me ‘study out’ my problem. I got a calendar, and Heavenly Father helped me remember to write my promises on it. I still have to read it and do all the things I promised to do, but I don’t forget very much anymore, and I feel a lot better about myself now.”
Matthew felt happy when he finished his talk. And there were Mom and Dad in the back of the room, smiling proudly.

A modern apostle spoke before thousands of university students at Christmastime, sharing his spiritual deepening through retracing the Lord’s steps in Israel. He gave his audience vivid glimpses of the scenes of Christ’s birth, ministry, death, and resurrection. Yet four years later the apostle stood in the same pulpit and traced in a more meaningful way “the paths and the lanes we had traveled in that Holy Land where the Master had traveled.”1 He now felt “how short-sighted then was my view of the path where Jesus walked.”2 Seven years later Harold B. Lee became president of the Church, and his growing experience suggests a deeper meaning for walking in the steps of Jesus.
The paths of Palestine quickly tell visitors that Jesus did not come to a gentle environment. With the same arid climate as Utah, Israel is generally fractured by hills and jutting layers of rock. Sentimental illustrators drew the Savior on grassy slopes with brooks and shade. Irrigation or spring rains may change the land, but its reality is otherwise. Eliza R. Snow rode horseback into Jerusalem in 1873 and wrote of the “uneven” country;3 in the same group, George A. Smith mentioned leaving Jerusalem for Galilee in the midst of “a rocky, barren and almost desolate country.”4
A few years before, waspish Mark Twain sought to deglamorize the Galilean hillsides as “these unpeopled deserts, these rusty mounds of barrenness, that never, never, never do shake the glare from their harsh outlines.”5
He looked across the Sea of Galilee on a blistering day to imagine the New Testament swine running into the sea; in Twain’s unauthorized version they “doubtless thought it was better to swallow a devil or two and get drowned into the bargain than have to live longer in such a place.”6
Still earlier than Mark Twain (and with more reverence) Orson Hyde came to the land of Israel to dedicate it for the prophesied gathering of its people. Elder Hyde circled Jerusalem with spiritual thoughts in mind but could not escape the physical cost of walking there, commenting with mild humor: “After returning to the city, I found my feet and legs completely coated with dust; for the whole face of the country was like an ash bed in consequence of the great length of the dry season. I then thought how very convenient it must have been for the ancient disciples to fulfill one injunction of the Savior, ‘shake off the dust of your feet.’”7
In Israel one does not simply walk in the paths of Jesus, for that ignores the vertical dimension—often the path must be climbed. Jesus was born in the “hill country of Judea.” (Luke 1:65, 39.) He was likewise reared in Nazareth, which today slants steeply on hilly ridges. Luke noted the danger of the Lord being cast over “the brow of the hill” where the city was built. (Luke 4:29.) From his childhood Jesus attended Jerusalem feasts, descending on uneven roads, via the Sea of Galilee, where the Jordan route began. On occasion he might wind through the Samarian valleys. In both cases there was the final rocky ascent to the Holy City. In the Gospels travelers from Galilee (see John 2:13) or Jews from abroad (see John 12:20) correctly “go up” (anabaino) to Jerusalem, set high on Israel’s central spine. Jesus’ final journey was from Jericho (below sea level) to Jerusalem (elevation 2,500). He led the way through wastelands, “ascending up to Jerusalem.” (Luke 19:28.) Trudging up the backside of the Mount of Olives, Jesus next surveyed the city across the deep, eastern ravine. Then he mounted his donkey for “the descent of the Mount of Olives” (Luke 19:37), answering his detractors that if his followers would cease their praise, “the stones would immediately cry out” (Luke 19:40). This was but the latest journey of climbing and descending, normally through dust and rocks. Such physical travel becomes a powerful symbol of the great spiritual challenges that Jesus faced.
The Savior himself made this comparison in the Sermon on the Mount (see Matt. 7:13–14), stressing that men walk the “way” of salvation or destruction.
This word means literally “road” (hodos) and is used variously for path, street, or highway in the New Testament. The broad and well-traveled road is worn down and easy to walk on. But the path of salvation attracts comparatively few. It is “narrow,” a Greek term meaning “compressed” or “restricted.” Many translators make this the “hard road,” the “difficult road,” or the “rough road.” These are correct meanings, although they oversimplify the Lord’s figurative language. Jesus’ “way” is like a lightly traveled country trail. Because it is not well-worn, it remains rocky and uneven; because it is narrow, briars and thistles crowd close to whoever walks on it. The traveler of that path must be determined, for he advances through obstacles.
Jesus’ audience had climbed such footways to the mount of his sermon. A little experience with that countryside—or a glance at photographs of it—gives the picture plainly. In simple association, the Lord said that his path was the steep path; the way of sacrifice and effort. He lived such a life in the physical poetry of his land. He climbed the parched hills of temptation; he climbed to many mountains of prayer; he climbed the “high mountain apart” for his magnificent transfiguration. Since his saving mission was filled with steady exertion, no one follows him by giving less. Jesus’ challenge on the mount is well captured in a common saying: “You can always tell when you’re on the right road—it’s uphill all the way.”
President Lee knew all of this as a seasoned apostle touring the Holy Land. But he did not then envision greater trials to come, particularly the death of his beloved wife, whom he both cherished and relied upon. He had come home from his first experiences in Israel “never to feel the same again about the mission of our Lord and Savior and to have impressed upon me as I have never had it impressed before what it means to be a special witness.”8 Yet there was a trying Gethsemane of grief following the loss of his companion. What might have been despair became a deepened spiritual perception, which he could share before a second Brigham Young University audience. His earlier pictures of Jesus’ paths were “shortsighted” only because the real way to follow the Lord is to experience the trials that he surmounted. Thus a stronger Elder Lee could share a special companionship with Jesus:
“I have come to learn that only through heartbreak and a lonely walk through the valley of the shadow of death do we really begin to glimpse the path that Jesus walked. Only then can we come to claim kinship with Him who gave his life that men might be.”9
Jesus spoke of the “narrow way,” but also said that he himself was “the way.” (John 14:6.) He grew through years of obedience to his parents, of patience with brothers and sisters. For years he worked with his hands, his mind and spirit, in preparation for his mission. He knew joys but many sorrows, for scripture records his tears. His prayers express gratitude for success, but especially seek courage in great trials. His greatest success was not a materially rewarding life, but unswerving faith in the Father in every aspect of life. In a higher light, the land of the Lord becomes a parable more than a pilgrimage as modern disciples seek his way in every land of the earth.