Gospel Story Finder

The war in Europe had ended in May 1945. But months later, even though Christmas was approaching, the dreary nightmare of years of destruction still stretched a shadowy hand over much of Europe. Austria’s beautiful city of Vienna, on the River Danube, lay largely in ruin.
Famous public monuments like Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, the opera house, and the great theater were virtually destroyed. It was still a time of digging out and starting over.
It was also a time of want. Food, clothing, and clean drinking water were scarce. Nearly 270,000 citizens of Vienna were homeless. Bombed-out buildings loomed over streets full of holes. And Vienna was a city divided, with Allied forces each patrolling the areas under their jurisdiction. People didn’t go out at night; there was still a lot of fear in the air.
A number of Latter-day Saints were stationed in the American sector. Local Church members made contact with us and invited us to attend services they were organizing, which we did with joy. We were happy to see them and glad for the fellowship. As Christmas approached, we Americans wrote home to our families and suggested they send us food and other presents we could share with our fellow members of the Church.
A plan was laid out so that all of the Austrian members would have servicemen visit them to celebrate Christ’s birth. Captain Gibson and I were assigned to spend an evening with the branch president’s family.
Captain Gibson had been there before, but I had not. As we drove across the bridge over the River Danube, I saw that the damage on the eastern side of the city, which included much of the port area, was particularly heavy. Vacant ruins gave no indication of street names or house numbers. There were no street lights to help us find directions.
After several minutes, however, Captain Gibson said, “Stop here,” and I did.
He leaned out of the vehicle, cupped his hands around his mouth, and clearly, firmly whistled the Primary song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
We waited. The dark, empty street was terrifying. I had misgivings about being in the wrong location. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if we’d ever get back.
Then, across the street and three floors up, shutters on a window opened. In soft, clear notes that sweet little tune was whistled again, and when I heard it my fears left me. It was the response we’d arranged ahead of time. We were to whistle a Church song and the members were to whistle a response if everything was all right.
A minute later we heard footsteps, then saw the branch president’s daughter running across the street, accompanied by a trusted neighbor. They opened a gate to an inner courtyard, and we drove our vehicle in off the street. They closed the gate behind us and locked it.
The branch president’s daughter was obviously excited. She nearly danced up the three flights of stairs, where we met her parents and another daughter. We looked around the meagerly furnished apartment. Though the family was in very poor circumstances, it was, after all, Christmas Eve, and the table was set for dinner.
We feasted on love and companionship more than the food. We feasted on the knowledge that God’s son was born into a weary world to bring it hope and light. We feasted on the firm belief that with war’s end the gospel would again be preached in Europe and that the Saints would again be free to gather and worship.
We sang the songs the Saints all sing, hymns and Christmas carols. The family gave us each a handmade Christmas card. We gave them some food and clothing. Together we knelt in a prayer of thanks, and then Captain Gibson and I returned to our quarters, enriched and strengthened.
That was many years ago, and the horrors of postwar Europe seem long past and far away. Vienna is once again the beautiful city on the Danube, where Saint Stephen’s Cathedral and the other famous buildings all rebuilt, stand as monuments to man’s commitment to overcome the bombs and flames of war.
Even now, though, whenever I hear “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—especially when it’s almost Christmas—my mind is filled with memories of a dark street where a gentle whistle reminded me that wherever the Saints gather, there is always faith, rejoicing, fellowship, and hope.

Matt Kesler, a Primary teacher and professional artist, shared his testimony by painting a portrait of the Savior for the Liberty First Ward Primary in Liberty, Missouri. He wanted the children to better understand the Savior’s love for them. “It was a very special experience,” Brother Kesler says. See how the painting went from idea to reality!
For ideas, Brother Kesler prayed, looked at other paintings and sculptures of the Savior, and drew many sketches.
Once he had an idea, he asked a neighbor to pose for the painting.
He drew the final sketch on the canvas with permanent marker, then did the painting with oil paints.
Every fast Sunday throughout the year, he showed the Primary his progress. He taught them that completing a painting is like developing a testimony—both take consistency, time, and effort.
Here is Brother Kesler and the Primary with the finished work—a beautiful painting and testimony that the Savior lives.

“Boy, I’ll bet you’re glad that your sister’s getting married tomorrow!” With all the fussing over Christine’s temple wedding and reception, and finding himself in everyone’s way most of the time, Jason had to agree with his friend Randy. He was glad that the wedding was tomorrow! As he tossed the baseball idly back to Randy, he said, “Well, at least I won’t have to stand in line anymore to use the bathroom. She’s always in there taking a bath or doing something to her face.”
“Yeah, sisters can make life miserable,” Randy agreed. “Even mine, and she’s only two years old!”
The boys called it quits on the game of catch and found a seat on the back porch steps.
“Remember that game we played in the mud last summer?” Jason asked. “Lucky for me, I got home before my folks saw me. But who do you think I found in the bathroom? Christine! It smelled like a perfume factory in there! Phew!”
Randy frowned. “I bet she told on you, too, didn’t she?”
“Well, … no.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I guess she didn’t,” Jason said with a shrug. “At least Mom and Dad never said a word when—”
Before Jason could finish, two of Christine’s girlfriends, her bridesmaids for the reception, came out the back door, down the steps, and drove away in their car.
“Don’t girls ever stop giggling?” Randy complained. “I guess you’ve heard a lot of that in your house.”
“Yeah.” Jason sighed. “Sometimes when Christine had friends over, I’d go to my room just to get some peace and quiet. All they ever did was eat pizza and talk about boys! Yuck!” Jason kicked a stone off the step below, then added thoughtfully,
“But she always saved me some pizza.”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
“Oh.”
The two friends silently watched a robin working on a worm in the grass.
“Hey! Just think!” Randy shouted. “Now you’ll have a new sitter when your folks go out.”
“So?”
“Well, didn’t you always tell me that your sister gave you a hard time when she stayed with you, making you go to bed at the same time, even when it wasn’t a school night?”
Jason remembered the many times that Christine had watched him. “Yeah. Nine o’clock, even on weekends!” Then he remembered something else. “Nine o’clock without fail except for that night last year when we had the bad storm and the lights went out.”
Randy elbowed his friend. “She made you go to bed earlier, right?”
“Well, … no,” Jason admitted. He smiled a little. “Christine got out our sleeping bags and flashlights, made some sandwiches, and turned on her portable radio. We camped out in the living room.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah! It was neat!”
“Neat, huh?” Randy teased. “OK. I guess you forgot the Halloween when she made the costume that made you a laughingstock!”
Jason stopped smiling. That was a Halloween that he’d never forget! Christine had volunteered to make him a costume in her home economics class at school. Jason was supposed to be a plain old pirate. But Christine outdid herself and added so much ribbon and lace and so many sequins that Jason ended up looking more like a gypsy than a pirate.
“Ha! You really looked funny!” Randy laughed, wagging a finger at Jason.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jason admitted, his face getting hot and red. He didn’t like remembering that terrible night! “If it hadn’t been for that lousy costume, those big guys from Willow Street would have left me alone and not taken my whole bag of candy.”
But Jason also remembered how Christine had gotten angry—not at him, but at the bullies who’d stolen his candy. “Let’s go!” she had ordered, grabbing Jason by the arm, then spending two more hours in their rainy neighborhood with him, watching and waiting as Jason refilled his treat bag.
“Boy, she’s some sister,” Randy said in a tone of disgust.
“Yeah, she sure is,” Jason agreed quietly. He got up, adding, “And tomorrow’s the wedding. This is my last chance to really tell her what I think of her.”
Jason marched straight to Christine’s bedroom, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Come on in,” Christine called. She was setting her hair, stretching and pulling strands of it over prickly tubes. “Hi, Jase!” she said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
The room was filled with clouds of Christine’s perfume. Jason almost forgot what he wanted to say as he stared at the billowing, white gown that hung on her closet door.
Christine looked at him in the mirror. “Is something wrong?” she asked, putting down her brush and turning to her little brother.
“I—I—” he stammered, blushing. “I just wanted to tell you something,” Jason managed to say very quickly. Standing as tall as possible, he took a deep breath and let it out: “Christine, I love you, and I’m gonna miss you!”

Following President Hinckley’s encouragement for us to hold family home evenings, the next article in the Ensign was entitled “The Calling I Didn’t Know I Had”:
“Family home evening was challenging when our children were young. My husband and I took seriously the latter-day prophets’ counsel to hold regular family home evenings, but between our Church callings and other responsibilities, we too often found there wasn’t time or energy to plan an effective, loving family home evening when Monday night came around.
“While visiting Primary one Sunday I noticed how captivated the children were by the stories, visual aids, and brief but effective activities planned for sharing time and music time. I was also absorbed in learning from the well-prepared efforts the Primary counselor and music leader put into their callings. ‘They obviously spent adequate time mingled with lots of love,’ I thought. ‘They do wonderful things in their callings.’
“Just then a thought came to mind: ‘Family home evening is one of your callings. In fact, it is part of your most important calling—motherhood!’ I reflected on that insight. ‘If I can make the time to magnify my callings as newsletter editor and visiting teacher, I can surely magnify my family home evening calling.’”

When we could find one, we set up camp next to a stream. One time when we did, Ed and I took off with the fishing pole to look for a deep hole in the nearly dry creek. We found a beautiful spot out of sight of camp but close enough that we could still hear the cries of Annie-I-over. There was a strict rule that no one got so far away that he couldn’t see or hear the camp.
When we got off alone together like this Ed tried to show me how to talk, and I learned to say a few new words. “Look at that frog,” he shouted and bounded across the mossy stones to grab it.
“Frog,” I said. “Frog.”
“What a beauty! Look how big he is. I wonder how far he can jump.”
We stayed until nearly dark testing his ability. By the time we heard Papa coming to get us, the frog’s record was six feet, measured with Ed’s feet.
“Papa, look at my pet,” Ed called as he came closer. “Can I keep him? Can I?”
“That’s a fine frog all right,” Papa said. “But you’d better leave him here. He’d only die if we took him with us.”
“I can take him in a bucket of water. He won’t die.”
“A bucket of water is not the same as a stream. This is his home.”
“Please, Papa.”
“No, Ed. Now put him down, and I’ll tell you a story on the way back.”
“What about?” Ed asked.
“About a frog.”
“A true story?”
“Absolutely.”
Papa’s stories were always worth whatever we had to give up to hear them. Ed put his pet down carefully in a sheltered spot by the stream and took hold of Papa’s other hand. Then the three of us began to walk toward camp.
“What’s the story?” Ed asked.
“How butter was discovered.”
“You said it was about a frog.”
“So it is. You see, a long time ago, a frog jumped into a bowl of cream that was left by a dairymaid to keep cool at the edge of a stream. All night long he paddled around trying to get out, and when the girl came the next morning to get the cream, it had turned to butter.”
“Was the frog still alive?”
“I don’t remember that, but since there was no cream to spread on the bread, the dairymaid used the butter. She was afraid she’d be scolded for being careless enough to leave the lid off the cream, but everyone said the new spread was better. ‘Betty’s better spread’ they called it and wanted her to make more.”
When we got back to the wagon Mama had a good hot supper ready. Afterward we had a campfire program and evening prayer. Then the children were put to bed, and soon the fiddle began its tune and the grown-ups were moving their feet in time to the music. We happily watched them from the place where we slept beneath the wagon.
The next morning was washday, which meant the clothes were put into a half-full water barrel with a bar of homemade lye soap and jostled clean as we rode along. When we stopped, they’d be rinsed, wrung out, and hung on ropes stretched between trees. It wouldn’t take long to dry them if there were a little breeze.
Washdays were always planned between two stops where there was plenty of water so we wouldn’t run short. And since it was an extra busy day for Mama we had to help more than usual. Before camp broke up she assigned the chores.
“Caroline, you take care of the chickens,” she said. “Make sure they get fed and watered and don’t let any of them get lost when you turn them out to run.
“Dora, I’ll need you to watch Frank and Georgie while I do the washing. And Ed, you can churn the butter.”
Just then I saw the look come into Ed’s eyes that meant he had an idea, and I knew what it was because I had it too. Although he didn’t need to, he jerked his head at me in a way that said come on. Grabbing a bar of soap and a towel, we ran off in the direction of the stream.
“Where are you two going?” Mama called, and Ed shouted, “To wash our hands.”
“You told a lie,” I accused.
“No, I didn’t. We’ll wash our hands.”
The frog hadn’t got warmed up enough to move around yet so he was still where we had left him.
Ed started to lather him with the soap, and he slipped away. He picked up the slick frog again and said, “Have to get him clean enough.”
After he’d washed and dried the frog, he put him inside his shirt. We stayed by the stream cutting willows until the camp was ready to leave and then ran and jumped in the back of the wagon.
Mama was riding up front with Papa, holding Frank on her lap, and Georgie was asleep in his wash-basket bed. Caroline was walking with her friends.
Ed plopped the frog into the butter churn, and we settled into the back of the wagon for a leisurely ride. We reached over the tailgate, dragging our willows in the dust to make patterned trails behind us.
Several times we peeked into the churn where the frog was still swimming around, but there was no sign of butter. Ed started to work on teaching me some new words, and we forgot about everything else.
At lunchtime Mama asked, “Did the butter come yet?”
“Not yet,” Ed said.
“Well, it will pretty soon,” she encouraged. “Even the bouncing wagon helps it along.”
Then Papa told her the frog story. “Now don’t go giving these children any crazy ideas. It would be just like Ed and Dora to try that out.” She looked at us. “AND DON’T YOU DARE!” she warned.
We were glad she didn’t check out the butter churn before the wagons started up again. We decided that as soon as it was safe, we’d get the frog out of the cream and churn the way we were supposed to. When we lifted the lid, there sat the frog on an island of butter it had made. We laughed and laughed, and Ed put the frog inside his shirt to keep him safe until later. He wasn’t going to turn him loose here where there was no water.
As soon as we stopped, we took off for the stream to release the frog, and no one but us ever did know how the butter was churned that day.

My first year in middle school I was nervous that I wouldn’t be able to find friends who would respect my standards. After a short time I became good friends with a classmate, and I told him that I was a Mormon. He asked me about it, so I gave him a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. Starting that day, he quit swearing in front of me. If your friends are true friends, they will respect your decisions and help you maintain your standards.
Candela M., 13, Buenos Aires, Argentina

Now, in closing, I want to share with you the story of a man who lost his sense of priorities at an early age.
President Hugh B. Brown, as a young soldier in World War I, was visiting an elderly friend in the hospital. This friend was a millionaire several times over who, at the age of 80, was lying at death’s door. President Brown related:
As I stood by his bedside and thought over various parts of his life . . . , as I thought of his divorced wife, of his five children, all of whom were estranged, and none of whom cared enough to come to the hospital to see him, as I thought of the things he had lost which money could not buy and noted his tragic situation and the depth of his misery, I asked him what he would do if he had the privilege of living his life over again and could start it with the wisdom which had come through the years, what he considered the real values in life as he stood near the end of it. . . .
This old gentleman, who died a few days later, said to me, “As I think back over life, the most important and valuable asset which I might have had but which I lost in the process of accumulating millions, was the simple faith my mother had in God and in the immortality of the soul.”
The old gentleman asked me to get a little book out of his briefcase and gave me the page on which he had marked a poem, and then he said, “You asked me what is the most valuable thing in life. I cannot answer you in better words than those used by the poet. Will you read them to me?”
That was the dying testimony of a man who was born in the Church but had drifted far from it. That was the brokenhearted cry of a lonely man who could have anything that money could buy, but who had lost the most important things of life in order to accumulate this world’s goods. [Hugh B. Brown, Continuing the Quest (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1961), pp. 33–34]

In October 1981, Sister Renlund was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She underwent two surgeries and nine months of chemotherapy. Struggling to take care of Ruth and their daughter, Elder Renlund recalls, “I was hurting, and it seemed as if my prayers wouldn’t go heavenward.”
When he brought Ruth home from the hospital, she was weak, but they wanted to pray together. He asked Sister Renlund if she would pray. “Her first words were, ‘Our Father in Heaven, we thank Thee for priesthood power that makes it so that no matter what happens, we can be together forever.’”
In that moment, he felt a special closeness to his wife and to God. “What I’d previously understood about eternal families in my mind, I now understood in my heart,” Elder Renlund says. “Ruth’s illness changed the course of our lives.”
To take her mind off the illness, Sister Renlund decided to attend law school. “I just thought, ‘This will only be a bad experience unless we make something good of it,’” Sister Renlund says. “It wasn’t in our plan for me to have cancer as a young woman and have only one child. And my survival was in doubt. But we felt like law school was the right thing.”
She pursued her studies even as she continued treatment for her illness and her husband continued his residency.
As Elder Renlund was transitioning from three years on the medical house staff to a cardiology fellowship, he was interviewed to be the bishop of the Baltimore Ward. Brent Petty, who was the first counselor in the Baltimore Maryland Stake at the time, remembers that interview. Both he and the stake president, Stephen P. Shipley, felt “the strong influence of the Holy Spirit” as they interviewed him.
Brother Petty recalls that “he distinguished himself as a superb bishop,” even with the professional and family challenges he was experiencing. When Elder Renlund received his call to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles last year, Brother Petty notes that members of the Baltimore Ward as well as Elder Renlund’s medical colleagues, most of whom are not Latter-day Saints, were pleased. They expressed their love for him and their admiration for his service and exceptional moral character.
In 1986, after Sister Renlund graduated from the University of Maryland School of Law and Elder Renlund completed his three-year internal medicine residency program and three-year cardiology fellowship, they returned to Utah. Sister Renlund began practicing law at the Utah attorney general’s office, and Elder Renlund became a professor of medicine at the University of Utah. For 18 years he was the medical director of the Utah Transplantation Affiliated Hospitals Cardiac Transplant Program.
In 2000 he also became the director of the Heart Failure Prevention and Treatment Program at Intermountain Health Center in Salt Lake City. The program included implantable cardiac pumps and the total artificial heart. Donald B. Doty, M.D., an internationally recognized heart surgeon, was a colleague and friend of Dr. Renlund at LDS Hospital. Dr. Doty says, “His remarkable training, in-depth focus, capable administration, and compassion were exceptional.”
Dr. A. G. Kfoury, a devout Catholic who worked closely with Dr. Renlund for many years, states that Dr. Renlund was the lead transplant cardiologist in the region, “unmatched in his character, integrity, humility, and compassion.” He says Dr. Renlund “brought out the best in people. He did it quietly. He listened well and cared, and he was immensely interested in the success of those who worked with him.” Dr. Renlund led quietly by example and was always concerned about the families of his co-workers.
Dr. Kfoury particularly noted Dr. Renlund’s compassion for patients. For example, if a patient didn’t have means of transportation, Dr. Renlund would drive significant distances to the patient’s home, lift him or her into his car, and then drive the patient back to the hospital. Dr. Kfoury said this was extraordinary.
After serving as stake president for five years in the Salt Lake University First Stake, Elder Renlund was called in 2000 to serve as an Area Seventy in the Utah Area. Then in April 2009 he was called to be a General Authority Seventy. His first assignment was to serve in the Africa Southeast Area Presidency, an area that has Church units in 25 different countries.
Sister Renlund shares their response to the calling: “It was a surprise, of course. And people have said, ‘You’re leaving your careers at their peaks.’ And that’s probably true. But if the Lord needs the peak of our careers and this is when we can be of service, then that’s the time to go.”
Speaking of his wife as his hero, Elder Renlund says, “She made the greater sacrifice.” Sister Renlund left her job as the president of her law firm and left positions on several prominent boards to serve with him. “We were sent to Africa and tutored by the Saints about what really matters,” says Elder Renlund.
One Sunday in central Congo he asked the members what challenges they were facing, but they couldn’t think of any challenges. He asked again. Finally, an old gentleman in the back of the room stood and said, “Elder Renlund, how can we have any challenges? We have the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Reflecting on that experience, Elder Renlund explains: “I want to be like these Congolese Saints, who pray for food every day, are grateful every day for food, are grateful for their families. They have nothing, but they have everything.”
Serving in the Area Presidency for five years, Elder Renlund traveled thousands of miles through the vast Africa Southeast Area, visiting members and missionaries. He studied French because it is spoken in several of those countries.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, who was the member of the Twelve assigned to work with the Africa Southeast Area Presidency at the time, says of Elder Renlund: “No one could have invested himself in the area and its people and their needs more than Elder Renlund did. He labored unceasingly to know the people, to love their cultures, and to help move the Saints toward a place of redeeming light.”
On September 29, 2015, he received an unexpected call from the Office of the First Presidency. At the Church Administration Building, “I was welcomed warmly by President Thomas S. Monson and his two counselors. After we were seated, President Monson looked at me, and he said, ‘Brother Renlund, we extend to you the call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.’”
Elder Renlund was stunned. He humbly accepted the calling and recalls, “I think President Monson sensed that my bones had dissolved, and so he looked at me, and he said, ‘God called you; the Lord made it known to me.’”
Elder Renlund returned to his office, closed the door, and fell to his knees in prayer. After collecting himself, he called his wife. “Her reaction was one of astonishment,” he says, “but of absolute commitment to the Lord, His Church, and to me.”
Their daughter, Ashley, acknowledges, “My dad has excelled because of the blessing of heaven and has been prepared by a lifetime of service for this call. He has a big heart; it is full of love.”
Similarly, Elder Renlund’s brother, Gary, says Elder Renlund “was prepared from a long time ago, both by challenges and by service for the call that has come to him. This is part of the larger plan that is in place, and it is easy for me to sustain him.”
Reflecting on the magnitude of the calling, Elder Renlund says, “I don’t feel qualified, with the exception that I do know that Jesus Christ is the Savior of the world. I can witness of His living reality, that He is my Savior and your Savior. I know that that’s true.”

A drilling rig bored deep into the African wilderness as a few villagers from the Makueni region in Kenya waited anxiously nearby. Like many of them, Alice Musili hoped life-sustaining water would spring from the hole. If so, she would no longer need to walk 30 kilometers to fetch water or resort to drinking from contaminated riverbeds.
When the drilling stopped, a pipe was dropped into the 75-meter-deep hole. Air was pumped in to clear out loose dirt, and water bubbled out of the hole like a fountain. Some villagers shouted for joy. Some danced. Some were overwhelmed and cried.
“They were so excited and grateful,” said Elder Tom Pocock, a humanitarian services missionary from Virginia, USA, serving in Kenya with his wife, Ellie. “Water means everything to them.”

In my current role as a teacher I have the opportunity to work with students over the course of several years. Through these prolonged associations I have the chance to get to know these students on a more personal level. It is with the permission of one such former student that I share the following story.

In most ways Julie was a typical student. She was bright and articulate, and she enjoyed all the blessings of being raised in the restored gospel. I knew a little of her family background. Her parents were former mission presidents and her siblings were strong in the faith. Julie married a wonderful man who had also been raised in the gospel. I was surprised that they didn’t choose the temple to make their marital covenants, nor did they embrace the gospel in their new life together. I often thought of Julie and her husband and would occasionally see them around town with their growing family. I wondered how they were doing and if they would once again embrace the gospel.

Several years ago I spent an extended amount of time in Nauvoo. I enjoyed visiting the historical sites of the Church and was particularly touched as I stood on the property of one of my ancestors, a pioneer of the Church—James Sawyer Holman. I marveled at the roster that showed the date when he received his temple endowments in the Nauvoo Temple. It became very clear to me that the unwavering faith of James Sawyer Holman and other ancestors had provided me with the blessings of the restored gospel. In my mind’s eye I could see that I was the last link in the chain of a long line of faithful members of the Church. I pondered how different my life would be if one of those ancestors had made different choices. Suddenly it occurred to me that my responsibility was to remain strong in my faith not only for my sake but also for the sake of my children and my posterity. In a new way I understood that my decisions didn’t just affect me.

Several days later, while sitting in my apartment, I continued to ponder this personal revelation. Suddenly the name of this former student—Julie—came to my mind. It had been years since I had seen Julie and her husband or had even thought about them. The thought came to my mind that I should share these thoughts with them, that I should tell them they are links in their own chain for their own posterity. At first I pushed aside these feelings, but as they persisted I followed through and began to write a thoughtful letter. I admit I questioned if what I felt was truly a spiritual prompting or just my own thoughts. I finished the letter and reluctantly sent it, not knowing if I had overstepped my bounds. I received no response.

Several years have passed since I sent the letter, and the original circumstances are now far from my memory. A few months ago my wife came home from the grocery store and said that she had bumped into Julie while shopping.

During their conversation Julie said, “Please tell your husband thank you for the letter he wrote many years ago about being a strong link in our chain. He should know that my husband and I are now married in the temple. My husband is the elders quorum president in our ward, and I am serving in the Young Women organization. We now have an eternal family.”

At first when I was told this I didn’t recall writing the letter, but upon further reflection I did remember the strong feelings many years ago that resulted in my writing the letter. For me this experience is a stone added to my personal monument—one that helps me remember the importance of following the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

Six-year-old Catherine sang as she followed Joseph and his plow down the long brown furrows, dropping yellow kernels of corn into the newly turned soil.
Joseph called over his shoulder, “If Alvin doesn’t get back with some money, all that corn will go to the land agents. And from what I hear, they won’t share it with a cutworm or a crow or anything else.”
Catherine had heard her father talk about land agents, but she wasn’t sure just what they were. “What are land agents, Joseph?” she asked.
Her brother pulled the ox to a halt and explained, “They’re men who sell property. If there is a drought or your crops don’t sell and you can’t pay the mortgage money, they come and take the farm back.” Then he paused for a moment, remembering his father’s dawn-to-dark labor when they’d first cleared the land of trees to plant crops.
The whole family had helped tap the thousand sugar maple trees in the spring. Joseph also remembered the split-wood chairs and baskets and the straw brooms his father had made to sell to help pay for the farm. His father had even worked for other farmers to earn money. But still there wasn’t enough.
Catherine brought her brother back from his recollecting. “Are they going to take our farm, Joseph?”
“It looks like it, unless we can raise some more money. We’ve all helped. But it hasn’t been enough.” Joseph sighed as he slapped the reins against the rump of the ox. “I wish I could do something more.”
“You’ve been helping to clear trees and plowing and planting the corn and pumpkins. That’s a big help.
“Sure. But we need money. And we need it right away.”
Catherine let out a deep breath and sat down on the broken black earth. “Will we have to let the land agents take our farm?” she asked.
“ If we can’t pay all the mortgage money, we will. And the law supports them. But it just doesn’t seem right after we’ve spent two years clearing trees from 24 hectares of land and planting crops and building a four-room log house besides. They’d only turn around and sell it again for a lot of money, and we wouldn’t get anything for all the improvements we’ve made.”
Catherine understood now why some folks said the land agents were really land robbers.
Young Joseph looked into the open window of the house. His mother was just lifting the lid on the cooking pot in the fireplace. She left the stew sputtering against the pot lid as she called to her family, “Supper’s ready!”
Later after supper, Joseph’s father, as always, felt for his spectacles. When his hand found the lower right-hand pocket of his vest, that was the signal for a reading from the Bible and for family prayer.
That night the family had an extra long prayer. Father Smith thanked Heavenly Father for his “mercy which endureth forever.” Then he pleaded for help in somehow obtaining the money that was needed. When all members of the family had added their amen, they sang the usual hymn:
The song was interrupted by a loud knock. Mr. Smith opened the door and invited a neighbor from down the road to come in.
“Thank you, Joseph. I came to ask if you’d let me hire one of your boys for a few days. I need to dig a well.”
Alvin was away working and young Joseph knew his father needed Hyrum to help cut trees. “I could do it, sir,” he said eagerly.
His father smiled. “Joseph’s able. He’ll give you a good day’s work for a day’s pay.”
“I know your boys are good workers. They’ve worked alongside their father until they’re better than most men. That’s why I’m here. Young Joseph will be fine.”
Joseph was so happy that he had to take a big breath to keep from shouting out loud: “The Lord is surely opening up the way. We will get the money we need. I’m sure of it.” He was so sure that he wasn’t a bit surprised when Alvin arrived home a few days later with the money he had earned. Just the same, it was a tense moment when the whole family gathered to count their savings. Is it enough? they wondered.
Joseph held his breath as the money was counted. It was enough; they had enough. Tears and laughter mingled as they realized that Alvin’s earnings added to what Joseph and the others had been able to raise would save their farm!

On that same London study abroad program when I was a student, the group took an excursion to the Soviet Union. This was not the tourist-friendly, come-see-Anastasia’s-parlor Russia of today. It was 1981. The Cold War was raging. The two superpowers were wrestling close to the brink of another world conflict—this one full of nuclear mushroom clouds. Both sides were armed and ready. I was surprised to see on the runway of the Moscow airport that even Soviet passenger jetliners had guns sticking out of the nosecones. Anyway, there was nothing a good Soviet bureaucrat would love more than to make life difficult for an American.

Well, the lucky man in our group was a student who also happened to be someone who was less than fully cooperative with our faculty director, even by his own admission—there was a bit of a personality conflict. As we were about to leave the airport, this same student was detained by Soviet officials over some passport issue—real or trumped up, I don’t know, but I do know I had never seen just about anyone as scared as he was. He was not getting out of the Soviet Union, he was in trouble, and there was no negotiating.

Our director tried some quick diplomacy, but it wasn’t working. One of the director’s older children with us, a teenager who knew this was a difficult student and said what most of us were thinking but dared not say. In offhanded teen talk she said, “Oh, Dad, just leave him. He’s not worth it.”

In the tension of that moment, I will never forget the director’s perfectly calm response: “Oh, yes he is. He is worth it. We are not leaving without him.”

My director treated this student as the Savior treats us: we are all “worth it.” The crisis was resolved, and we were on our way.

Other experiences I had as a boy taught me that the Holy Ghost can help us stay close to Heavenly Father. I had a friend named Ralph who was a few months older than I was. We went to school in a one-room redbrick schoolhouse, and Ralph and I would walk there together. One day we talked about his recent baptism and confirmation. He told me how clean he felt when he was baptized. I asked him what it was like to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, and he said, “It’s like a voice that whispers in your ear, teaching you the truth.” I never forgot Ralph’s explanation. I wanted to have what my friend had.

Later, after I was baptized and confirmed, I attended a banquet where President George Albert Smith was invited to speak. After the banquet, my dad and I stood in a long line to shake President Smith’s hand. When my turn came, President Smith looked down at me, took my hand, and spoke to me. I don’t remember what he said, but I will never forget how I felt. The Holy Ghost testified to me that he was a prophet of God.

I am grateful for the Holy Ghost. When we obey the commandments, the Holy Ghost dwells with us. He purifies us and teaches us the truth, and this helps us stay close to our Heavenly Father.

Another Cooper family tradition: At least once a week everyone tries to do something nice for another family member as a surprise.
Thanks for making my bed! You know how much I hate doing that.
You’re welcome. It needed to be done, and you weren’t here, so …
Hmmm. Nobody’s done anything special for me yet, and the week’s almost over.
Later that morning …
Somebody pumped up my bike tire for me!
Now you know where I was while you were making my bed.

Three decades ago, my husband and I made the mad dash to the hospital in the middle of the night. I was in early labor with twins. They were due April 10th but this was February 10th – cold and blustery. Like most expectant mothers, I worried that my child, in this case children, would be born with all their fingers and toes. Would they look like their Dad or me? Would they have hair or be bald? (I was bald until I was three.) I never worried that my child might die.
Immediately following the emergency delivery, doctors stabilized the boys and then whisked them away to a specialty unit in another hospital. They couldn’t breathe and as further diagnosis progressed, there were many more problems. They were identical; each weighed only three pounds and was about the size of my hand. Christian was born first; Cameron seven minutes later.
My husband had been alone through the night with the boys at the hospital across town. He and a physician had administered to them and by the power of the priesthood had called upon the heavens that they might live. They made it through the night. But as the morning progressed, reports of their critical condition stacked up and seemed overwhelming. Our first-born child, Christian, faced odds seemingly insurmountable. My husband asked if there was someplace he could go to be alone. Ushered into the doctor’s office in the Intensive Care unit, he knelt down to talk to our Father in Heaven. He told him how badly we wanted those little sons. How long we had waited for them. How he appreciated the Lord honoring the blessing given that enabled both to live. But then, with all the strength he could muster, he put them in the Lord’s hands: “Not my will but thine be done.”
He walked from the room to the isolette just as the monitor on Christian’s heart flattened out. He died that fast. I had never held him while he was alive. Come, the Lord beckoned. Come home.
I remember those days as if they were just last week. I remember the lights in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit and the sound of the machines sustaining life, buzzing intermittently with alarms. I remember the looks on the faces of other worried young fathers and mothers and the notes they wrote on their cribs, the pictures of family they tacked on the clear walls of the little isolettes. We covenanted then that if the Lord would save Cameron we would serve with devotion, we would hearken to every call. In the months that followed, Cameron fought valiantly for his life astounding the doctors with the grit he could muster from his frail little frame. Today Cameron is 30 and in a medical residency in Kansas City training to save premature babies.

My husband and I went to Sweden on a work trip years ago, and we were able to attend the Stockholm Sweden Temple. It was a beautiful experience, but what impressed me the most was the dedication of the local Church members. The Stockholm temple was the only temple for many surrounding countries. The members in this region would arrange to take a week off for necessary travel and would stay at the temple, performing the work for deceased relatives and savoring the feeling of being closer to Jesus Christ. The members’ faith and devotion were inspiring. They were gaining all the blessings of the temple and coming closer to Jesus Christ by assisting Him in His sacred and glorious work. Although it may have seemed inconsequential to these faithful members, the offering of weeks of their vacation time as a modern form of sacrifice was inspiring to me and was representative of their appreciation for the covenants we make in the temple.

When Jeddy was about six years old, he liked to hitch rides on passing sleighs by hanging on behind for a block or two. Once he got on the sleigh of President Brigham Young, who liked to drive fast. Years later, he recalled, “I found myself skimming along with such speed that I dared not jump off …
“President Young, happening to notice me hanging on his sleigh, immediately called out—‘Brother Isaac, stop!” He then had his driver, Isaac Wilson, get out and pick me up and tuck me snugly under the robes on the front seat. President Young … asked, ‘Are you warm?’ and when I answered ‘yes,’ he inquired my name and where I lived. He then talked to me in the most kindly manner, told me how much he had loved my father and what a good man he was, and expressed the hope that I would be as good as my father. Our conversation ended in his inviting me to come up to his office some day and have a chat with him.”
Jeddy Grant did visit Brigham Young again, and often. Of their association he remarked, “I learned not only to respect and venerate him, but to love him with an affection akin to that which I imagine I would have felt for my own father, had I been permitted to know and return a father’s love.”

It seemed perfectly normal when Karen Monahan grabbed the hero’s arm. Then, right on cue, he began his solo performance. But instead of singing the words, he was signing them, telling his part of the story through deaf sign language. No one in the audience knew that Karen had squeezed firmly on Scott’s arm to let him know when to begin. No one needed to know. He performed his actions smoothly, as the other actors had throughout the show, without saying a word.
Then the curtains rushed together, but no one on stage spoke. When the curtains opened again, the cast bowed politely. Although the audience thundered its applause, 30 of the 45 performers couldn’t hear it because they are deaf. But they had communicated so effectively with the audience that nearly everyone watching cheered when the awards were announced. The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf had won the Los Angeles California Stake roadshow competition, with awards for best acting, best costumes and set, best script, and of course, outstanding roadshow of the year.
It was the culmination of months of effort that had begun when the stake president, Rodney H. Brady, sent a letter inviting the ward to participate in the annual contest for the first time. Initially, the challenge seemed insurmountable. “I had my doubts about how good it would be,” Wayne Bennett, a counselor in the bishopric said, speaking in Ameslan (American Sign Language, a means of communication employed by many deaf people). “But a few months of practice made of lot of difference. When I saw the roadshow in performance, I said, ‘Hey, that’s no roadshow; that’s a miracle!’”
The audience seemed to agree. Carol Mears, a professional comedy sketch writer, said she was “thrilled. I honestly forgot it was being done by the deaf.” Other performers, sometimes from other ward’s roadshows, sometimes children of ward members, provided voices to narrate the story. They spoke through microphones in the orchestra pit and were unseen by the audience. But their narration helped those who could hear to follow the actions of the deaf actors and actresses on stage.
The show, entitled “Under the Apple Tree,” adhered closely to the stake theme, “Once upon an Apple Tree,” and followed the trials of Red Delicious, an apple tree torn from his home by a tornado. He was soon joined by Yellow Delicious, another uproot in search of a place she could call her own. The two castaways discovered a new orchard presided over by Mother Apple, and finally felt confident to sink their roots into the community. Red Delicious eventually saved his fellow trees from a nefarious attack by bugs and aphids (including two members of the bishopric), and the apple trees lived happily ever after.
One of the highlights of the production was the “ABC Song,” during which the Apple Cuties taught audience members the manual alphabet. Another well-remembered scene found Mother Apple unable to get the attention of Red and Yellow Delicious, so she threw an apple at them and complained, “They must be deaf.” The joke appeared to put the audience at ease as they realized the deaf knew how to laugh at themselves.
Making the roadshow a success was not an easy task. There were many unusual problems. For example, when 23-year-old director Dave McKay began thinking about writing a script, he encountered the difficulty of writing one that would never be spoken. “We wrote it with our hands,” he said. Once a skeletal plot outline was chosen, directors and cast members worked together from improvised possibilities to a finalized sequence of actions. Long after rehearsals had begun, voice director Kareena Heath decided on words to be read by the unseen voices in the orchestra pit.
Another difficulty was synchronization of music and action. The entr’acte, for example, was an interpretive dance, and the dancers were required to perform to music they could not hear. Brother McKay solved the problem by casting one hearing dancer, who was responsible to keep the others in time with the beat. Once again, this was accomplished by means of hidden signals undetectable to the audience. Scott Duge (Red Delicious) and Birdie Herrick (Mother Apple) were kept on cue by Karen, a hearing interpreter for the deaf who took the role of Yellow Delicious. In other sections, actors and dancers maintained correct timing by memorizing counts and order of appearance.
Staging had to be carefully arranged so that actors could not only be seen, but also so that their hand signals were clearly visible at all times.
And, of course, butterflies in the stomach aren’t limited only to those who hear. Bill Andrews, who played Washington, the oldest of Mother Apple’s children, explained that stage fright manifested itself in an unusual way. “You could literally say we had a case of arthritis,” he said. “Our fingers were frozen. When hearing people get scared, their voices shake, but in our case, it’s our hands. They stiffen up and we can’t make the signs.”
Birdie was supposed to keep everyone backstage quiet. “But the deaf signed to each other anyway,” she remembered, smiling. “I told them to cut it out, because their hands would crack and make noise.”
The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf is a unique organization. Those in the ward are either deaf themselves or members of a family in which someone is deaf. Although it is under jurisdiction of the Los Angeles California Stake, its members come from a broad geographical area. But the roadshow brought them all together.
Homer Thexton explained how participation in the event strengthened family unity. He is deaf, his wife is hard of hearing, and his children hear normally, yet all participated. “It helped our family,” he explained. “There was more cooperation and communication at home. We really taught and helped each other in our parts.”
That type of reaction extended throughout the stake. For example, members of the University of Southern California Branch roadshow cast (which, incidentally, placed second in the competition) stayed behind after their own performance long enough to provide the voices for the deaf show. Noting that support, President Brady said he felt the roadshow experience had unified the entire stake. Since the performance, a variety of activities have helped to bring members of the ward for the deaf and other wards in the stake into closer contact on a more regular basis. (See FYI for Feb. 1978 and May 1978.)
The roadshow is over. But excitement and pride remain. Already ward members are talking about future productions and looking forward to another roadshow next year.
Editor’s Note: The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf was recently divided to form two new wards, the San Fernando Valley Ward for the Deaf in the Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake, and the Torrance North Ward for the Deaf, located in the Torrance California North Stake. The Fullerton Branch for the Deaf of the Fullerton California Stake was created in 1971, and continues to serve the needs of the deaf in that area.

Similarly, this last year I had a student who once tried to express herself in class. She did so awkwardly, trying to convey an idea that another student quickly countered. Rather ineptly I tried to bridge the gap. Eager to move the lecture on, I fumbled to close the conversation, which was, ironically, a discussion about hard sayings at the end of John 6.

Later that day I received an email from the student, who explained her ongoing struggle with a mental illness. She shared a poem with me, some of the lines of which speak tellingly of our need to listen and to try to understand the experiences of someone who struggles:
You say I don’t love enough I don’t care enough I’m not kind enough I’m not good enough

. . .

But you don’t see I’m frightened I’m scared I’m broken . . . I’m alone.18

When we are called upon to mourn with those who mourn—even when they may not be struggling with an obvious hard saying such as race, mental illness, gender, or sexuality—sometimes we simply need to sit with them to listen and to love.

“When President Russell M. Nelson announced the temple for Puerto Rico, I was alone in my room, watching General Conference, and the emotion was so great that I cried, I thanked Heavenly Father for answering my forty-year prayer.” expresses María del Carmen Carrasco Caraballo, from the Ponce 1st Ward, Ponce Puerto Rico Stake.

Although due to the COVID-19 pandemic the work was stopped in March 2020, they felt confident that everything would be resolved. “I clung, with all my heart, to the knowledge that God’s timing is perfect, and I felt peace,” says Sister Carrasco Caraballo, happy that the work was resumed in May of that same year.

Sister María del Carmen Carrasco, from the Ponce Puerto Rico Stake, along with a group of her from her Ponce 1st Ward, are preparing in the Santo Domingo Temple and have been set apart to serve as ordinance workers in the temple in her country.

“After forty years of waiting for this great blessing, our sights are on the temple and the ordinances that are performed there. Our goal is to be able to serve in the Puerto Rico Temple,” she says.

While the temple is being built, this sister has focused on teaching Primary children the importance of family history and temple work for a Latter-day Saint. On the other hand, she has increased the search for data to strengthen her family history and strives every day to stay worthy to enter the House of the Lord.