Gospel Story Finder

I was frustrated and doubtful of my capacity to endure when I discovered Grandpa’s gift—a simple, three-paragraph account of an experience he had when he was just one year older than I was.
My grandpa, Gerald Craven, was 18 when he served in the 52nd-West Yorkshire England regiment during World War I. Before he left home, his father instructed him, “Never deny the gospel as taught by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Grandpa soon became sick when the flu epidemic of 1918 struck. He was forced to report to the military infirmary. While registering, he was asked what denomination he belonged to. The persecution of the Church was intense in England then. It would have been easy for Grandpa to claim he belonged to some other church. But remembering his father’s words, Grandpa announced he was a Latter-day Saint. The commanding officer immediately started harassing him.
Grandpa recovered and returned to his regiment. Because there were no LDS services on the base, he had been attending the services of another Christian church. On the first Sunday after he was well, as Grandpa was assembled to march to church with his battalion, the colonel commanded him, by name and number, to fall out. Grandpa was placed on a large box, and the colonel asked the rest of the soldiers what they should do with a Mormon boy who was trying to attend their church.
The cry went out to send him to the cook house to wash dishes. Grandpa couldn’t attend church and was forced to serve tables when the services were over. While he served the members of his regiment, they spit at him, called him names, and did everything they could to make him miserable.
That night Grandpa prayed for help. The next day he bumped into an old friend from home who had been assigned to form a regiment brass band. Remembering that Grandpa played the cornet, he asked Grandpa to audition. The piece Grandpa was asked to play was the last piece he had learned before entering the army.
The next Sunday Private Craven played hymns in a church he hadn’t been allowed to attend the week before. Being in the band may also have preserved Grandpa’s life, as he was never sent into combat.

For me, parenthood has been a refiner’s fire. My weaknesses seem to come out as I become stressed, sleep deprived, worried, or upset. Of course, parenthood’s blessings make up for those moments, but I have found that I have a temper. It’s humiliating to admit, but I used to yell or throw things to get my children’s attention.
I would resolve time and again not to lose my temper, but I would still lose it in times of stress. Heavenly Father knew I needed something dramatic to help me.
One evening after a long day of bottling peaches, I put on the last batch and decided to take a short nap. I was sure I would wake up in time to take the bottles from the steamer.
I didn’t.
My husband, Quinn, and I were startled awake by the sound of exploding jars. I ran to the kitchen and saw shattered glass and gluey peaches over every surface of the room. Apparently, the steamer water had evaporated, heat and pressure had built up, the top of the steamer had blown off, and six of seven peach jars had exploded.
“I think I’ll clean this up in the morning,” I said.
Bad idea.
By morning the hot peach muck had solidified into hardened, glass-filled mounds all over the kitchen and dining room. The plastered peach-glass tidbits had even found their way behind countertop appliances and into every nook and cranny, including behind the fridge.
Cleanup took several hours. I had to soak the glass-filled mounds with wet paper towels and then try to wipe them up without cutting myself.
As I cleaned, a familiar voice whispered to me: “Mary, when your temper explodes, as did these jars, you cannot easily fix things. You cannot see where and how your anger hurts your children and others. Like this mess, that hurt hardens quickly and is painful.”
Suddenly, the cleanup took on new meaning. The lesson was a powerful one. Like my anger, there was no quick cleanup. Weeks later I was still finding little clumps of peach rock embedded with glass.
I pray that someday my patience will become as great a strength as it was a weakness. Meanwhile, I am grateful that the Lord’s Atonement is helping me better control my temper so that I can spare my loved ones any more messes caused by exploding anger.

Moving forward takes practice, advises Lazare of Georgia, a convert in the country bordering Russia and Europe. Learning to trust LDS friends was his first step, after which he agreed to accept a priesthood blessing. “Then I could move forward with the missionary discussions,” he explains. As Lazare’s faith in Jesus Christ increased, “I took the big step of baptism even though I wasn’t 100 percent certain. But the Lord gave me courage with each phase, and I am so grateful now that I did it.”

Hailey B., 15, was also nervous about the 5K. She had always come in last in mile-long races at school, and she didn’t have much hope that this time would be any different. But when she was able to improve her time and finish in the middle of the pack, she felt on top of the world.
“I finished the 5K in the middle of the group, which I was happy about,” Hailey said. “Now I figure I can finish other hard things in my life too—like school.”

The ambulance bounced and bucked even though we weren’t really going very fast. Its siren kicked on again, screaming to try to clear the way as we brought the woman down off the mountain. I struggled against the movement to hold her head still between the sandbags that cradled it, and I twisted around so I could see out the windshield. The driver in the car ahead showed no sign that he even knew we were there, and I mentally pleaded with him to either turn off his air conditioner and stereo so he could hear us or to look in his rearview mirror for our flashing lights.
The young man sat on the bench beside his mother. Ashen-faced, he stared down at her, saying nothing, doing nothing.
She had been cruelly pinned in the wreckage of their van when we arrived on the scene. A glance told me what had happened. The driver of the van had misjudged his distance and had caught the corner of the rear end of the slowly moving highway department truck—caught it right where she had been sitting.
The jagged metal and glass had folded back around her, trapping her. There had been a small fire, but one of the highway men had worked quickly with an extinguisher and had snuffed it. She had been semiconscious, in sharp pain from the metal biting her body. The first thing I had noticed when I crawled into her twisted prison was the blood and clear fluid coming from her right ear.
While I had stayed inside with her, the others on the scene had worked as quickly and as carefully as they could to tear apart the front of the van to free her. It had taken what seemed like forever. But once freed of the torn van, she was carefully strapped to a backboard and removed. The sandbags were piled beside her head to keep her neck from moving. Straps bound her tightly and uncomfortably to the board and to the stretcher.
She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and she fought the restraining straps as I completed a more thorough examination on the road behind the ambulance. As we loaded her, she managed somehow to pull loose the strap that crossed her forehead. She fought hard as I tried to resecure it, so I decided to leave it loose and cradle her head between my hands.
We were just about to lift the stretcher and its cargo into the back of the ambulance when the young man stepped forward. “Please,” he asked in a quiet voice, “may I ride with her?”
There’s an ironclad rule in ambulance work. Nobody rides unless they’re injured. The last thing you need in the back of an ambulance is a hysterical relative when you’re fighting to keep someone alive.
But for some reason I looked up into his eyes, saw what was there, and said, “Yes. Get in.”
The ride down the mountain was a long one filled with a narrow, twisting road and slow-moving, unheeding tourist traffic. She still fought the head strap, so I still cradled her head in my hands. The blood and fluid still oozed from her right ear. Her level of consciousness seemed to be fading. The words she mumbled no longer seemed to make sense. I looked into her eyes as best I could. The light was bright, yet the pupils seemed dilated. The thought ran through my mind again and again, “This woman’s in trouble. Head hit the windshield. Basal skull fracture. Heavy duty injury. She’s in real trouble!”
We hit the flats at the bottom of the mountain, and the driver stepped hard on the accelerator. The rocking and bucking increased as our speed climbed. I thought of asking him to slow down some and then decided against it, weighing the need for speed against comfort. I could hold her head steady with my hands.
The young man—her son—sat numbly, staring. He had been driving the van.
She pulled against the restraining straps again and mumbled something. Her eyes rolled toward me, and she mumbled it again. I tried to tell her to lie still, but she kept pulling and there was a pleading tone in the mumbled words. I placed my ear next to her mouth and tried to understand.
“Are you Norman?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “My name’s not Norman.”
She tried to shake her head, and I had to hold firmly against her determination. “No!” I heard her say. “Not Norman. Are you Norman?”
I looked up at the young man. “Is your name Norman?” I asked.
He shook his head as she pleaded again, asking for Norman.
“What about your father? Is his name Norman?”
Negative reply.
“Norman’s not here,” I said into her ear, trying to make her hear me above the wailing siren. “You take it easy, and when we get to the hospital, we’ll find Norman for you.”
Her eyes were almost wild with concern as she asked again, “No, no! Not Norman! Mormon! Are you Mormon?”
“Oh! Mormon!” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “Yes, I’m a Mormon.”
“Can you give me a blessing?” she pleaded.
My hands were full, holding her head, and I didn’t want to let go. I looked up at her son. “She wants a blessing,” I said. “What priesthood do you hold?”
“Elder,” came the reply. “We were on our way to Provo and the MTC. I’m going to Norway.”
I nodded. “She wants a blessing. Move up here and help me. My hands are full.”
“Do you have any consecrated oil?” he asked.
“In a little gold canister with the keys on my gunbelt,” I replied.
I could feel him tugging at the keys, and in a moment the key ring with its little aluminum cylinder was in his hand. I nodded to him. “Unscrew the top and anoint her.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he answered, rather plaintively.
“Time you learned,” I smiled at him. “Don’t worry too much about it. Just do it.”
He poured the clear oil onto her head. “I don’t know what to say,” he pleaded.
I pronounced the necessary words. “Now, it’s your turn,” I said to him. “Give her a blessing.”
A stricken look passed over his face for a moment, and he closed his eyes. Then he suddenly sat straight up, placed his hands on her head, and said in a loud, strong voice, “Marge Robinson, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stay alive until we can reach the hospital and medical help.”
Then he sagged back onto the bench, covered his face with his hands, and began to weep.
A smile crossed her face and she relaxed, letting her head slide down between the sandbags. There was no more fighting the straps, no more mumbling. I sat up, startled and concerned, and quickly checked her vital signs. Good. Everything was good. In fact, unless it was just my imagination, her signs were even better than before.
She was asleep when we reached the hospital.
I recited what I thought was my diagnosis to the doctor. He checked her ear and the red and clear drainage from it, nodded and looked grim. We wheeled her to the bright room filled with doctor tools, and the hospital team went to work.
I was restocking the ambulance when the doctor called me into the room again. The ear had been cleaned out, and I could see the laceration inside it clearly. “Take a look.” The doctor smiled and handed me the otoscope.
I looked deep inside the ear. There was the eardrum, clear pink. Intact. There was no clear fluid, no cerebral fluid draining from a basal fracture. The X rays hanging on the viewboard confirmed it.
The woman was awake, alert, smiling. She thanked me and my partner for all we had done. The rest of the family was there, standing in the hall. One of them was on the telephone trying to make arrangements for a rental car to finish the trip to Provo. “We’ll keep her overnight,” the doctor was saying. “But the rest of them will make it to the MTC on time.”
I was shaking hands with them all, listening to their thanks, which I certainly didn’t deserve, when my radio started talking, telling me to let my partner take care of the ambulance and to get back to my patrol car. I had another call. Somebody wanted to complain. Neighbor’s dog was in his trash can.
I left the hospital with a strengthened conviction that Heavenly Father watches over and guides his children. Without knowing why, I had let the young elder ride in the ambulance.
I have since found that many events defy explanation except in light of a knowledge of the gospel and priesthood power.

I learned early in my life to listen closely to my mother. One time when I was heading to a nearby swimming hole with my friends, my mother advised me to not go. “I just don’t feel good about you going,” she said.
Despite her warning, I chose to go anyway. I nearly drowned that day. Thankfully, a friend pulled me out and saved my life. That experience taught me to pay close attention to my mother’s feelings, and it also taught me the importance of living worthy of the Spirit and its promptings.

At a recent stake conference, the stake president shared a story with me. He asked his son what was discussed at a recent Sunday evening fireside. The young man replied, “Raising the bar.” He then informed his father that he was weary of the theme because it was the subject of every recent class and meeting. My first thought was, “That’s great; the prophet’s message is being discussed, heard, and acted upon.” My second thought related to the young man’s feelings concerning repetitive reminders. Repetitive reminders can be an irritant when we are trying hard to do our best.
As a youth I would tune out my mother’s repetitive reminder: “David, remember who you are.” The reminder always brought some interesting comments from my friends. Irritation set in when my father repeatedly pointed out President George Albert Smith’s home as we traveled along 13th East in Salt Lake City and reminded me that a living prophet of God who loved me lived there. Today I am most grateful for those repetitive reminders.
The term “raising the bar” is often used in the world of sports to describe achieving higher levels of performance. The use of a sports metaphor may help describe why it is critical to respond to what President Hinckley asked us to do last conference when he said: “I hope that our young men, and our young women, will rise to the challenge [Elder Ballard] has set forth. We must raise the bar on the worthiness and qualifications of those who go into the world as ambassadors of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Outside of the airport, a man was waiting with our names and a taxi to take us to the temple where we were going to stay. Before we got there, we stopped by a supermarket to buy some groceries. The following day, my husband received his own endowment, and we did a few more sessions, spending the day at the temple. Then the big day arrived for our family sealing. Everyone there had heard about us and knew what we were there for. On that day we had the temple to ourselves. We got ready, and when we arrived, some missionary couples were there to assist us. When we got to the sealing room, everything was prepared; we were sealed first, and then our two daughters were sealed to us. It was the most wonderful thing, the way that we felt is unexplainable. There was not a dry eye in the room. All the missionaries who were there and the sister who had fed us at the airport was there, and they were all in tears. The Spirit was so strong and was felt by everyone in the room.

One night, Harold B. Lee became dangerously ill with pneumonia.
Harold: Mother, I can hardly breathe.
Mother: I’ll be right back. You’re going to be OK.
Harold’s mother sliced juicy onions into a flour sack, put the wet sack on his chest, and prayed for a miracle.
The next morning he could breathe again. Soon he recovered completely.
Harold: You always know what to do. You saved my life!
Mother: The Lord saved your life. He just expected me to do everything I could to help.

Some who profess to be followers of Christ insist that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are not Christians. Indeed, there are those who make their living attacking our church and its doctrines. I wish all of them could have the experience I shared.
A friend who was making his first visit to Salt Lake City called on me in my office. He is a well-educated man and a devout and sincere Christian. Although we have not discussed this with each other, we both know that some leaders of his denomination have taught that members of our church are not Christians.
After a short discussion on a matter of common interest, I told my friend I had something I would like him to see. We walked over to Temple Square and into the North Visitors’ Center. We viewed the pictures of Bible and Book of Mormon Apostles and prophets. Then we turned our steps up the inclined walkway to the second level. Here Thorvaldsen’s great statue of the risen Christ dominates a setting suggestive of the immensity of space and the grandeur of the creations of God.
As we emerged and beheld this majestic likeness of the Christus, arms outstretched and hands showing the wounds of his Crucifixion, my friend drew a sharp breath. We stood quietly for a few minutes, enjoying a reverent communion of worshipful thoughts about our Savior. Then without further conversation, we made our way down to the street level. On the way we walked past the small diorama showing the Prophet Joseph Smith kneeling in the Sacred Grove.
As we left Temple Square and took our leave of one another, my friend took me by the hand. “Thank you for showing me that,” he said. “Now I understand something about your faith that I have never understood before.” I hope that every person who has ever had doubts about whether we are Christians can achieve that same understanding.

Ellen Grae lives with Mrs. McGruder in the small town of Thicket so that she may go to the same school her father attended. She has a terrific imagination and tells such interesting stories that most people think she has made them up. Ellen; Grover, a friend who is one year older than Ellen; Ira, a friendly, misunderstood, silent man; and his goat, Missouri, have interesting adventures together. Ellen finds out about a strange secret. She knows that should anyone else find out about this secret, Ira would be in serious trouble. What Ellen decides to do makes good reading.

Two years ago we decided to have a reunion and honor Bruford Reynolds and other youth leaders who led us in Richards Ward between 1940 and 1950. The chapel was completely filled with men, former boys who had lived in the ward. We had raised money to buy some very nice gifts, which were presented to them, and using an opaque projector, we showed pictures of the boys and some of the activities during those years. We made a real fuss over Bruford Reynolds and the other great men.
Then we called for a response. Bruford Reynolds stood up, and with great tears dimming his eyes he said, “I think this is the greatest day of my life.” As I thought about that statement, I looked out across that group of deacons/Scouts grown tall. It included three men who had been stake presidents, two men who had been mission presidents, several men in stake presidencies, thirty-three men who had been bishops or counselors, and one who is a General Authority. Then I thought, maybe this is what life is all about, to be able to look back and see the young men you had influenced grow up and become leaders in the kingdom.

So, with unwavering faith, courage and resolute in purpose, I joined the queue to pay my respects to my late queen as she lay in state, on 14 September. I knew others had already been camping overnight to ensure their places in the queue; those joining it were warned to expect waiting times of up to 30 hours.
I went prepared for most eventualities and, upon joining the end of the queue, soon introduced myself to those in front of me and to those rapidly joining behind. Many have since attested to what I experienced: moments of quiet contemplation, joviality, camaraderie, and a willingness to consecrate our time together in sharing food, watching others’ belongings, and offering to purchase further snacks for each other.
As we went through security at Westminster Hall, we said our mutual goodbyes. Then a solemn reverence descended as those present who, unified in grief, filed past Queen Elizabeth’s coffin, adorned by the magnificent crown jewels. I was so overcome by the tangible presence of the Holy Spirit, that I began to weep.
It occurred to me how much the entire experience reflected the concept of enduring well once we get on the covenant path, by saving others and being served along the way, keeping our spirits up, sacrificing our time, and being one in purpose.
For the few short hours that I was in the queue—only eight—my reward was a precious moment long enough for me to curtsey and blow a kiss towards the coffin.

Damián looked through his backpack to see that he had what he needed. Church clothes? Check. Shoes? Check. Book of Mormon? Check. He zipped up his backpack, put it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.
“Mamá!” Damián called. “I’m going to Abuela and Abuelo’s!”
Mamá was folding towels. “Be sure to help your grandparents.” She stopped to give Damián a big hug. “I know you like to go to church with them. Have a nice time tomorrow.”
“I will!” said Damián. But I wish you would come with me, he thought.
Damián walked to the bus stop. Every Saturday, he took the bus across his town in Ecuador to Abuela and Abuelo’s house. He stayed the night with them. Then he went to church with them the next day.
On Sunday morning, Damián got dressed for church. He buttoned his shirt. He put on his shoes. Then he walked to church with Abuela and Abuelo.
Damián liked church. He liked to sing the songs and take the sacrament. He liked to see his friends too. But he wished the rest of his family was with him.
That afternoon, Damián, Abuela, and Abuelo walked over to Brother and Sister Ruiz’s house. They were going to have home evening together. Abuela brought a dish of flan for dessert.
The lesson was about Jesus. Damián colored a picture of Jesus while he listened to the lesson. “Jesus understands everything we feel,” Brother Ruiz said. “Even when we feel sad.”
Damián looked at his picture of Jesus. It made him happy that Jesus knew how he felt.
After the closing prayer, Abuela said, “I brought flan. Who wants some?”
“Me!” Damián said. The creamy, sweet dessert was Damián’s favorite! And Abuela made the best flan.
After home evening, Abuela walked with Damián to the bus stop so he could go home. Damián looked down at the ground.
“Is something wrong?” Abuela asked.
Damián frowned. “I wish the rest of my family came to church with us.”
“Me too,” Abuela said. She gave Damián a hug. “But your family loves you very much. And so do Abuelo and I and many others!”
The bus pulled up. Damián sat by the window and waved to Abuela as the bus drove away.
Damián thought about what Abuela had said. He thought about Mamá and his brother and sister. He knew they loved him so much. Then he thought about his Primary teacher. And the Ruiz family. And Abuela and Abuelo. They all loved him too.
Most of all, Damián knew Heavenly Father and Jesus loved him. And that made him feel not so lonely anymore

“Put your foot inside this shoe,” seminary teacher Tatyana Mutilina said, holding out a boot nearly large enough for Goliath. Her student Anzhelika Kovalova timidly placed her foot inside.
“Now,” the teacher said, “put it here on the table where everyone can see.”
That got the class’s attention.
“Don’t go on a journey wearing shoes that don’t fit,” Sister Mutilina said. Then she taught the Kharkovsky Branch youth a powerful lesson from the seminary manual, reading scriptures, discussing questions, and bearing her testimony of how important it is to be prepared when the Lord calls upon you.
The point? “That the future of the Church in Ukraine will require youth like us to step forward,” Anzhelika says. “We need to be ready for the challenge.”

I started skiing when I was five years old, and I have always loved the sport. For many years I thought, Wouldn’t it be wonderful to ski for the United States Olympic team! Finally, when I was old enough to go on a mission, I was given the chance to be an alternate for the United States team.
The Olympics! It was something I had worked for and dreamed about for years. Fortunately I had a very wise bishop, who happened to be my father. When I asked him, “Would the family be just as proud of me if I skied for the United States Olympics team instead of serving a mission?” his answer was, “That’s not for the family to decide; it’s your choice.” He urged me to fast and pray about it. I took his advice, and then I knew which choice was right: I should serve a mission.
I was called to the Western Canadian Mission. For as long as I can remember, I have known that the Church is true, but my mission helped strengthen my testimony even more and helped me appreciate what a testimony really is. My mission changed my life, and I have never regretted making the decision to serve. This experience taught me the importance of always choosing the right, just as you children are taught in Primary today.

My bishop has helped me by encouraging me and giving me opportunities to strengthen my talents.
Knowing that I played the piano, he asked me one day if I wanted to learn how to play the organ. I had always thought it would be fun to learn, but my bishop was the one who really encouraged me to start. He helped me get in contact with the ward organist so she could help me get started, and it’s been going really well! Every time my bishop sees me practicing, he compliments me and asks about the next time I’ll be playing in sacrament meeting.
I know my bishop sees my potential, and I’m grateful for his constant encouragement. He has helped me learn and grow in ways I would not have been able to on my own.
Aubrey B., California, USA

When she was 21, she married Marcus in the Salt Lake Temple. Soon after their marriage they traveled east to Chicago where he entered school to become a dentist. He was in school during the Great Depression, and in order to help him achieve his goal, Ruth decided to find a job. There was a typing job open, but she couldn’t type.

She could, however, make her fingers fly over those piano keys, and she felt she could make her fingers learn anything. So for two solid weeks she riveted her fingertips to the keyboard of a manual typewriter and taught herself to type. Out of the 81 applicants for the job, she was selected!

Then World War II began and Marc was sent to sea. Ruth decided to wait in her parents’ home, and it proved to be a long, frightening vigil. But Marc was preserved to see his and Ruth’s family expand to three daughters and a son. And as Nancy, Allyson, Judd, and Jennie Jo each entered the Funk home and the family began sinking deeper roots in Salt Lake City, Ruth was given responsible callings in addition to being a good mother and supportive wife.

Rebecca Johnson, blonde and 17, checked off a long list. Everything was nearly ready for the seminary pageant in Cardston, Alberta, Canada: the sets, the props, the music, the costumes, the actors—well, almost all of the actors. Rebecca winced when she looked down at the cast list. Tracy Watson, who played the lead female role of Lucy Mack Smith, was sick. The pageant was scheduled to open the following night, and there wasn’t time for a replacement to learn Tracy’s part.
“When I walked in that night,” Tracy later explained, “Brother Wilcox took one look at me and asked what was wrong.
“I was really sick. I told him I felt weak, that I was drained. He asked if I was going to make it through the pageant. I just didn’t know.
“‘You might just have to find a new Lucy Mack,’ I said.”
Tracy paused in telling the story, her eyes moist.
“Then Brother Wilcox and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder gave me a blessing.
“During the blessing I had a good feeling come over me. It’s hard to explain. I didn’t feel weak anymore. I felt strong.”
The following night the pageant opened its first performance that year in the Cardston Second and Third wards’ cultural hall. After months of work, preparation, and study, the cast and crew of over 100 seminary students were ready, including Tracy.
An opening prayer was said. The house lights dimmed. From high up on scaffolds light crews flooded a corner of the hall with bright spots. A piano started playing softly in the background. Two narrators, playing checkers, introduced the audience to the story.
“Why that’s an old revival song! Those camp meetings, remember those days?”
“Yes, that’s how it was when the Church got started, wasn’t it?”
One of the narrators rose, picked up a coat and an old Bible, moved toward a camp scene on the stage, and sat in the congregation.
“As I recall,” the narrator said, “it was in about 1820 in upper New York State when it all began.”
The preacher in front of the congregation came suddenly to life, bringing his fist down hard on the pulpit, and began to preach a fiery sermon. The Smith family was in the congregation.
It was the prelude to Joseph Smith’s first vision and the beginning of the Restoration. The pageant dramatized early Church history, moving from the First Vision, to the publishing of the Book of Mormon, to the Kirtland period, and finally to Carthage Jail, and was centered around the life of Joseph Smith.
Don Schiedler, who played the role of Brigham Young, later explained the purpose of the pageant and its dramatization of Church history. “We take what we learn in seminary and put it into action in the pageant,” he said. “When you put history or the scriptures into a play, it brings it to life. Portraying just a small part of what Brigham Young did is something I’ll remember all of my life.”
Besides studying the historical background for the pageant in seminary classes, the members of the cast were asked to do outside research on the characters they played. This extra involvement in the characterization of great men in Church history had a strong effect on several of the students.
After a performance Marlin Hogg talked of his role as Hyrum Smith. “It’s a good feeling,” he said, “to put yourself in the place of such a great man.”
Marlin stopped and loosened his tie that had been styled after one popular during the 1800s.
“I never realized until the pageant that the things Hyrum and Joseph endured together were incredible. While playing Hyrum’s part I tried to feel some of the courage and faith he had to have to endure the jails and persecution—what he must have gone through. I had to build myself up to reach his stature, even just a part of it. You can’t try to feel what he felt and be what he was and not be changed by it.”
Jack Stone, who was in charge of the first seminary pageant several years ago in Cardston, told of another student who had been changed by the annual event.
“One student,” Brother Stone said, “who had become inactive and dropped out of seminary, asked to be in the pageant at the last minute. We had a few extra costumes and there were several crowd scenes, so we put him in those. That year the pageant was on the Book of Mormon. As we sang the finale, the entire cast came down on the stage. It was the part in the Book of Mormon where Christ visits the people in America after his resurrection. We sang ‘I Know That My Redeemer Lives.’ It was a touching scene. I remember looking over at the boy and seeing tears stream down his cheeks. He’d been changed because of his involvement.”
Members of the cast and crew are not the only ones affected by the pageant. The students involved this year created enough interest in Church history for a special adult class to be held in the seminary, and the pageant played to a full house at all three of its performances.
Rod Brandham, Porter Rockwell in the pageant, told of this year’s pageant’s effect on him and on the audiences it played to.
“The pageant is centered around the Prophet Joseph Smith and the sacrifices he made for the gospel. When you’re on the stage during the scenes where he is persecuted and jailed, and especially after his death at Carthage, you can hear some of the audience crying and it almost makes you cry. You have to fight hard to hold it inside until the performance is over, until the final song.”
Rod hesitated, clearing his throat.
“I love that man for what he did.”
At the end of every performance, the entire cast came on stage and sang “Praise to the Man” as a tribute to the man whose greatness and courage some of the students had discovered or rediscovered in the pageant. After the second verse, the audience joined in the singing, and there were few dry eyes.

Maddie R., 13, in Virginia, has a “Dad’s box,” where she keeps her father’s letters and pictures. She e-mails him regularly so he doesn’t feel left out. “My dad used to ask me to go on bike rides with him, but I usually said no and didn’t think much about it. But now I would give almost anything to spend time with him,” she says. “I just want people to not take their parents for granted. You never know what will happen. Sometimes my dad is gone for a short time, sometimes he’s gone for a long time, and sometime,” she pauses for a moment, thinking, “it might just be for the rest of my life.”