Gospel Story Finder

One year at youth conference, my ward spent a day doing service. I volunteered to help at the town’s high school (even though I didn’t have the best memories there), because a janitor needed help moving lockers. As my friend and I helped move the lockers, I thought about the school where we were serving. I remembered a sporting event there where I felt the referees had not called a fair game. For my team, that game was still a sore spot, and I realized that I had let anger and bitterness stay in my heart.
I began to feel sorrow as I thought about the grudge I held, and I prayed for forgiveness. As I prayed and kept serving, I felt the anger and bitterness melting away and began to see the high school as it was: a great school facing some tough times. I began to feel gratitude for God guiding me to where I needed to serve and work through my problems. Through my service, the Lord was able to open my eyes to the grudge I’d harbored and help me let it go. I learned that service will scrape away the blackness of anger and bitterness, help us gain a love for those we once disliked, and help us draw closer to our Heavenly Father.
Robert S., Idaho, USA

Betty was born on 4 January 1932 in Kadina, on the Yorke Peninsula of South Australia. It was during the Great Depression and her father, one of many looking for employment, moved his family to Whyalla to work at the newly opened shipyard.
They lived in a tent on the beach until Betty’s father could build a cabin for them. She remembers, “As far as you could see, the beach was lined with families living in tents.” Children loved living there and going for a swim anytime they wanted.

When I was at Ricks College, I worked part-time and lived at home so that I could save money to go on a study abroad at the Jerusalem Center in Israel. I worked for years to save up enough money to go on this trip, depriving myself of a lot of things and opportunities that I would otherwise have enjoyed. Finally, the time came...I was accepted to the program and ready to go. Unfortunately, the first Gulf War began on the day we were to have left, in January 1991. I was devastated. I had looked forward to this for years, and now it felt like all of my hard work was for nothing. But things took an interesting turn. Although going to Israel was my main goal, I also had dreams of traveling through Europe and seeing many of the famous cultural sights of the world. As weeks passed by, they said that I could attend Fall semester in Israel, which was less expensive and left me with enough money to also go to Europe on a tour with the Humanities department at Ricks College. Like Tommy by the gumball machine, it had seemed like I was being deprived of something I really wanted, when later I got that plus so much more.

On a cold, stormy day last October, a special baptism took place in the waters just off Prince Edward Island. The pictures on this page show some of the scenes just before and just after James Keeping’s father and mother became members of the Church.
James, who is nine, and his brother John, 17, were baptized into the Church several months earlier. It was a happy day for them when their parents decided that they, too, were ready for baptism. John was privileged to participate in the sacred ordinance while James looked on from the rocky beach nearby with members of the little branch.
After the group was welcomed, they sang a song, bowed their heads in prayer, and then listened while one of the members spoke of the importance of baptism and confirmation. The wind and rain whipped around the rocks and the gray ocean looked cold as the waves washed onto the shore, but every heart was warmed by the wonder of the occasion.
Following their baptism, friends reached out with warm blankets and smiles of welcome as Brother and Sister Keeping stepped out of the water. Two old lobster traps had been brushed off for them to sit on while being confirmed as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Afterward, everyone went to a member’s home for clam chowder, visiting, another song, and a prayer. The two new members were misty-eyed with appreciation. But no one was happier than James who said, “Now, our family really will belong together!”

One of my favorite things is soccer. I participated in a soccer challenge. We demonstrated our skills, and then winners were chosen. I qualified to go to the state competition. I was so excited and really wanted to go, but it was on a Sunday. My mom and I talked about it one morning before school. We had a prayer, and she asked me to think about it. After school, my mom met me at the bus stop. I told her I was going to go to church instead of the state competition. I know I made the right decision. Every time I look at my trophy from the local competition, I will remember that it means more than winning at soccer.

As I was learning from my own true-life experience, I stood alone in my bedroom a few days after the operation, preparing to go to church. I held a tie in my hand and thought, Now what am I going to do with this silly tie? I thought about having my mother help me but soon rejected the idea, knowing she couldn’t go on my mission to tie my ties and otherwise care for me. I simply had to fend for myself. With patience, I tied my tie, and although I used my teeth a little, I learned I could do it and do it well. That day a window was opened to my mind, and I could clearly see that with patience, faith, and determination, I would be able to handle almost any challenge I would face.

• Sealings. Former United States senator Jake Garn was reluctant to remarry following the death of his first wife, Hazel, in 1976, but he soon realized he could not be both a father and a mother to his children. When he began dating Kathleen Brewerton, who would become his second wife, questions soon arose about how his first wife would feel should he become sealed to a second wife. The couple took their questions to President Spencer W. Kimball.
“He said he did not know exactly how these relationships will be worked out, but he did know that through faithfulness all will be well and we will have much joy,” Brother Garn later recalled. “Kathleen told him that she was afraid of offending Hazel. President Kimball’s demeanor seemed to change. From being somewhat hesitant in his earlier answers, he now became sure and spoke with firmness. He looked right at Kathleen and with a tear forming in his eye, he said, ‘I do know this: you have nothing to worry about. Not only will she accept you, she will put her arms around you and thank you for raising her children’” (Why I Believe [1992], 13).

When mother announced you were coming, I knew she was crazy-bonkers-looney. Look at it from my perspective. What in the world did I need with another brother? I already had four dribbling siblings to put up with.
Another brother?
Crazy!
Bonkers!
Looney!
Now, I’d never get that
Pendleton shirt I wanted or a
fiberglass-and-resin-coated
balsa monolith.
No surfing board for me.
Another brother.
Insane!
Why Tracy, the youngest of the Jones boys, was
already in kindergarten.
Mother was infant-free at last.
Why start all over again with babies?
You came anyway,
despite my cogent, lucid, and
insightful protests.
Rationality did not prevail.
The biology was already in motion.
I was 12 at the time.
A deacon.
And before long I was ordained
your babysitter,
while mother went to Dales Market
or Giacapuzzi Dairy
or Reseda II Ward Primary.
And that was way before Pampers and
Luvs.
I hated it—tending
toddler you.
Another brother.
What had I done to deserve such a harsh
judgment?
Somehow I managed to tolerate year one of your
existence.
But year two,
that’s when I came to understand the
devastation of
atomic warfare.
Every day I’d come home from high school
to find my room
nuked.
A tornado was a birthday party
compared to what you did to my very personal and
very teenage-important things.
I’m talking about you,
Intradomicile Ballistic Missile expert,
Guy Alexander Jones.
Soon life became complicated
for me
entangled with permanent relationships and
Shock—children of my own.
You were still my brother
in a statistical sense of the word.
Of course, you were at all the Jones family
functions and get-togethers.
Even went to Niagara Falls with us one year.
But you were
just another brother.
Until last winter
when you came to live with us
up in Provo town.
I remember the first day
when you, GuyBeau, came to stay.
We trekked on down to D.I. just above Provo River
and rummaged through the salvaged bedding.
The boxspring was a steal at 8 dollars
and the mattress a real D.I. bargain at 55,
But at least you had a bed of your own.
For four months you became
part of the Utah Joneses,
part of us,
living under the same asphalt shingles
sharing the same forced-air heating
watching the same fuzzy TV.
Sometimes we’d talk late into the night
about the categorical differences between
Mod and New Wave and Prep.
(You, of course, always wore topsiders with no socks.)
And sometimes we discussed
what a tremendous spiritual experience it was
taking an exam in the
Harold B. Lee Testing Center.
When you weren’t talking with us
or sleeping
or protecting Cosmo, our cat, from the kids,
you ate
a wholesome and nutritious diet of
pork’n beans and chocolate chip cookies for
dinner
and blended eggs (not fork-whipped mind you) but
blended eggs for breakfast and …
MALTS.
Malts for lunch and
malts for any time in between and
malts for when Connie’s letters didn’t come and
malts for those times the Harold B. Lee Testing
Center wasn’t a spiritual experience.
Justin and Nathan and Kristen loved having you
around.
You were the greatest Big Kid ever
to come play at our house.
You did legos and tinkertoys,
colored Easter eggs and showed the boys
how to play soccer.
You subbed for me when I was tied up
making ends meet and
meeting the ends of professorial demands.
And every Monday you took more than your
part in our FHEs.
April 23 Winter Semester ended.
You had to go home to make money for a mission.
We watched from the big glass window
in the converted garage as you pulled away to go
back to California.
By April 24th I knew something was wrong.
Luella noticed it too.
Our family was somehow smaller
less whole
in your absence.
That’s when I knew you would no longer be
just another brother.

One of the most beautiful and tender accounts of brotherly love, concern, and devotion took place in Carthage Jail on the afternoon of the martyrdom. “The afternoon was sultry and hot. The four brethren [Joseph and Hyrum Smith, John Taylor, and Willard Richards] sat listlessly about the room with their coats off; and the windows of the prison were open to receive such air as might be stirring. Late in the afternoon Mr. Stigall, the jailor, came in and suggested that [in view of threats made by the radical and bloodthirsty mob] they would be safer in the cells. Joseph told him that they would go in after supper. Turning to Elder Richards the Prophet said: ‘If we go into the cell will you go with us?’”

Elder Richards answered, “Brother Joseph, you did not ask me to cross the river with you [referring to the time when they crossed the Mississippi, en route for the Rocky Mountains]—you did not ask me to come to Carthage—you did not ask me to come to jail with you—and do you think I would forsake you now? But I will tell you what I will do; if you are condemned to be hung for ‘treason,’ I will be hung in your stead, and you shall go free.”

With considerable emotion and feeling Joseph replied, “But you cannot,” to which Brother Richards firmly replied, “I will.” (B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, vol. 2, p. 283.)

Almost two decades ago, the Madrid Spain Temple was dedicated and began its service as a sacred house of the Lord. Harriet and I remember it well because I was serving in the Europe Area Presidency at the time. Along with many others, we spent countless hours attending to the details of planning and organizing the events leading up to the dedication.
As the date of the dedication approached, I noticed that I had not yet received an invitation to attend. This was a bit unexpected. After all, in my responsibility as the Area President, I had been greatly involved in this temple project and felt a small amount of ownership for it.
I asked Harriet if she had seen an invitation. She had not.
Days passed and my anxiety increased. I wondered if our invitation had gotten lost—perhaps it was buried between the cushions of our sofa. Maybe it had been mixed up with junk mail and thrown away. The neighbors had an inquisitive cat, and I even began to look suspiciously at him.
Finally I was forced to accept the fact: I had not been invited.
But how was that possible? Had I done something to offend? Did someone just assume it was too far for us to travel? Had I been forgotten?
Eventually, I realized that this line of thinking led to a place in which I did not wish to take up residence.
Harriet and I reminded ourselves that the temple dedication was not about us. It wasn’t about who deserved to be invited or who did not. And it wasn’t about our feelings or our sense of entitlement.
It was about dedicating a holy edifice, a temple of the Most High God. It was a day of rejoicing for the members of the Church in Spain.
Had I been invited to attend, I would have done so gladly. But if I were not invited, my joy would not be any less profound. Harriet and I would rejoice with our friends, our beloved brothers and sisters, from afar. We would praise God for this wonderful blessing just as enthusiastically from our home in Frankfurt as we would from Madrid.

Juan can’t remember how old he was when he started working with his dad in the fields. “The children would start going with me when they were small,” Juan’s dad, Joel, says. “They learned by watching and then doing what they could, depending on their strength and capacity.”

Mayra learned to make tortillas the same way, watching her mom and sisters until she was old enough to pitch in and help.

But plowing, planting, and tortilla making aren’t the only things being passed from one generation to the next. As Mayra’s mother, Carmela, molded and shaped tortillas, she was also giving shape to her daughter’s character. As Brother Ordoñez prepared, planted, or cultivated the ground, he was doing the same for Juan’s heart.

As the family spent time together, the children could see not just how their parents worked but how they lived. And when the opportunity arose, their parents made the gospel a topic of conversation while they worked.

But observing—and even doing—isn’t always enough. In the Book of Mormon’s first family, Laman and Lemuel heard the same things that Nephi heard from their father, and they too even went and did what their father asked. But they were missing something important, something that Juan and Mayra have—a desire to learn.

Juan and Mayra live in Patzicía, a Cakchiquel community a few hours from Guatemala City. Because many of those who buy their tortillas and seek their plowing services don’t speak Spanish, it was important to Juan and Mayra to learn Cakchiquel.

But not everyone feels that way. Cakchiquel isn’t taught in the schools. The language has been passed down from generation to generation for hundreds of years. However, in each succeeding generation there are many who don’t want to learn it or feel they don’t need it.

A desire to know is key in more than just learning a language. Lehi wanted his family to know for themselves that the gospel is true, but not all of his family wanted to know (see 1 Nephi 8:12, 17–18). In addition to hearing his father and doing what he asked, Nephi wanted to know for himself (see 1 Nephi 10:17). Laman and Lemuel, though they had obeyed their father, had done it grudgingly (see 1 Nephi 2:11–12). They weren’t interested in making the effort to find out for themselves, saying, “The Lord maketh no such thing known unto us” (see 1 Nephi 15:8–9).

As their children grew, Brother and Sister Ordoñez often wondered if their children would listen. Would they obey? Would they want to know, like Nephi? Would they pass the gospel on to their children?

It may be too early to tell. But Brother and Sister Ordoñez have reason to hope.

Their older children are starting to pass gospel truths on. And the younger children are recognizing the importance of passing the gospel on too. “It’s hard sometimes to take counsel from your parents,” Juan says. “But I’m grateful for their help.”

“They didn’t just teach me how to cook beans and make tortillas,” Mayra says. “They have taught me the right path—to follow God.”

After our return to the hotel, I became quite ill during the night. The next morning my traveling companions came to my bedroom to see why I had not come to breakfast. I told them I was too ill to get out of bed. They said that they would eat breakfast and then go down to the airstrip and look at the plane to see that everything was all right.
They soon returned and informed me that clouds had settled down on the airstrip and on Tuxtla so heavily that we would not be able to get out. We were fogged in, and they had been informed that the airstrip would probably be fogged in for a considerable time because the rainy season was beginning. They asked me what should be done.
After thinking for a few moments I was impressed by the Holy Spirit to say, “Give me a blessing and we will fly out today.” At first they replied, “President Hunter, you are too ill to fly.” But I insisted on being blessed. President Strong anointed and his son Bert sealed the anointing and gave me a blessing. I immediately got up out of bed, went in and ate breakfast, and felt completely healed.
We took our luggage and went down to the airstrip. Shortly after, the clouds lifted sufficiently for us to fly out. We heard later from the archaeological workman that several days passed before the fog and clouds lifted again. Therefore, that particular day was our time to fly out of Tuxtla.

A Scout council was accustomed to arranging its summer camp schedule so that the Scouts were moving to the camp on one Sabbath and returning home from camp on the next Sabbath. Latter-day Saint youth were being deprived of religious activities for two successive Sundays. A friendly suggestion to the council authorities brought about a change, so that the camp period ran from Friday to Friday. The Sunday in between was planned so that there were religious services offered for the boys who were in the camp.

Eleven-year-old Ashley slowly made her way down a crooked path that wound through the frosted hush of the October woods. She paused in a little patch of misted light that sifted through the leafy gold canopy, softening the early morning chill. She rubbed her arms, shivering at an inner cold that the sunlight couldn’t reach, the same cold that had frozen her father’s face in a mask of sorrow.
Ashley couldn’t see the unhappiness on her father’s face, because she had been blind since birth, but she could hear it in his voice and in the silence that had replaced his laughter when her mother died. It had been almost a whole year, but still—
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of wings. Something or someone had startled a large bird nearby, and it erupted skyward.
A moment later a gentle voice said, “It’s me, Ashley—Michelle.” Ashley felt Michelle’s hand slip about hers. “You should have waited for me at your cabin.” Michelle’s voice was as light and airy as the wind-spun autumn leaves that danced in the yellow wood. “I was on my way to get you.”
“It’s OK,” Ashley said. “I know this path almost as well as these trees do. I’ve been coming here every day for the past two weeks.”
Michelle glanced about at the golden silence. “It is pretty,” she admitted, “but well—since you can’t see, what is it that—” The sadness she saw in the dark, sightless eyes made her pause.
“You said that there are lots of yellows here at this time of year,” Ashley explained. “Remember when I asked you what yellow looked like? You told me it was a happy, warm color—like the sun, like a smile.” She reached through the blackness of her world and touched a yellow aspen leaf. “That’s why I come here. I keep hoping that somehow it will help me feel happy so that I can help my father smile again.”
Michelle squeezed Ashley’s hand. “It is beautiful here. But even if you could see, I don’t think all the yellows in the world could mend a heart for more than a moment.”
Ashley leaned against a leafless tree, feeling as empty as the branches above her. “You’re happy, Michelle. Why? I mean, you lost your brother in that millpond accident just last summer. And then your father’s fruit crop failed because of the late freeze, and he had to sell half his land.”
“I guess our testimonies keep us happy,” Michelle said thoughtfully.
“Testimonies?”
“Knowing that God lives,” Michelle returned simply, “that He loves us, that He allows us difficulties in our lives to help us grow. My mother says that a candle shines brightest in the blackest night.”
I know a lot about the blackest night, Ashley thought as the two girls started down the path in a rush of tumbling leaves. What she wanted to know more about were testimonies. “Tell me more,” she begged.
“They’re growing things, Ashley,” Michelle explained. “A testimony starts small, like the first light at dawn, then gets bigger and warmer like the sun at noonday, like the brightest of autumn leaves. But you have to work at it,” she added as the pair walked toward her farmhouse for a day of play. “You have to feel your way along like you do in these woods, only with your heart. All of it.”
“Will you help me get one, Michelle?”
Michelle stopped and faced her friend. “I can’t give you a testimony,” she answered kindly. “All I can do is share mine with you, and—” Michelle’s voice relayed her sudden idea. “Maybe there is a way I can help you, Ashley! Tomorrow is Sunday, and someone very special is coming to speak at our meetinghouse.”
“Who is it?”
“A prophet, Ashley. A prophet of God.”
Later, as Ashley waited impatiently for her father to return home from his job at the factory in Harperville, she listened to the wall clock tick like a tired heartbeat. At length she heard the rattle of a flatbed wagon and the snorting of spent horses outside. A few minutes later her father stood in the doorway.
“Hi, Ash, it’s me.” Papa’s voice sounded tired. “It was a long day, hon.” He sat down beside her and sighed wearily. “A long day.” He regarded his daughter in the ruddy haze of late-day window light. “What is it?”
“It’s a meeting, Papa! Tomorrow morning at Michelle’s church. Someone special is coming to talk to them. Will you take me, Papa? Please.”
Papa sighed again. “On my only day off? Not tomorrow, sweetheart. I’m so worn out I could sleep on a fence post for a week! I need tomorrow to—”
“Please, Papa?” Ashley implored again.
“Not tomorrow. Another time maybe.”
Papa patted her head, rose to his feet with a tired grunt, and disappeared into his room. “Wake me when the clock chimes again, and I’ll fix us something to eat,” he called back.
That night Ashley prayed that her father would somehow change his mind about the meeting, then drifted off into a troubled sleep.
Early the next morning, Ashley felt someone gently waking her “Ash? If we’re going to make that meeting on time we’d better get ourselves ready.”
Ashley sat up. “Papa! But I thought you were too tired.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Papa replied, “but when I woke up this morning, I felt more rested than if I had slept for a week of Sundays. So are you going to get up, or grow old in bed?” Papa ran his hand through the girl’s tangled hair, then left the room.
For a moment Ashley just lay in bed, reflecting on an answered prayer. She felt as if something was glowing inside her like the dawn’s first light streaming unseen through the curtains on her bedroom window.
At church, Ashley sat with Michelle on one side and Papa on the other, listening to a prophet’s voice. Ashley didn’t have to see the man behind the pulpit to know that he spoke with authority. She could feel it. The comfort, peace, and sweet assurance of his voice settled over her like the patchwork comforter her mother had made for her. He spoke with penetrating assuredness of the living God, the resurrection, and the reuniting of loved ones in the world to come.
Papa’s hand found hers, and squeezed it. Tears filled her sightless eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She felt her father’s body shake with emotion and knew that he was shedding tears of his own.
At that moment Ashley knew what yellow autumn leaves looked like. They were bright and beautiful, and they glowed—like her testimony. Like happy months and years ahead. Like a certain little cabin by the October woods, now even on the darkest of days.

I was born in Utah, but most of my memories begin in Boston, Massachusetts. I do have a faint recollection at age two and a half of a white-topped buggy with my grandfather in the driver’s seat. My parents, myself, and my six-month-old brother were being taken to the nearest railway station forty miles away. My next recollection is looking out of a rain-streaked window from a hotel room in Boston. I see in memory the round drops of rain rolling down the window as I pressed my nose against the cold glass.
During my life I have found that it is very important for children to listen carefully to their parents. They can learn much from them. My father was a music student in Boston. He sat at a rented piano and played the music of Edvard Grieg, Frederic Chopin, Ludwig van Beethoven, and Robert Schumann. I can still hear that music and over the years I have learned to play most of it myself. It has added greatly to my appreciation of the world into which I was born. Those beautiful sounds have made a great contribution to my life, crowding out many of the uglier sounds we occasionally hear.
Best of all, I remember sitting on my mother’s lap, hearing her tell me the story of the boy prophet Joseph Smith, who went into the woods to pray. Near our apartment were many churches. I heard their bells and saw their domes and steeples when we took walks together. So when Mother told me of Joseph’s concern over which church he should join, I was able to understand his confusion before the First Vision.
I distinctly remember my mother telling me in those early years that everything I said or thought or did was in some almost magical way recorded—that someday I would have to be judged according to what I had said, thought, and done. This did not frighten me, but it gave me a growing sense of responsibility for my actions. Today with cassettes, video tapes, and other inventions, I have gained a fuller understanding of what she was telling me about the record of my life.
I hope that you will have the experience of being taught to read by your parents. Since my father was busy at the New England Conservatory of Music all day, my mother taught me to read when I was about four years old. One day we walked down Huntington Avenue to the shops in the center of Boston. We went to the publishing house of Little, Brown and Company. There we were shown a lot of children’s books. Mother bought several that were suitable for my ability. One was an attractive little primer that inspired my imagination. It was called The Brownie Book, a story about imaginary little creatures who did good deeds and went on a trip to the moon! I could see the moon out of our window at night. It seemed such an important object in the sky. The idea of anybody going to the moon brought many stimulating thoughts to my eager, young imagination.
Another book was a primer describing the coming of the Pilgrim fathers, the establishment of the American colonies, and the development of the nation into which I had been born. I was deeply impressed by it.
About this time, President Joseph F. Smith and his counselors in the First Presidency suggested to members of the Church that they hold a family home evening once each week. Accordingly, my father would gather us around a little table after supper to read the Book of Mormon. We read it from cover to cover that year. Because Mother had taught me to read, I was privileged to take my turn in reading aloud. What excitement I experienced as we approached the Third book of Nephi and the coming of the Savior! With feelings of sadness we continued through the books of Mormon, Ether, and Moroni. These feelings were strongly reinforced by my father.
Father told me the story of Grandfather Durham, who had been inspired to compose a melody called “The Nephite Lamentation.” Thomas Durham had been promised in a patriarchal blessing that he would hear music as it was sung in the heavens. My father related how one night my grandfather had a dream. In it he saw twenty-four men by a stream. They looked very sad. Their leader arose and addressed them. Then he heard a melody played on what sounded like a trumpet. The impression came to him that it was a dream concerning Moroni and the last twenty-four Nephites. He awoke. In the late hours of the night he went to his little organ and played the tune he had heard and wrote it down. Later, a choir in the Parowan Ward in southern Utah sang the tune to the words of “O My Father.” It was published in modified form in the old Primary songbook as arranged by Henry E. Giles.
Hearing this music and reading the Book of Mormon in these early years with my parents made a forceful impression upon my mind as to the reality and truth of the Book of Mormon.
I hope that each of you will watch and listen carefully to what your parents say and do. I pray they will teach you well. I also hope that the music you hear in your home will be uplifting and inspiring, because we believe that “if there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” (A of F 1:13.) The place to begin with good things is at home with your family.
Finally, let us all remember the commandment: “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” (Ex. 20:12.)

Not content with merely being very good, the post gets together every Wednesday to practice their routines and become even better.
In the ward cultural hall balloons squeak as several clowns practice making balloon animals under Howard’s guidance. Others work on a skit. Brother Buchanan’s voice is heard. “Remember to work the crowd. Don’t just stand around. Work the crowd. Get them involved!”
Howard is demonstrating an airplane. Dr. Funnybones, experimenting, suddenly discovers that he has created a monkey hanging from a branch. Several other clowns stop to look. “How did you do that?”
Dr. Funnybones looks at his creation in awe. “I have absolutely no idea.” There is a camaraderie here, a palpable warmth and love, but there is also a serious sense of taking care of business. The Explorers have often prayed that they can make a difference in the lives of those they clown for. Now they are working hard to become part of the answer to their own prayers.

My dad and I were taking a walk around the neighborhood when I saw a TV remote control lying on the ground. I picked it up and asked my dad if I could look for the owner. He said yes, so I rang some doorbells. At one house the man said, “It’s not mine.” I rang another doorbell, and the man said, “It’s mine,” so I gave it to him. I left feeling good inside. As I was walking home, the man came up to me and said, “Thanks for being honest.” I said, “Thank you!” and went home. I’m glad I was honest.

About eleven years ago our twins, Max and Mia, were two years old and we were living in an apartment while I was in graduate school. To my wife’s horror we discovered that there was a mouse in our apartment. We bought a mousetrap, put some peanut butter on it, and placed it next to a baseboard on the kitchen floor where we had seen the mouse. Two-year-olds and mousetraps don’t coexist very well, so we took Max and Mia into the kitchen, pointed out the mousetrap, and explained to them how dangerous it was. We told them to stay away from it, to keep their fingers out, and that it would hurt them. We even used our scary voices: “No. Don’t touch. Danger.” A couple of days later, while most of us were sitting on the couch in the other room, we heard a snap and then a scream. We hurried into the kitchen and found little Mia with her fingers in the trap and peanut butter on her lips.

Brothers and sisters, there are many sources of falsehood in the world. Please don’t put your fingers in those traps. Don’t turn to them in your quest for a testimony. There have been, and always will be, intelligent and articulate people in the world who will try to convince you that the Church is not true, that God does not exist, and that anyone who believes that there is a God is foolish and naïve. Don’t go to those sources. Don’t turn to people on the Internet who are seeking to destroy your testimony. Like with our twins, I want to point at those traps and tell you how dangerous they are. I want to tell you to stay away from them, to keep your fingers out, and that they will hurt you. I want to use my scary voice: “No. Don’t touch. Danger.”

“Ro-sie!” called Mama. “It is time for you and Heman to take Papa his dinner.”
We needed no second call, for this was one errand we delighted in doing. Mama filled a plate with hot food, covered it with a soup dish to keep in the warmth, wrapped it carefully in a large napkin, and placed it in a basket. Then she handed the basket to us with final instructions: “Carry it carefully, don’t play on the way, and hurry home after Papa has eaten.”
It was ten blocks from our home on East Third South to Salt Lake Temple Block where Papa worked as a stonecutter. But it didn’t seem that long to us as we talked of the fun we’d have while Papa ate his dinner. It was interesting to watch the huge granite blocks being brought in from the canyon quarry by ox-drawn wagons. While the wagons were unloaded, the oxen stood patiently switching at flies with their tails. After the rough blocks were cut and smoothed to the required shape and size, they were tilted and placed in rows like dominoes, leaving the sharp edges protruding like saw teeth. We enjoyed running back and forth on top of these stone dominoes in our bare feet. Shoes were saved for Sunday and for school.
Sometimes we would watch as skilled workmen cut sun, moon, and star designs into certain stones. Each held a small iron chisel in his left hand and a hard wooden mallet in his right, tapping gently so as not to chip out too much rock and spoil the pattern.
Today Papa had a special surprise for us. He said, “The men who are making the circular staircase (there was one in each corner of the building) say you may go up as far as it is completed, but you must be very quiet, because this is the Lord’s house.”
I took Heman’s hand, and together we climbed the huge stone steps—up, up, up until we were out of breath. It was easier going down. Then Papa took us into the carpenter shop where wood for the building was sawed. On the floor was a heap of clean sawdust and Papa told us that the foreman said it would be all right for us to take some home so Mama could show us how to make a pincushion. “Someday it will be a fine thing,” Papa said, “to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”
Eagerly we filled the basket with fragrant sawdust and hurried home. But Mama had no time right then to help with a pincushion. She was trying to finish the washing and ironing for Sister Young, who lived next door, and the baby was cross. I rocked the baby to sleep, then helped Mama prepare supper.
In the evening, after the dishes were washed and put away, Mama found a piece of sturdy brown cloth on which she drew a large fig leaf. She showed me how to embroider green lines for veins and outline the edge with a blanket stitch. A matching piece for the back was sewed to the front, leaving a hole near the top to pour in the temple sawdust until the leaf would hold no more. Then we sewed the hole shut so none of the precious sawdust would be lost. When the pincushion was finished I proudly showed it to Papa for his approval, then placed it on top of Mama’s bureau with my other special treasures.

As Brigham Young left his bed on the morning of 17 February 1847, illness seized him so suddenly that he “fainted away, apparently dead.” 13 Only those who die and go through the veil could know how he felt, he said two weeks later, adding that “I know I went to the world of spirits.” However, it was not given him to remember immediately the details of what he saw there: “All that I know, is what my wife told me about it since. She said that I said, I had been where Joseph & Hyrum was” and that “it is hard coming back to life again.” 14

Once revived, Brigham Young fell asleep and dreamed, and when he awoke, he recorded what he had seen. “In my dream I went to see Joseph,” he wrote. Finding Joseph sitting by a large window looking “perfectly natural,” Brigham took him by the hand, kissed his cheeks, and asked him why they could not be together as before. Joseph arose from his chair, looked at Brigham, and spoke in his usual way: “It is all right.” Brigham protested, but Joseph replied: “You will have to do things without me a while and then we shall be together again.”

Brigham then addressed Joseph as his mentor and asked for counsel. The advice was direct and simple: “Be sure to tell the people to keep the spirit of the Lord.” 15 Brigham then turned and saw Joseph in the light, “but where I had to go was as midnight darkness.” Because Joseph insisted, Brigham “went back in the darkness” and awoke. 16

Though Brigham Young spoke frequently of this in the weeks before heading for the Rockies, he did not elaborate on its meaning. Undoubtedly, it buoyed his spirits and provided still more evidence that he was on the Lord’s (and Joseph’s) errand. Though still burdened by the demands of leadership and the magnitude of the challenge, he was at peace.