Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, I decided to attend the temple weekly. At the time, we lived near a temple. This practice became a reliable source of light and power that I came to count on.
A year later, when our family moved across the country, we no longer lived close to a temple. Temple attendance was not impossible, but faced with the longer travel time and the needs of my young family, I attended only twice a month.
Once the COVID-19 pandemic started, I couldn’t attend the temple at all, which seemed like a punishment after reorganizing my life to attend frequently. I wondered how I could continue to grow spiritually, and I felt heavy with how unfair things seemed.
During a routine dental cleaning, I struggled to calm my mind. When the hygienist asked me what I wanted to listen to during my cleaning, I replied, “I would really love some relaxing meditation sounds.”
She said nobody had ever requested that, but she obliged. Fifteen minutes into our appointment, she expressed how much she was enjoying our “meditative cleaning.” Then she told me about the anxiety in her own life, which included her 13-year-old son’s recent injury. Surrounded by the hum of a busy office, she shared her burden with me, and we found peace together.
In my relaxed mental state, my thoughts went to the temple. I found myself progressing through an initiatory session, the words of my temple covenants passing seamlessly through my mind. Three distinct promptings from the Spirit then followed:
Ask the hygienist the name of her son.
Tell her you will pray for him.
Pray for both of them by name.
Through this seemingly simple exchange, I felt my burden transform into a blessing. I caught a glimpse of how my covenants helped me to love Heavenly Father and my neighbor. The Spirit taught me that attending the temple is just as much about helping others on this side of the veil as it is about spiritually empowering myself and my ancestors.
Temple closures hadn’t stunted my spiritual growth. Rather, they had allowed me to create new ways to engage in God’s work and receive heavenly love, light, and knowledge.

The wind whirled flakes of fallen snow around the corner of Temple Square. Brother Arnold’s message still stirred in the corners of Faye’s thoughts: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these …” She pulled up the collar of her new, red suede coat, caressing it with her cheek. It didn’t prevent the wind from finding new pathways up the sleeves and under the hem. She shivered and hurried down the sidewalk, hugging the buildings closely to avoid the wind. The fresh odor of pine and spice spilled from the candy and furniture store doorways, blending in the street to form a sea of Christmas smells.
As she breathed in the aromas, she glanced at her watch. 9:25. It was getting late. Shivering again she thrust her hands inside her pockets and balanced her purse against her hip. As she gazed at a glittering array of diamonds in a jewelry store window, she came within inches of crashing into an old man who was huddled against the building. She tripped to avoid a collision and dropped her handbag. As she stooped to retrieve the purse, he stooped with her, grabbing it with bare, crooked fingers. The light from the streetlamp reflected eerily from the old man’s eyes like two flames in the dark. He smiled, and the glow revealed a broken tooth. Faye jerked back and covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Din’t mean ta scar ya so. Wouldja like ta buy a bright Christmas pencil?” he rasped in a scratchy voice, handing her the purse. She fumbled in her pocket and found a quarter she had put there for her little brother, Ronny. “Thank ya,” he said “and Meery Christmas.” He bowed low, extending an imaginary hat with his hand.
She stopped at the corner only a few yards away to await her bus, rested a hand on her pounding chest, and took a deep breath. Squeezing closely to the wall, she found herself engulfed in the shadow of a cafe marquee. Magnetically the old man pulled her eyes back to him. He crouched there in the doorway of the candy store in an oversized, earth-brown coat and scuffed logger boots. A black felt hat was pulled over his ears and held in place with a scarf tied under his chin. He shuffled back and forth against the building holding his metal box filled with pencils. The bare, gnarled hands alternately shifted the box and slipped inside his coat for warmth.
Faye had seen an old man like him many times as a child. He had stopped regularly at their door at Christmas and in the summer, each year appearing more wrinkled and more stooped in the shoulders. Her father dragged out old suits and shoes while her mother prepared sandwiches for him. Faye remembered shivering from fear in the corner behind the great folds of drapes, aghast at his long, spiney whiskers and the layers of flesh that hung loosely about his face.
Faye shivered now in the cold as she watched the people rush past the old man as store closing times approached. Many times his hand reached out, “Wouldja like ta buy …” and fell limply to his side.
A woman approached with her hair wound around her head in a beehive of braids and curls. She paused, and then grasping her bundles tightly, circled around the man huddled in the doorway, and hurried down the street.
The old man shuffled faster as he blew into the empty hand. Two gentlemen with briefcases hurried by. One in a double-breasted tweed coat spoke aloud to the other, gesturing in the air with his hand. “Be realistic, Walt. If I could anticipate a drop in the market,” he reached mechanically into his pocket, “I’d make us all a fast buck.” He flipped a silver coin, which sailed through the air and landed with a clink into the metal box and bounced out onto the ground near the scuffed logger boots. The gentleman’s stride never broke as the old man reached for a pencil and waved it noiselessly in the air. The briefcases shrunk in the distance. The old man turned, mumbling, and spat on the ground. He stared down at the coin for an instant and then stooped and picked it up. He grew smaller as he slumped into the doorway. The metal box scratched the cement as he placed it beside him, and he rubbed his gnarled hands together blowing warm breath into them. Faye looked down at her own gloved hands, straight and soft under the warm pigskin.
Her bus rolled up to the corner, and the doors slid open inviting her to return to the warmth of home. She started toward the bus, paused, and stared back over her shoulder at the old man. Brother Arnold’s voice echoed in her memory with a new clarity, “Inasmuch as ye do it …” She looked down at her watch. There would be another bus. She turned and marched down the street, disappearing into the dime store.
She chose some large leather gloves lined with fur and had them carefully gift wrapped with a gold bow on top.
Reappearing on the street, she couldn’t see the old man. Her eyes widened as they searched the sidewalk and finally caught sight of a dark figure at the crosswalk. She ran.
“Sir! Wait, sir!”
He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, sir, you. I have something for you,” and she handed him the package. His lips parted as he glanced down at the package and back up at Faye. His shaggy brows knitted together as he gazed at her through moistened eyes. He rummaged in his metal box until he found two bright, gold pencils and handed them to her. They searched each other’s faces as he stretched forth a tremulous hand and lightly touched her arm. For an instant the rough, earth-brown coat rested gently on the soft, red suede. Faye lowered her eyes. She suddenly pulled back her arm, turned and hurried toward the bus stop. She leaned her weight against the wind without shivering.

Emily buttoned her coat as she hurried up a hill. On its crest she looked toward the east and saw a beautiful sunrise. Its pink glow lit the great empty prairie.
How far east is England now? wondered Emily. How many miles westward have we journeyed since we left the beloved green hills of home?
“Emily! We’re ready to leave,” called her father.
Slowly Emily went back down the hill. Her feet lifted puffs of dry brown dust as she walked past people whose handcarts were in the rear of the long line. Everyone in the company was ready for another day of travel.
She was glad she didn’t have to pull a handcart all day like most of the men. Some women helped too. Even children and old people helped push the heavy carts up the steep hills and clung to the rear of them to slow them going down steep slopes.
When Emily reached their own handcart, her father was fastening the ropes from the canvas top to the wooden sideboards.
“It’s a good thing you have that red coat,” Father said. “We can see you even from a long way off.”
“You shouldn’t wander so far away by yourself, though, Emily. You could get lost in this wild country,” Mother scolded.
“I’ll be more careful, Mother,” Emily promised.
As the handcarts fell into line, Emily wondered if her parents understood why she walked back every morning to look east. Maybe they aren’t as lonely for our cottage back in England as I am, she decided. Remembering their home in Dorchester with its roof of golden thatched straw and the lilac bush where robins chirped at dawn, made Emily’s throat ache.
The long line of handcarts moved forward away from the rising sun. Mother’s voice broke into Emily’s thoughts. “You better put your coat in the cart. It’s getting too hot to wear it.”
Emily hated to part with her coat even for a few hours. However, she slowly put it into the handcart. When she had it on, England didn’t seem quite so far away. Wearing it brought back all the treasured memories of home.
Emily thought about the morning Grandmother had given her the coat as she was leaving with her parents for America to join other Latter-day Saints in the faraway Rocky Mountains.
With tears in her eyes, Grandmother said to Emily’s father, “I still don’t understand why you must leave England for your new religion. I know I’ll never see you again.”
Then she took Emily’s hand. “My dear, I have a gift for you,” she said. “It’s a coat made from wool I spun and dyed myself. Wear it always to remind you of me and of your home.”
Slowly the long days went by. Each step took Emily further away from her grandmother and England. Each step took everyone in the handcart company closer to their unknown “Zion” in the mountains. Around the campfires at night they talked of a valley encircled by towering, snow-topped mountains. Emily wondered if anyone else felt as lonely and frightened as she did.
Wagon trains going to Oregon or California sometimes passed the handcart company. One day a man from a wagon train stopped and said to Emily, “My daughter could use a coat like that one you’re wearing. Would you like to sell it?”
Emily thought of what her family could buy with the money, but she shook her head. “No, thank you, sir,” she answered. She felt that selling the coat would not only be giving up something she loved very much but it would cut her last tie with her old home.
The trail the handcarts traveled became rougher. One night around the campfire Captain Ames asked everyone to listen to a special message. “I don’t need to tell you that the trail has become much more difficult and our carts are wearing out,” he announced. “Each family must discard every item that can be spared in order to lighten the loads.”
Many belongings were left beside the trail the next morning. Emily’s heart was heavy when Father said to her, “I think you should leave your heavy red coat behind.”
“Oh, please Father,” she pleaded, “please let me keep it. I’ll carry it or wear it all the time so it won’t take up any room or add any weight to the handcart. Grandmother made the coat especially for me.”
“The weather will grow colder soon,” Mother added. “Maybe we should let Emily keep her coat. I’ll help her carry it if it becomes too heavy.”
Father looked at Emily and her mother. He saw how much the coat meant to both of them. “If you’re willing to carry or wear it, then you may keep the coat,” he said, “but it’s not to go on the handcart. We must obey Captain Ames’ rule to lighten our loads.”
One morning as Emily was walking behind her father she looked up and saw white snow-topped peaks along the western horizon. A few days later the handcart company was making its way through the mountain passes. The wheels on the worn handcarts creaked loudly with each turn. Everyone was weak and tired but they still kept going.
Late one afternoon Emily felt she could not walk any further. Her red coat seemed unusually heavy. Emily thought she couldn’t take another step before resting for just a few minutes.
I’ll just climb up that little slope and rest under a bush for a few minutes, Emily decided.
While resting, Emily watched the line of carts and people toil up a winding, mountain path. She lay down to watch the clouds float by. How good the ground felt to her aching back and legs.
Suddenly Emily sat up. It was dark. She had fallen asleep! Her first thought was to run as fast as she could, calling for her mother and father. But it was too dark to see where she was going.
I must stay calm, Emily told herself. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she prayed, “please keep me safe through the night and tomorrow guide my parents to me.”
Soon a peace flooded over Emily even though the black hours of night passed slowly, slowly. She put on her red coat. Feeling it close around her brought a warmth that was more than just protection against the chill of the night.
Memories of England and Grandmother and her old home were as precious as ever. But there alone on the hillside, Emily began to think more about her new home in a valley where she could be with her father and mother. Maybe Grandmother might come there someday, too, she thought.
As the morning sun lightened the sky, Emily’s sadness and loneliness seemed to leave. She climbed up on a rock to watch the sun come up as she had done so many times. Always before her thoughts had turned with a homesick feeling to the east. Now she looked toward the west. In that direction they would have a new home.
Far in the distance Emily saw several men. As they came closer one of them started waving and then she heard her father call, “It’s Emily. That red coat has brought us right to her!”
Emily ran down the hill. “Oh Father,” she sobbed, “I’m sorry I got lost but I’m glad you found me.”
“We might have not found you,” Father replied, “if it hadn’t been for that red coat. How grateful I am that you kept it and that you had it with you to keep you warm. We spotted it a long time before you saw us.”
“I’m grateful, too,” Emily answered. “It will always be something special to remind me of Grandmother and England. But now I know a home isn’t just a place, and that love is more than just a coat. I can hardly wait until we reach the Valley.”
Father smiled, “We found you,” he said, “but I guess during the night you found yourself, too.” He gave Emily a warm hug.
Without looking back, Emily put the coat over her arm. Then she and Father turned their feet and their eyes to the west.

Contrast this with a similar situation that occurred a few years earlier, on a different trip but on the same stretch of river. Again, we arrived at our reserved camp, only to find that it was already occupied. The group explained that someone had taken their reserved site, so they moved downriver to the next available site, knowing that it might already be reserved. They were profusely apologetic and offered to pack up their gear and leave. I discussed the situation with the crew, and we agreed that it would be best to invite them to stay at our camp for the night. They were very grateful. We went about our business, and they went about theirs. By the end of the night, we were all sitting around the same campfire, swapping stories and sharing desserts. I was happy!

Jimmy came in from playing ball and found his big sister typing at her desk. “What are you doing, Laura?”
“I’m typing my résumé,” his sister replied.
“What’s a résumé?”
“It’s a list of the things I know how to do. I’m going to send it to people who might want to give me a job.”
“Why are you looking for a job?” Jimmy asked.
“Because I’ll soon be going to college and I want to earn as much money for it as I can,” Laura answered, pulling her finished résumé out of the typewriter.
“Can I make a résumé too?” Jimmy asked.
Laura smiled. “Of course you can!” She dug through the desk drawers and pulled out some crayons and paper. “Here, Jimmy. Since you can’t write yet, why don’t you draw some jobs you can do around the house.”
“OK.” Jimmy knew he could do a good job on his résumé. He pulled up a chair beside his sister and began to draw and color. When he was done, he had five pictures. “I’m ready for you to see my résumé!” He climbed onto her lap.
“What beautiful pictures!” Laura said, looking carefully at each one.
“Will you help me write the name of the job on each picture?”
“OK. What does this first picture say?”
“This is me washing Spot,” Jimmy explained.
Laura wrote below the picture, “Jimmy can wash Spot the dog.” When she read the title to Jimmy, he smiled.
Jimmy’s sister flipped to the second picture.
“This is me dusting the furniture,” Jimmy said with a big grin.
Laura wrote below the picture, “Jimmy can dust.”
Jimmy flipped to the third page. “I can dry the dishes,” he said happily.
Below the third picture, Laura wrote, “Jimmy can dry the dishes.”
Jimmy eagerly flipped to the fourth page. This picture was divided into halves. “This part shows me raking leaves,” Jimmy explained with a big smile. “The other part shows me shoveling snow.”
“Oh, this is the best picture yet, Jimmy! I really like the snowflakes and the colored leaves.” Laura wrote, “Jimmy can rake leaves and shovel snow” under the picture. “So far this is a great résumé—I’m proud of it.”
“Thanks, Laura! I’m real proud of it, too,” Jimmy said as he flipped to the final page. “This picture says I can take out the trash.”
“That’s wonderful, Jimmy. Now I’m going to write the last title for your résumé.” She picked up her pen and wrote, “Jimmy can take out the trash.” She laughed. “Jimmy, you’re hired! You’re going to be a big help here when I get a job. I’m very proud of you!”

One of my most recent challenges has been with my health. I had to return to the United States from serving in the Europe East Area presidency because of kidney failure. I had to have dialysis treatment, and I’ve been in the hospital often. Last summer I had a kidney transplant. All this has helped me gain greater compassion for those who suffer and those who are ill. I’m touched by the nobility of the people I’ve met, and I appreciate now more than ever before the degree to which many of the Lord’s children suffer. I desire to be more sensitive to that.

When I was enrolled here in 1970, it was my opportunity to be a senior resident on the top floor of the Rigby Hall on the north end. As a senior resident, I had a room all to myself. One night as we met as a ward, our stake president spoke to us. He challenged us to pray for 15 minutes that night in our personal prayer. He asked us to actually have a clock where we could see it to help us keep track of how long we had prayed. After we had prayed as long as we could, if we looked up and the 15 minutes hadn't expired, he encouraged us to continue praying and to repeat the process until we had prayed for a full 15 minutes. I accepted his challenge. Please know that I was a returned missionary at this time. I started to pray--I prayed everything that had ever come to mind in previous prayers and then said everything I could remember my parents saying in our family prayers. It felt like 30 minutes had passed. I hesitantly looked up at the clock--surprisingly, only 5 minutes had gone by. So, I prayed longer, trying to think of more to speak with our Heavenly Father about that hadn't been said. I looked up again only to discover I had 7 minutes to go. Finally, the prayer began to come from the deepest parts of my soul and tears began to stream down my face. The reason for the challenge from our stake president became clear--humility and reverence had replaced the oftimes casual, brief and superficial prayers that had become too common in my life. I learned a great lesson that night--for prayer to get past the ceiling, reverence and sincerity are required and as we pray in this fervent manner, we will begin to grow in reverence and in our ability to communicate with the Lord. Please don't think I'm suggesting that you try this 15 minute experiment. But, you may want to consider assessing the genuineness of your prayers and your connection to the Almighty.

Our family’s best Christmas ever didn’t happen on Christmas Day. It happened on Easter.
One Christmas had been overshadowed by worry for our son Tanner, who was struggling in the hospital with a life-threatening illness. He was in a medically-induced coma for 10 weeks. He literally slept through Christmas.
Gloriously, Tanner slowly regained his strength and was able to come home in the spring. As Easter approached, we talked about Tanner’s missed Christmas. His sisters and brother decided that he deserved a make-up. We thought about how fun it would be to turn Easter into a double holiday.
To get ready for our springtime Christmas celebration, we pulled out a box of Christmas lights, fashioned a little Christmas tree, and bought and wrapped small Christmas presents for each other.
The night before Easter, our “Christmas Eve,” we dressed up in old bathrobes and makeshift costumes for a family Nativity pageant. We read from the scriptures about the angel appearing to Mary and Joseph, their journey to Bethlehem, and their search for a place to stay but finding no room at the inn.
We also read about the shepherds tending their flocks at night, the angel of the Lord appearing to them, and a choir of the heavenly host singing, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:14). In our pageant, shepherds visited the stable where our children were dressed as farm animals (that year, our Nativity stable also included a giraffe!).
Our family Christmas pageant didn’t end there. Because it was Easter, we continued reading about how baby Jesus grew in stature, visited and taught scholars in the temple, performed miracles, ministered to His people, and met with His Apostles in an upper room in Jerusalem, where He introduced the sacrament.
We reverently read the account of Jesus entering the Garden of Gethsemane to begin His mighty atoning work—to suffer, bleed, and die for us. Then we read how He was risen on the third day. He overcame death—His own death and ours. We were reminded that because of Him, everything is possible.
On Easter morning, we got up extra early. We delighted in the glow of bright, colorful Christmas lights against the pre-dawn darkness. We excitedly opened our gifts and ate our customary Christmas breakfast of pull-apart bread. As the rising sun brightened the world outside, we hunted for Easter eggs and celebrated the wonder of the Resurrection. At church, we partook of the sacrament, which brought the reality of the Savior’s Atonement forward into the here and now.
For each of us, that “Christmas-y Easter” caused us to see more clearly that Christmas and Easter are best understood together. Christmas because it is filled with promise, and Easter because it is bursting with promises kept.
We look back happily on this experience because we would only have Tanner with us for one more Christmas before his mortal mission closed. Today, we look ahead with confidence that our separation from Tanner is just for a while because we rejoice at Christmas that “a child is born” (Isaiah 9:6), and we remember at Easter—and will remember always—that “He is risen” (see Matthew 28:6).

Not only does Grant play the piano, but he also plays the trumpet and the flügelhorn, and, of course, he sings. Such a wide variety of talent was great to have when Grant, Guy, and Michael started to record their first CD. The three brothers had dreamed of making a CD but waited until Michael returned from his mission in Geneva, Switzerland, to start.
Michael says that before he served a mission there was never a temptation to stay home and record music. “I received assurance through prayer that my mission call was going to be right for me,” Michael says. “When I got my call, I knew it was what the Lord wanted for me.”
When he got home two years later, the three boys worked together, using their vocal and instrumental talents to produce a CD. Their goal in releasing it, Michael says, was to give youth and young adults “safe, appropriate, and upbeat music to listen to.”

Over a year ago, as I was walking through Temple Square, one of the sister missionaries approached me and asked, “Do you remember me? I am from Florida.” She told me her name, Sister Aida Chilan. Yes, I remembered meeting her and her family. Her stake president had suggested we visit her family. It became apparent that we were there for their daughter Aida, who had not been baptized. After our visit and more than a year of teaching and fellowshipping, Aida was baptized.

After we visited on Temple Square, she wrote me a letter. She said: “I know with all my heart that Heavenly Father knows each of us and that He continues to place us in each other’s paths for a reason. Thank you for being one of my missionaries, for reaching out to me and finding me five years ago.” Aida also sent me her conversion story recounting the “divine coincidences” which have taken place in her life that have led to her baptism and confirmation, serving a mission on Temple Square, and her recent temple marriage.

Was it a mere coincidence that the stake president had steered us to the Chilan home or that she and I would later meet on Temple Square? Aida’s testimony bears record that this was all part of God’s “divine design.”

The day school was out at the beginning of each summer, our family went to our ranch in Wyoming. It was there with my parents and brothers and sisters, and a few cousins mixed in, that I learned about family loyalty; love and concern; birth and death; that one must finish a job once it is started; and, to quote my father, “There are only two things important—the family and the Church.”
One year my father was waiting for us as we arrived. He said he had a big job for my brother Clay and me to do that summer. I was about twelve at the time, and my brother was two years older. Pointing to the field by the side of the house, my father said, “Do you see all of these lambs in that field? I’ll share the money we get for the ones you raise when we sell them in the fall.” Well, we were excited. Not only did we have a significant job to do, but we were going to be rich! There were a lot of lambs in that field—about 350 of them. And all we had to do was feed them.
However, there was one thing that my father hadn’t mentioned. None of the lambs had mothers. Just after shearing, there was a violent storm that chilled the newly shorn sheep. Dad lost a thousand ewes that year. The mothers of our lambs were among them.
To feed one or two baby animals is one thing, but to feed 350 is something else! It was hard. There was plenty of grass, but the lambs couldn’t eat the grass. They didn’t have teeth. They needed milk. So we made some long, V-shaped feeding troughs out of some boards. Then we got a great big tin washtub, ground up some grain, and added milk to make a thin mash. While my brother poured the mash into the troughs, I rounded up the lambs, herded them to the troughs, and said, “Eat!” Well, they just stood there looking at me. Although they were hungry and there was food in front of them, they still wouldn’t eat. No one had taught them to drink milk out of a trough. So I tried pushing them toward the troughs. Do you know what happens when you try to push sheep? They run the other way. And when you lose one, you could lose them all because others will follow. That’s the way with sheep.
We tried lining up the lambs along the troughs and pushing their noses down in the milk, hoping they’d get a taste and want some more. We tried wiggling our fingers in the milk to get them to suck on our fingers. Some of them would drink, but most of them ran away.
Many of the lambs were slowly starving to death. The only way we could be sure they were being fed was to pick them up in our arms, two at a time, and feed them like babies.
And then there were the coyotes. At night the coyotes would sit up on the hill, and they’d howl. The next morning we would see the results of their night’s work, and we would have two or three more lambs to bury. The coyotes would sneak up on the lambs, scatter the herd, and then pick out the ones they wanted and go after them. The first were those that were weak or separated from the flock. Often in the night when the coyotes came and the lambs were restless, my dad would take out his rifle and shoot in the air to scare them away. We felt secure when my dad was home because we knew our lambs were safe when he was there to watch over them.
Clay and I soon forgot about being rich. All we wanted to do was save our lambs. The hardest part was seeing them die. Every morning we would find five, seven, ten lambs that had died during the night. Some the coyotes got, and others starved to death surrounded by food they couldn’t or wouldn’t eat.
Part of our job was to gather up the dead lambs and help dispose of them. I got used to that, and it really wasn’t so bad until I named one of the lambs. It was an awkward little thing with a black spot on its nose. It was always under my feet, and it knew my voice. I loved my lamb. It was one I held in my arms and fed with a bottle like a baby.
One morning my lamb didn’t come when I called. I found it later that day under the willows by the creek. It was dead. With tears streaming down my face, I picked up my lamb and went to find my father. Looking up at him, I said, “Dad, isn’t there someone who can help us feed our lambs?”
After a long moment he said, “Jayne, once a long, long time ago, someone else said almost those same words. He said, ‘Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep.’” (John 21:15–17.) Dad put his arms around me and let me cry for a time, then went with me to bury my lamb.
It wasn’t until many years later that I fully realized the meaning of my father’s words. I was pondering the scripture in Moses that says, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of [all mankind].” (Moses 1:39.) As I thought about the mission of the Savior, I remembered the summer of the lambs, and, for a few brief moments, I thought I could sense how the Savior must feel with so many lambs to feed, so many souls to save. And I knew in my heart that he needed my help.

Here I recall an event described by a man I met at a stake conference in the Midwest more than a decade ago. The setting was a beautiful campus in central Illinois. My informant, a participant in a summer workshop, saw a crowd of young students seated on the grass in a large semicircle about 20 feet from one of the large hardwood trees that are so common and so beautiful there. They were watching something at the base of the tree. He turned aside from his walk to see what it was.

There was a handsome tree squirrel with a large, bushy tail playing around the base of the tree—now on the ground, now up and down and around the trunk. But why would that beautiful but familiar sight attract a crowd of students?

Stretched out prone on the grass nearby was an Irish setter. He was the object of the students’ interest, and, though he pretended otherwise, the squirrel was the object of his. Each time the squirrel was momentarily out of sight circling the tree or looking in another direction, the setter would quickly creep forward a few inches and then resume his apparent indifferent posture. Each minute or two he crept closer to the squirrel, and the squirrel apparently did not notice. This was the scene that held the students’ interest. They were silent and immobile, attention riveted on the drama—the probable outcome of which was becoming increasingly obvious.

Finally the setter was close enough to bound at the squirrel and catch it in his mouth. A gasp of horror arose, and the crowd of students surged forward and wrested the beautiful little animal away from the hound, but it was too late. The squirrel was dead.

Anyone in that crowd of students could have warned the squirrel at any time by waving their arms or crying out, but none had done so. They just watched while the inevitable consequence got closer and closer. No one asked “Where will this lead?” and no one wished to interfere. When the predicable outcome occurred, they rushed to the defense, but it was too late. Tearful and regretful expressions were all they could offer.

That true story is a parable of sorts. It has a lesson for things we see in our own lives, in the lives of those around us, and in the events occurring in our cities, states, and nations. In all these areas we can see threats creeping up on things we love, and we cannot afford to be indifferent or quiet. We must be ever vigilant to ask “Where will it lead?” and to sound appropriate warnings or join appropriate preventive efforts while there is still time. Often we cannot prevent the outcome, but we can remove ourselves from the crowd who, by failing to try to intervene, has complicity in the outcome.

One night early in Paxton’s life, we were in the neonatal intensive care unit of the wonderful Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah, marveling at the dedicated, undivided attention given by the doctors, nurses, and caregivers. I asked my daughter how we would ever pay for this and ventured a guess at what the cost would be. A doctor standing nearby suggested that I was “way low” and that little Paxton’s care would cost substantially more than I had estimated. We learned that much of the expense for care given in this hospital is covered by the generous gifts of time and monetary contributions of others. His words humbled me as I thought of the worth of this tiny little soul to those who were so carefully watching over him.
I was reminded of a familiar missionary scripture that took on new meaning: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God.”7
I wept as I pondered the limitless love our Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, have for each one of us, while learning in a powerful way what the worth of a soul is, both physically and spiritually, to God.

I can’t pass by President Hafen without mentioning his delightful sense of humor. I have to confess that sometimes I didn’t get the point of his puns, but I nevertheless chortled for days—after all, he was the President. I do remember the telling of one joke which I thought captured his rather unique sense of humor. One day we were walking across campus in the late winter. It had been a particularly brutal winter, even by Rexburg standards, and the snow was flying at us driven by a forty mile an hour wind. As we struggled to make our way, President Hafen turned to me and said, “Mike, Ricks College is a special place.” “How so,” I cautiously responded as bits of ice and snow stung my face. “Well,” he continued above the howl of the wind, “In the Church, many are called, but few are frozen.” His humor warmed me up on a cold and blustery day.

“A few years ago I read an article written by Jack McConnell. … He recounted that during his childhood, every day as the family sat around the dinner table his father would ask each one in turn, ‘And what did you do for someone today?’ The children were determined to do a good turn every day so they could report to their father that they had helped someone. Dr. McConnell calls this exercise his father’s most valuable legacy, for that expectation and those words inspired him and his siblings to help others throughout their lives. As they grew and matured, their motivation for providing service changed to an inner desire to help others.”

“She is the type of child any parent would want to have,” Uncle Isaac says. “She likes being honest. If she does something wrong, she tells the truth about it.” He shares other examples of her honesty. When a schoolteacher gave her too high a mark by mistake, she took the paper back to the teacher and corrected the error. Another time, she came home from buying yams and realized that she still had all the money. She immediately returned to the yam vendor and paid for her purchase. The lady was so pleased that she gave Adjoa a free piece of meat.

A few years ago, at a family gathering, my then-eight-year-old nephew William asked our oldest son, Briton, if he would like to play ball with him. Briton enthusiastically responded, “Yes! I would love to!” After they had been playing for quite some time, a ball got away from Briton, and he accidentally broke one of his grandparents’ antique pots.
Briton felt awful. As he began picking up the broken pieces, William walked over to his cousin and lovingly patted him on the back. He then comforted, “Don’t worry, Briton. I broke something at Grandma and Grandpa’s house once, and Grandma put her arm around me and said, ‘It’s OK, William. You are only five.’”
To which Briton responded, “But, William, I’m 23!”

When I was a youth, I didn’t know what the Holy Ghost felt like. I was around 12 years old when my mother sat me down and asked me this important question: “Mark,” she said, “has the Lord ever told you through the Holy Ghost that the Church is true?”
I wasn’t in the business of lying to my mom, so I honestly and sheepishly responded “No?”
She then said, “Heavenly Father wants you to know for yourself, but you need to put in the effort. If you will read the Book of Mormon and pray, He will let you know of its truthfulness by the Holy Ghost.”
I had my own copy of the Book of Mormon, but I had never read it on my own. With the determination to take this invitation seriously, I started my own spiritual journey. Each night before I went to bed, I read a chapter or so in the Book of Mormon. As I knelt down to pray, I asked Heavenly Father to let me know that it was true. As I prayed, a peaceful feeling rested upon me. I felt good inside.
Were these feelings from the Holy Ghost? I wasn’t really sure. This was all new to me, and I didn’t know what the promptings of the Holy Ghost felt like. I wondered if an angel was going to come visit me or if perhaps a great divine light would appear in my room. Nevertheless, with sincere desire to receive the promised knowledge from the Holy Ghost, I continued to read and pray night after night. Every time I prayed, I felt feelings of peace, and I felt good inside.
It wasn’t until later that I realized the Lord had been answering my prayers all along, but I had been looking for a different kind of answer. I just didn’t realize that we can “feel” the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

Speaking of friends, wherever, whenever, however, I will not soon forget an experience that took place about this time last year. My phone rang. President Tanner was on the line and he said, “I have a letter here this morning from one of the inmates at the Utah State Prison. He wants to talk to me about something. Do you think you could arrange with the warden for me to talk with this inmate on the phone? I don’t think I’m going to have time to go and see him. Do you think you could arrange that?”

I said, “President Tanner, I think I can.” I have a few connections in the Utah State Prison. I have spent a lot of time there—as a visitor. And by talking with Warden Smith I arranged for this man to come out of maximum security and have the use of a telephone to talk to a President Tanner who had time for him. I do not know what they talked about; I just made the appointment. I shared this instance with you to let you know that this is the kind of a man N. Eldon Tanner is—a friend regardless of where we are or what we have done.

A moment in time from my own family history exemplifies a commitment to care for those in need. Many have heard of the Willie and Martin handcart companies and how these faithful pioneers suffered and died as they endured winter cold and debilitating conditions during their trek west. Robert Taylor Burton, one of my great-great-grandfathers, was one of those whom Brigham Young asked to ride out and rescue those dear, desperate Saints.
Of this time Grandfather wrote in his journal: “Snow deep [and] very cold. … So cold that [we] could not move. … Thermometer 11 degrees below zero [-24°C] … ; so cold the people could not travel.”12
Life-saving supplies were distributed to the stranded Saints, but “in spite of all [the rescuers] could do many were laid to rest by the wayside.”13
As the rescued Saints were traversing a portion of the trail through Echo Canyon, several wagons pulled off to assist in the arrival of a baby girl. Robert noticed the young mother did not have enough clothing to keep her newborn infant warm. In spite of the freezing temperatures, he “took off his own homespun shirt and gave it to the mother to [wrap] the baby.”14 The child was given the name Echo—Echo Squires—as a remembrance of the place and circumstances of her birth.
In later years Robert was called to the Presiding Bishopric of the Church, where he served for more than three decades. At age 86 Robert Taylor Burton fell ill. He gathered his family to his bedside to give them his final blessing. Among his last words was this simple but very profound counsel: “Be kind to the poor.”15