Gospel Story Finder

Sister Ivone Armada from the Luanda Stake in Angola decided to use the Savior’s perspective as a guide for her gospel living. With her permission, I am sharing her comments. She wrote:
“At some point in my life, I was finally able to stop working to keep up with my children’s growth and home management. But I wanted to do something more, to contribute to the growth of one’s life.
“I prayed to the Lord, and at the end of the prayer an ‘angel’ was placed in my life—a friend who would help me become a facilitator to teach literacy classes.
“We started the training for this and when it ended, I divulged the project in the Church and in the community and thus formed a class where I could teach during a school year for children and adults with literacy needs.
“It was a great gift in my life, indeed for my whole family, since the preparation of the classes became a family project. It became a beacon—not only in the students’ lives but also in mine—I learned a lot about sacrifice with them and about perseverance.
“Three years later, on the day of the creation of the Angola Stake, I had the great blessing of meeting with several of these students (an adult and the rest—young people) and how wonderful it was to hear them say that they had never failed school again, they were so excited. My heartbeat fired and I remember looking up and saying in silence: ‘Thank you Father in Heaven’.
“Upon hearing one of the adult sisters that attended the class say that because of these classes she was able to start a small business that has provided for her family’s needs, we embraced each other, and we began to weep with gratitude. My husband and the people around me were perplexed to see this. My husband realized what was happening.
“With this experience, what is found in Doctrine and Covenants 81:5 and 84:106 gained tremendous weight in my personal and spiritual growth. I became a humbler person and had the purpose of leaving a legacy of greater service to my neighbor.”
Thanks to this experience, Sister Ivone continues to contribute in training and developing others. She went over and beyond what was being asked and used her time and talents to help others at Church and in her community. She indeed ministered to those in need and was blessed far beyond her expectations for that.

But on its basketball court, ordinary activities like the stake youth sports festival can become extraordinary. For example, watch the Mandaluyong Third Ward basketball team. Suddenly your eyes focus on a young man wobbling and limping his way down the hard court.
A knee injury, perhaps?
A sprained wrist?
Not so, you find out. The young man is partially paralyzed.
For Alvin Martinez, rising against the odds is just like turning swampland into skyscrapers. Alvin was born healthy, and like other newborn Filipino babies he was given polio shots. But somehow, the vaccine attacked his nerves. His right leg and arm started turning immobile. The polio vaccine rendered his entire right side paralyzed.
Alvin was often the subject of jokes in school when classmates would see him limping his way to class.
“Hey, it’s Alvin,” somebody would shout.
“The way is straight,” another would jeer, “so how come you walk crooked?”
“Alvin, Alvin pilay!” Pilay means “cripple.” It was a jeer his straight-walking classmates loved to bestow on him.
But teasing wasn’t Alvin’s only trial. His father suddenly died of a stroke. Struggling with his family’s loss and his classmates’ snide comments, Alvin drifted from school and church activity and found another barkada, or group of buddies.
In Manila, a barkada can consist either of friends who build you up or of those who let you down. Alvin’s barkada was of the negative variety. Still, Alvin tried to maintain his LDS standards. “My friends would invite me to smoke,” he remembers, “but I told them I was a Mormon.”
Finally, Alvin resolved to rise up despite his limitations and, like David of old, conquer his personal Goliaths. He made a firm resolve to continue his schooling. His widowed mother, who now works as a seamstress, was delighted. She had patiently reminded him that his future would be brighter if he had a good education.
At school, Alvin found a new barkada, classmates who treated him with respect. “All my classmates are so kind and friendly,” he beams.
A little bit shy at first, but actually fun-loving and witty, Alvin also began to find church to be a home away from home. “I enjoyed being in church,” Alvin says, “and I liked being with my fellow young men.” Because of the influence of good Church friends and priesthood quorum members, Alvin’s testimony was strengthened and he found himself, with the help of his youth leaders, back in church. In visiting Alvin, they would often tell him not to be ashamed of his disability. “We wanted him to know that he was valued,” one youth leader recalls, “and he did feel appreciated eventually.” Alvin is grateful for the missionaries who taught his family, and he’s even more grateful for the youth leaders who helped him come back to church after going through some real struggles.

Twice a year, before the sun came up on Saturday morning, the youth from the East Shores (Michigan) Ward would pile into cars and vans. For the next four or five hours they would sleep, sing, play games, and anticipate their destination: the Toronto Ontario Temple. They would spend the afternoon doing temple work, then pile back in the vehicles and arrive home late in the evening.
Now the East Shores youth travel to the temple six times each year, but the travel time has been cut to about 25 minutes since the Detroit Michigan Temple was dedicated in October 1999.

Blessings
When President Gordon B. Hinckley gave the dedicatory prayer at the Detroit Michigan Temple, he prayed that the people who performed the temple work, as well as those who had passed away, would be blessed. With the temple so close, the East Shores youth have had plenty of opportunities to experience the blessings of temple work.
Many of the East Shores youth were at the temple when President Hinckley gave the dedicatory prayer. At that time, they had many expectations of what it would be like to have a temple so close. Now, more than a year later, they are looking back to see if their expectations were met.

Great expectations
When the Detroit temple was announced, Jessica Ellison, an East Shores Mia Maid, could hardly wait. “I remember the exciting feeling of knowing there would be a temple closer and we’d get a lot more chances to go.”
Michael Oniones, a teacher, shared in the excitement. “I knew it would be a lot easier to do the things we used to do at Toronto and other temples because it would be in our own backyard. We could go whenever we wanted.”
Jessica and Michael got their wish.
“We go every other month now,” says Erin Coons, a Mia Maid. “The Young Men and the Young Women switch; the girls go one month, and the next month the boys go.”
This is quite a change from the twice-a-year trip to Canada. But even though the temple is so close, the East Shores youth say going there is like entering another world.

Coming together
Although the greatest expectation the youth had was to attend the temple more often, they have been flooded with other blessings.
In the temple, sacred work is performed that connects families through the generations. The East Shores youth say that, as they work in the temple together, they forge strong bonds with each other.
“You get to know the girls in your ward better because you go together,” Erin says.
The friendship the Young Men and Young Women develop as they attend the temple is stronger than with their other friends because of the important work they do in the temple.
“There aren’t many people you get to share such a spiritual thing with,” says Krista Lyke, a Laurel. “There’s a bond with those girls that you don’t have with your outside-church friends.”
A missionary now
One blessing that wasn’t expected by the East Shores youth was the opportunity the temple would present for sharing the gospel. But when a granite building with a gold angel appears on one of the main streets in town, people ask questions.
Erin took two of her friends through the temple during the open house.
“Even though they weren’t extremely interested in learning more,” Erin says, “it just felt nice to share with them what I believe in.”
A greater respect
The Detroit temple is one of the new, smaller temples. Since there is minimal staff, those attending are expected to help keep it clean. This means that when the youth finish with baptisms, they wipe around the baptismal font, help do the laundry, and make sure everything is left in order.
“It makes it more personal to you because you’ve taken care of it,” Jessica says.
Some of the cleaning responsibilities may not seem very pleasant, like cleaning the bathrooms. But, as Mike says, since it’s the temple, it’s a privilege, not a chore. “If you clean the bathroom, people may not think that’s so great,” Mike says, “but still, you’re cleaning the bathroom in the temple, and even to be in the temple is a great thing.”
Challenges
When Moses was leading the Children of Israel through the wilderness, fiery flying serpents came down and bit them. After they had been bitten, the Lord presented a way for them to be healed. All they had to do was look at a serpent on Moses’ staff (Num. 21:8–9). “And because of the simpleness of the way, or the easiness of it, there were many who perished” (1 Ne. 17:41).
Since the Detroit temple has been built, the East Shores youth say it is quite easy to attend. But as it was with the people who died from the fiery serpents because the cure was so easy, it is also easy to say, “The temple is close by; I can go any time; I’ll skip this month and go next month.”
“We have to go to the temple on Tuesday or Thursday because we save the weekends for other stakes and wards that aren’t close,” says Krista. “So you have to change your priorities, because, if you’re in sports and you have a practice, you have to decide what’s more important, your practice or going to the temple.”
“Life doesn’t stop for you,” says Chris Young, a teacher. “Being closer to the temple does make it easier, but you still have to plan for it.”
Blessings closer to home
The East Shores youth say they are enjoying the blessings President Hinckley prayed for in the dedicatory prayer. One of the things he prayed for was that the temple would “shine as a bright and welcome light, a refuge from the storms and stresses of the world.”
Jessica, like the rest of the youth, says the temple has done that. “When you get to go, you don’t have to worry about anything. You feel so calm and special, and you don’t have the worldly matters to deal with anymore.”
As more temples are built around the world, more youth are enjoying the blessings and feelings of the Spirit that come with frequent temple attendance. “I feel that feeling more now,” says Mike. “Before we had to go far, to Canada. And now that the temple is closer, the feeling is closer.”
“There are many areas of the Church that are remote, where the membership is small and not likely to grow very much in the near future. Are those who live in these places to be denied forever the blessings of the temple ordinances? While visiting such an area a few months ago, we prayerfully pondered this question. The answer, we believe, came bright and clear” (Ensign, Nov. 1997, 49).
—President Gordon B. Hinckley
“‘Come to the temple.’ If not now, come soon. Pray fervently, set your lives in order, save whatever you can in hopes that that day may come. … The temple transforms the individual and makes abundantly worthwhile any efforts made to get there. For some who live at great distances from a temple, the temples will come to you before you might come to them. Keep your faith and your hope and determine that you will come—that you will be worthy and that you will come to the temple” (The Holy Temple, pamphlet, 1982, 1).
—President Boyd K. PackerActing President of the Quorum of the Twelve

Let me tell you an unusual experience that happened to me while I was presiding over the Florida Mission. It all started when I received a letter from a sister named Flavia Salazar Gomez.
In her letter, Flavia stated she had joined the Church when she was about 12 years old, and had been very active in Mexico. Later she had fallen in love with a Dominican man, married him, and moved with him to the Dominican Republic. Flavia thought she was the only Latter-day Saint in the whole country of five million people. She mentioned that she had a year-old baby boy who had not been named or blessed.
She wrote that she was seriously ill with cancer and had been told she did not have very long to live. She asked if it would be possible for someone holding the priesthood to come to Santiago to bless her baby and to give her a blessing.
I wrote to her and told her we would get there as soon as possible. There was one Latter-day Saint family living in Santo Domingo—Dale Valentine and his wife and children. I wrote Brother Valentine and asked if he would take me to Santiago so we could find Flavia and give her a blessing.
When we arrived at the outskirts of Santiago, Brother Valentine asked me where Flavia lived. At that moment we realized that none of us knew exactly. We didn’t have a street address; all I knew was her name and that she was hoping we would come.
We stopped for a few minutes on a high point overlooking the city. I told Brother Valentine to drive into the city and turn to the left. He obediently drove on. I then told him to make a right turn and proceed toward the center of this large, congested city.
I said, “Go to the next corner; make a right turn; and after you turn, you will find an empty parking place.”
He drove to the corner and made the right turn. There in front of us was an open parking place. We parked, got out of the car, and stood. “Now what do we do?” he asked.
I said, “Let’s just start asking people.”
There was a man on the sidewalk leaning up against the front of a residence. Brother Valentine went over to him and asked him in Spanish if he knew Flavia Salazar Gomez.
Surprised, the man said, “Yes, she’s my wife. She’s just inside that door.” We had parked in front of their home.
Flavia’s husband went inside and she came out onto the sidewalk with her baby. We were invited into the home and were delighted to know that she was living the Word of Wisdom and that she prayed every day. Because of her illness, she couldn’t attend church, but she felt she was a good, faithful member.
We named and blessed the little boy, and then I asked Brother Valentine to give Sister Gomez a blessing in Spanish. I felt impressed to tell him to bless her that she would recover from her cancerous condition and become well.
Six months later, I stopped in Santo Domingo and Brother Valentine drove me to where Flavia and her husband were living. We found her in good health, looking well and happy. She told us she had been completely cured.
When this lovely young mother had needed a priesthood blessing, she knew there was no way to receive one except to ask the Lord to help her. So she had very simply written a letter to the mission president, whom she didn’t know. The mission president had read her letter and immediately done what the Lord told him to do: he had arranged to go and answer her need. It was that simple.

Do you recognize this struggle? The date is 14 July 1943.
No peace had yet come, though I had prayed for it almost unceasingly. . . . I turned toward the hills. I had no objective. I wanted only to be alone. I had begun a fast. . . .

My weakness overcame me again. Hot tears came flooding down my cheeks as I made no effort to mop them up. I was accusing myself, and condemning myself and upbraiding myself. I was praying aloud for special blessings from the Lord. I was telling him that I had not asked for this position, that I was incapable of doing the work, that I was imperfect and weak and human, that I was unworthy of so noble a calling, though I had tried hard and my heart had been right. I knew that I must have been at least partly responsible for offenses and misunderstandings which a few people fancied they had suffered at my hands. I realized that I had been petty and small many times. I did not spare myself. A thousand things passed through my mind. Was I called by revelation? . . .

If I could only have the assurance that my call had been inspired most of my other worries would be dissipated. . . .I knew that I must have His acceptance before I could go on. I stumbled up the hill and onto the mountain, as the way became rough. I faltered some as the way became steep. No paths were there to follow; I climbed on and on. Never had I prayed before as I now prayed. What I wanted and felt I must have was an assurance that I was acceptable to the Lord. I told Him that I neither wanted nor was worthy of a vision or appearance of angels or any special manifestation. I wanted only the calm peaceful assurance that my offering was accepted. Never before had I been tortured as I was now being tortured. And the assurance did not come. . . .

I mentally beat myself and chastised myself and accused myself. As the sun came up and moved in the sky I moved with it, lying in the sun, and still I received no relief. I sat up on the cliff and strange thoughts came to me: all this anguish and suffering could be ended so easily from this high cliff and then came to my mind the temptations of the Master when he was tempted to cast Himself down—then I was ashamed for having placed myself in a comparable position and trying to be dramatic. . . . I was filled with remorse because I had permitted myself to place myself . . . in a position comparable, in a small degree, to the position the Saviour found Himself in when He was tempted, and . . . I felt I had cheapened the experiences of the Lord, having compared mine with His. Again I challenged myself and told myself that I was only trying to be dramatic and sorry for myself.

. . . I lay on the cool earth. The thought came that I might take cold, but what did it matter now. There was one great desire, to get a testimony of my calling, to know that it was not human and inspired by ulterior motives, kindly as they might be. How I prayed! How I suffered! How I wept! How I struggled! [Edward L. Kimball and Andrew E. Kimball, Jr., Spencer W. Kimball (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1977), p. 192–95]

Now at this very hour 38 years and a mountain of tumors and troubles later, this sweet and godly man clings to life not because that life has been convenient but because he feels there might be one more mountain to climb, one more obstacle of body or spirit that needs to be overcome. The spiritual odyssey of Andrew Kimball’s son has been anything but easy.

Before we knew it, it was 2012. Teni and I had grown even closer and were deeply in love—it is an amazing feeling, being married to my best friend—but something significant was missing. For six years, I just couldn’t fall pregnant. I began to think I might forever be an aunt, but never a mum.
We felt so incomplete.
One evening, we received a phone call which would change our lives! There was news of an unborn baby boy and an expectant mother determined to find a good family for him.
On the night that Kahn Ui was born, his birth mother—tears streaming down her face—delicately placed him in my arms and whispered, “He’s yours now. Thank you for loving him as much as I do.”
Alert and curious, baby Kahn looked up at me, completely unaware of the miracle that had just taken place. He fit perfectly in my arms, and it is with that same ease and sense of familiarity that he also fit into our family.
My husband and I entered the wonderful world of parenthood together. We took turns feeding our baby throughout the night; we talked to him, sung to him, and shed tears of immeasurable joy as we got to know him.
We realised a profound truth in those early days. As much as Kahn needed us, we—his new parents—needed the Lord more than ever. We prayed for His guidance as we learned our new roles.

Ryan threw open the front door. “Mom,” he shouted, racing down the hall to the study, “I struck out three men at practice today, and one of the guys walked home with me.”
Mother looked up and smiled into the brown eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to make a friend,” she said. “And if you keep on pitching like that, you’ll soon be the star of the team.”
Ryan grinned, tugging at a strand of hair that had escaped his cap.
“By the way, I made some friends today, too,” Mother continued. “Go wash up. You can help me put a pizza together for dinner while I tell you about them.”
Ryan joined his mother in the kitchen a few moments later and started rolling out a ball of dough.
“While you were at practice, a neighbor, Sister Krein, and her eleven-year-old son, Joey, came to visit me,” Mother said. “They brought us some honey wheat rolls fresh out of the oven.”
“All right!”
“You see—there are advantages to being the new family in town.” Mother paused to enjoy Ryan’s smile before she went on. “After visiting with them, I agreed to let Joey stay with us during the day this summer when Sister Krein can’t be home with him.”
“But you said that he’s eleven! Can’t he stay by himself?”
“No—you see, he was born with Down’s syndrome.”
“You mean he has a mental handicap?”
“Yes. He does some things quite well, but he has to have help doing other things, and he can’t be left alone for very long. He needs more supervision than other children his age.”
“Well, I guess it will be OK,” agreed Ryan, “as long as I don’t have to miss playing baseball with the guys.”
Mother popped the pizza into the oven and set the timer. “I’m sure Joey won’t keep you from ball practice. He loves sports, too, and plays on one of the city teams himself.”
When Ryan answered the door the next morning, Joey was standing on the porch with a baseball cap on his head, a glove on his hand, and a big smile on his face. “Hi,” he said enthusiastically. “I’m Joey.”
“Hi, I’m Ryan. Come on in.”
“Do you want to play ball?” Joey asked, smacking his fist into his glove.
Ryan laughed. “You love baseball as much as I do, don’t you?” he said, picking up a bat and glove. He and Joey headed for the backyard.
“Can I bat?” asked Joey.
“Sure,” said Ryan, “but I think you’ll do better if you hold it a little higher.” He shifted the bat in Joey’s hands, then positioned himself near the back fence. “Swing straight into it,” he called, and made a gentle pitch.
“I can’t believe how patient Joey is,” Ryan told his mother a few days later. “I’ve never seen anyone who keeps trying the way he does.”
Mother smiled. “Joey never seems to want to quit playing, once you two get started. It’s a good thing you both like baseball.”
The boys played together every minute they could spare from practicing with their own teams. Then one afternoon they both realized that Joey was hitting the ball almost every time. “I hit it again!” he shouted, jumping up and down with glee as Ryan thumped him on the back.
He was even more excited the next day. “My team is going to play your team,” he announced.
Ryan pulled his schedule out of his desk drawer, and both boys bent over it.
“See,” said Joey, pointing. “Thursday. Pitch slow, Ryan. I want to get a hit. Please, Ryan, pitch slow—like when we practice.”
What should I do? Ryan wondered to himself after Joey had gone home. I want Joey to get a hit, but I want to help my team win the game too. What will they think of me if I don’t do my best pitching?
Ryan’s anxiety increased as the day of the game approached, but Joey grew more and more excited. “Pitch slow so I can get a hit,” he told Ryan over and over again.
Thursday arrived. Ryan had already struck out two boys and gotten six others on easy ground balls or pop flies, when Joey picked up the bat and ran over to home plate. Ryan glanced at his teammates. He knew they expected Joey to be an easy out.
Ryan was suddenly very hot, and not just from the blistering sun overhead. Pulling off his cap, he took his time wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then he smiled at Joey, wound up, and pitched a slow ball with great care over the plate. Crack! Joey’s bat connected solidly, but Joey was just standing there, exulting.
“Run, Joey, run!” Ryan looked around in wonder as he heard his own teammates take up the cry.
By the time Joey’s foot landed on first base, the whole ballpark was alive with cheering. Joey’s freckled face beamed as players from both teams pelted his back with pats of approval. Ryan thought he had never seen a bigger smile than Joey’s.
Ryan smiled, too, as he thought, There’s more than one way to win!

Whitman wrote: “The ice storm [that winter] wasn’t generally destructive. True, a few wires came down, and there was a sudden jump in accidents along the highway. … Normally, the big walnut tree could easily have borne the weight that formed on its spreading limbs. It was the iron wedge in its heart that caused the damage.

“The story of the iron wedge began years ago when the white-haired farmer [who now inhabited the property on which it stood] was a lad on his father’s homestead. The sawmill had then only recently been moved from the valley, and the settlers were still finding tools and odd pieces of equipment scattered about. …

“On this particular day, it was a faller’s wedge—wide, flat, and heavy, a foot or more long, and splayed from mighty poundings [—which the lad found] … in the south pasture. [A faller’s wedge, used to help fell a tree, is inserted in a cut made by a saw and then struck with a sledge hammer to widen the cut.] … Because he was already late for dinner, the lad laid the wedge … between the limbs of the young walnut tree his father had planted near the front gate. He would take the wedge to the shed right after dinner, or sometime when he was going that way.

“He truly meant to, but he never did. [The wedge] was there between the limbs, a little tight, when he attained his manhood. It was there, now firmly gripped, when he married and took over his father’s farm. It was half grown over on the day the threshing crew ate dinner under the tree. … Grown in and healed over, the wedge was still in the tree the winter the ice storm came.

“In the chill silence of that wintry night … one of the three major limbs split away from the trunk and crashed to the ground. This so unbalanced the remainder of the top that it, too, split apart and went down. When the storm was over, not a twig of the once-proud tree remained.

“Early the next morning, the farmer went out to mourn his loss. …

“Then, his eyes caught sight of something in the splintered ruin. ‘The wedge,’ he muttered reproachfully. ‘The wedge I found in the south pasture.’ A glance told him why the tree had fallen. Growing, edge-up in the trunk, the wedge had prevented the limb fibers from knitting together as they should.”

As a young boy, I went on a rafting trip on the Colorado River. A wonderful adviser said, “On this rapid, I want you to be the ‘tiller’ (the one who steers the raft).” The adviser, whom I admired because of his physical strength and spiritual integrity, took a much less significant position in the raft, handed me the oar, and said, “Now it’s your turn.”

We calculated how we would run the rapid, and then we ran it. I broke two paddles in the rapid, but with the help of a well-prepared crew, we met the challenge safely. I thought, There’s an adviser who understands. It was a remarkable example of a trusting priesthood adviser raising a young man’s potential for service. He was there to hand us the oar, not just steer for us. It helped me gain self-confidence.

“Come on, guys,” Brother Larmouth said, breaking into our discussion of the basketball game our team had lost the night before. “We have a service project to think about.”
Brother Larmouth leaned forward in his dark suit, placed his forearms on his knees, and held his black pocket calendar in front of him. Brother Larmouth was vice president of one of the banks in town and everything he did was always precise, proper, and meticulous. He studied his calendar a moment and then asked, “Well, men, what’s it going to be?”
The room went quiet. I always hated this part of our planning session. Service projects never were my first love. I didn’t mind doing them, but coming up with the idea was always a royal pain. They were always so much the same.
“Sister Seymour might need some help,” Brother Larmouth suggested after observing our sudden silence.
“Yeah, that sounds all right,” Chris Frei mumbled without conviction.
“She can always use some help.”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched. “The widows get all the breaks,” I muttered jokingly. “Let’s skip them this month.”
“Any suggestions, Kyle?” Brother Larmouth asked, glancing over at me and adjusting the tie that didn’t need adjusting.
I thought for a minute. “How about picking out a good widower?”
Brad and Chris began to smile while Brother Larmouth shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“We could activate Willard Weatherford,” I suggested, fighting not to smile.
“Kyle, can we get back to our planning?”
“What’s wrong with Brother Weatherford?” I asked.
“Kyle, I’ve lived in the 12th Ward since I was a kid. To my knowledge Brother Weatherford has been inside this church twice during that time. Once for his wife’s funeral and the other time for a friend’s. He smokes. He cusses. For years he wouldn’t even let the home teachers inside his house. He’s been a prospective elder since I went on my mission.”
“Well, I say it’s about time we got him out to church.”
“Kyle, can we wrap this up in the next few minutes?”
“So we just write him off?”
“Kyle, he wrote himself off a long time ago.”
Because our stomachs were growling, Sister Seymour finally ended up as our service project for the month, but as I left the church and headed for home in the crisp January air, I couldn’t help thinking of Willard Weatherford and wondering what it was like to be written off by everyone.
Willard lived just five houses down from me in a modest, red brick home with a large garage to the south. He had been an auto mechanic for years, so he’d set up an auto shop in his garage to tinker in his spare time. He was a stocky, grizzly old guy with gray, short-cropped hair, a round head, and flat nose. He rarely spoke or smiled, always looking like he’d just bitten the heads off a handful of nails.
Before I went into the house that Sunday afternoon, I glanced down the street toward Brother Weatherford’s place where a few patches of old snow lingered on his lawn. His old Ford truck was parked in front and the living room drapes were pulled closed.
Mom called me in to dinner and her fried chicken, hot rolls, mashed potatoes, and cherry cheese cake made me forget all about Willard.
Four days later a winter storm moved in and dumped seven inches of snow overnight. Dad woke me up in the morning, pushed a snow shovel into my hands, and pointed me to the driveway, reminding me that I would have to hurry to make it to school on time. I grumbled most of the time but worked fast to get out of the cold. I was about to hurry into the warmth of the house to eat breakfast when I glanced down the street in Brother Weatherford’s direction. The house was dark; the snow in the driveway, undisturbed. For a moment I pondered. Then I did one of the craziest things I’d ever done in my life. I walked down the street and began pushing the snow from Brother Weatherford’s driveway.
“What you doing, boy?” a voice growled behind me when I was about half finished with the driveway.
Startled, I turned to see Willard Weatherford standing at the top of the driveway wearing a faded, grease-spotted parka. His hands were stuffed into the pockets, and his head was scrunched into the coat’s collar.
I shrugged. “Just pushing a little snow to stay in shape.” I banged the shovel on the cement and stomped my feet.
“I do my own driveway. I can’t pay you, if that’s what you’re planning.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I answered undaunted, returning to my shoveling.
He watched for a moment and then turned and walked into the house. I finished the driveway. Then, just to be ornery, I shoveled his sidewalk too. I suppose I was curious about him, wondered what made him tick.
“Hey, boy,” Brother Weatherford called to me from the front door as I was about to head for home. He came down the steps in a T-shirt and held three dollar bills in his hand. “This is all the change I have,” he mumbled. “I usually do my own work.”
I looked at the three dollars. “I didn’t do it for money.”
He seemed puzzled. “You Tom Jordan’s boy?”
I nodded.
“He put you up to this?”
I shook my head and muttered something about being late for school.
Three other times I cleaned off Brother Weatherford’s walk and driveway. Each time I finished he came out with a few one dollar bills and handed them to me. Each time I refused.
The last time I cleaned off his walk was the end of March after a wet snow dumped two or three inches. He came out with a 20 dollar bill.
“Take it,” he insisted, thrusting it towards me.
I laughed, shaking my head and shouldering my shovel. “I’m still trying to get myself in shape.”
Who makes you do this?” he demanded.
We stared at each other for several seconds without speaking. It was a question I had asked myself. Part of the reason went back to the fact that everyone had just crossed him off as one more negative Church statistic. Ever since that first morning I’d felt sorry for Willard Weatherford, living alone in his house, just waiting for life to run out on him. Everybody deserved more than that out of life. Chances were that the next time he went to church might be to attend his own funeral. “I guess I just figured you—” I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. “I better get going,” I mumbled. “School, you know.”
Willard pulled out a cigarette, put it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, and as he exhaled he muttered, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear, “Well, thanks.”
One Saturday morning in late April the Young Men and Young Women planned a cleanup day in Sister Seymour’s yard. Brad Hunt and Chris Frei stopped by so we could walk over together. On the way I spotted Willard Weatherford in his backyard putting up a fence.
“Sister Seymour’s going to have more people than she needs,” I remarked, stopping.
“You skip out on another service project,” Chris grinned, “and Brother Larmouth will have the bishop all over you.”
“Nobody’s skipping out. We’re just changing projects. We can call Sister Seymour’s to let them know we can’t make it. Brother Weatherford needs a hand.”
“Old man Weatherford?” Brad groaned. “He wouldn’t let you help him even if you wanted to.”
I started into Willard’s yard.
“You’re not serious?” Brad called after me.
I just kept walking.
Brad and Chris hesitated a moment, but their curiosity got the better of them and they soon followed.
“Well, what do we do?” I asked jovially.
Willard looked up from the posthole he was digging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing first at me and then at Chris and Brad. “I can’t pay you anything,” he muttered.
I grabbed a shovel. “What do you want us to do?”
Things were awkward for a moment, but then Willard saw that we weren’t going to leave, so he grumbled some instructions to us and we got to work. Brad and Chris thought I was crazy at first, but they didn’t hold back. It was a bigger project than any of us had anticipated, but we stayed with it.
Willard chain-smoked most of the day and occasionally grunted instructions. Several times he told us we should go, that we’d done all that a person could expect us to do. But we stayed till the end, which was about three in the afternoon.
As we were helping Willard put the tools away, Brad announced, “Well, I better get home. I need to do some work on my car.”
“When did that old bomb of yours start working?” Chris asked.
“I didn’t say that it was working. I said that I had to work on it.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Willard asked.
“A ’67 Mercury,” Brad said sheepishly.
“The one his dad dated his mom in,” Chris kidded.
“Maybe I could look at it sometime.”
“It’s not a bad car,” Brad said.
“Yeah,” I said, “everything works but the engine.”
That evening Willard dropped by Brad’s place and towed the Mercury back to his garage.
The following day in quorum meeting, Brother Larmouth mentioned that he was sorry the three of us hadn’t been able to make it to Sister Seymour’s for the service project.
“We found another project that was more urgent,” I explained.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. We were helping Brother Weatherford.”
The rest of the quorum began to snicker—except for Brad and Chris. I looked around without smiling. Back in January when I had first brought Willard’s name up, I would have appreciated the chuckles because Willard was just a joke then, but the last three months had made him a person, and finally a friend. I knew then that I hadn’t skipped Sister Seymour’s service project just to do my own thing. I had been at Willard’s place because I really wanted to be there.
A week later Willard called and asked if I’d bring Chris and Brad over to his place. I was shocked. The last person I had expected to call me on the phone was Willard.
When the three of us arrived, Willard was in the garage puttering about. Brad’s car was parked in the middle of the garage. Willard reached into his pocket, pulled out Brad’s keys and tossed them to him. “See what you think.”
Brad caught the keys. “Does it work?” he asked.
Willard shrugged and turned away, going to his workbench and pushing a set of wrenches about. “Try it,” was all he said.
Slowly, Brad put the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked over and began to purr.
“I don’t believe it,” Chris gasped.
“What’d you do to it?” Brad called out, stepping from the car and letting the engine idle.
Willard turned around, his face expressionless, but his eyes beamed with pleasure. “Don’t ever give up on a car like that.”
“What do I owe you? I mean—how much did all this cost?”
“Didn’t cost me a thing. Some of the wrecking yards around here owe me some favors. They coughed up the parts.”
After that it seemed that Brad, Chris, and I were always over at Willard’s. We worked in his garage, sipped sodas on his front lawn, talked baseball. We even teased him about his smoking. We told him that every time he took a drag he was throwing away 30 minutes of his life.
He chuckled and wagged his head. “I’ve been at it too long to kick it now.” But after that we noticed that when we walked up, he would flip his cigarette away.
Then one afternoon as we sat in his shop, he seemed more nervous than usual. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants, scratching the back of his neck, pacing the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“What’s on your mind, Willard?” Brad asked.
Willard shook his head. He tried to smile, but his attempt was more a grimace. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I chucked my smokes. I haven’t had a smoke for a couple of days. But I don’t know if I can handle it.”
For a moment the three of us were quiet. Then Chris jumped up. “You’ll make it, Willard. You just need something to take your mind off it. Do you chew gum?”
“I could chew nails.”
“You need to stay busy too,” I offered. “I have an uncle that quit. He said the only thing that saved him was to stay busy. He worked himself into exhaustion.”
For the rest of the day we stayed with Willard and pulled him through. It was almost ten when we left him, but he’d made it. As far as we knew, he never took another smoke.
“Hey, Willard, we’ve got a favor to ask,” I mentioned one afternoon as we were changing the oil in Brad’s car. “We’re in charge of a dinner over at the church this weekend.” I shrugged and felt my cheeks color. “The kids in the ward are putting on a dinner for some senior citizens. Now I don’t mean that we think you’re a senior citizen or anything like that,” I quickly added, “but we wanted you there. How about it?”
Willard looked up. His eyes went to each one of us, and then he stared down into the Mercury’s engine. For a long time he didn’t speak. Slowly he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. A wan smile tugged at his lips. “The last time I was in church was when Mary died. That’s been better than three years. And it was a lot longer before that. There’ve been times when I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse. And there’s nobody there I know.”
“You’ve got an excuse now. We’re having barbecued chicken. And you know us. We’ll be there,” I pointed out.
“Why would you want me to go to a nice, fancy dinner with you?” he asked without looking at us.
For a moment I didn’t answer, pondering the question. “Because you’re our friend,” I answered simply.
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I could. People would stare. They’d wonder why—”
“You’ll be with us,” Brad spoke up. “The whole time. Honest.”
We all waited, holding our breath. Willard thought for a long time. Finally his face softened into a smile and he said, “Well, I’ll think about it.”
The night of the dinner I was nervous. Brad had promised to pick up Willard while Chris and I helped get things ready at the church.
“Did you invite anyone tonight?” Brother Larmouth asked as I was carrying food from the kitchen to the serving table in the cultural hall.
“Willard Weatherford.”
Brother Larmouth sighed. “When are you going to get off this Willard Weatherford kick?” He smiled and shook his head. “The day you get old Willard inside this church I’ll buy you the biggest, fattest steak you’ve ever had in your life.”
Just then Chris and Brad came through the doors on the far side of the cultural hall with Willard between them. Brother Larmouth had his back to them so he didn’t see them approach until they were right there. When he turned around, he almost dropped his jaw.
“Brother Larmouth,” I started out, “I’d like you to meet a good friend of ours, Brother Weatherford.”
For a moment Brother Larmouth could hardly speak. Then he held out his hand and greeted Willard. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he stammered. “The guys here have talked about you a lot.” He looked at the three of us and then back to Willard. “I guess I can believe everything they’ve told me.”
Willard nodded his head. “They’re good boys. I figure you can believe what they say.”
As Brad and Chris led Willard away, Brother Larmouth turned to me and muttered, “I would have never believed it. I guess I owe you a steak.”
I shook my head and swallowed back the lump in my throat. “Forget it.” I smiled. “Some things you don’t do for a steak.”

[In the evening, CATHERINE ANN and MATTHEW manage to get together down by the swings, where they talk of the Order, life on the “outside,” and what people really need.]
MATTHEW: Everything you really need you can get right out of the Order storehouse.
CATHERINE ANN: People need lots of things besides food and a roof over their heads. At least I do.
MATTHEW: Like what?
CATHERINE ANN: Like lots of things. Like—
[She sings.]
A little lace on the curtains,
A rug in every room,
Floors you can see your face in,
And soap that smells of perfume.
MATTHEW: Our soap don’t smell too bad—if you use it quick.
CATHERINE ANN:
A few lovely things
That belong just to her—
A girl can hardly do without.
Oh, I need—yes, I need—
A few things I don’t really need.
A music box in the bedroom,
Little pink flowers on the plates,
Plenty of sugar in the cellar,
And ivy growing up the gate.
MATTHEW: There’s pumpkin vines all over the vats at the tannery.
CATHERINE ANN:
People have got to be different at times;
They’re not just like cattle or sheep.
We each need a piece
Of something in this world,
To choose for ourself,
And use for ourself—
That’s our very own thing to keep.
I need some—
Shoes with silver buckles
That click and glitter and shine.
A bonnet with bows and ribbons,
And a dining room that’s all mine.
MATTHEW: If you go at five in the morning, there’s hardly anybody there.
CATHERINE ANN:
A few lovely things
That belong just to her—
A girl can hardly do without.
Oh, I need—yes, I need—
A few things I don’t really need.
And do you know what else I need, Matthew? Need so bad it hurts?
MATTHEW: What?
CATHERINE ANN: A piano. Oh, a piano! Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of having one. I remember there was a little place on our kitchen table that was broken. And when I’d plunk it, it was just like a piano key. I used to sit there for hours. Plunk. Plunk. Mama always said I could have one someday, but things kept getting worse. And then she died.
MATTHEW: I’m sorry.
CATHERINE ANN: That’s all right. Only, Matthew, a person needs a little beauty in his life.
MATTHEW [looking at her dreamily]: I hope you get it, Catherine Ann. Your piano. I hope you do. [The bugle sounds “O Ye Mountains High.”] Well—
CATHERINE ANN: Do they sound the bugle if you’re in the swings too long?
MATTHEW [laughing]: No.
CATHERINE ANN: Well, they do for everything else.
MATTHEW [as they start out]: Only for gettin’ up, going to prayer, eatin’ breakfast, going to work, eatin’ dinner, going to evenin’ prayer, and going to bed.
CATHERINE ANN: Oh. Is that all?
[As Act Two opens CATHERINE ANN has been placed in charge of setting the tables in the common dining hall. After seeing the condition of the old tablecloths, she has requested some new ones. MATTHEW’s father, EZRA, has just explained to her that the Order is low on funds and must go slow on purchases for awhile. MATTHEW is also present.]
CATHERINE ANN: But I didn’t ask for lace or even linen. Just something white and clean that doesn’t have years of stains and spots.
MATTHEW [hesitantly]: Maybe you could teach the girls to set the tables so as to cover up the spots?
CATHERINE ANN [exploding]: Matthew Cooper, you don’t know anything! You can’t just make do all your life.
EZRA: Now, Catherine Ann, coverings for a table can’t be all that important.
CATHERINE ANN: For some, no. For others, yes. That’s what’s wrong with the Order, Brother Cooper. It doesn’t make allowance for the fact that everybody is different. And the Lord must have meant them to be different. One person’ll have no use in the world for a thing, and without it the soul of the next person’ll just wither up. We’ve got to have some room to be different, some right to a little different step if we want. We’ve got to!
EZRA [after a moment’s pause]: I can’t say you’re wrong, Catherine Ann. But then I can’t say you’re entirely right, either. ’Scuse me. Think I’m needed inside. [He goes into the house.]
[MATTHEW goes to CATHERINE ANN.]
CATHERINE ANN [throwing her arms around him]: Oh, Matthew, let’s go away. Please.
MATTHEW: Leave the Order? Oh, I couldn’t.
CATHERINE ANN: It wouldn’t be a sin. There’s lots of good Saints that don’t have to live the United Order.
MATTHEW [seriously]: But I do, Catherine Ann. I have to.
CATHERINE ANN [turning away]: You’re just like your sheep!
You don’t even have a mind of your own.
MATTHEW: Yes, I do. I said I have to live the Order. But also, I want to.
CATHERINE ANN: Why?
MATTHEW: Catherine Ann, don’t you think I’d like for you to have a piano? I’d like it very much. But I believe in what we’re trying to do down here, even though there’s a lot of hurt goes along with it. It’s wonderful to know that you live where nobody takes advantage of his neighbor. And that if you’ve got enough to eat, then he does too. And that there’s nobody whose feet freeze ’cause he’s got no stockings. That’s something, Catherine Ann. It’s not a piano, but it is something.
CATHERINE ANN [desperately]:You can do it, Matthew. I—I can’t.
[CATHERINE ANN runs off.MATTHEW goes a few steps after her, then stops.] [Later on CATHERINE ANN and her father are alone.]
CATHERINE ANN: Oh, Papa! Papa, why do we love people that we shouldn’t love?
BROTHER RUSSELL: I don’t think that’s possible, Catherine Ann. Sometimes we love them in ways, maybe, that we shouldn’t—ways that hurt us and them too.
CATHERINE ANN: I embarrassed him awful, Papa. And in front of everybody.
BROTHER RUSSELL [stroking her hair]: Oh, oh.
CATHERINE ANN: I didn’t mean to. Yes I did. [She gets up.] And I told them I was leaving Orderville. Said I was never coming back.
BROTHER RUSSELL: Catherine Ann, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you ought to leave.
CATHERINE ANN: What?
BROTHER RUSSELL: For a while. Help you get your mind sorted out—and your heart.
CATHERINE ANN: But where?
BROTHER RUSSELL: Salt Lake City. In fact, I’ve written your Uncle Alfred about it. I know you’ve been unhappy here. And I don’t like to see that.
CATHERINE ANN: But I couldn’t leave you—not feeling well like you are.
BROTHER RUSSELL: I’m better. I am. And the thing that’d perk me up more’n anything would be knowing that my girl was happy.
CATHERINE ANN: What’d Uncle Alfred say?
BROTHER RUSSELL: Said they’d be pleased to have you. They got a nice home up there, you know.
CATHERINE ANN: I remember. And a beautiful parlor, with a—a piano.
BROTHER RUSSELL: Bet you’d have a wonderful time. Only once in a while, when you’re sitting there playing your piano, I’d like you to remember something.
CATHERINE ANN: What, Papa?
BROTHER RUSSELL: Eternity’s a long time. Bet it’s long enough to learn how to play the piano and the violin and the accordion, and a dozen other instruments if you wanted. But the Lord sort of earmarked this earth life for one special learning to come first. And that’s learning how to play yourself. How well you learn that, Catherine Ann, determines the kind of tunes you’ll be playin’ for a long, long time.
CATHERINE ANN [hugs him]: I’ll remember. I’ll miss you, Papa. But I’ll be back in the spring.
BROTHER RUSSELL: I’ll miss you too.
CATHERINE ANN: Oh, Papa. How come life hurts so much?
BROTHER RUSSELL: Don’t know. One hurt passes, then another comes. But so do the joys. Reckon the hurt you’ve got now is called growing up. That’s one of the worst.
CATHERINE ANN: Must be. It’s way down deep, where I never felt anything before. Guess you learn a lot in growing up. [She sings.]
So long ago I used to muse
Within a childish wonder deep,
And ask myself with great concern
Do weeping willows really weep?
And when I went to school to learn
Those things one learns to make one wise,
I thought, How foolish! Trees don’t weep,
For weeping things have tearful eyes.
But now that I have tasted more
Of learning than the wise men taught,
I sit again beneath my tree
With wisdom much more dearly bought.
My eyes are pale, blue-desert dry,
As with the swaying leaves I sigh:
Oh, foolish they who cannot see
The weeping of the willow tree—
The weeping of the tree—
And me.
[BROTHER RUSSELL goes to her, puts an arm around her, and together they go into the house.]

Another time the dynamic duo decided to play a little joke. In nearby Provo Canyon there is a 430-foot waterfall that plunges down a sheer cliff into the Provo River. A tram climbs on a cable to a small restaurant at the top, and there is no visible way up to the restaurant except by the tram, and even that’s a scary vertical trip. Nevertheless, the lady in charge one afternoon was startled by two young men tapping her on the shoulder.
“Can we have a ride down the tram,” one asked. Her mouth hung open. They had not come up on the tram.
“Can our dog ride down too?” the other asked. Her eyes dilated. There stood George, wagging his tail benevolently and panting. No dog had ever ridden up the tram. Before the confused lady could develop any serious emotional problems, they explained that they had come in by the “back door,” a hike of 20-plus miles over rough mountain terrain. They got a free ride down the tram, and George became the first and last canine passenger.

Nellie Middleton, a fifty-five-year-old Latter-day Saint, lived in Cheltenham with her six-year-old daughter, Jennifer. To prepare her home against air strikes, she had used her modest wage as a dressmaker to furnish an area in her basement as a shelter, complete with food, water, oil lamps, and a small iron bed for Jennifer. Following instructions from the government, Nellie had also covered her windows with netting to catch flying shards of glass in the event of an attack.1

Now, all over Cheltenham, bombs were whistling through the air and crashing to the ground with a thunderous roar. The terrifying noise grew ever closer to Nellie’s home until a tremendous explosion on a nearby street rattled her walls, shattering the windows and filling the netting with razor-sharp glass.

In the morning, the city streets were filled with rubble. The bombs had killed twenty-three people and left more than six hundred homeless.2

Nellie and other Cheltenham Saints did their best to endure after the attack. When British Mission president Hugh B. Brown and other North American missionaries left the country nearly a year earlier, the small branch and others like it struggled to fill callings and run Church programs. Then the local men went away to war, leaving no priesthood holders to bless the sacrament or formally administer branch business. Before long, the branch was forced to disband.

An older man named Arthur Fletcher, who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, lived about twenty miles away, and he rode his rusty bicycle to visit the Cheltenham Saints whenever he could. But most of the time it was Nellie, the former Relief Society president in the Cheltenham Branch, who took responsibility for the spiritual and temporal welfare of the Saints in her area. With the branch closed, the Church members could no longer meet in the rented hall they used on Sundays, so Nellie’s living room became the place where the Relief Society prayed, sang, and studied.3

On a quiet November night in 1943, Nellie Middleton heard her doorbell ring. It was dark outside, but she knew enough not to have the lights on when she opened the door. Nearly three years had passed since German bombs had first fallen near her home, and Nellie continued to darken her windows at night to keep herself and her daughter safe from air raids.

With her lights out, Nellie opened the door. A young man was standing on her front step, his face in shadow. He extended his hand and quietly introduced himself as Brother Ray Hermansen. His accent was undeniably American.4

A lump came to Nellie’s throat. After their branch disbanded, she and other women in Cheltenham had longed to take the sacrament more regularly. The United States had recently sent troops to England to prepare for an Allied offensive against Nazi Germany. Once it had occurred to Nellie that some of the American soldiers stationed in her town might be Latter-day Saints who could bless the sacrament, she had asked her stepsister, Margaret, to paint a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and place it in town. Below the picture was a message: “If any soldier is interested in the above, he will find a warm welcome at 13 Saint Paul’s Road.”5

Had this American seen her poster? Did he have authority to bless the sacrament? Nellie shook his hand and welcomed him inside.

Ray was a twenty-year-old Latter-day Saint soldier from Utah and a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. Although he was stationed ten miles away, he had heard about the Salt Lake Temple painting from another Church member and obtained leave to visit the address. He had walked to Nellie’s home on foot, which was why he had arrived after dark. When Nellie told him about her desire to take the sacrament, he asked her when he could come to administer the ordinance to her.

On November 21, Nellie, her daughter, and three other women welcomed Ray to their Sunday meeting. Nellie opened the meeting with prayer before the group sang “How Great the Wisdom and the Love.” Ray then blessed and passed the sacrament, and all four women bore testimony of the gospel.

Soon other Latter-day Saint soldiers heard about the meetings at Saint Paul’s Road. Some Sundays, Nellie’s living room was so full that people had to sit on the staircase.6

I’d like to read you one other letter. This letter is from a missionary who was excommunicated in the mission field because of immorality. The letter is addressed to President McKay. At that time I was responsible for handling the excommunication and disfellowshipment cases, and the letter was referred to me. I removed his name from it. This is one of the finest letters on repentance, the seeking of forgiveness, and the desire to return to the Church that I have ever read. I would like to share it with you. The young man told about being excommunicated because of immorality, and he said:

The spirit worked upon me while I was in the mission field, and I was sorry for my sins and sickened by them. I read a great deal in the Book of Mormon, seeking somewhat to justify not going to the mission president and confessing. I read about Alma and Corianton and tried to convince myself that since I had repented (I thought) I would not need to confess to anyone but God. I did pray a great deal for many weeks. After everyone else had gone to bed, I would remain up reading and praying. Finally, one night a voice from within me said, “You know what you must do, so do it.”

A few days after that we had a conference of the missionaries in the area, and I confessed to the mission president. I knew I would be excommunicated, but I had no choice if I was ever to obtain forgiveness.

After I had confessed, even knowing I would be excommunicated, I felt an extremely sweet peace in my soul. . . . I thank God to this day that he gave me the courage to do it.

My family was extremely kind and understanding, as was the bishop when I went to see him. The bishop told me he thought it would be a good idea for me to get up in priesthood meeting in the ward and ask for their forgiveness, which I did. It was extremely difficult and caused me much sorrow, but I’m thankful I did it. Then, the bishop told me I should go out and greet and shake hands with the people as they came to Sunday School; I’m thankful I did that also, for it made things easier for me and them. They all fully forgave me and accepted me back. Their true Christianity helped me to have strength to go to church all the time, at least to the meetings I could go to.

As of late, my desire for baptism has increased, and I desire it and the other blessings attendant to righteousness more than any other thing.

I went home a short while back, and the bishop told me he had been to Salt Lake and had gotten a list of things I had to do before I could be baptized. This made me desire forgiveness more than ever. . . .

Since this weekend was fast Sunday, I started fasting Friday after supper, and Saturday I went into the mountains and spent about five hours by myself thinking and praying, and I read a little from the Book of Mormon. While praying aloud to my Father, I tasted the most bitter sorrow that I have tasted to date. I had a slight taste of what it really is to suffer godly sorrow for sin. I left my complete dependence on the Father and the Son for salvation, and I pleaded that I would be forgiven for my sins and for being such a great cause of suffering to the Lord, Jesus Christ. I understood ever so vaguely that Christ did take upon himself my sins and he suffered untold sorrow for me. I begged for forgiveness and for release from the deadening, prisonlike effects of sin and to know that I was forgiven.

I felt impressed that I should write the letters that I must write and request baptism and that I would receive forgiveness if I continued to be humble, fast, and pray. I think I will have to suffer sorrow like I did yesterday many times again before all the evil effects of sin will be lifted out of me and I will feel that freedom that my spirit craves for.

Sometimes I feel it reaching out for the more spiritual that is in life, but because of the body being prisoner to sin and its effect, it cannot reach what it and I desire.

President McKay, I ask in all humility, realizing that the responsibilities of membership are great, that I might be accepted back into the Church and back onto the path I departed from. I know God lives, that his Son Jesus Christ really did take upon himself our sins, and that he lives today. I know the Church was restored through the beloved Prophet Joseph Smith and that all the keys remain today and that you are a prophet, seer, and revelator and hold the keys of the kingdom. Please permit me to enter the waters of baptism and receive again the Holy Ghost. President McKay, I know this is only one step, but I desire with all my heart to be baptized again, and I will continue and do all that is necessary to gain that goal if it be God’s will. I submit this letter and request to you and ask to be forgiven of my sins. May God bless you and give you health to continue your work and his work. . . .

I think also I should tell you that I observe the Word of Wisdom, and I have been sending tithing to my mother. She pays it to the bishop in my father’s name. I have felt that the money was the Lord’s and I could not steal it.

“After the Saints left Nauvoo, my parents doubled their exertions to get a wagon and supplies to go to the Rocky Mountains. In the meantime Father was quite sick one or two times which delayed him considerably. How well I remember what a hard time he had training the animals to draw the wagon. There were six cows and two oxen. The oxen were well trained and quite sedate but the cows were wild and unruly. He would get help to yoke them up, and then would start to drive them. All at once they would run off in an opposite direction to where he wanted them to go, or would run around to the back of the wagon and get all tangled up.
“Well, this went on for days and days, and while Father was training the cattle, Mother was praying. She told me afterwards that many nights when we were in bed asleep she would go out into the orchard at the back of our house and there earnestly pray, asking the Lord to open the way for us to go with the Saints. She was willing to share in their privations for the sake of being with them.
“Another source of anxiety to her was that I was in my teens, at the romantic age of seventeen, and Mother knowing the susceptibility of the human heart, was afraid that some young man might persuade me to think more of him than I did of her, and induce me to remain there. She could not live away from the Church and she could not leave a child behind. So my parents said we must not stay any longer.
“Well, after weeks of hard work, Father had the cows trained so that he could drive them and on the ninth day of May, 1849, my brother Riley’s sixteenth birthday we said good-bye to our friends and relatives, got into our wagons, and started on our long, eventful journey. Oh, how Mother’s face beamed with joy! What did she care about hardships, if she could only reach the goal?”

I recently went with priesthood leaders to visit the homes of four women in Honduras. These sisters and their families were in need of priesthood keys and authority, priesthood ordinances and covenants, and priesthood power and blessings.
We visited a dear sister who is married and has two beautiful children. She is faithful and active in the Church, and she is teaching her children to choose the right. Her husband supports her Church activity, but he is not a member. Their family is strong, but to enjoy greater strength, they need additional priesthood blessings. They need the father to receive the ordinances of baptism and the gift of the Holy Ghost and to have the priesthood conferred upon him. They need the priesthood power that can come through the endowment and sealing.
Our next visit was at the home of two single sisters, women of great faith. One sister has a son preparing for a mission. The other sister is receiving treatment for cancer. In times of discouragement and despair, they remember the Savior’s Atonement and are filled with faith and hope. They both need the additional blessings and power available through temple ordinances. We encouraged them to join the future missionary in their home in preparing to receive those ordinances.
Our last visit was at the home of a sister whose husband recently died in a tragic accident. A recent convert to the Church, she had not understood that she could receive her own endowment and be sealed to her husband. When we taught her that these blessings could be available to her and her deceased husband, she was filled with hope. Knowing that through temple ordinances and covenants her family can be sealed together, she has faith and determination to face the trials ahead.
This widow’s son is preparing to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. His ordination will be a great blessing to her and her family. They will have a priesthood holder in their home.
When I met these faithful women in Honduras, I could see that they were striving to keep their families active in the gospel. They expressed gratitude for covenant-keeping ward members who tenderly watch over them and help support their temporal and spiritual needs. However, each of these sisters had needs that had not been fully met.
In each of the three homes we visited, a wise priesthood leader asked each sister if she had received a priesthood blessing. Each time the answer was no. Each sister asked for and received a priesthood blessing that day. Each wept as she expressed gratitude for the comfort, direction, encouragement, and inspiration that came from her Heavenly Father through a worthy priesthood holder.
These sisters inspired me. They showed reverence for God and His power and authority. I was also grateful for the priesthood leaders who visited these homes with me. When we left each home, we counseled together about how to help these families receive the ordinances they needed to progress on the covenant path and strengthen their homes.

On the road to Carthage the Prophet made some revelatory expressions that are not part of the official history. Isaac Haight recorded that at one point Joseph was so weighed down that he turned to Hyrum and said, “Brother Hyrum, let us go back to Nauvoo, and all die together.” Hyrum urged him on. When they were several miles out from Nauvoo he instructed—and that’s the only way he could get them to do so—that many who had ridden that far with him turn around and go back. John Butler recorded: “We were all willing to live or die with them. Brother Joseph spoke to us all and told us that he was like a lamb led to the slaughter. He also spoke to Brother Hyrum and wished him to return home with us. We begged him to let us stay with him and die with him, if necessary, but he said, no, we were to return to our home, and Brother Hyrum said that he would stay with Brother Joseph. For my part, I felt that something great was going to transpire. He blessed us and told us to go. We bade them farewell, and started. We had twenty miles to ride, and we went the whole distance without uttering one word. All were dumb and still, and all felt the Spirit, as I did myself. I cannot express my feelings at that time, for they overpowered me.” He added, “As I turned and as we rode away I felt as I suppose the ancient disciples of Christ felt when he said, ‘I must be crucified.’”

To get the answer, you’ll have to skip back about three years, back to a time when Patrick was rebellious. “I wasn’t too right and correct,” he recalls, speaking with formal phrasing that identifies his Jamaican roots. “As they call it in scriptural terms, I was a wayward person.”
That may be a rather harsh assessment. But Patrick knew he needed to change. And when he decided he could change, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints played a big part.
“At that time our family seemed to be falling apart. Then one night my mother was watching TV, and she saw a ‘Mormon’ commercial about putting the family first. She decided to order the video so it could maybe reinforce our family ties.”
And she and other family members continued to work on Patrick. “They weren’t happy with the way I was behaving, and, to be honest about it, neither was I. So I started trying to do the things I knew were right. Then, precisely at the time when I was changing, the sister missionaries arrived at our door with a Book of Mormon and a video. They came into our home and started to teach us. I was really glad for the message and for the change they brought into our lives, even though I’m the only one (so far) who has joined the Church.”
Once Patrick started learning about the restored gospel, the change was remarkable.
“It took a year before I got baptized. My mother wanted me to be sure about my decision. So during that time I studied, I went to church, and I was active with the other LDS youth. I tried my best to participate in meetings and social events. I even enrolled in seminary before I was baptized. I was learning and growing in the scriptures and in prayer. By the time my baptism came, I felt ready.”
And Patrick kept right on growing. First, he was called to be the teachers quorum president. Now he’s first assistant in the priests quorum of the English-speaking Montreal Ward. He continues to study the gospel and to share his knowledge with others.
“There are four members in our priests quorum, and we try our best to reinforce each other in the gospel, to prepare ourselves to serve the Lord with all our capacities. Receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood is my goal as a young man. I want to be able to serve a mission.”

On a trip to the Orient it was my privilege to attend a sacrament meeting of the Naha Branch on the island of Okinawa. I was so impressed with the quality of the sacrament service and the reverence and dignity exhibited by the Aaronic Priesthood that when I was called to speak I asked one of the young men to join me at the pulpit. I asked him, “How do you feel knowing you hold the priesthood of God?” Not tall enough to see over the pulpit, he raised on his toes so he could see the congregation, then with deep emotion responded: “It’s the greatest honor of my life!”

I’ve been on both sides of the fence. I can remember a time when I believed but did not know for myself. I’m a five-generation Latter-day Saint. Most of our people have been in the Church since the days of Joseph Smith. Every one of my ancestors and Sister Reeve’s ancestors crossed the plains as pioneers. The Lord has blessed us abundantly, and I’ve been aware that I have had many blessings—that I’m riding on a ticket that someone else paid for. It has kept me mighty humble.

This force that can cut us off can also keep us from knowing. Because I was raised in a Latter-day Saint home, we prayed; Dad and Mother prayed. Dad was in the bishopric all the years I can remember as a child. I can remember going away to school. I grew up in Millard County. We lived there during the Depression, and it was hard. I determined that I did not want to be there anymore. You’d work all year. You’d get up at 5:00 in the morning and work until 9:00 at night, and, when the season was over, you owed more than you did when you began in the spring. I had worked all summer. I had been paid a dollar a day. I had saved every cent I had earned. That is different from what we do today. I hadn’t spent one cent. I wanted to go to school. I had $96.35.

Before I went away, I came to the bishop. I said, “Bishop, tomorrow I’m going away to school. I’ve worked all summer. I’ve saved all that I’ve earned. I have $96.35. Do you think that the Lord expects me to pay tithing on that when I need so much more to go to school and there’s no other place to get any?”

This great bishop, and I’ll be grateful to him forever, looked me right in the eye and said, “If you pay your tithing, you’ll have what you need when you need it.”

I went home and got the money, those nine dollars. I carried them down, and they got bigger as I got closer to his office, until when I got to the desk they were almost as big as wheels. The greatest trial I had had up to that point was to put them on his desk. I still have the receipt in my safety deposit box.

I went away to school. I rode in the back of a grain truck to get there. One of the first things that happened to me was that I sat in a class where a learned man said, “God is dead.” I was shaken up. I was depending on Him. The bishop said He was going to help me. This learned man said that thinking people, anyone with intellect, would know that God is dead. We didn’t have a telephone at home. I couldn’t call Dad and Mother to be reassured. I hadn’t met the new bishop yet. The pillars that held my house up had fallen down, and I needed to know. I can still remember that night when there was no place to go but to my knees. There alone in that little one-room apartment, I kneeled down. I prayed—no fancy words—something like this, “Father in Heaven, Dad and Mom have been praying to you all these years. This learned man says you’re dead. I need to know. Are you there?” When I went back to that man’s class, I knew something he didn’t know. I knew there was a God, and He wasn’t dead. I knew that He could hear, and I knew that He could answer. From that hour until now, that assurance has been like an anchor to my soul.