Gospel Story Finder

Or make a tunnel, dark and deep,
Where no one sees the sky,
But stay well over to the side
To let the train go by.

“I used to teach my children the gospel,” says Milena, a widow and mother of five who was baptized in May 1992. “Now, my children teach me.” Milena has held family home evening every week since her baptism, and today she serves as District Young Women president in Praia. Early in 1995 she helped organize shipments of food and clothing when a volcano exploded on the island of Fogo and displaced more than 1,000 people.

I want to thank you for the story in the November 2002 issue of the New Era entitled, “I’m Worth It.” For the last few months I have been struggling a lot with my self-esteem and with my scripture reading. As I read “I’m Worth It,” I was overwhelmed with the Spirit, and I started to cry. I started to feel hope again and knew that I was someone special. I also knew that Heavenly Father could help me through anything if I but seek Him through prayer.Name withheldMesa, Arizona

“You need glasses! You wouldn’t know a foul if it knocked you over!” Melvin sputtered at the referee.
“That’s it! You’re out,” the referee yelled back.
Melvin stomped off the court. He dropped onto the bench and glared at the floor.
The coach sat down beside him. “Do you know what this means?”
Melvin nodded without looking up. “I set a new record.”
“More than that,” the coach said. “It worked again.”
Melvin knew what was coming. He’d heard it before—how the other team knew that if they could get him angry enough, he’d lose his temper and get thrown out of the game. But he couldn’t help himself. He got so mad that if he didn’t do something, he’d explode.
“You’re the best player I have,” the coach said. “You just have to keep your cool!”
The final buzzer sounded. The coach yelled something about next Friday’s championship game as Melvin stalked off the court. “Fourteen times!” he muttered, pounding his fist into his hand. He had just broken the school basketball record for technical fouls on one player. It wasn’t an achievement he was proud of.
Who needs refs anyway! Melvin thought, suddenly glad he had invited his buddies over for a friendly game of baseball.
They were already gathering in his backyard by the time he arrived. Soon they were laughing and playing ball together in the small park down the street.
In the first inning, an opposing batter hit a towering shot to deep left field. As he rounded third base and headed for home, Melvin screamed, “Throw me the ball!”
There was a satisfying thump as ball connected with glove, and Melvin tagged the runner. “You’re out!” he proclaimed triumphantly.
“Safe!” the runner yelled back.
“Uh-uh, I tagged you.”
Everyone started yelling at once.
“He slid under your mitt!”
“He’s safe—I was standing right there!”
“He touched the base before you touched him!”
Finally Melvin jumped atop a bench and yelled, “I got him out! You guys are as blind as bats. If you can’t play baseball right, then maybe …” His voice trailed off. The boys were picking up their gloves and leaving.
Melvin dragged home and slumped onto the stump of a tree cut down several years before. He picked at the dirt that filled the holes in the dry wood.
Suddenly his older brother, Mike, sat down beside him. “Short game, huh?”
“Yeah,” Melvin said quietly. “Every time I open my mouth, something bad happens.”
“How about just every time you open your mouth in anger?”
Melvin shrugged.
“I bet you don’t know how all those holes got in that stump,” his brother challenged.
Melvin shook his head.
“I put them there.” Getting up, Mike went to the garage and returned with a bucket of rusty nails and a hammer. “Who do you think set the previous record for technical fouls at your school?”
Melvin’s eyes widened. “You?”
His brother chuckled. “It would’ve been a lot higher if Dad hadn’t shown me how he learned to control his temper.” He pulled a nail out of the bucket. “These have been pounded in and pulled out of this old stump at least a hundred times each.”
“Will it keep me from getting angry?” Melvin asked.
“No. I wish it were that easy. You’ll probably still feel angry—at least for a while. But what you do with that anger … Well, after a little practice, you can begin to control that.”
Melvin took the hammer. With an easy swing, he drove the nail deep into the old stump. Then he pounded another, and another.
By dinnertime Melvin had pounded more than fifty nails, and the anger had melted away.
Over the next week, Melvin visited the stump almost every day. Sometimes he went before he lost his temper and started yelling or throwing things. Other times he went afterward and worked out the rest of the anger.
The day of the championship game arrived. The school gym was filled with students. Melvin checked his shoelaces one final time. The buzzer sounded, starting the game.
Feet pounded up and down the court. Back and forth the ball changed hands. Melvin snatched the ball from an opponent and raced toward the basket.
Wham!
Melvin tumbled to the floor. He rolled over in time to see the grinning face of the boy who had just knocked him down.
Melvin jumped to his feet, his heart racing. Jaw clenched and blood vessels bulging, he stalked over to his opponent. Part of him wanted to shove the boy back and yell at the referee, “Are you blind? Aren’t you going to call a foul?” Part of him wished he was home at the backyard stump so that he could pound out his anger before he lost his temper.
Suddenly Melvin had an idea. He balled up the fist of his right hand and opened flat his left hand. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Over and over he pounded as if his fist were the hammer and his palm the stump, until he felt himself gain control. Then he turned and walked away from his bewildered opponent.
Early in the second half, Melvin faked his man out of position and drove to the basket. At the last second, the other team’s tall center stepped into his path. Wham! They both went spinning to the floor as the ref’s whistle blew. “Charging!” the ref shouted, pointing at Melvin.
Melvin jumped to his feet. Charging? he was screaming inside his head. He didn’t have position, you idiot! But outwardly he merely pounded his palm as hard as he could. The ref looked him over, fingered his whistle, then turned and gave the ball to the center to throw inbounds.
The game continued. Late in the second half, with the score tied, Melvin sprinted downcourt, leading a fast break. He caught a full-court pass on the run, dribbled once, and gathered himself for an easy lay-up.
Whack! Melvin was pushed hard from behind and went sprawling into a row of spectators behind the basket, barely missing the basket support. A whistle sounded. Without even looking to see who had pushed him, Melvin began pounding his fist. But this time it sounded louder. Melvin opened his eyes to see the other students smacking their fists in rhythm with each other. With each supporting thwack of the students’ hands, Melvin became more determined to finish the game without losing control.
When the final buzzer sounded, Melvin jumped about and high-fived the rest of the team—and not only because they were the champions. He had won a much more important victory: He had kept his cool. He had finished a whole game without a technical foul! It was a new record—one that he was not ashamed of. He looked into the crowd and found Mike giving him the thumbs-up sign.

Nancy was excited just thinking about a horse. My very own horse for Christmas! She could almost feel its velvety-soft flanks and see its thick mane and tail streaming in the wind. And the rhythmic pounding of hoofbeats along the dusty trails near her home were just as real in her ears. “Oh, this is going to be the most wonderful Christmas in the whole world!” she murmured.
Quietly, Nancy opened the door to her father’s study and tiptoed over to his desk. She clutched the huge pickle jar, stuffed full of dollar bills and jingling with quarters, nickels, and dimes. It was a whole year’s allowance and money from babysitting and doing special chores—half the cost of a horse, as Mom and Dad had agreed. Now when they contributed their half, she could buy her horse.
“Dad?” she queried. She knew he heard her come in. But he just sat with his elbows on the desk and his forehead resting on his hands. Nancy put the pickle jar down in front of him. “Dad?” she called again.
Her father turned the jar slowly with his hand and looked up. Nancy was alarmed to see his eyes glistening with tears.
She wrapped her arms comfortingly around his neck. “What’s wrong, Dad? What’s happened?” she asked anxiously.
“Nancy,” Dad began, but his voice choked. “Sweetheart,” he started once more, “I know we made a promise to you about your horse, but …”
But what? she worried. They wouldn’t break their promise. I’ve worked so hard.
“Darling,” Dad continued, “we never dreamed they’d close the plant where I work. I have found another job, but it’s on the coast, and we have to move. I’m so sorry, Nancy.”
“That’s all right, Dad.” Nancy planted a big kiss on her father’s cheek. “I can wait for my horse until we move. There’s still time before Christmas.”
“Nancy, there isn’t room in the city for a horse.”
Nancy was beginning to feel desperate. She just had to have a horse. It was about the most important thing in her life. She had saved so long for one. “We could board it at a stable,” she persisted.
“No, dear, that’s not possible. There probably aren’t any stables near where we’ll be living. Even if there were, it would be too expensive. As it is, moving is going to cost so much I’m afraid we won’t be having much Christmas this year. I’m sorry.”
Hot tears squeezed from Nancy’s eyes. She grabbed the pickle jar and ran from the room.
Her sister Emmie was waiting outside the door, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “When do you get your horse?” she asked.
“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Nancy as she dashed past Emmie.
This is turning into the worst Christmas of my life! she fumed. It just isn’t fair!
In the days that followed, Nancy felt so upset that she could hardly talk to her parents. “They just don’t understand how much this means to me,” she complained to Emmie.
However, as the family started moving into their new house in the city, Nancy began to feel guilty. She realized that it really wasn’t her parents’ fault that they had to leave their old home.
“But a promise is a promise!” she wailed to Emmie.
Emmie didn’t pay much attention to Nancy’s feeling sorry for herself. She and Bobby and Ted were too busy thinking about Christmas, which was almost here. The boys made long lists of toys they hoped to get. One day when her parents didn’t know anyone was looking, Nancy saw tears glistening in the corners of their red-rimmed eyes.
“We won’t be having much Christmas this year,” she remembered Father had said.
Nancy suddenly felt very ashamed. There was still Christmas baking and carol singing. And they spent days making gifts for each other. Their traditional nativity scene was already in its place on the mantel. And every night when Mom and Dad tucked them into bed, they were reminded of the special feeling of love for Jesus and their family, and not just the anticipation of presents under the tree.
Nancy and Emmie were old enough to understand, but Bobby and Ted kept expecting a Christmas with lots of presents.
It wasn’t until the afternoon before Christmas that Nancy thought of an exciting plan. As she shared it with Emmie, the excitement bubbled out into loud giggles.
Nancy emptied the pickle jar into her purse, and she and Emmie took the bus to the shopping center. All afternoon they trudged in and out of stores buying Christmas gifts.
“We needed a horse to haul all this stuff home,” groaned Emmie later as they wrapped the last of the packages and hid them in the back of their closet.
“Mom and Dad are sure going to be surprised when they discover I got my horse after all,” Nancy said with a grin. Then the girls collapsed, exhausted, on the bed.
Christmas morning, Mom and Dad woke everyone with an extra hug and kiss.
“Nancy,” Father said as he put his arm around her shoulder, “Merry Christmas, honey. And thanks for being pleasant and understanding.”
Down the stairs Nancy and Emmie followed their brothers. They looked at each other and covered their mouths to keep from laughing.
“Oh, wow!” said Ted as he saw the pile of presents beneath the tree.
“Whoopee!” shrieked Bobby as he ripped the ribbons and paper off a big red fire engine.
“Oh, my gracious!” cried Mom and Dad together, their eyes bright with surprise.
Nancy and Emmie grinned and plopped down beside the tree to hand out presents.
“I don’t understand,” said Dad.
There were shiny new trucks for the boys, a doll with lots of clothes and a buggy for Emmie, puzzles and games for the whole family, perfume and slippers for Mom, and spicy shaving lotion and a bathrobe for Dad.
Nancy could feel her heart warming with happiness. Christmas has never made me feel this good before, she thought. She stroked the cool, smooth flanks of a little china horse bank that Emmie had given her. Inside clinked two quarters and a nickel, all that was left of the pickle jar money.
“See,” cried Nancy, holding up the bank, “I got my horse after all!”
“I just can’t believe it,” said Dad, shaking his head.
“I think I can,” said Mom, her eyes misty with tears. She pulled Nancy into her arms and held her so tightly that Nancy’s ribs felt as though they would snap. Her heart felt so full that it was about to burst, and she couldn’t speak if she had wanted to.

We returned only a few days ago from Manila in the Philippines. There on an eminence where the ground falls away to the rear, affording a view of an entire valley, stands a beautiful and sacred temple. Here, as elsewhere, there is incised in the stone of one of the towers the words “Holiness to the Lord. The House of the Lord.” By the thousands they came, the wonderful, faithful members of the Church in the Republic of the Philippines. With songs of thanksgiving, with words of counsel and testimony, with a prayer of dedication, they all joined in presenting to the Lord, as the gift of a thankful people, this beautiful house as his abode.

I often wonder why some feel they must be critical of others. It gets in their blood, I suppose, and it becomes so natural, they often don’t even think about it. They seem to criticize everyone—the way Sister Jones leads the music, the way Brother Smith teaches a lesson or plants his garden.
Even when we think we are doing no harm by our critical remarks, consequences often follow. I am reminded of a boy who handed a donation envelope to his bishop and told him it was for him. The bishop, using this as a teaching moment, explained to the boy that he should mark on the donation slip whether it was for tithing, fast offerings, or for something else. The boy insisted the money was for the bishop himself. When the bishop asked why, the boy replied, “Because my father says you’re one of the poorest bishops we’ve ever had.”

You may ask, “How do we seek personal revelation?” Paul counseled the Saints to rely on the Spirit rather than the wisdom of the world. To obtain that Spirit, we begin with prayer. President Lorenzo Snow had studied the gospel for several years before joining the Church. But he did not receive a witness until two or three weeks after his baptism when he retired in secret prayer. “The Spirit of God descended upon me,” he said. “O, the joy and happiness I felt, [for] I then received a perfect knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the holy Priesthood, and the fulness of the Gospel.”

This is as true in matters of faith as anywhere else. Much that is invisible to those lacking the gospel “map” of reality is clearly perceived by men of faith. An associate of mine recently wrote:
“In the 89th Section of the Doctrine and Covenants … the Lord speaks of … ‘great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures’ [see D&C 89] … As I pondered the meanings … of the phrase ‘even hidden treasures’ it suddenly became apparent to me that I had received many treasures of knowledge that had been completely hidden from me during the time when my life style kept me away from the Church … [L]ike any seeker after hidden treasure one [desiring these spiritual treasures] must follow correctly the maps which point out the way. Faith that the maps are correct can only be established by the verification of the landmarks described on the maps. Those who do not possess the maps will certainly find no significance in the landmarks as they encounter them; but to those who have the gospel map, the landmarks are the fulfillment of the promise [of treasures of knowledge].”

Following the example of his general authority father and being conscientious about his own Church work helped to develop Elder Ashton’s spiritual side throughout his growing years. After he had earned his college degree, saving enough money while in school to support himself, he left on a mission to Great Britain in 1937. He was twenty-one at the time.
President Hugh B. Brown, Elder Ashton’s mission president, said, “Elder Ashton was always what and where he should be.”

Some of us didn’t realize how much we were being watched. I happened to overhear the conversation of two young women. One of them was speaking very harshly and using profanity. Finally the other woman spoke up and said, “I don’t have to listen to you and this kind of language! I’m going to get me a good Mormon friend!”

I was baptized in 1990 and have always attended my Church meetings. But recently I was sent to another country as a peacekeeper, and for now I cannot attend any meetings. My way of staying in contact with the Church is to read the magazines online. This has been a great inspiration to me. I feel the Spirit strongly as I read the words of our prophet and other Church leaders. I miss partaking of the sacrament, but I know Heavenly Father understands my circumstances. Thank you for the magazines online.
Olukunbi Orimoloye, Nigeria

Then there was the time they went underground. They heard one day that someone had discovered a cave up a nearby canyon, and from that moment on nothing would do but that they should find a cave of their own. So everyday after school, and all day on Saturdays, they could be seen up in the canyons with their cameras, pretending to be sightseeing and picture taking.

They were really cave hunting and doing it with the same all-out dedication they do everything. They checked out about every crack in every rock in the canyons, looking for the telltale air currents that reveal a cavern behind the crack. They learned to look for the slightest movement in spiderwebs and grasses; they lit matches and held them to cracks to see if the flame flickered under some imperceptible breeze.

For two months they searched, and they were prepared to go on searching until heavy snow made it impossible, and then to start again the following spring. But one day the search suddenly stopped for a moment as they squatted in front of a tiny crack looking at an extinguished match. They fumbled another into flame and held it in front of the crack. It was immediately blown out. Grabbing a nearby stick, they started to dig. The next day they returned with picks and shovels. Their callouses grew during the following days, but the crack remained a crack. They told no one about their search, knowing that many fine caves have been vandalized by thoughtless sightseers.

After 20 feet of hard digging, they came to a little room almost big enough for both of them to sit up in. A couple of anemic stalactites straggled down from the ceiling, but the room ended in a blank wall. They got the matches out, found another breezy crack, and started digging again. Fifteen feet farther in they broke through into a large cavern shimmering with the jeweled spires and daggers that cave hunters dream about. It had taken two months of search and 35 feet of back-breaking, dirty digging, but it was all worth it.

The cave turned out to be about 300 feet deep, fanning out on either side into many smaller rooms. They left a register of their discovery in the largest chamber and covered the entrance back up so that no one could come in and destroy the formations. For several years it was their own private, secret cave, a little magic kingdom that no other human beings had ever seen. Recently, members of a local spelunking club found the signs of digging at the entrance and broke through into the cave, but they too wish to preserve the cave’s beauty and have agreed to keep its location a secret.

Julianne is grateful to be a member of the Church living in Independence today. “When I was baptized and was coming out of the water, I felt the Holy Spirit. It felt good.” She is doing her best to build up Zion today.

A few years later I was finished with school and was working as an apprentice cabinetmaker, putting away every pound I could for my mission.

One early winter day at work I got a call from Mum.

“Granddad’s all right,” she said. “But he’s had a stroke.”

When I arrived at Granddad’s farmhouse, I could hear him arguing with Nan as I threw my coat in the cloakroom.

“You’re not going to feed that rabbit food to me,” he bellowed. “I want bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes). It’s Thursday, and I’ve had bangers and mash every Thursday for 75 years.”

I peeked around the doorway and looked into his room. Granddad looked old and frail, but he had enough strength to sit up in bed and push away my grandmother’s hand as she tried to feed him from a plate of something green and healthy looking.

“She’ll let you go hungry then,” I said.

“Danny!” he called out and held his hand out for me to take. “I’ve been waiting for sumone to rescue me.”

“You’d better get used to the rules, or you’ll get no dinner,” I answered.

“Ahh.”

“Hello, Nan,” I said.

“Finally, someone to rescue me,” she said. “I’m going to nip into town for some things. Sit with your granddad, will you?”

“Sure.”

We heard her car rev up in the driveway. Granddad reached up and felt my arm. “Hmm, strong enough,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What? I don’t know. I don’t think we should. Nan will be cross.”

“You do as you’re told.”

So I pulled over Granddad’s wheelchair and helped him in. I bundled up his legs and got our coats and Granddad’s cap. Then I scribbled a quick note to Nan.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked when we were outside the house. I hoped he would say ‘down the road,’ but he said what I expected.

“I fancy sum’ mushrooms,” he said, looking out toward the wet hills. I shrugged and began pushing his wheelchair over the pasture toward the first gate.

Pushing Granddad through the bumpy, slippery glens was hard work, but I didn’t really mind. He was happy and spent the next hour pointing things out to me as I grunted and groaned behind him.

When we finally reached the top of mushroom hill, I stopped to catch my breath, sitting beside Granddad’s wheelchair on the damp grass. It was cold out, and the town below was partly obscured by mist. All that rose above the haze were the trees and a few of the tall brick homes.

“I’ve always remembered what you told me here,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for more details.

“You know, about knowing where to look—for mushrooms and other stuff. A few years ago I knew someone who was a bit lost, so I began dropping hints that maybe church was a good place to look for answers. I think it helped.”

“Aye, nice to think I taught you sumthing,” he said.

I smiled. “You did.”

“How’s Stu? Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“He’s all right. I bet he’ll come see you soon. He’s going out with a really nice girl, and they’re talking of getting married in the temple.”

“He’s a good boy, is Stu.”

“Yeah, he is.”

We sat quietly for a time, looking down the hill at the rolling grass and the mist that refused to clear from the town. We stayed until, bit by bit, the cold and damp crept under our wool coats. A wind picked up from the north, and Granddad began to shiver.

“Time to go, lad,” said Granddad. “Time to go.”

“You don’t want any mushrooms?”

“Na, couldn’t be bothered today. To be honest, I just wanted to come here again—with you.”

I stood up and obediently began pushing my grandfather away from our mushroom hill.

“How do you feel?” I asked, stopping the chair and putting my hand on his shoulder.

“I feel good,” he said, putting his hand on mine.

So I started to push again, Granddad and I quietly moving toward home.

Why then do many of us “go it alone” and deny those who love us most the joy and blessings which come from sharing? The principle of helping one in need is well expressed in the touching love story of Thomas Moore, a famous nineteenth century Irish poet, who, when he returned from a business trip found his wife had locked herself in her upstairs bedroom and had asked to see no one. Moore learned the terrible truth that his beautiful wife had contracted smallpox and her milky complexion was now pocked and scarred. She had looked at herself in the mirror and demanded that the shutters be drawn, and that she never see her husband again. Thomas Moore did not listen. He went upstairs to the darkened room and started to light the lamp. His wife pleaded with him to let her remain in darkness alone. She felt it best not to subject her husband to seeing his loved one with her beauty marred. She asked him to go.

Moore did go. He went downstairs and spent the rest of the night in prayerful writing. He had never written a song before, but that night he wrote not only words but also composed music. As daylight broke, Moore returned to his wife’s darkened room. “Are you awake?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but you must not see me. Please don’t press me, Thomas.”

“I’ll sing to you then,” he said. Thomas Moore sang to his wife the song that still lives today.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art
Moore heard a movement in the corner of the darkened room where his wife lay in loneliness. He continued:
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
Irish Melodies, “Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms,” st. I; cited in Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, p. 542.

The song ended. As his voice faded, Moore heard his bride arise. She crossed the room to the window, reached up and slowly withdrew the shutters, opened the curtain, and let in the morning light.

This lesson was brought home to one Latter-day Saint mother after a trip to the store with her daughter. None of the packages of hair bows on the shelf had exactly the right selection of colors, but it was possible to open and reseal the packages, so the mother removed unwanted bows from one package and replaced them with bows in preferred colors from another package. Both packages still had the same number and quality of hair bows; only the colors were different. But the mother was troubled for days after making the purchase. Finally she saw the problem clearly; she had manipulated the truth to her own advantage, in effect bearing false witness. Humbly, she asked her daughter’s forgiveness for teaching a lesson in dishonesty, and the two of them discussed how they could make amends.

One day Joseph played a game of ball with some of the young men in Nauvoo. The Prophet’s older brother Hyrum saw him. Hyrum had a great love for his brother, and he didn’t like to see people given a chance to find fault with him. Hyrum was afraid that if people saw Joseph having fun with the young men, they might think this wasn’t what a prophet should do.
After the ball game, Hyrum approached Joseph and said that such conduct was not proper for a prophet of the Lord. He spoke out of love, wishing to guide his brother.
The Prophet looked lovingly at Hyrum. He knew Hyrum was concerned about him, and he trusted and often listened to the advice of his older brother. But this time Joseph simply answered him in a mild voice. “Brother Hyrum, my mingling with the boys in a harmless sport like this does not injure me in any way, but on the other hand it makes them happy and draws their hearts nearer to mine; and who knows but there may be young men among them who may sometime lay down their lives for me!”
The Prophet Joseph was right. When persecution again started for him, two young men in Nauvoo risked their lives to discover the Prophet’s enemies and their plots against him. The young men showed how much they had come to love the Prophet by how much they risked their own safety for his. Joseph Smith dearly loved children, and they loved the Prophet too.

Several years ago, we lived in the suburbs of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia. On one beautiful Sunday afternoon, we decided to take our family out to a known footpath that would lead up to the Brisbane Temple. We drove with our five young children to the Brisbane CBD where the large Brisbane River winds through its center. At one point, the river has carved out beautiful and dramatic cliffs. Wonderful for rappelling and climbing, the Kangaroo Point Cliffs are a famous attraction right in Brisbane’s busy downtown waterway.
We drove down the hill toward the water’s edge and parked near the base of these cliffs. Then we pleasantly strolled through a park over to the side of the cliffs where a paved footpath was built to lead those from the bottom of the cliffs to the top. As we made our way there, our eyes wandered to what lay across the wide river: a stunning view of skyscrapers and high rises. We followed those along with our eyes until the buildings dipped down and gave way to a brush of trees and bamboo directly opposite us. We knew that brush made up the Brisbane Botanical Gardens.
Taking in deep breaths of the vegetation drenched in a recent shower, we turned to our object, and maneuvered around the railing of the path to begin what we anticipated to be a spiritual and happy time together.
We had taken only a few steps onto the trail when a blaring electric guitar, and muffled talking over a microphone, sounded. Startled, we looked back in the direction of the sound, only to see the dense brush of the botanical gardens across the river. It occurred to us that in the amphitheater of the gardens, hidden from view, a concert was starting.
As we took more steps, drums and yells echoed across the water and bounced loudly off the nearby cliffs. Rounding a bend, we slowly ascended the first switchback. Deep screams and growls from the amphitheater began to cloud our thinking and made it difficult to have conversation. But, with good faith and optimism we determined to cheerfully go on—perhaps, wishfully thinking the heavy metal concert would end soon.
On we pressed, but as we did, so did the concert. We continued through several more switchbacks. The deafening sounds of the concert continued. I began to feel annoyance, even frustration. Why was this happening? How could other’s choices have this much influence and distraction over mine?
The trail was now getting steeper and we gripped the metal railing for support. As we went up, the volume of the concert also seemed to climb. It now became difficult to think of anything else. Occasionally, after traversing steep sections, we would pause to catch our breath and have a look at the views. The skyline was beginning to grey against the lowering sun.
Our eyes penetrated the dark and deep water that was now so far below. A memory came to my mind: another day we had floated that river together on a hot afternoon. The guide of our tour boat had taught us about the danger of the river due to bull sharks that swam up from the nearby harbor. Because of the ocean’s backflows, that dark river water was actually salty.
Up again we went. Tired from both the climbing and the jarring music, our optimism was fading. We tried to enjoy each other and the hike, but the screams and language worsened with each of the rock band’s numbers. Now, unable to hear each other, we quietly hiked along with our children. The views were beautiful, but the noises seemed to block the Spirit and any feelings of peace. Our pleasant time together was being ruined.
Presently, a thought came to me: “Isn’t this life? Is this not the vision of Lehi?” I considered the screeching heavy metal which seemed to be mocking us all the way. I looked again at the deep and dangerous river and glanced up at the “great and spacious” buildings on the other side. I felt the “rod” there, cold in my hands, protecting me and my family from a great fall (see 1 Nephi 8).
Several more minutes went by. I guess these thoughts were consoling me. Life is not meant to be perfect. Maybe its imperfections are the very things we need to become perfect.
I watched my tennis shoes plant on each narrow step. And then one of the most empowering, and loving impressions came over me: this music may be annoying, the yells were too, but they were not stopping us from putting one foot in front of another. Nor were the voices and sways of the world. They, in themselves had absolutely no power, because we were giving them none. We were free to act for ourselves!
I began to hike with a new determination.
How many times since have I heard the screams of close family members and friends walking and laughing away from the Church and into forbidden roads, beckoning me to follow? How many temptations, burdens, or feelings have I experienced which made the way difficult to see or the gospel extremely hard to focus on? At times, these noises have even blocked my ability to feel the Spirit.
But no matter the racket, how heavy the burden, or how dark or confusing the feeling, nothing has been successful in stopping me from walking step-by-step with the Lord back to His house. Exercising faith and repentance, we constantly move forward.
As dusk settled on us that evening in Brisbane, we all smiled together for a photo while shouts and guitars swirled in our ears. But in the background of that photo stood the temple. We had made it!

The Emperor’s Garden by Ferida Wolff The people of the village got along well with each other—until they built a garden for the emperor. Then each wanted to name the garden for the part he had built. Almost as if to punish them for their pride, a monsoon flooded the garden. When the emperor came, they were ashamed for him to see it. But he was as wise as he was old.