Gospel Story Finder

Sergei Leliukhin was such a person. Sergei’s wife, Irina, had been baptized into the predominant church while living briefly with her grandmother. When the couple’s daughter, Marina, asked to be baptized into that church in 1990, Sergei began to reflect on the importance of religion.
“I started reading many religious books. … The central point I came to understand was that for a believer, the church is the foundation of one’s life. When I knew I could find the strength within myself to lead a religious life, I decided to be baptized.”
Sergei and Marina were baptized into the Orthodox church in November 1990. But they continued to feel a spiritual hunger. While on a business trip in June 1992 to Donetsk, Ukraine, Sergei met some Latter-day Saints. He was curious about their beliefs but unable to accept an invitation to join them at a Sunday meeting. Four months later he received another chance.
“I was walking home from work along the main street of the city,” Sergei recalls. “Ahead of me I saw two young men wearing backpacks. Walking quickly, I passed them and approached a green traffic light. I could have quickly crossed the street, but an unfamiliar [feeling] prevented me from continuing.
“These two young men caught up with me and asked me how to get to one of the streets in the city. I said I could show them to the street. While we walked together for about 10 minutes, these missionaries told me about their church. At the end of our conversation, we agreed to meet at my apartment.”
A few days later the Leliukhins joined the missionaries at the first Church meeting held in Saratov, located 675 kilometers southeast of Moscow. “We very much liked the atmosphere at the meeting,” Sergei says. “After the service I had a desire to pray, which I did when the missionaries came over for the second discussion.”
After completing the discussions, the family members were baptized in November 1992. They learned the gospel quickly, served cheerfully, and fellowshipped others joyfully.
“The opportunity to serve the Lord in his Church has helped us in our spiritual development,” says President Leliukhin, who became the first branch president in Saratov. “We feel our own growth so much as we try to help other Saints grow.”
The family’s baptism left them confident and happy but caused concern among some of their relatives. “After our baptism we encountered misunderstandings and even some aggressiveness from our relatives,” President Leliukhin recalls. “But we were confident we would endure. Even though a total understanding is still far away, relations toward us have become more tolerant.”
The Leliukhins were sealed in the Stockholm Sweden Temple in March 1995. Today President Leliukhin serves as a district president in Saratov.

Grandson Morgan Jones, 17, Layton (Utah) Valley View Third Ward, has shared his favorite party with several of his nonmember friends. “The year I turned 12, Grandma invited former Church Patriarch Eldred G. Smith (Hyrum Smith’s great-grandson) and his wife, Hortense. They brought Hyrum’s watch, sunglasses, and the clothes he was wearing when the brothers were martyred in the Carthage Jail, as well as a box the Prophet had kept the Book of Mormon plates in while he was translating them in his home.
“Some of my friends were taking the missionary discussions, and I was able to express the feelings I experienced at my grandma’s birthday party that year. The Spirit was so strong. I can’t wait to go on my mission and bear witness of the First Vision and my Savior.”

The youth of the North Logan Third Ward, North Logan Utah Stake, completed a service project that literally changed the life of one sister in their ward.
Carol Hansen has degenerative palsy, which has confined her to a wheelchair. Every one of the 67 Young Men and Young Women in the ward participated in a fundraising effort to buy Sister Hansen a motorized scooter, which she needed because she did not have the strength to manipulate her wheelchair by herself. The scooter has fingertip controls and a hydraulic lift, providing her with a degree of independence.
The youth power raked lawns, cleaned away orchard prunings, and did general yard cleanup for neighbors and ward members. They cleared gardens; took down fences; washed windows, walls, and floors; prepared and painted house trim; catered a barbecue; and sold donated apple juice. Whatever needed to be done, they did.
The money was raised, the scooter purchased, and the presentation was made one activity night. A delighted sister now “drives” herself to church, does her visiting teaching, and is able to get around her own house. And every time the youth of the ward see her, they feel good knowing they helped.

It was really hard for me when we moved from Idaho to Utah. After moving all my life, I thought we were finally going to stay put. One day while at our library I happened to pick up the February 1985 New Era. I read “A Small Light in the Darkness.” It hit me hard what I needed to do. I needed to be doing what that boy was doing. I needed to set a good example too. Even though we’ve moved a lot, I’ve always had the New Era as a friend. Thank you for being a friend.
Barbara JacobMagna, Utah

The first time I went duck hunting, I was ten years old. My dad wanted to spend some time with his boys because his Church job and his job as a lawyer had taken so much of his time. He suggested that we go duck hunting at a lake an hour outside of St. George, Utah. My older brother, Michael, was excited about the trip. I didn’t know what to expect, but I felt happy to sit alongside my brother and my dad in the pickup truck.
When we got there, we crawled on our hands and knees to the edge of the lake. The frozen ground felt hard underneath my hands. I peered over the water, looking for some ducks. My fourteen-year-old brother stood up and shot at the few birds on the lake as they were taking off. When the birds cleared away from the lake, I could see one dark bird left floating on the water. My dad realized that we didn’t have a dog to fetch the dead duck out of the water, so he said that he would get it.
The water was freezing at that time of year, and my brother and I were thankful that he had volunteered. Dad took off his shoes and his jacket and waded into the lake. He swam until he reached some reeds, where he stopped to grab onto them to catch his breath. Unfortunately the reeds were not strong enough to hold him up, so he treaded water for a while.
When he finally made it to the bird, he held it up and called to us, “It’s a mud hen.”
A mud hen is different from a duck because it is not good to eat. My brother groaned and shook his head at the effort Dad had made for an uneatable mud hen.
Dad started to swim back. Suddenly he yelled that he was in trouble. He could not get enough air, and he couldn’t swim anymore. I can still remember seeing him sink in the water. He came up again and thrashed around in an effort to stay afloat.
“We have to go get him!” Michael cried. He had earned swimming and life-saving merit badges and had the presence of mind to realize this was an emergency.
Fear flashed through my body. I began to take off my shoes and jacket because I thought that I shouldn’t try to swim with all my clothes on. Meanwhile, Michael could see that there was no time to take off anything. So with all of his clothes on, he dove into the water and swam out just before Dad went under for the second time. He grabbed Dad and used the Boy Scout lifesaving technique to bring him back to the shore.
When they finally reached the shore, they were both breathing heavily. Dad had inhaled a lot of freezing water and felt so tired that he could barely walk. My brother and I wrapped him in blankets to keep him warm during the drive home. I knew that Dad had come very close to drowning. My heart thumped inside my chest the entire ride home because I felt so scared.
My older brother saved Dad’s life. As I watched Michael swim out to save Dad, I felt very thankful that my brother had learned what to do in Scouts. At age ten, I knew that I could not have saved my dad. I was not strong enough, I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do even if I had gone out there. Michael did. Later, the Boy Scouts of America awarded him its highest honor—a gold medal for saving a life.

by Scott Richards
Brian Rasmussen of the High River Ward, Calgary Alberta South Stake, recently became the youngest commercial airplane pilot ever licensed in Canada.
He received his commercial license on March 18, 1981, the day of his 18th birthday.
Brian first enrolled in flying lessons when he was 16 years old, and since that time, he has proven to be a very dedicated and talented pilot. By the time he turned 17, Brian had flown 35 hours and had passed five exams and a flight test to qualify for his private pilot’s license. In receiving his private license, Brian set a record by becoming the youngest private pilot ever licensed in western Canada.
After achieving that goal, Brian set his sights higher and kept on working. Between his 17th and 18th birthdays, Brian logged another 115 hours flight time to bring his “in air” total to 150 hours. He also passed another flight test and written exam and participated in 30 hours of classroom instruction. By the time his 18th birthday arrived, Brian had qualified to become Canada’s youngest commercial pilot. In addition to his flying, Brian also finds time to work on his dad’s farm and participate in Church activities. When he turns 19, Brian plans to serve a mission.

During the annual First Presidency Christmas Devotional in December 2004, members of the First Presidency taught and testified of the Savior’s significance and encouraged members to make the Lord’s life their example.
“God be thanked for the gift of His glorious Son, the only perfect man ever to walk the earth,” said President Gordon B. Hinckley. “There is none to excel Him. There is none to compare with Him. He is the great example for all of us, our revered teacher and, most importantly, our Redeemer.”
Members of the Church tuned in to the annual devotional by satellite, Internet, television, and radio to watch or listen as the First Presidency, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and the Orchestra at Temple Square focused on the Savior.
“Our Conference Center here in Salt Lake City is filled with people, and our image, as we speak, travels … across the earth—to lands of winter and lands of summer,” President Hinckley said. “We are all together as one great family to sing and speak of the joys of Christmas.”
He Lives
President Hinckley taught of the Savior’s mortal life from beginning to end, from birth to Atonement. “Let us never forget as we celebrate Christmas with song and story, with gifts and mundane baubles, the greater message that Jesus Christ, the Firstborn of the Father, came into the world that ‘the world through him might be saved’ (John 3:17).
“Let us remember always that through His infinite Atonement salvation will come to all, and the opportunity for exaltation will be afforded those who walk in obedience to His commandments.”
President Hinckley also testified of the Savior’s continued ministry after His death and in years to come: “He has come again to usher in a dispensation. And He will come yet again in clouds of glory to usher in a millennium and reign as King of Kings and Lord of Lords.”
The President of the Church also honored the Prophet Joseph Smith, born 199 years ago. President Hinckley added his testimony to that of the dispensation’s first prophet regarding the Savior, saying, “He lives, resplendent, magnificent, the wondrous Lord Immanuel. He lives, the Eternal Son of the Ever Living Father. He lives, the Great Creator, the Jehovah of the Old Testament, the Savior of the New, the Wondrous Light in a dark and troubled world. He lives to bless us, to teach us, to heal us, to touch our troubled hearts, to give substance to our greatest dreams, to assure the immortality of our souls.”
In His Footsteps
President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, explained that “to catch the real meaning of the Spirit of Christmas, we need only drop the last syllable, and it becomes the Spirit of Christ.”
He testified: “With the birth of the babe in Bethlehem, there emerged a great endowment, a power stronger than weapons, a wealth more lasting than the coins of Caesar. … Born in a stable, cradled in a manger, He came forth from heaven to live on earth as mortal man and to establish the kingdom of God. His glorious gospel reshaped the thinking of the world.
“At this blessed season of the year, as we follow in the Savior’s footsteps, we too will have an opportunity to bless the lives of others.”
President Monson taught: “There is no better time than now … for all of us to rededicate ourselves to the principles taught by Jesus the Christ.”
Agents of God
President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, related the story of a man who had no money to buy his father a Christmas gift during the Great Depression, so he gave him a diary in which he had recorded a good deed he had done every day that year.
“We are each the agents of our Father in Heaven to do Christlike deeds for [the] Father’s children, even as [the Savior] offered to do in the grand premortal council when He said, ‘Here am I, send me’ (Abr. 3:27). ‘Father, thy will be done, and the glory be thine forever’ (Moses 4:2).”

The minute Robert woke up he knew the weather was still stormy. He was glad. Maybe I can stay home from school today, he thought.
Ever since he and his parents had moved to Pinehills in late summer, Robert had been unhappy. Each school morning when he awoke he felt a nagging dread in his stomach.
Robert dressed and went into the kitchen where his mother and father stood in the doorway, looking out at the dark day. He was still clinging to the hope that his mother would let him stay home, but all she said was, “Be sure and wear your warm shirt, Robert.” There was not a word about staying home.
A horse’s hooves sounded outside. A man called, “Ready, Mr. Shaft?”
Robert’s father answered, “Be right with you,” as he put on his yellow slicker and hat.
“Are you going to help build up the dam on Indian River?” Robert asked his father.
“Yes. Every man in town is needed there, Robert. After a week of rain Pinehills’ reservoir is in danger of spilling over.”
Robert’s mother looked worried. “Indian River runs right beside the schoolhouse,” she said. “What if the dam should break?”
Robert’s father tried to ease her concern. “Don’t worry, Mother,” he said. “We’ll be there to watch it all day.”
After his father had gone Robert sat down at the table. He wasn’t hungry and he wanted to say, “I don’t feel well, Mother,” or, “Maybe I should stay home to be with you,” but she would know he was only making excuses.
“Eat your breakfast or you’ll be late for school,” Mother insisted, so Robert choked down a few mouthfuls and then, with dragging footsteps, he set out under gray clouds that sagged nearly to the tops of the trees. Down the hill he trudged, his feet swishing through the wet leaves. He sniffed the brown smell of mud. I wish I could walk to some faraway, enchanted place and never have to go to school again, he thought.
But Robert soon reached the clearing where the one-room schoolhouse stood.
Two girls immediately ran up to meet him. Freckled Rebecca skipped on one side of Robert, and Patricia walked on the other side of him. Together they chanted, “Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea, Silver buckles on his knee. He’ll come back and marry me. Pretty Bobby Shafto.”
Then both girls giggled and Robert continued on to school, feeling miserable and lonely. He couldn’t remember who first used the nursery rhyme to tease him, but soon every child in school began chanting, “Pretty Bobby Shafto!” whenever they saw him. Robert felt he didn’t have a single friend.
When he reached the schoolhouse, Robert slumped in his seat in the back row where he was the only sixth-grader. He watched the teacher write words on the chalkboard. Robert thought Miss Parker was the one pleasant thing about school.
Turning around she asked, “Has the rain started again, Robert?”
“No, Ma’am, but the clouds are full,” he answered.
“Oh, dear,” Miss Parker said, looking worriedly out the window. “Maybe I should send the children home. Indian River runs so near the school.”
“My father said every man in town is watching the dam,” Robert told her.
“Well, then I’ll begin school,” she said. “Will you please ring the bell for me?”
Students hurried past Robert as he stood beside the door clanging the brass bell. No one spoke to him except to whisper, “Pretty Bobby Shafto!” or tease, “Where’s the silver buckles for your knee?”
Slumped in his seat, Robert watched Miss Parker as she listened to the first-graders read. He couldn’t help smiling when Amy Andrews read aloud. She looked too tiny to be in school.
A rumble of thunder and a crackle of lightning made Robert and the other children jump. Just as Miss Parker said, “Don’t be frightened!” another rumbling noise shook the schoolhouse. It was the loudest sound Robert had ever heard, a heavy shuddering rumble very different from thunder.
Everyone in the room except Robert sat so still they appeared frozen. He rushed to the door and shouted, “The dam broke! Here comes the water!”
The boys and girls began to cry as Miss Parker ran to the door and stood beside Robert. They looked out at the water swirling and roaring only a few feet away from where they stood. No longer held by the dam, the water leaped from the riverbed, rushing toward the schoolhouse. Water was coming inside the schoolroom now and Robert’s feet were wet.
“Robert, help me push my desk under the attic trapdoor,” Miss Parker directed. “Then lift the children up to me if you can.”
Robert and the teacher shoved the desk beneath the little opening in the ceiling. He put a chair on the table, then climbed up to push the door aside and helped her into the attic.
“Get in line by grades,” she called down. “Youngest first. Robert will lift you up to me.”
One by one, as the water rose higher in the room, the children climbed onto the desk. Straining, Robert lifted each child high enough for Miss Parker to grab his wrists and pull him into the dim, dry attic.
When the last child in line was safely inside Robert started to climb up himself. “Amy? Where’s Amy Andrews?” Miss Parker called.
The other children cried, “She isn’t here! Where’s Amy?”
Robert jumped off the desk into the still-rising water and began to search the schoolroom. He finally found Amy clinging to a chair that had floated into a corner.
“Put your arms around my neck, Amy,” Robert told her. “Hold tight so I can lift you into the attic.”
But Robert’s legs weren’t strong enough to carry both of them through the swirling water. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t reach the desk.
Up in the attic the children kept calling, “Come on, Robert!” He saw Miss Parker’s anxious expression just as the rushing water swept him off his feet and through the open door.
Robert never knew exactly what happened next. He only remembered swimming as hard as he could with Amy’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Then they were on a log that swept them swiftly downstream.
Robert couldn’t tell where they were. Sometimes it seemed he and Amy stayed in one place while trees and houses rushed by. Other times he looked down at the racing water and grew so dizzy he was afraid he would fall off the log. Then he’d shut his eyes and tell Amy softly, “Don’t let go!”
At a place where the river curved, the log slammed into a high bank and stuck there, but Robert knew he couldn’t climb the steep, muddy bank. His legs felt like soaked wood and it was almost more than he could do to hang onto the log with his weary arms. Amy was crying and Robert held her close as he prayed, “Heavenly Father, please send someone to find us.”
The long hours seemed to creep slowly by. At last the most welcome sound Robert had ever heard came from the bank above them. It was his father’s voice. “Here they are!” he shouted. “I’ve found Robert and Amy and they’re alive!”
It was two weeks before the flood damage was cleaned up and the school could reopen. And as Robert set out through the early morning sunshine he wondered how it would seem to be back in the schoolroom again. He was glad he had been able to help Miss Parker but he dreaded the teasing of the children as much as ever.
Walking slowly, Robert was nearly to the schoolhouse when he heard someone shout, “Here he comes!” Then someone else called, “It’s our Bobby Shaft who went to sea!”
Suddenly Robert was surrounded by all the boys and girls in the little school. Everyone was happy to see him. And even the old nursery rhyme sounded good when Amy Andrews ran up, slipped her small hand inside of Robert’s big one and said, “My pretty Bobby Shafto!”

In the early Church, Parley P. Pratt felt disgruntled with the Prophet Joseph Smith and chose to criticize him and the Church. When John Taylor, whom Parley taught the gospel, came to town, Parley took him aside and warned him not to follow Joseph. John Taylor said to Parley:
“Before you left Canada, you bore a strong testimony to Joseph Smith being a prophet of God, … and you said you knew these things by revelation and the gift of the Holy Ghost.
“… I now have the same testimony that you then rejoiced in. If the work was true six months ago, it is true today. If Joseph Smith was then a prophet, he is now a prophet.”

I was 16 and playing my new rock-and-roll album for the first time. Unfortunately, as I listened, I was disappointed to hear a vulgar word in the last song. I was embarrassed. I knew my parents would not approve—the record didn’t meet our family’s standards. But I liked the rest of the songs, so whenever I played the record, I turned down the volume just before the offensive word was sung.
My well-meaning sister told my father about my album. Later, when he and I were in the dining room, he shared his concern about the inappropriate word. Although his comment was said in a kind manner, I dug in and stubbornly defended my position.
I used every argument I could think of to convince my dad that I should keep the record. “I didn’t know that word was on the album when I bought it,” I said, “and when that song plays, I turn it down.”
When he said I should still get rid of the record, I said, “If you think that, then I should quit school too! I hear that word—and worse ones—every day at school!”
He began to get frustrated. He reemphasized that we shouldn’t have vulgar music in our home. The argument escalated as I said there were worse sins I could commit and that I never used that word.
I tried to turn the tables: “I try so hard to be good, and then you focus on this one little thing and think I’m an evil sinner!”
Even so, my father wouldn’t back down. Neither would I. I marched upstairs to my room, slammed the door, and lay on my bed, seething. I rehearsed my argument over and over in my head, entrenching myself deeper in my flawed logic and convincing myself I was right.
Ten minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. It was Dad. His countenance had changed. He wasn’t there to argue. “I’m sorry I got angry,” he said. “Will you forgive me?” He told me how much he loved me and that he thought highly of me. He didn’t preach. He didn’t give me counsel. Then he turned and quietly left the room.
A thousand sermons on humility could never have been more powerful to me. I was no longer angry with him, just with myself for being so stubborn and difficult. I fetched the record, snapped it in two, and threw it away. I don’t know if I ever told Dad what I did, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had learned that my dad valued our relationship more than his own pride, even when he had been in the right.

In those early years of artificial kidney development, the expense and lack of facilities meant that treatment was restricted to a few fortunate people. Kidney center personnel were responsible to determine who would receive treatment and who would not. As I approached the artificial kidney center, my application seemed a bit lacking. I was, after all, single with no dependents, no real income, and no resources. But I did have something that encouraged me—a super family. And the doctors knew it. They reasoned that because I had such close and supportive family, I would always have people around to help take care of me. This made me a good candidate for a new experimental kidney machine which can be used at home—and perhaps someday, even for a kidney transplant.

I learned a great deal during those three years I was on the kidney machine. My faith in the Lord grew as I watched his hand guiding my life. I was close to my family, and in spite of the kidney machine I loved life more than ever before. I had never been so free, nor as happy. Yet, I yearned to be rid of my mechanical companion.

This goal, like so many others, became a family project. We often spent family home evenings and family interviews discussing alternatives to being on the kidney machine and the justifications for a kidney transplant.
I recall one memorable week when the family was all together after an extended period of separation. Missions, marriages, and college had scattered us across the globe for a number of years. Then Christmas of 1970, like a magnet, brought us all back home again.
During that week we spent a great deal of time talking about my health. We had all researched the possibility of a kidney transplant, and each member of the family had personally volunteered to donate one of their kidneys to me.
One afternoon while playing basketball with my brothers, I stepped back for a moment and watched them play. Each was a superb athlete. Craig had been a contender for the Olympic swimming team; he was now married and had a family. Barry had been one of the best football players in the state and was now an expert snow skier. And Kevin was one of the best high school basketball players in the state.
“Thanks anyway,” I thought as my eyes brimmed with tears. “I love you all for the desires of your hearts, but I simply don’t feel right about it.”
With Christmas over, Barry returned to Brigham Young University and Craig and his family returned to their home in California. I eagerly busied myself with missionary labors, and all returned to normal.
Then one evening a marvelous and unexpected event occurred during family prayers. My father said the prayer, and when the prayer was completed we all knew what was to transpire. With tears in our eyes we discussed our feelings. Yes, each had felt the same confirmation. We should go ahead with the transplant.
In retrospect, that decision may have been the greatest miracle of all. Logic and personal feelings just didn’t matter anymore; we knew what the Spirit had directed.
That evening I made a long-distance phone call to my brother Barry in Provo, Utah, and talked with him about the transplant. I explained to him the answer we had received and asked him to pray about it. But Barry eagerly accepted immediately saying he had prayed about it many times and was simply awaiting my call. I told him we could wait until June, but the next day he dropped his classes and came home.
After Barry arrived, however, the surgical team discovered that he had developed an immunity to Parrot’s Fever while serving his mission in Mexico, and they feared a reaction to the medications necessary after the transplant. To Barry’s deep disappointment, it was determined that his kidney was not transplantable.
About two weeks later, we had another of those extra special family home evenings. And again we felt impressed to proceed with a kidney transplant. Again I went to the phone and called a brother, this time my older brother, Craig. Again I received a positive response.
Within a week, Craig, his wife Penny, and their one-year-old son Jason flew in from California. That same afternoon I went to the hospital, and Craig was admitted the next day.
Our names were placed on the prayer rolls of six temples from London to Los Angeles by friends of the family.
The night before surgery we held family home evening in my hospital room. At one point I tried to tell the family that it didn’t seem worth the risk or sacrifice required of my brother to attempt that transplant. But Dad looked at me soberly, put a hand on my shoulder, and softly said, “We all feel that this is what the Lord wants, and your brother is proud to be able to do it. Remember, Brent, we’ll all live to see you running across the park lawn again, with that large grin of yours.”
Surgery began the next morning at 6:00 A.M. with my nurse giving me a sedative before the operation. At the end of the day I opened my eyes to see my parents close to my bed. I was back in my hospital room, and I knew everything was all right.
I remember seeing other members of the family briefly that evening. But I couldn’t find Craig. “How is Craig? Where is my brother?”
A familiar hand rested on my shoulder, and I heard my mother’s voice: “Brent, Craig is fine and your new kidney is fine, too.” With those words I went to sleep. “Thanks, Father in Heaven. Thanks, Craig. Thanks a lot, family.”
During those first few days after my transplant, I got a feeling that something was wrong when I looked at the troubled faces of my parents and brothers. All was not well with Craig. By the third day I was sure he had died and no one would tell me about it. Actually, he hadn’t died. But he was very ill and having a difficult time recovering from his part of the surgery.
On the afternoon of the third day, my father and brother carried Craig to see me. He was the color of a ripe banana. With a half smile on his face he said, “How’s it going, brother?” At that moment, seeing his pain and considering his sacrifice, I knew what love was and what having a family meant.
Two days later, the medical reports indicated that my body was rejecting the new kidney. It appeared that we had failed. Drastic medical measures were taken, but with little success. As it turned out, the most powerful aid of all was prayer. Etched deeply into my soul is the memory of many nights when family members knelt around my bed and one by one prayed to our Father in Heaven. I listened as my brothers wept, praying that I might live. Then, silently, none of us able to speak, we’d touch hands to say good-night. And they were good nights, for we each experienced the pure love of Christ.
My body’s rejection of the kidney was finally overcome; Craig, too, rapidly regained his health and strength. Today, my doctors report that I am one of the healthiest kidney recipients in history. I have a beautiful wife, two sons, and a daughter. Craig, now the father of three, lives a normal life surrounded by people who still don’t know why he made that quick trip to Seattle, Washington, several years ago.
I can testify that one of the greatest joys of mortality comes when a family is spiritually united in seeking the Lord’s aid and comfort. I am awed by the love displayed in my behalf. When I think about my family I think about the Lord, who is the true head of our gospel family. I think about his love, his devotion, and his willingness to sacrifice for us. And I feel that I have gained a special testimony and appreciation of the atonement of Jesus Christ, for I know what the love and sacrifice of an older brother can mean.

First, some history—the year 1829. Only recently have I come to appreciate what a staggering achievement it was for Joseph Smith to bring forth the Book of Mormon at all. The mere fact that it exists is more of a miracle than many of us realize. Consider, for example, the simple question of how long it took Joseph to translate the Book of Mormon. Many solid and independent historical documents written by people like Lucy Mack Smith, Joseph Knight, David Whitmer, Oliver Cowdery, and even public records like the mortgage on Martin Harris’ farm, thoroughly corroborate the details and reveal an amazing story. After the setbacks of 1828, the translation of the Book of Mormon finally began on April 7, 1829, two days after Oliver Cowdery arrived in Harmony, Pennsylvania, guided by a personal revelation from the Lord to come and serve as Joseph’s scribe. A short five weeks later, by May 15, they had already reached the account of Christ’s ministry among the Nephites in 3 Nephi 11. By June 11, we know they had translated the last of the plates of Mormon, for Joseph used the words from the title page as the legal description on the copyright application he filed that day. By June 30, the job was finished at the Whitmer farmhouse in Fayette, New York. From start to finish—no more than eighty-five total days. But even from that must be subtracted some time and disruption when Joseph and Oliver moved the first week in June in a buckboard from Harmony to Fayette, some 120 miles away; time for trips to Colesville for supplies (sixty miles round trip); time to receive and record thirteen sections now contained in the Doctrine and Covenants; time to restore the Aaronic and Melchizedek priesthoods; time to convert and baptize Samuel and Hyrum Smith and several others; time to experience manifestations with the three and the eight witnesses; and I suppose a little time to eat and sleep.

This leaves only about sixty to sixty-five days on which the Prophet could have worked on the translation—that’s about the length of this spring term. This works out to a phenomenal average of eight or nine finished pages per day—day in, day out. Only a week to produce 1 Nephi, with all its subtle religious and cultural baggage that Hugh Nibley has taken volumes to unpack!

It took a day and a half to translate King Benjamin’s speech, one of the most masterful texts anywhere in religious literature. Besides teaching doctrines about the Atonement, service, humility, conversion, and covenants, the speech also reflects ancient Israelite piety infused with the true gospel of Jesus Christ! Yet there was no time for Joseph to consult at libraries (even if there had been a library in Harmony, Pennsylvania—which there was not). There was no time to study the Mishnah to find out how, in fact, Israelite kings delivered covenant renewal speeches, like Benjamin’s, from towers to their people, who gathered by families in tents around their temple. There was no time to revise and refine, no time to cross-check entangled dates and interwoven details. Instead, the text came, as Oliver recorded five years later, “day after day . . . , uninterrupted,” as the words fell “from his mouth” (see JS—H 1:71n).

Seeing this has brought home to me the magnificence of the text of the Book of Mormon. This was an astonishing achievement. The text came one time through, the final copy was dictated. And thus it has stood, except for minor stylistic editing, to this day. As a lawyer, I know what it is to dictate. After years of practice, I still cannot count on dictating anything perfectly the first time.

Teachers Camron Stewart (right) and James Decker of the Sigonella Branch painted the bus stop at the Navy Air Station Sigonella in Sicily, Italy. With a little help from their youth leaders and a few of the boys’ friends who stopped by to help out, the bus stop looked great after the service project.
The young men had fun painting. Camron summed it up in these words: “It made me feel good, like I was making a difference in my community.”
Branch president Brian Stewart says this project, along with other activities the youth have recently participated in, has opened many doors for the young men to share their beliefs with friends and teachers at school.

And, if you look to the left of the pulpit where Bella bore her testimony of prayer, you’ll see Nicolas, a teacher, putting away the sacrament trays after the meeting.
It might sound strange, but Nicolas’s testimony of the priesthood began with a head injury. “I was Rollerblading down a hill with a mate, and I hit something and cracked the back of my head open.” At 10 inches, the “crack” was more like a canyon, and the doctors said Nicolas would not pull through or he would have severe brain damage. A priesthood blessing from his dad and others in the ward proved the doctors wrong. “That experience gave me quite a shining testimony of the priesthood,” Nicolas says. The Lord preserved his life through the power of the priesthood, and Nicolas plans to honor his priesthood by serving a mission.

Father and Mother Smith experienced personal setbacks, forcing them to move their family numerous times before finally giving up on New England and making the courageous decision to move farther west, to New York State.
Because the family was united, they survived these challenges and together faced the daunting task of starting over again on a hundred-acre (0.4 km2) wooded tract of land in Manchester, near Palmyra, New York.
I am not sure that many of us realize the physical and emotional challenges that starting over presented the Smith family—clearing land, planting orchards and fields, building a small log home and other farm structures, hiring out as day laborers, and making home goods to sell in town.
By the time the family arrived in western New York, the area was ablaze with religious fervor—known as the Second Great Awakening.
During this time of debate and strife among religious parties, Joseph experienced a wondrous vision, known today as the First Vision. We are blessed to have four primary accounts from which I will draw.
Joseph recorded: “During this time of great [religious] excitement my mind was called up to serious reflection and great uneasiness; but though my feelings were deep and often poignant, still I kept myself aloof from all these parties, though I attended their several meetings as often as occasion would permit. … [Yet] so great were the confusion and strife among the different denominations, that it was impossible for a person young as I was, and so unacquainted with men and things, to come to any certain conclusion who was right and who was wrong.”
Joseph turned to the Bible to find answers to his questions and read James 1:5: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”
He noted: “Never did any passage of scripture come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine. It seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart. I reflected on it again and again.”
Joseph came to realize that the Bible did not contain all the answers to life’s questions; rather, it taught men and women how they could find answers to their questions by communicating directly with God through prayer.
He added: “So, in accordance with this, my determination to ask of God, I retired to the woods to make the attempt. It was on the morning of a beautiful, clear day, early in the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty.”
Soon thereafter, Joseph said that “[a pillar of] light rested upon me [and] I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—[Joseph,] This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!”
The Savior then spoke: “Joseph, my son, thy sins are forgiven thee. Go thy way, walk in my statutes, and keep my commandments. Behold, I am the Lord of glory. I was crucified for the world, that all those who believe on my name may have eternal life.”
Joseph added, “No sooner, therefore, did I get possession of myself, so as to be able to speak, than I asked the Personages who stood above me in the light, which of all the sects was right.”
He recalled: “They told me that all religious denominations were believing in incorrect doctrines, and that none of them was acknowledged of God as his church and kingdom. And … at the same time [I] receive[d] a promise that the fulness of the gospel should at some future time be made known unto me.”
Joseph also noted, “I saw many angels in this vision.”
Following this glorious vision, Joseph wrote: “My soul was ?lled with love, and for many days I could rejoice with great joy. … The Lord was with me.”
He emerged from the Sacred Grove to begin his preparation to become a prophet of God.
Joseph also began to learn what ancient prophets experienced—rejection, opposition, and persecution. Joseph recalled sharing what he had seen and heard with one of the ministers who had been active in the religious revival:
“I was greatly surprised at his behavior; he treated my communication not only lightly, but with great contempt, saying it was all of the devil, that there were no such things as visions or revelations in these days; that all such things had ceased with the apostles, and that there would never be any more of them.
“I soon found, however, that my telling the story had excited a great deal of prejudice against me among professors of religion, and was the cause of great persecution, which continued to increase; … and this was common among all the sects—all united to persecute me.”
Three years later, in 1823, the heavens opened again as part of the continuing Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ in the last days. Joseph noted that an angel named Moroni appeared to him and said “that God had a work for me to do … [and that] there was a book deposited, written upon gold plates” that contained “the fulness of the everlasting Gospel … as delivered by the Savior to the ancient inhabitants [of the Americas].”
Eventually, Joseph obtained, translated, and published the ancient record, known today as the Book of Mormon.
His brother Hyrum, who had been his constant supporter, especially following his painful, life-threatening leg operation in 1813, was one of the witnesses of the gold plates. He was also one of the six members of the Church of Jesus Christ when it was organized in 1830.
During their lives, Joseph and Hyrum faced mobs and persecution together. For example, they languished in the most wretched conditions in the Liberty Jail in Missouri for five months during the cold winter of 1838–39.
In April 1839, Joseph wrote his wife Emma describing their situation in Liberty Jail: “I believe it is now about five months and six days since I have been under the grimace of a guard, night and day, and within the walls, grates, and screeching iron doors of a lonesome, dark, dirty prison. … We shall be moved from this [place] at any rate, and we are glad of it. Let what will become of us, we cannot get into a worse hole than this is. … We shall never cast a lingering wish after Liberty in Clay County, Missouri. We have enough of it to last forever.”
In the face of persecution, Hyrum exhibited faith in the Lord’s promises, including a guarantee to escape his enemies if he so chose. In a blessing Hyrum received in 1835 under the hands of Joseph Smith, the Lord promised him: “Thou shalt have power to escape the hand of thine enemies. Thy life shall be sought with untiring zeal, but thou shalt escape. If it please thee, and thou desirest, thou shalt have the power voluntarily to lay down thy life to glorify God.”
In June 1844, Hyrum was presented the choice to live or to lay down his life to glorify God and to “seal his testimony with his blood”—side by side together with his beloved brother Joseph.
A week before the fateful trip to Carthage, where they were murdered in cold blood by an armed mob of cowards who had painted their faces to avoid detection, Joseph recorded that “I advised my brother Hyrum to take his family on the next steamboat and go to Cincinnati.”
I still feel great emotion as I remember Hyrum’s reply: “Joseph, I can’t leave you.’’
So Joseph and Hyrum went to Carthage, where they became martyrs for Christ’s cause and name.
The official announcement of the martyrdom stated the following: “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, … has brought forth the Book of Mormon, which he translated by the gift and power of God, and has been the means of publishing it on two continents; has sent the fulness of the everlasting gospel, which it contained, to the four quarters of the earth; has brought forth the revelations and commandments which compose this book of Doctrine and Covenants, and many other wise documents and instructions for the benefit of the children of men; gathered many thousands of the Latter-day Saints, founded a great city, and left a fame and name that cannot be slain. … And like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, [Joseph] has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood; and so has his brother Hyrum. In life they were not divided, and in death they were not separated!”
Following the martyrdom, Joseph’s and Hyrum’s bodies were returned to Nauvoo, washed, and dressed so the Smith family could see their loved ones. Their precious mother recalled: “I had for a long time braced every nerve, roused every energy of my soul, and called upon God to strengthen me; but when I entered the room, and saw my murdered sons extended both at once before my eyes, and heard the sobs and groans of my family [and] the cries … from the lips of their wives, children, brothers, and sisters, it was too much. I sank back crying to the Lord in the agony of my soul, ‘My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken this family?’”
At that moment of sorrow and distress, she recalled them saying, “Mother, weep not for us; we have overcome the world by love.”
They had indeed overcome the world. Joseph and Hyrum Smith, like those faithful Saints described in the book of Revelation, “came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb [and] are … before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.
“They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.
“For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”
As we celebrate this joyous occasion, the 200th anniversary of the First Vision, we should always remember the price Joseph and Hyrum Smith paid, along with so many other faithful men, women, and children, to establish the Church so you and I could enjoy the many blessings and all of these revealed truths we have today. Their faithfulness should never be forgotten!
I have often wondered why Joseph and Hyrum and their families had to suffer so much. It may be that they came to know God through their suffering in ways that could not have happened without it. Through it, they reflected on Gethsemane and the cross of the Savior. As Paul said, “For unto you it is given in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for his sake.”
Before his death in 1844, Joseph wrote a spirited letter to the Saints. It was a call to action, which continues in the Church today:
“Brethren [and sisters], shall we not go on in so great a cause? Go forward and not backward. Courage, brethren [and sisters]; and on, on to the victory! …
“… Let us, therefore, as a church and a people, and as Latter-day Saints, offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness.”
As we listen to the Spirit during this 200th anniversary celebration this weekend, consider what offering you will present to the Lord in righteousness in the coming days. Be courageous—share it with someone you trust, and most important, please take the time to do it!
I know that the Savior is pleased when we present Him an offering from our hearts in righteousness, just as He was pleased with the faithful offering of those remarkable brothers, Joseph and Hyrum Smith, and all other faithful Saints. Of this I solemnly testify in the sacred and holy name of our Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

I recently met a young woman in the Philippines whose family became less active in the Church when she was only 7 years old, leaving her alone to walk a dangerous road to church week after week. She told how at age 14 she decided that she would stay true to her covenants so she would be worthy to raise her future family in a home “blessed by the strength of priesthood pow’r.”12 The best way to strengthen a home, current or future, is to keep covenants, promises we’ve made to each other and to God.

I’d only been registered for about five minutes when I found out Lincoln High didn’t need a Jason Bennion. The school already had one. “Jason Bennion?” someone had quipped in first period. “You’re no Jason Bennion!” In other classes the students snickered or exchanged smirks.
So finally I asked, “Who is this other Jason Bennion?” Jed Pierce, who sits next to me in AP history, said, “He’s our junior class president.” Then he told me more. He was the only sophomore on the varsity basketball team last year. “You ought to see the range he has on his jump shot.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. In reality I was rather relieved. I wasn’t that great at sports, and it didn’t bother me that this guy was a good athlete. When it came to brain cells, however, mine seemed to absorb information pretty quickly. So, even though the other Jason Bennion was known as Jason Bennion, the Jock, and, okay, the Leader, I could still be known as Jason Bennion, the Mind, the Brains, the Thinker. Couldn’t I?
By sixth period, even those hopes were dashed. “Hmmm,” Mr. Atkins, my calculus teacher, said. “It looks like we have two Jason Bennions this period. I think our original Jason is on some NHS business, so we’ll deal with this when he comes back.” The inside of me felt like it was scraping the floor boards. NHS, I thought. National Honor Society? I was supposed to be the Jason Bennion with the brains.
“So this Jason Bennion is pretty bright,” I said to Phil, seated in front of me.
“More like brilliant,” he said.
“Oh.”
That night as I sat at my desk, I just stared at the still-unloaded boxes around my bed. Finally, after three moves in two years, Dad’s company had said, “This is the place.” Finally, I thought, I’d be in one place long enough to make some friends. I envisioned Omaha as my permanent home, the place where I’d make a name for myself. Now it seemed my name had already been established—but by someone else.
I’d been told all my life that as a member of the Church, I was special. But as I looked in the mirror that was leaning against my closet door, I didn’t feel so special. I’d seen a picture and the write-up on this guy who shared my name on the school’s Wall of Fame. Compared to him, I was nothing but ordinary. I sighed and felt like packing the boxes right back in the truck we’d rented. I wanted out of here.
But I couldn’t do that. So I began consoling myself, thinking that being ordinary wasn’t so bad. Hey, there are a lot of ordinary people in the world, I thought. Suddenly I smiled. I’d seen how some of these athletes strutted around. My very down-to-earth attitude could be my trademark. I could be Jason Bennion, the All-Right, Everyday-Kinda Guy.
I gave up on that idea the following day when Jason Bennion appeared in person in calculus. He had already heard there was a new Jason Bennion at Lincoln High, and he had found out who I was. I was amazed when he walked into class, came up to me, introduced himself and said, “Look, I can go by my middle name. It’s Elliot.”
The class laughed until they realized the guy was serious. He really was willing to go by his middle name. We were in awe. I put out my hand and told him I could go by Jace, and that there was no need for him to change his name. A girl who sat two rows over wasn’t nearly as kind. “Jason goes by ‘Jace’ half the time,” she hissed, with a how-dare-you-hijack-someone’s-name tone to her voice.
Nothing was resolved, so for the next few days I learned to tune out my name. Everywhere I went it was Jason Bennion this and Jason Bennion that. By about my fourth day at Lincoln, I did something unusual for me. I smarted off. After Mr. Penn piled on about six hours of homework, he asked if there were any questions. “Yeah,” I said too loudly. “Where’s the bathroom? I’m getting sicker by the minute.”
Mr. Penn frowned, but those around me grinned. And one girl laughed aloud. This encouraged me to do more damage. Later I was mimicking Mrs. Dale’s way of shoving her glasses up on her nose. It disrupted her explanation on molecular energy, but hey, I was getting laughs. It didn’t matter much that after class I saw Mrs. Dale in her room with her head down rubbing her forehead. Even that didn’t stop me. Oh, I never did anything delinquent. I wasn’t the one who “accidentally” set off the fire alarm. I was only there. And I never sluffed or hung out after midnight with some of the people who had taken an interest in me. A slow death would be easier than dealing with my parents about issues like that. But I did pick up a few new words from these new friends which I used during lunch once in a while. I also began letting a few things slide—like homework.
I’m not sure how long I would have continued being this Jason Bennion whom I didn’t recognize and didn’t feel comfortable being. I suspect about the time midterm grades came out I would have had a change of personality. As things turned out, some words I heard one Friday right after school sped up the process.
I was scanning the list of scores for the last English quiz I hadn’t studied for, half hidden behind Mr. Penn’s door, when I heard someone talking about Jason Bennion again. I was about to tune out when I heard, “No, not the Jason Bennion. The new guy. You know, the Mormon.”
I was stunned. I’d lived in two different Utah cities as well as Boise, Idaho, and never once had I ever been called “the Mormon.” Was that what I was known by here? If these people judged Church members by my actions, I had some shaping up to do—fast.
The next Monday I was back to being the Jason Bennion I was more familiar with, one I liked a lot better. No more acting. No more being somebody I wasn’t. My homework was done, my hair was combed, and my mouth stayed shut—even when I could have said something clever at somebody’s expense.
Some of my new friends gave me puzzled looks at first. Then they began to steer clear of me. I didn’t care. I had an identity now and an image to project. I was Jason Bennion, the Mormon.
As first semester drew to a close I was feeling better about the direction my life was going. Even though basketball season had started and the other Jason Bennion was leading the team in scoring and rebounding, I worked like crazy to make up past assignments and incomplete grades. Once in a while someone would whisper, “He’s a Mormon.” And though the title brought mixed reactions, I’d hold my head a little higher. By second semester, I didn’t see much of the other Jason Bennion. He’d qualified for some kind of university math program and he wasn’t in calculus anymore. Then one day he stopped me in the hall. “Hey, Same Name.” It was a term we’d begun using with each other whenever we spoke.
“I heard something about you.”
“What’s that?”
“I heard you’re a Mormon.”
“I am,” I said.
“We visited Salt Lake when I was a kid,” he continued, “and I was impressed. I like your health code. What is it, the word of what?”
“Wisdom.”
“I think I’ve been living it.”
Figures, I thought.
And then I knew it was my turn. There couldn’t have been a more opportune time to do a little missionary work. I needed to say something about how he could find out more. I needed to invite him to church. I knew I had to do something. The other Jason Bennion stood there for a second or two like there was something else he wanted to say, and then he was off.
“Well, see you, Same Name.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Sleep comes to the peaceful. It didn’t come to me that night. I knew why I hadn’t wanted to say more to the other Jason Bennion. I didn’t want him to know more about the Church. Being a Latter-day Saint was the one thing that kept me out of the pit of anonymity. I had the rest of this year and my senior year to go, and it would be a miserable, lousy year without something to cling to and be known for. It was my identity we were talking about. Yet I knew very well that the Church was more than a title or name. It wasn’t simply someone’s claim to fame. What kind of low-life creature was I? This was Christ’s restored church I was thinking of not sharing. It was obviously time to get some help.
I found my knees and prayed hard and long about my feelings. Then I thought of the words I always say at the end of prayers, “In the name of Jesus Christ.” Those words had more impact than usual as it came to me that this wasn’t just a way to close a prayer. How concerned I’d been about my own name and being important and being somebody. Now the Spirit was letting me know what really makes us of worth isn’t what we do for our own names. It’s what we do for the Savior’s.
I can’t say it came as a surprise to me that a high-quality human being like Jason Bennion would not only show up for the activities I invited him to, but would eagerly absorb the truth. It was a Saturday night, a few months after he first began investigating the Church, when this leader, star athlete, super brain, and one of the most humble and spiritual individuals I’ve ever known took upon himself the same name that I’d taken upon myself. There was a lump in my throat the size of Nebraska when I helped him out of the font after I’d baptized him. And as I listened to his confirmation, as the gift of the Holy Ghost was bestowed on him, I felt a power and a peace like I’d never felt before.
We’re seniors this year. Even though he’s made no secret of the fact he’s planning on a mission, some big-name schools are after Jason. Once in a while these college recruiters call me by mistake, and I let them know I’m the other Jason Bennion. In fact, I guess that’s my title at Lincoln High now—the Other Jason Bennion.
But it’s okay. It really doesn’t matter anymore. The Lord knows who I am, and so do I.

No plush seats. No ornate decor. No subdued lighting. No modern sound system. No ushers. Of course not. After all, this isn’t a concert hall; it’s Montréal’s busiest metro station. And yet it is a concert hall—the home of la Chorale de l’Accueil Bonneau. Under the harsh fluorescent glare of this noisy, cavernous station stand 18 men in black pants, white shirts, and a smattering of caps, berets, scarves, and bandannas. The singers range in age from 22 to 69. Their weathered faces glow with a joy that almost masks the lingering evidence of misfortune and rejection. “Oh happy day!” they sing, and you can’t help but believe them.
A subway train rumbles to a stop and releases a host of Saturday shoppers, weary students, and weekend workers. Many pause to listen. A few step forward and drop coins into a hat resting on the floor where you would expect the director to stand.
The performers don’t look much like a choir. In fact, they look as if someone just pulled them off the street. They don’t act like a choir either. They don’t stand up straight, and they don’t stand still. One of the older singers—sporting a long, shaggy beard—wanders through the crowd, presenting roses to women. During one of the more lively numbers, two of the singers find partners among the listeners and start to dance.
The choir’s repertoire is varied—everything from “Nearer My God to Thee,” straight from the Latter-day Saint hymnbook, to the pop song “California Dreamin’.” Although some of the men have good voices, these are not professionally trained musicians. One of the soloists even sings a bit off-key. But their energy more than compensates for any lack of training or natural ability. They sing with their whole hearts, and it is clear they are enjoying themselves. So is the audience, which changes about every three minutes as trains come and go.
By the end of two hours the hat is nearly full, and the concert is over. Only then is it evident this choir has a leader. As the last song ends and the crowd disperses, a slender man with dark hair, glasses, and a radiant smile steps from the ranks. His name is Pierre Anthian, and the choir, he will tell you, is merely an extension of his religious beliefs.
The choir ascends the stairs to street level. A yellow school bus will soon arrive to take them to a Catholic church on the outskirts of Montréal where they will perform later this evening. The afternoon sun is pleasant, and the autumn leaves, though past their prime, still adorn the city with splashes of faded yellow and rusty red. While waiting for the bus, one choir member, Jean-Louis, tells how the choir has saved him from harmful addictions. “Now I get high on music,” he boasts. Others have similar stories.
It is late Saturday evening. It has been a long day for the choir, and you can tell they are tired only because their voices don’t blend as well as they did earlier in the program and they hit a few painfully flat notes. But the more than 200 listeners at the church don’t seem to mind. The singers still exude the same level of energy they did this afternoon in the metro, and several of them patrol the aisles, pulling people at random from the audience to join them onstage.
The listeners have been treated to hymns and popular songs—but now comes the audience’s favorite part of the concert. The melody and words might be unfamiliar to a visitor from outside Québec, but it is obvious this song has special meaning to the locals. Everyone is standing, holding hands, swaying back and forth in time with the music, singing with his or her whole soul. Tears flow freely. The song ends, and for a magical moment there is only silence. Then the audience, sensing that this was the final number yet not wanting the magic to end, breaks into wild applause and calls for an encore. The choir obliges, not once but twice, and finally the audience lets them go.

About 11 o’clock we drove up to the home of Mons Andersen, and out came Sister Christine Andersen to bid us welcome and put her arms around us one by one and kiss the rest of them. When my turn came, that was something I was not used to, so I didn’t know what to do. For some reason I didn’t run away. A host of neighbor children and aged folks came around us and shook hands with us. I guess they bid us welcome, for I could not understand a word of English. The children were at Sunday School but soon arrived home. They also kissed us welcome, and by that time I was kind of getting used to it. But they surely made us feel at home.
There was another striking thing that helped me on my way toward investigation. It was just when lots of fruit was ripe, such as strawberries, gooseberries, and early apples. Those who have met Sister Andersen know what a loving disposition she had. She said, “Go out and help yourselves.” If it had not been for her loving way, I could barely have thought she meant it. But she surely did. It was something different to what it was in Norway. I was getting closer to joining the church.
Now I hadn’t had time to think of what to do to earn a living in a strange land with a strange language. On Friday morning, July 26, 1872, there came a man to the house of Mons Andersen who wanted a boy to help him in the field. His name was Peter Petersen. My wages were $8.00 a month. I worked with him 20 months. I must now tell a little that happened in that time. It was customary at that time that newcomers should be rebaptized. So Peter Petersen’s wife, Karen Larsen Petersen, told me, “There will be baptisms today. So you must hitch up the horses and take these people down to the mill pond to be baptized. And you must be baptized too.” I told her I would be glad to take them down, but I was not ready for baptism yet.
That coming winter I started to go to school so I could learn a little English. I had also gone with Mons Andersen’s boys to Sunday School. Eischa Pack was the teacher at that time. They were reading in turns out of the Bible; but when it came my turn to read, Brother Pack would read my verse, and there was not even a moment wasted. I was glad although I could not understand what they said. Yet I got to enjoying Sunday School. Sister Karen Larsen Petersen became sick and died on February 7, 1873, and that ended my schooling at that time. But I learned enough so I got into the Third Reader.
Now I had been studying the gospel and praying about it. I knew Jesus’s answer to Nicodemus as we find recorded in the third chapter of John: “Except a man is born of water and of the Spirit he cannot enter into the kingdom of Heaven.” [John 3:5] So on August 30, 1873, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by Mons Andersen and confirmed by Abraham Lossee in Lehi.

In the Nauvoo period, the Prophet was at least able to get a roof over his own head, with the help of his brethren, and that home became the crossroads. Visitors came, some prominent, some merely curious, and some of course intent upon his destruction. William H. Walker indicated how kind the Prophet tried to be in coping with this increasing flow.19 Josiah Quincy, later mayor of Boston, was one of those who came.20 Another, whose diaries we haven’t been equally eager to read (they were locked up in a vault for a century), was Charles Francis Adams, son of John Quincy Adams and grandson of John Adams, both United States Presidents. Charles Francis Adams was not as impressed with Joseph as was Josiah Quincy. He was full of prejudices. He was a little unhappy about having to pay a quarter to Mother Smith in order to see the Egyptian mummies upstairs in the Mansion House. Of the Prophet’s claim to be able to translate some of the inscriptions, he wrote merely, “The cool impudence of this imposture amused me.” He did, however, speak of the shame and injustice of the Saints’ being driven and persecuted in a country whose constitution guaranteed religious freedom. But to him, the Prophet was a lightweight and a deceiver.21 This confirmed Wilford Woodruff’s comment that “the Gentiles look upon him, and he is like a bed of gold concealed from human view.”22

In that same home there were meetings and other efforts on the Prophet’s part to strengthen his brethren and further prepare them. During the winter of 1843–44, for example, he met almost daily and sometimes twice a day with all the faithful members of the Council of the Twelve. Orson Pratt finally complained, “Why do you give us no rest?” and the Prophet replied, “The Spirit urges me.”23 Erastus Snow says of that period that he learned more in a few months in council with the Prophet than he had learned in all his life before.24 Others, Parley P. Pratt among them, tried to keep notes. In that period Joseph reviewed every restored principle, authority, and ordinance, completing it with a summary of the summary in a meeting in late March 1844 in which he said, in effect: “Brethren, I have conferred upon you now, every key and principle and power that has been bestowed upon me. Now you must round up your shoulders and bear off the kingdom or you will be damned.”25 In that same meeting the Prophet reconfirmed to the Twelve that Brigham Young, the presiding head of the Twelve (whom he had ordained thus at Quincy, Illinois, late in 1839), held the keys of the sealing power.26 They knew it then, they knew it later, and all that has been said about other leadership intentions of the Prophet is thus superseded.