Gospel Story Finder

As I was leaving one of our Church buildings in Montevideo, Uruguay—10 minutes away from the temple construction site—I received a call from my wife telling me that soon the statue of the angel Moroni would be placed on the spire of the temple. Many feelings came into my heart as I listened to the anxious voice of my wife asking me to come get her and our son so we could witness this event. There wasn’t much time left. I had to travel to the other end of the city and then return to the temple.
Our hearts beat rapidly and the minutes seemed like hours as we traveled. The heavy traffic almost wouldn’t let us through, but we finally arrived, thanks to the Lord’s help.
The weather had been gray, rainy, and moderately windy for several days. But this afternoon the sky was a clear, calm blue, and the sun’s rays fell upon our heads like the blessings of heaven.
When we arrived we found several other members who had also come to witness this important milestone in the history of the Church in Uruguay. Several members, among them my wife’s mother, were Church pioneers in our country. Their eyes filled with tears as they enjoyed the blessing—so long awaited—of seeing the construction of a temple here.
The sacrifice of many people who had spread the gospel was given symbolic expression in the brilliant sheen of the angel Moroni as he seemed to fly through the sky and then come to rest in a place of honor. There he announced to the world the Restoration of the everlasting gospel and the opening of the doors of a country that needed the Lord’s helping hand to progress.
We saw the statue, straight and majestic, reach its intended place, reminding us of the love of the Eternal Father, which would soon allow us to be sealed together in love in our own land. We hope that our children and grandchildren will go into the temple and make sacred covenants and be a blessing to the country.
We knew that there was much left to do—both before and after the temple’s dedication in March 2001. We needed to prepare for the times still to come, and above all else, we needed to remember our ancestors, because they also would be blessed by this holy house. But we will never forget that beautiful September day. Our hearts overflowed with gratitude that we were allowed to witness the placing of a symbol of our Heavenly Father’s love.

By September 1951 the Korean War had reached a stalemate, so Dr. Kim returned to Korea. He had a strong desire to preach the restored gospel. He attended church in a U.S. military camp in Busan, where he taught the Gospel Doctrine class and shared his testimony with Korean visitors. U.S. soldiers taught the gospel in English to the youth, and Dr. Kim kindly interpreted for them. This was an effective way to share the gospel, and because Koreans trusted Dr. Kim, his example influenced many.
After suffering much from the Korean War, the people eagerly welcomed the gospel of Jesus Christ. Dr. Kim’s devotion finally bore fruit on August 3, 1952, when the first four people were baptized in Busan, Korea.
Dr. Kim later told a group of Saints, “I wouldn’t care if I had to give up my life, or my money, or my title, as long as I could be with my Savior.”3 His life evidenced this commitment to serving God.

Mommy stopped at Austin’s bedroom door. She looked around the messy room. There were books, trucks, puzzles, blocks, and stuffed animals scattered all over. Mommy stepped over the clutter and into the room. “Austin, did you make this mess?”
Austin looked up from his stack of blocks. “Not me, Mommy.”
“Then who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She knelt down next to a large dump truck. “Dump truck, did you make this mess?”
“Mommy!” Austin giggled. “Dump trucks can’t make a mess. Trucks can’t even talk. But I can.” He snatched up his truck. “Brrrm. Brrrm.” Austin drove the truck into the toy box.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She scooped up a handful of puzzle pieces. “Puzzle, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “Puzzles can’t make a mess. Puzzles don’t have fingers to use. But I do. I can pick the pieces up like this.” Austin dumped all the puzzle pieces into their box on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She stood up and leaned over the bookcase. “Books, did you make this mess?”
Austin rolled his eyes. “Books can’t make a mess. Books can’t even jump from high places. But I can.” Austin climbed onto a chair and jumped into Mommy’s arms. She put him down. Austin bent over and picked up some books. He climbed back onto the chair and set the books on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She gathered together three teddy bears. “Teddy bears, did you make this mess?”
“Teddy bears can’t make a mess,” Austin said. “Teddy bears can’t even turn somersaults. But I can.” Austin crouched low, tucked his head under, and flipped over. He stood up, gathered the bears in his arms, and laid them on the windowsill.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She picked up a stuffed lion. “Lion, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “The lion can’t make a mess. The lion can’t even give hugs. But I can.” Austin gave Mommy a hug. He took the lion and gently placed it on the bed.
“Know what, Mommy?” Austin said. “Toys can’t make a mess, but I can. I made this mess.”
Mommy leaned over and gave Austin another hug. “Austin, you made this mess. But you cleaned it up, too. You are my big helper.”
Mommy’s face grew serious. “You did something besides making a mess, Austin. You told Mommy a lie. But you cleaned that up, too, by telling the truth. Toys can’t tell the truth. But you can.”
Austin smiled. Being a big helper felt good. Being a truth-teller felt even better.

When I was a mission president in Central America some years ago, two of the elders brought a Catholic Benedictine monk into my office.

He had noticed the elevating nature of the Church due to an in-depth study he and others had been commissioned to do of 243 different churches. This study had been ordered by the Catholic church with honorable intent; they wished to know the similarities of the 243 churches to see the possibilities of more union and brotherhood.

After researching for over five years, they came to at least these two conclusions:
There were only two churches that had high moral values; one was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
There was only one church that followed all the prophetic utterances of old—in other words, accepted and followed all the Old and New Testament—that was the Mormons.

This monk accepted the challenge to study the Book of Mormon and prayed to have divine verification of its truthfulness. As a result, he accepted the Savior by being baptized into this, His church.

He is now an active teacher in a high priests quorum in Central America.

He saw by investigation the edifying, lifting influence of the Church and hearkened unto the voice of the Lord.

The other day my mom and brother and I went to the aquarium. We were looking at the sea horses when my brother saw a little boy crying. My mom asked him if he was lost. He said he couldn’t find his mom. My mom comforted him. Then we started looking for his mom, but couldn’t find her. Finally we took him to a worker. After a while we saw the boy again. He was with his mom. The worker helped him find her. I felt a good warm feeling because we had helped the little boy. I knew it was the right thing to do.

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.)

President Hinckley, in a comment a short time ago, talked about the links of his family, his family chain, and hoping that he would be a strong link in that chain and that his link would remain strong. He told the account of attempting to pull the stump of a tree out of the ground on their property and how the chain had broken. He went to the store to try to get another link to fix the chain so they could pull the tree stump out, which they were finally able to do. He said he thought of his own responsibility to his posterity, to remain a strong link in that chain (see “Keep the Chain Unbroken,” Brigham Young Magazine, spring 2000, 6).

When Sister Little called to remind Sarah that the activity night honoring grandfathers was to be the following week, Sarah felt sad. She lived in Florida, and her grandpa was nearly three thousand miles away in California. She wished that he lived closer so that she could take him to the Tuesday night party.
“It isn’t fair,” she told her mom later. “I don’t have anyone to take to the party.”
Mom stopped stirring the spaghetti sauce and looked at her. “I’ll go with you,” she said.
“But the party is for grandpas,” Sarah said, her eyes filling with tears.
When Dad came home from work, Sarah sat on the arm of his chair and said, “I need to talk to you about something very important.”
Dad closed the newspaper, folded it, and took off his glasses.
“It’s about Grandpa Night,” Sarah said. “I don’t have anyone to go with me.”
“Well,” said Dad, “I’ll take you.”
“No thank you, Dad. I want to go with Grandpa.”
“I could put on a gray beard and talk in a shaky voice,” Dad said, making Sarah laugh.
During dinner, Mom asked, “What have you decided to do about Grandpa Night?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah answered.
“I’m sure there’s a grandfather in the ward who would be happy to take you,” Dad said.
Sarah liked her father’s idea, but she was worried about finding someone who wasn’t already invited. The following Sunday before sacrament meeting began, she looked all around the chapel. She saw Brother Brumley, but he and Sister Brumley were sitting with four of their grandchildren. She and Brother Blackwelder were great friends, but Brother Blackwelder was holding a granddaughter on his knee and straightening his grandson’s tie.
As Sarah continued to search for a temporary grandfather it seemed to her that everyone she wanted to ask was sitting together in family groups. Then she saw Brother Fitzpatrick sitting alone at the end of a pew near Sarah and her family. But he never spoke, and he never smiled. Sarah was afraid of him because once, when she had accidentally bumped into him in the hall, Brother Fitzpatrick had looked sharply at her under his shaggy eyebrows and cleared his throat loudly. She had been so frightened that she had hurried to her CTR-A class and sat in the chair closest to her teacher. While Sarah was remembering that day, Brother Fitzpatrick saw her looking at him. She smiled, but he just pressed his lips tightly together and looked away. Sarah went home sadder than ever.
“Mom,” she said, “I don’t want to go Tuesday night.”
“Why don’t you ask Brother Fitzpatrick?” Dad said. “He’s fairly new in our ward. I believe his family lives on the West Coast, and he’s here all alone. I bet he’d like to go with you.”
“I’m afraid of him!” Sarah wailed. “Besides, he’d never say yes.”
“Sarah, we can’t look at others and know what’s in their hearts,” Sarah’s mother said. “Why don’t you ask Heavenly Father about inviting Brother Fitzpatrick.”
Sarah loved to say her evening prayers. She told Heavenly Father all the happy things that happened during the day. It was also the time when she talked to Him about the things that worried her. So that night when Sarah knelt at the side of her bed, she told Heavenly Father about her problem. “Heavenly Father,” she said, “Dad wants me to ask Brother Fitzpatrick to go to Grandpa Night with me. But he always looks so grumpy, and one time, when I bumped into him in the hall, he said, ‘Grrmmph!’ Heavenly Father,” she continued, “I’m afraid of him. I don’t think that he likes me. Should I ask Brother Fitzpatrick?”
Sarah waited quietly by her bed for Heavenly Father’s answer, just as she did whenever she had a question. Soon a familiar, warm feeling filled her heart.
But the next day after school, when it was time to make the telephone call, she did not feel so happy.
“Why don’t you call now?” Mom suggested.
“I think I should do my homework first,” Sarah said.
After her homework was finished, Dad said, “Sarah, why don’t you call Brother Fitzpatrick before dinner?”
“I need to clean my room first,” Sarah said.
During dinner, Mom asked, “Have you made your phone call yet, Sarah?”
“Maybe I’d better take my bath first,” Sarah said.
After her bath Sarah couldn’t think of any more excuses. She took the ward directory from the top desk drawer in the family room and began to look for Brother Fitzpatrick’s phone number.
“I don’t think he has a telephone,” she told Mom when she couldn’t find the number.
“Here,” Mom said. “Let me help you.”
Sarah dialed slowly. She heard the phone ring once, then twice, then a third time. Maybe he’s not home, she thought. But on the fourth ring, Brother Fitzpatrick answered. “Hello?”
“Hello,” Sarah said very softly.
“Hello!” Brother Fitzpatrick said again, this time in a loud, gruff voice. “Is anyone there?”
“It’s me—Sarah from church. I just called to see if you would go to Grandpa Night with me.”
Brother Fitzpatrick did not answer.
“Oh, please say yes,” Sarah said, talking quickly. “When I asked Heavenly Father about asking you, I felt happy about it. My own grandpa lives faraway, and I miss him.”
When Brother Fitzpatrick answered, his voice wasn’t gruff anymore. For a moment Sarah thought that he might even be crying. “My son and his wife live in Oregon,” he said at last, “and I miss my three granddaughters terribly. Sarah, you remind me of Laura, the youngest one.”
“Oh,” Sarah said.
“I’ve been very lonely since I moved here three months ago. Your call is an answer to my prayer to Heavenly Father to send me a friend in the ward. Thank you, Sarah, for asking me. I’d love to go with you.”
At the party, Brother Fitzpatrick told jokes that made Sarah and the other children laugh. He and Sarah had fun playing the games, and they sat side by side when they ate chicken potpie and apple crisps. He showed her pictures of his three granddaughters, and she told him about her grandpa in California. Sister Little asked Brother Fitzpatrick to tell a Book of Mormon story, and he told about Jesus and about the Nephite children being encircled by angels in a ring of fire. Sarah was proud and happy that Brother Fitzpatrick had come to the party with her.
That night Sarah told Heavenly Father about all the fun that she had had at the party, and she thanked Him for her Florida grandpa.

The day Alma Elizabeth turned eight years old she saw some elders baptizing people in a nearby creek. Her folks did not know about the baptismal service, so she ran home to tell them. With their permission she, too, was baptized in the creek. Afterward she walked to the meetinghouse to be confirmed. But after the confirmation, she felt very tired and fell sound asleep on a seldom-used church bench where people could not see her. When the meeting ended everyone went home. Alma Elizabeth’s family became concerned about her long absence, and they sent her big sister Helen to search for her. She found Alma Elizabeth still asleep in the now empty meetinghouse.

Many years ago, my son Tanner was about five years old when he played his first soccer game. He was thrilled!
When we arrived at the game, we realized that his team was using a regulation-size soccer goal—not some little pop-up goal but a very large net that seemed way too big for five-year-olds.
The game took on mythic proportions as I saw Tanner take the goalie position. I was so surprised. Did he really understand his purpose in guarding the net?
The whistle blew, and we became so caught up in the game we forgot all about Tanner. Suddenly one of the opposing team members got the ball and dribbled it swiftly toward him. I looked in Tanner’s direction to make certain he was ready to stand his ground and defend the goal. I saw something I was not expecting.
At some point in the game, Tanner had become distracted and began weaving his left arm through the various holes in the net. Then he did the same with his right arm. Next, his left foot. Finally, his right foot. Tanner was fully entangled in the net. He had forgotten his purpose and what he had been entrusted to do.
While Tanner’s soccer career didn’t last long, his lesson to me that day will never fade. We all occasionally get distracted from why we are here and divert our energies somewhere else. One of Satan’s most powerful weapons is to distract us with good and better causes which, in times of need, may blind and bind us away from the best cause—the very work that called us into this world.

In 1956 Lee Wing Foon and his wife, Lee Kan Shui Tao, joined the Church. “I felt like an entirely new person when I was baptized,” Brother Lee remembers. At the time, however, meetings were held quite far from his home, and money was tight. The English Book of Mormon Brother Lee bought cost two days’ wages, and transportation to meetings proved costly. Gradually the Lees stopped attending.
“But I kept my English Book of Mormon,” says Brother Lee, who at the time was working as a civilian driver in the British Army. “It was a prized possession.”
Through the years missionaries occasionally visited, and three years ago two sisters issued a challenge. “They asked me to start reading the Book of Mormon,” he says. “They even came and read it with me once a week.”
However, attending Church was difficult. Eight years ago, Sister Lee had a stroke. She is unable to walk, and Brother Lee, now retired, spends much of his time caring for her. “It’s difficult for me to leave her alone,” he explains.
Missionaries continued to visit the Lees to read scriptures. And in September 1995, Brother Lee had a wonderful surprise. Jerry Wheat, the missionary who had baptized him four decades earlier, walked into his home with the elders. “I am serving as a public affairs missionary in Hong Kong,” Elder Wheat explained. “I had wondered what happened to Brother Lee, and when I asked and found out the missionaries were visiting him, I was thrilled to accompany them.”
The first time the two met, they hugged like old friends and caught up on each other’s lives. Elder Wheat returned again to the Lee home, this time to talk about the temple. “I challenged him to prepare himself to be sealed to his wife,” Elder Wheat explains. “He accepted.”
Since then, Brother Lee has made arrangements for neighbors or ward members to watch his wife while he attends church. With the assistance of ward members, he and his wife attended the ceremony celebrating the statue of the angel Moroni being placed on the top of the temple. They were sealed together in the Hong Kong Temple within the first few days of its opening.
“Being sealed is a great blessing, one that not everyone has,” Brother Lee says. “I am so grateful for the missionaries—those first elders that taught me, the sisters who showed such great compassion and love by reading the scriptures with me, and the missionaries who continue to visit me now. The gospel is true, and the Book of Mormon is proof of that.”

Listening to the rapid, incomprehensible buzz of Spanish that permeated the hot, stuffy confines of the Tres Estrellas bus, Elder Terry Richards gulped and stared straight ahead, straining to visualize his first city. All he knew of Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico, was that the bus depot was across the street from the city jail; therefore, when the bus entered a strange city and made a routine stop in front of a large baleful structure resembling a medieval stone fortress, he knew he had arrived.
He shuddered as he stepped from the bus into the sweltering Guaymas heat. All he had as security was the address of the elders’ quarters scribbled on a scrap of paper clutched in the sweating palm of his hand. His bags were piled at his feet, his scriptures tucked under his arm, and his face pinched with indecision and trepidation.
Suddenly a man approached and accosted him with a barrage of Spanish. The words were so unlike anything Elder Richards had ever heard that all he was capable of doing was to stare mutely and nod his head.
The man snatched his bags and began carrying them off. Panic stricken, Elder Richards tried to call out, but nothing in the Mission Training Center had prepared him to halt a robbery. “Hey, wait!” he finally managed to gasp. The man didn’t stop. “They’re mine!” He shook his head in frustration. “I mean,” he called hoarsely, “Estos … son … míos.”
The man grinned, nodded his head, and began cramming the bags into the trunk of a dent-covered car. Only then did it occur to Elder Richards that this was a Mexican taxi. He fumbled with the scrap of paper in his hand and thrust it toward the man. He wanted to say something—anything—but his mind was a perplexing blank.
The driver rambled while he drove. Elder Richards struggled to snatch a familiar word here and there, but most of the driver’s monologue was a verbal blur. Finally out of utter exhaustion he stopped listening altogether, dazed by this language, this seeming babble of tongues. Plagued by a terrible uncertainty, he asked himself, “What will I ever be able to do? What good will I be?”
The taxi left him on a narrow side street in front of an old two-story building, cracked, pocked, and sandwiched between a bakery and a small drugstore. He had hoped the elders would be there waiting, but it was Saturday afternoon. The doors were locked; the building, deserted. All he could do was huddle in a narrow bar of shade and wait. He sank down on his bags, exhausted and confused.
“Elder!” a voice called enthusiastically. He looked up into the smiling face of an older man. The man grabbed his hand and began pumping his arm furiously, at the same time pulling him toward the front door where he escorted him inside.
Hermano Marcos, who had come to prepare the building for the Sunday meetings, introduced Elder Richards to his new home. The building doubled as the branch casa de oración and the elders’ quarters. Two large rooms on the ground floor served as the chapel. They were filled from wall to wall with gray folding chairs, all of them facing two small tables, one obviously the podium and the other the sacrament table. The only other furniture was an old battered and scarred piano.
After Hermano Marcos’s short welcome and tour, he turned to his work, sweeping and mopping the floors and wiping the dust from the chairs and tables. While Hermano Marcos worked, Elder Richards wandered about, trying to imagine holding a church meeting in such humble circumstances, so unlike anything he had ever experienced. A flood of loneliness swept over him, leaving him groping for something to lend him stability. The only thing in these strange surroundings that had any semblance of the familiar was the old battered piano standing forlornly against the wall.
Now in Guaymas, lonely and somewhat dejected, he gently ran his fingers along the chipped and broken keyboard. A wan smile touched his lips. “It would take more than a pianist to get music out of you,” he whispered. He began to walk his fingers across the keys, listening to the sharp ping of the falling notes.
A worn hymnbook lay on one of the folding chairs. He reached for it and turned to “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” It was the first hymn he had ever learned to play. He studied the notes for a moment. When he was convinced he could, he sat down and began to play. His fingers were terribly awkward. The piano needed tuning, and several keys were broken. At times it was difficult to determine whether he or the piano was making the mistakes. But he labored through the hymn, once, twice. He played until the music, if not entirely melodious, was at least recognizable.
It was late when Elder Becket, Elder Richards’s new companion, and Elder Cole found him upstairs lying on their cot asleep.
The next morning as Elder Cole was preparing the sacrament and Elder Becket filled out a mission report, Elder Richards strolled to the old piano. “Who plays this old box?” he asked with a grin.
Elder Becket looked up and laughed. “That, Elder, isn’t just an old box. To the members here, it’s the most precious thing in Guaymas.”
“This?” Elder Richards asked with surprise. Elder Becket nodded. “Why? Did Cortez bring it over from Spain or something?”
“It’s a piano. There are a few of them in town, but you certainly don’t find them in every house for the kids to climb on and kick around. Some of the newer members haven’t even heard this one played, and none of the members have heard it played very well. An Elder Fisher, who could play a few hymns with one hand, was here about a year ago, a few months after they bought it. The members almost made him a saint. They made him play his hymns every Sunday. Finally he jokingly told the mission president he was going home if he had to play those hymns another time.”
“It’s seen better days,” Elder Richards commented. “It could sure use a tuning job.”
“You play?” Elder Becket asked.
Elder Richards laughed and shook his head. “I can make noise, pretty bad noise at that, but I don’t play. My mother thought I had musical talents, but after five years of lessons and no noticeable improvement, even she gave up.”
“If you had lessons for five years …”
“I didn’t learn anything.”
“If you played that long, you can play as well as Elder Fisher.”
Just then President Perales and his family arrived and the piano was temporarily forgotten, but just before sacrament meeting, President Perales approached Elder Richards with a hymnbook and spoke, pointing to the piano. Grinning and shaking his head, Elder Richards said shyly, “No, no puedo … tocar.”
President Perales motioned for Elder Becket to come over. “Hermano Marcos said he heard you playing yesterday,” Elder Becket said.
“Yesterday?” he gasped. “I was just fooling around. I can’t play.”
“You sure impressed Hermano Marcos.”
“Elder, I haven’t played for over three years. Yesterday was the first time—I mean the very first time—I’ve even sat down to a piano for over three years. I was just …”
“Play what you were playing yesterday.”
“I can’t,” he insisted, but the protest was to no avail. With his face burning with embarrassment, Elder Richards retreated to the piano. Never had he played in front of a group. At home when the bishop had asked him to play in priesthood, he had adamantly refused.
When it came time for the first hymn, he huddled morosely on the piano chair and braced himself for the shame. Even had the piano been a good one, he would have battled to coax music from it. With his fingers trembling and his eyes frantically searching the keyboard, he began to grope through “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning.” He managed to get through all three verses, but it was torture for him. Later he played the sacrament hymn, and at the conclusion of the meeting he played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Sensing that all eyes were on him, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head. He wanted to race from the building and hide himself, and the thing that was so utterly frustrating was that he was forced to endure his shame in silence. There was absolutely no way he could explain in Spanish that it had been years since he had last played, that he had never learned properly in the first place, that this whole thing was a terrible mistake.
As soon as the benediction was said, he stood, planning to sneak from the room and hide from the members’ questioning stares, but before he took three steps a sister had him by the arm and was speaking to him, tears glistening in her eyes. The only words that had any meaning for him were her often repeated, “Muchisimas gracias!” Two more sisters approached and then a brother. Soon it seemed as though the entire branch crowded around him, many with tears in their eyes, each trying to shake his hand.
He saw Elder Becket and searched his face for an explanation. Elder Becket smiled and called, “They loved it. If the Church sainted people, you would be the first Mormon saint in Guaymas.”
“For what?” he asked, completely bewildered.
“For playing their piano.”
“That wasn’t playing. That wasn’t music.”
“You’ll have a hard time convincing them. They want you to play again.”
“Now?”
“But I can’t. It’s been …”
“That might have worked back home, but not here. Look at them, Elder. They’re all but begging.”
Elder Richards was touched. He felt a twinge of shame, a gnawing guilt. Suddenly he wished he could play like his mother had always dreamed of him playing. He offered a silent prayer, pleading for help, not to shelter him from shame and embarrassment but to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands so that through his neglected talent he might give these special people the joy and satisfaction they sought.
It was almost an hour later before the last of the members left the building and Elder Richards made his way with his companions up to their room. “I can’t believe they could even listen to that, let alone enjoy it,” Elder Richards commented.
For a long while Elder Becket didn’t reply; then he shook his head and asked, “Where are you from, Elder?”
“Logan, Utah.”
“Have you ever been to a chapel that didn’t have a piano?” Elder Richards shook his head. “Well, most of these people have never heard the hymns played on a piano. The elders have taught them the melodies. Before today, when they sang “Ere You Left Your Room This Morning,” it was the way the elders had taught it. Not more than a handful of them have ever sung that hymn accompanied by a piano. “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” is a hymn that many of them have wanted to sing accompanied by a piano, but they’ve hardly dared hope that it was really possible.”
“I’m no musician,” Elder Richards said, “but I can hear the difference between noise and music.”
“Maybe two years ago I would have felt the same, but this morning that sounded pretty good, even to me.”
“Where did they get the old box anyway?”
“In Logan,” Elder Becket chided, “that’s an old box. Here it’s a treasure. They bought it from the Baptists. They had a special dinner to raise the money. Everybody donated food and then paid outlandish prices to eat it. All the money went for the piano. Someday, when the chapel’s built, they’ll have a new one, but right now they have to make do with that. The members are proud of their piano. Even though no one can play it and even though it might be out of tune, that’s one of the most important things in this whole building.”
“If it’s so important to them, why don’t they tune it?”
“No money. Right now they’re trying to raise money so they can start building their chapel. Every extra peso goes for that.”
The rest of the day, as Elder Richards followed his two companions, he couldn’t forget the old piano. When they returned to the building that night, it was late and Elder Richards was tired, but before going to bed he went down to the old piano and played “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” The timing was off, and the notes didn’t come through as smoothly as they did when his sisters or mother played, but for the first time in his life he really tried to make music and not merely put in time.
The next day he wrote a short note to his mother: “Mom, I would appreciate it if you would sell my stereo and send me the money. Ted Roberts said he’d buy it if I ever wanted to sell. There’s this piano here that needs tuning, and the members don’t have the money to get the job done. I’d like to help them out. I figure I owe them something after wasting all those piano lessons. And, mom, thanks for making me practice the piano.”
When the letter was addressed and sealed, Elder Richards stood and started down the stairs to the chapel below. “Where are you going?” Elder Becket asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll go down and beat on that old box. I mean, I figure that as long as I’m going to be the new branch pianist, I should give the members something they can be proud of, not just a lot of noise.”

I discovered the big, old lonesome rock the summer that I was at Grandpa’s farm, and I claimed it as my own. The rock was on a narrow stretch of wasteland bordering one edge of Grandpa’s property. The land there was too rocky to be worked, and the stock disliked the thick, tall grass that grew there.
A sizable crevice in the top of my rock formed a natural hiding place. I could climb down into it, stretch out on my back, and watch the white clouds sail across the sky. Or I could sit with my back against the rock, play my harmonica, and listen to the way the sounds swelled against the sides of the crevice. It was a neat place.
Then one day Coyote came to claim the hiding rock.
The first time that I saw him, he was on the very top of it, his nose pointing skyward. He was howling a long, trembling wail that made me shiver.
“Get off my rock!” I yelled at him.
Coyote faced me, his pale brown fur ruffling in the wind. Then he turned and went over the edge of the rock and into the tall grass.
I climbed to the top of the rock and slid down into my hiding place, half expecting Coyote to appear above me. When he didn’t, I pulled my harmonica out of my back pocket and began to play my favorite tunes.
It was near noon when I climbed out again. Coyote was still around; I caught a glimpse of his pointy ears and long nose through the grass.
I grinned. Maybe he had been listening to my harmonica music. My mind worked on the notion. After all, Grandpa played his old radio in the barn at milking time. He claimed it relaxed the cows and made the milking easier. Maybe music would have a relaxing effect on the coyote too.
I puffed out my cheeks and blew a lively tune just to see. Coyote lifted his head and let out a terrible howl. I cowered back down into my hiding place, rubbing away the goose bumps on my arms. So much for that!
When I told Grandpa about Coyote, he only chuckled and told me, “He’s just being sociable.”
“You mean Coyote could become friendly—like a real dog?”
Grandpa shook his head. “I doubt it. A wild critter mostly stays wild. But your playing, now, must trigger that coyote’s inborn nature to howl, to sing along with you.”
Each time that I went to the rock after that, I played and played my harmonica, hoping that Coyote would come and sing along. He never did, but I always felt that he was nearby.
I tried leaving my lunch, untouched, beside the big rock and imagined him wiggling in on his belly until he’d get close enough to snatch it. But the tall grass was yellow and crackling-dry before I saw him again.
I played a game of sitting quietly in my hiding place and not blowing on my harmonica, hoping that Coyote would think me gone and come to the top of the rock to wail his claim.
And he did.
I didn’t hear him come, but all at once he was there, standing on the top edge of the crevice, looking down at me. My first thought was that he would spring on me. I hollered and waved my arms. Coyote disappeared.
When my pounding heart calmed, I could have kicked myself. I scrambled to the top of the rock. “Aw, Coyote,” I called, “I didn’t mean to scare you away!” I could see him skirting the rocks and shoving aside the dry grass as he trotted across the waste. Pulling the harmonica out of my back pocket, I began to play, hoping that the playing would let him know that I hadn’t meant him any harm.
Coyote stopped and sat down, his brown nose barely showing above the yellow grass.
That’s when I noticed the smoky-dark clouds rolling in. Even as I stared, the ominous-looking clouds were whipped by the wind to the edge of the waste and straight toward the rock. I knew, even before the clouds were over me, that it was too late to reach Grandpa’s farm ahead of the rain.
As I turned to crawl back into my hiding place, a zigzag of brightness split the clouds and hit the earth with a crash. Coyote leaped into the air as if stung by the lightning. I could only stand and stare at the little tongue of fire that started to leap up where the bolt had touched ground. Coyote raced toward it.
“Coyote, come back!” I screamed, fear rising in me.
Coyote swerved and ran in another direction. But even as he did, the wind lifted a bit of the flame, carrying it ahead of him and starting another fire in his path.
Now fire seemed to be everywhere. Great billows of smoke rose up to meet the dark clouds. Smoke choked me, and my eyes smarted until I could no longer see Coyote.
With a desperate cry, I dove deep into the crevice of the big rock. I stretched out on my stomach and breathed in the good air trapped in its depth. I covered my ears with my hands to shut out the sound of the crackling flames. I shut my eyes, trying to blot out my mind-picture of poor Coyote frantically running, with no safe place to run to.
I said a quick prayer: “Heavenly Father, please help poor Coyote!”
I felt a wetness across my nose and cheek. Then on my hand. I wiped it away. I hadn’t meant to cry. I swiped more wetness from my face, then realized that it wasn’t tears at all. It was raining! Rain would put out the fire. Rain would cool the smoldering earth. I choked back a cry. Rain—but too late to save Coyote!
I pulled my hands away from my ears to listen. Something moved beside me. I reared up and caught a glimpse of a pale brown body bounding up out of the crevice and disappearing over the top.
Coyote! Coyote had been lying right next to me!
I gave a whoop of joy and scrambled out behind him. All about the big, old lonesome rock the earth was shadow-gray and bare of grass. I could see Coyote trotting off toward Grandpa’s untouched farmland. Once he stopped to look back at me.
I grinned and drew out my harmonica. The hiding rock would forever after belong to both of us—Coyote and me.

Kumifonua (Fonua) Taumoepenu found that the strength of conviction may come even after periods of loss and inactivity. Shortly after his baptism in 1995, Fonua served in many positions in the Church. He also worked for a soft drink company and was very successful, rising quickly through the ranks. But he was frequently away from home and found himself slowly moving away from his spiritual convictions. After a time he even began engaging in activities he knew he shouldn’t.
One day Fonua ran into a group of men who, though unprovoked, beat him so badly he had to be taken to the hospital. While there Fonua began to reflect on his life and the poor decisions he had made. “I realized something was wrong with the way I was living,” he says. “My example caused my children to make poor decisions too. They were doing things they shouldn’t do.”
Fonua decided it was time to change. He worked hard to repent, became worthy to enter the temple, and began attending regularly. One evening in the temple, he reflected on his life. “I knew I was worthy to be there,” he says, “but I felt uncomfortable. I looked back on my life and evaluated what I had done. I had not been a good servant of the Lord. And I needed answers too. I wanted a new job that would make it easier to stay clean.”
Fonua had just been offered a well-paying job in New Zealand. His family had encouraged him to take it because such jobs were hard to come by. “But I worried about leaving my family in Tonga and about how I would stay clean living so far away,” he says.
While in the temple, Fonua offered his heart in prayer to Heavenly Father. “I made a commitment to myself and to God that I would do what He wants for me. It was different from any commitment I had ever made before. And I received an answer there in the temple about how I could permanently change my life.”
Instead of taking the job in New Zealand, Fonua decided to stay in Tonga and look for better work. During this time, he was called as a temple worker. As he served faithfully, he says, “the Lord blessed me for righteous choices.” Fonua soon gained a major contract cleaning buildings. “It was a tremendous blessing. I could stay in Tonga with my family, take care of them, and serve in the temple.
“All that I have, all my blessings, come from being a servant of the Lord. I will never forget that moment in the temple. Even my children have been blessed. Before, they had caused a lot of trouble for Church members. But they’ve changed. They participate in church. There’s a great happiness in our home now—all because of the Lord.”

By the time I was ready to go to college, I had trained several branch members to lead the music and play the piano. In college I continued to play the piano and took organ lessons. I thought my chance of going to Latin America was gone forever when I gave up competitive swimming, but after I completed my master’s degree at Brigham Young University, I served a mission to Colombia. While on my mission, I taught piano lessons. I wanted to leave those Saints with the gift of music. Children and youth of Colombia walked miles in the hot sun to have the opportunity to learn to play the piano. They too started with one hand until they progressed to play with both hands. And they made more sacrifices than I did in their efforts to learn to play the piano.

Chelsea’s prayers and hard work paid off. In their second season, the Oak Hills Neighborhood Theater put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which Chelsea shortened and simplified for the children. The production went so well that the group was invited to participate in the Utah Shakespearean Festival’s Elementary Shakespeare Showcase in Cedar City, Utah.
“It was the best thing that could have happened to these wonderful, talented children,” says Chelsea.

Making the varsity basketball team in junior high school was probably the most exciting athletic achievement of my life. Just being part of the team and working out with the other players was a thrill.
I still remember what happened one day during a practice session. One of our teammates missed a pass. Then, a few minutes later, he made another error. This time he swore, and our coach heard him.
Now, Coach Fishburn was the most outstanding man I had ever met. He was bright, and he knew basketball and young men. After the practice, the coach called us together to talk about our practice. And he brought up the subject of profanity. “A good athlete never needs to swear,” he said. “Swearing only cheapens the athlete and makes him look weak. Men of greatness have no need for foul language—it only makes them look small in the eyes of other people.”
Although my basketball career was brief, Coach Fishburn’s words have always stayed with me. “Men [and women] of greatness have no need of foul language.”

One day while I was riding in the car with Dad, a song that was not good came on the radio. It was about gambling. I remembered that one of My Gospel Standards says: I will only listen to music that is pleasing to Heavenly Father. I asked my dad to change the station. I had a good feeling after that. I know we’re supposed to choose the right and do good things and not do the bad things that Satan wants us to do. I’m glad to have My Gospel Standards because they help me choose the right.

Lindsey Walch and Carson Evers, two 17-year-olds from the Santa Cruz California Stake, had to decide what the Sabbath meant to them. When challenges came, they made their decision and found greater understanding and peace.
Carson’s game is basketball, and he loves to play in tournaments. The problem, of course, is that many tournaments include Sunday in their schedules.
“At this one particular tournament we had a chance in the finals, which were on a Sunday,” he says. “I was thinking about going because it was the final big tournament. I said to myself, ‘I don’t want to give up. I don’t think it’s right.’”
When he talked to his coach, he felt even more pressure. “He was kind of pushing me to go because we were in the finals of the big tournament.”
What made it even more difficult were his own prior choices. “Before then I was kind of used to making exceptions,” he says. “I used to go play some on Sunday every once in a while for tournaments. I always played my worst game then. It just never worked out.”
But this time he made a decision about what the Sabbath meant to him. “I talked about it with my parents,” he says. “They said, ‘Whatever you decide.’ I always hate that when they make you choose.”
Carson also received support for his decision from a friend and teammate, who is also LDS and chooses not to play on Sunday. “It’s kind of easy for me, because he is a member,” says Carson. “He’s like my best friend, and we always play sports together. And it’s easier for me because we both don’t do that stuff on Sundays. It’s just good having another person there. I’m not the only one.”
When Carson made his decision not to play, it had quite an effect on him. “I had this good feeling about it when I went to church that Sunday,” he says. “I knew I needed to be there and not at my tournament. That whole day, I just knew—that nice little chill up the spine feeling, you know?”
Attending church is an important part of the Sabbath for Carson, particularly renewing his covenants and remembering the Savior through the sacrament. “It makes me keep the Sabbath day a little more holy,” he says. “It helps me think of the Sabbath as a holy day and not just a day of rest.”
So what does the Sabbath mean to Carson?
“For me, it’s about showing respect for Heavenly Father and what He commanded,” he says. “It’s resting, taking a day off, just getting back in the groove. By the end of the week I’m burned out; I’m done. I always need a rest.”
One of his favorite things about Sunday is spending time with his family. “It’s just good to have one day just with my family to get to know them better,” he says. “During the week I don’t have the time to be with my family as much as I’d like. So Sunday’s a pretty good day to be with them.”

At the groundbreaking ceremony, many young people who had been at the cleanup also sang in the youth chorus. The strains of “High on the Mountain Top” (Hymns, number 5) rang out over the crowd of thousands that had gathered to see the temple ground dedicated.
“We all joined together to celebrate our temple,” says Tyler Lindsey, age 16. “I knew that it was right and the ground was holy. I don’t know how we sounded, but the Spirit was there.”