Gospel Story Finder

A week passed and he had been able to keep his secret. But now he was in the Lutheran church, last on a bench, seated with others his age. His mother and father were also there, sitting on the front row in the middle of the church, a place of honor reserved for parents on confirmation day. At 14, members of the Lutheran Church are considered ready for full membership. On confirmation day they appear before a congregation and answer questions on the Lutheran catechism asked by the pastor.
Christian knew he couldn’t lie about his beliefs; he had to tell the truth.
At last it was his turn. He stood up from the bench and walked toward the pastor. His father was smiling with pride. Christian’s legs felt weak and his mind clouded with confusion. The church was full, and he felt everyone’s eyes upon him.
The pastor’s voice high and loud, echoed in the church.
“Do you believe in God?” it chanted.
“Yes,” Christian’s voice was small. He whispered a prayer.
“Can you describe God?” the voice asked.
There was a vast silence in the great building. Christian felt as if the world were watching and listening. Then, a clearness and strength came from within. His voice was strong and clear.
“God is not a being without body, parts, or passions; and he does not sit on the top of a topless throne. God is a good, kind, Heavenly Father, who hears and answers prayers, and man is made in the image of God.”
For the first time in the service the pastor looked up, his eyes wide and questioning. Christian turned and looked at his father. He saw a face that was stone hard.
The pastor continued the questioning, and Christian answered according to his new beliefs.
The pastor finished the changed catechism questions, looked solemnly at Christian and in a hiss of voice said, “You answer as if you were a Mormon.”
“And if I do, I’m proud of it,” Christian replied.
Christian’s father, Hans Monson stood. He glared angrily at Christian, slammed the tip of his oak cane heavily against the wood floor, turned, and walked from the building, his cane cracking loudly with each step.
That night Christian received the beating from his father that he had expected for days. After that, with the help of his mother, he was able to avoid his father for several days. Then one evening while he was bringing wood into the house and stacking it near the fireplace, his father came into the room.
There was a moment of terrible silence. Hans Monson, a thick-chested man, a woodcutter by trade, suddenly struck at the boy with his cane. Christian avoided most of the blows that followed, but whenever the cane reached him, it caused a painful welt on h is flesh.
Out of breath Hans Monson stopped, his muscles tense and his blonde hair wet with perspiration. Christian, feeling faint, stood. His face was pale.
“Father, I know it’s wrong for me to disobey you. I’m sorry for that, but I m not sorry for what I did. I know it was right, and I’m not afraid to be beaten for the gospel, for truth.”
Breathing heavily Hans grabbed a large piece of wood from the fireplace stack and threw it. He threw wood at Christian until the stack was gone; then he opened the door and told Christian to get out.
“There’s no room here for a Mormon devil,” he shouted as Christian left. The door slammed. That was the last Christian would see of his father.
The night air was biting cold. Christian felt weak, overpowered by pain, confusion, and a terrible sense of loss. He still felt love and respect for his father. He staggered to the barn and fell on a pile of oat straw.
Later in the night Christian felt a soft hand touch his shoulder. His mother sat next to him on the straw.
“Why? Why did you have to do it, Christian?” she asked. Her voice was full of tears.
“I studied it, and I prayed about it. I know it’s true,” he answered, feeling strength in his own words. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. I cannot deny what I know to be true. It would be like denying Christ, our Savior. I could never do that, no matter how much it hurt.”
In the cold, musty darkness of the barn, they talked until the pearl-gray light of dawn came. Christian felt the warmth of a bond between him and his mother tighten stronger than it had ever been; it grew into something he would remember all of his life, a memory that would warm him and give him strength. In the gray, sullen light he saw a bright tear roll down her face. She held him tight and warm knowing she would never see her son again, at least not in this life.
She stood suddenly and walked into the house. Christian picked up the bundle of food she had brought him and began walking toward the city of Drammen. The elders had told him there were other Mormons there. Light, powder flakes of snow were falling silently on the road.

I first heard about Sharon when my bishop requested that I go to our local hospital to administer to a woman who had been hurt in an automobile accident. I had just returned from visiting another sister in the same hospital, which was some distance from my office. Because I had not been able to get much done that day, I really didn’t want to make that trip again and was feeling somewhat annoyed at the inconvenience. As I drove toward the hospital, my thoughts were not very positive.
Sharon and her family had been on their way home from a vacation when their vehicle had collided straight into a large truck.
Sharon was seriously injured in the collision, with a deep cut over her eyes, a fractured arm, a broken nose, internal injuries, and a badly crushed skull. One of Sharon’s sons was killed in the accident. Another son had a broken leg. Her husband and the two remaining children were slightly injured.
In the hospital emergency room the doctor had examined her briefly and had told the staff he had no hope of saving her life. Sharon had asked for a priesthood blessing.
When I arrived at the hospital, another member of my ward was waiting for me, ready to help me administer the blessing.
My companion searched Sharon’s head for a place to apply the consecrated oil—a difficult task, because her skull was so severely injured. He finally located a small, clear area to one side of her head.
I searched my mind for the words for her blessing. I had never administered to anyone who was dying before, and I didn’t know what to say. I let the Spirit guide my words. I remember assuring her that she would live to raise her children, that her earthly mission was not yet over, that her family still needed her, and that her injuries would heal quickly.
This was startling to the hospital’s emergency room staff, which consisted of nurses and nuns. They were expecting last rites, and they were stunned to hear us tell a woman who was mortally injured that she would be all right.
One of the nuns who spoke with us after the blessing was excited to think that Sharon had a chance for recovery. The same nun called me the next day to say that Sharon wanted to see me.
She was sitting up in her hospital bed when I arrived. She had a bright smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. She thanked me for the blessing and asked me to read from the scriptures. As I was preparing to leave, she asked me to adjust her oxygen mask, which kept slipping off her face. As I reached for the head strap, I noticed that there was no sign of her skull injury. Her head was whole, with no evidence of bleeding or broken bone.
Two weeks later, Sharon walked out of the hospital with only her arm in a sling and a small bandage on her forehead. The incident had provided a rare opportunity for both of us. For Sharon it was a chance to demonstrate her extraordinary faith in the priesthood; for me, it was a time to renew my commitment to give priesthood service readily whenever it is needed.

It was here, during my time as a student at BYU–Hawaii, that I met my husband, Thomas. At the time, it didn’t feel like anything extraordinary—it actually started in a very ordinary way. I was a staff writer for Ke Alaka‘i, and I had been assigned to cover a big event taking place in the ballroom that weekend. I ended up having one circumstance after another pile up, which meant I arrived at the event a little late and by the time I got there, I had completely missed the band that everyone had been talking about. I remember thinking, this is not ideal… I still have to write this article.

I told my friend, “I didn’t even get to see them play—what am I supposed to do?”

And she said, “Well, the good news is I know the drummer. He’s my Gospel Doctrine teacher, and he’s really nice—you can just interview him.”

So, I walked up to this tall, thin haole guy, wearing a skinny tie, and really cool shoes—which I noticed immediately, because I always notice people’s shoes.

And I introduced myself and explained, “Hi, I’m writing an article about your performance… but I didn’t actually see it.”

And he blinked at me a few times, kind of laughed under his breath, and said, “Seriously?”

And I said, “Yep. So… can you give me a quote for my article anyway?”

And he very kindly did. I don’t even remember what he said. But I do remember having a very clear impression at that moment: This person seems like he would be a really good friend. And at that point in my life, I really needed a good friend.

The next week, I was talking to someone from his band and mentioned that I had met their drummer and was going to quote him in my article.

And he said, “Oh—Tom?”

And I said, “I think so…”

And he said, “You two would actually really get along. I could connect you.”

And I said, “Absolutely not. That would be so embarrassing. I’m good—thank you.”

But, he gave him my number anyway. And Thomas called me the next day. We spent time together the day after that, and we have pretty much been together every day since. I went from missing his performance to attending just about every show his band played around the island—and even a few on Maui. And over time, that simple introduction became something much more. We built a life together. We have raised four beautiful children. We have gone through multiple graduate programs together. And we have walked through both joyful seasons and very difficult ones.

It’s a whirlwind BYU–Hawaii, Seasider, slightly punk-rock love story. But looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t fully see then. What felt like a small, even inconvenient moment—missing a performance, arriving late, was actually part of something much bigger. I was exactly where I needed to be. The Lord was quietly shaping my life in ways I didn’t yet understand. And even then, even in that early beginning, I was not alone.

Time continued to go by, and we were extremely content with our lives. We had our two wonderful daughters, had great neighbors, a good job, and life seemed to be going well for us. We started to think that our family would be just the four of us. Afterall, most of our neighbors only had two kids. However, one day as Caryn was putting away the clothes Chrysanne had grown out of, she could not feel peace about giving the little clothes away. She was also about to turn 40, and knew that if we were going to have another child now was the time. Her patriarchal blessing promised that she would bring forth bodies (plural), and at this point we only had the one birth. We truly believed God would fulfill his promises. As Elder Angel Abrea stated, “The faithful Latter-day Saint waits patiently because, certainly, faith, ‘the assurance of things hoped for’, is exercised with the conviction that the promises will be fulfilled ‘in his own time, and in his own way, and according to his own will’” (1992).

We started once again going to see infertility specialists, and were told that the procedure that had the best chance for us in our condition was invitro fertilization. However, this was a very costly procedure, and one that had just a 25% chance of success at Caryn’s age. We moved forward with faith knowing of the Lord’s promise to Caryn, and that we could put our trust in Him. We traveled out of state to a respected clinic and worked with an outstanding physician in this invitro fertilization process. While we were gone, our Bishop felt impressed to look for Caryn in the congregation one Sunday. The Spirit told him, “Sister Houghton needs you to tell her something.” He did not know why, and did not even see my wife in order to follow through with the prompting. Later that week we came back to our home in Oklahoma extremely disheartened, since we just had been told by the fertility clinic that the procedure had not been successful. We had spent tens of thousands of dollars, given up time away from work, put our trust in medicine and the Lord, only to have it end in failure. We were sad and wondered what the Lord wanted us to do in our lives instead.

The following Sunday after sacrament meeting the Bishop asked to see us in his office. He said, “Brother & Sister Houghton, the Lord has strongly prompted me two Sundays in a row to tell you that you will have a son.” We were dumbstruck. We had not told him of our situation, but right then at the moment we knew the Lord understood our anguish and was ready to bless us in our desire. Then in the office the bishop and I laid our hands on my wife’s head and he blessed her with comfort, and promised her that the Lord knew of her desires, and that He would fulfill His promises to her. Two months later we returned to the clinic, buoyed up with the faith we had in the Lord, knowing that he would fulfill His promise to us. Nine months later our little boy, Isaac, was born. Two months after that he accompanied us to Laie when I interviewed for a job here at BYU–Hawaii, and now has grown up as a barefoot local boy.

I can attest to the truth of President Snow’s statement. Relief Society has always been comprised of those who put others first and self last. I remember that when I was a small boy during the Depression, my mother was the secretary-treasurer of the ward Relief Society. Back then dues were paid to assist those in need. Mother was not really a bookkeeper, so Dad would help her. The individual contributions were never so much as a dollar, but rather would be a quarter, a dime, a nickel, a few pennies.

I learned many lessons from my mother. I must have been a very active boy, for Mother was always telling me, “Slow down, Tommy, slow down. You’re on the verge of Saint Vitus’ dance!” You know, I never did know what Saint Vitus’ dance was. All I knew was that Mother said I was on the verge of it—and the way she spoke the words, I assumed it was a drastic ailment.

Since we lived just a block or two from the railroad tracks, frequently men, unemployed, without funds for food, would leave the train and come to our house for something to eat. Such men were always polite. They offered to do some work for the food. Indelibly imprinted on my mind is the picture of a gaunt and hungry man standing at our kitchen door, hat in hand, pleading for food. Mother would welcome such a visitor and would direct him to the kitchen sink to wash up while she prepared food for him to eat. She never skimped on quality or quantity; the visitor ate exactly the same lunch as did my father. As he wolfed down the food, Mother took the opportunity to counsel him to return to his home and his family. When he left the table, he had been nourished physically and spiritually. These men never failed to say thank you. Tears in their eyes revealed ever so silently the gratitude of their hearts.

Last year, I made a goal for the Children and Youth program to make new friends. It was hard because I had already known everyone in my grade since kindergarten. But this year in fifth grade, I joined a program called “Peer Buddies.” In Peer Buddies, fifth graders work with younger kids who have learning disabilities or delays.
On the first day of Peer Buddies, I was paired with a little kid named Carter.* He didn’t talk much, but right away he wanted to play on the scooters. I got on one, and he started to chase me. I scooted away and then let him catch me every time. When it was time to go, all I wanted was to be back in that gym playing with Carter.
When it was time for Peer Buddies again, I walked to the gym. When Carter saw me he started jumping up and down. That moment meant a whole lot to me. It meant he was my friend just as much as I was his.
I feel really happy when I’m serving Carter. But it makes me feel even better when I think that every time I’m serving Carter, I am serving Jesus. I’m thankful the Children and Youth program helps us set and work on goals, and that we get blessings from doing those goals—like finding new friends!

My daughter Carl Anne wrote to me describing a very difficult time in her life:
“In these lines of the song ‘Peace in Christ’:
‘There is Peace in Christ,
When we walk with Him.
Through the streets of Galilee
To Jerusalem.
Mend the broken hearts,
dry the tear-filled eyes.
When we live the way He lived,
There is peace in Christ,’”
“I have been impacted by these words because they remind me that in one of the most difficult moments I have ever experienced, I was able to recover because Jesus Christ helped me to remember the enabling power of His Atonement. I remember when my heart was broken, and I felt very sad about the loss of my first pregnancy—it feels like it was just yesterday—the day that I poured out my soul in prayer to My Heavenly Father seeking to feel peace and hope that everything would be all right. At that precise moment, I felt an intense warmth as if I were being embraced by my Savior Jesus Christ! Because He had experienced all of my pains and sorrows in the Garden of Gethsemane, I knew He felt my pain now. I knew without a doubt that Heavenly Father had a more perfect plan for me than I expected! Today, a year later, I am grateful to be the mother of a beautiful baby who brings me great joy, and to have the knowledge that it was all done in the Lord’s perfect timing.”

While a video game here and there may help "loosen your bow," so to speak, and facilitate a measure of social interaction, these occasional and minimal benefits carry the risk of trapping individuals in a counterfeit pattern of exercising God-given instincts in a way that has little or no lasting value; where participants are "ever progressing, but never coming closer to their true potential" as sons and daughters of God. Not surprisingly, those who struggle to perform well and progress in real pursuits of enduring value--like obtaining an education or dating and finding their eternal companion--are particularly vulnerable to falling into this all-consuming video game trap and spending countless hours in pursuit of counterfeit success. Happily, I know several individuals who have broken free of this trap. One young man in particular abandoned the excitement and pseudo safety of his virtual worlds, squared his shoulders and faced real challenges head on. He trusted in the Lord and His counsels and was thereby strengthened with additional peace of mind and confidence to take the inevitable ups and downs of life in stride. As a result of his efforts, over time he was blessed to achieve his demanding educational goals, find his eternal companion, and see his career grow and blossom in miraculous ways.

A few years ago, my family moved back to the United States. We were excited to attend church here after 26 amazing years in smaller, more isolated units. I was called as a ward missionary. We had a great ward mission leader and were doing exciting things and teaching wonderful people. I asked to attend a ward council meeting to observe and to get their help with the friends we were working with. I was surprised when all that was discussed was an upcoming ward activity. I approached the ward mission leader afterward and opined that he didn’t get the chance to return and report on our people. His response? “Oh, I never get to report.”

I contrasted that with a branch council meeting in Lahore, Pakistan, that I had attended just weeks before. This little group sat around a small table together, and all they talked about were people. Names. Each leader reported on their stewardship and the individuals and families that they were concerned about. All had the chance to add their thoughts on the best ways that they could bless those being discussed. Plans were made and assignments given. What a brilliant lesson in counting and accounting by name from our first-generation brothers and sisters.

In the jungles of Indonesia dwells a tiny member of the deer family called a mouse deer. Its Indonesian name is Kancil (CAN-chill). Because it is so tiny—no higher than two or three feet—and because it provides a delicious snack for such jungle inhabitants as the tiger, crocodile, or panther, it has to rely on its intelligence to outsmart these large predators in order to survive.
One afternoon while ambling down a jungle trail to the river Ciliwong (CHEE-lee-wong) to quench her thirst, Kancil overheard two crocodiles talking quietly together.
“Wait here, my darling,” Buaya (crocodile) whispered with clacking jaws. “When Kancil comes down to drink, I’ll grab her and we’ll share a tender snack. Just wait and see how I trick her.”
Buaya’s girl friend floated on the Ciliwong, her beady eyes and nostrils barely above the water. She was terribly hungry and could hardly wait for her snack.
Buaya waddled up onto the shore, tucked his feet under him, and hid his long tale-telling snout with the razor-sharp teeth underneath a pile of rotting leaves. He was sure he looked like a fallen tree trunk.
No sooner was he settled than Kancil stepped daintily into view, her large eyes rolling from left to right, her short tail trembling nervously.
Buaya’s mouth watered, and he worked even harder at looking like an uprooted tree.
“Oh, my!” Kancil called out loud. “That tree must have fallen down during the night. It wasn’t here yesterday!”
“Let’s see now …” Kancil said, pondering. “If you really are a dead tree, turn around. But if you are a crocodile, lie still!”
At her first words Buaya started to move, then he realized his mistake. Too late! Kancil quickly retreated into the jungle, while Buaya’s girl friend laughed. “Fooled by a dumb mouse deer,” she sneered. “I’m going to find myself another boyfriend!” She dived into the river and Buaya never saw her again.

It was one of the first warm days of early spring. The windows of our church were open for the first time that year, and bright, warm sunlight spilled in long rays into the chapel. A small, spring wind came through the windows carrying the fragrances of unseen blossoms. My grandparents and several aunts and uncles were sitting proudly with my parents. I was sitting on the front row of the chapel with the deacons. It was my first time passing the sacrament.
The sacrament song ended.
The bishop nodded to us, and in a single motion we stood and walked to the table. The white cloth was removed and carefully folded, and then the prayer was spoken. I felt the importance of the words and the ordinance as I never had before. With my relatives and what seemed like the entire congregation watching me, I tried to move with as much reverence and dignity as I could. I felt a strong feeling of pride to be able to pass the sacrament. It was a great honor. When the meeting was over, nearly everyone in my ward congratulated me.
Several months passed, and in that time, along with the other members of my quorum, I began to forget, a little, the honor of holding the priesthood and of passing the sacrament. We began not to remember what the ordinance stood for. It became a chore. Something we had to do. A job we were given because no one else wanted to do it.
This attitude began to affect the way we performed the ordinance. They were small differences. We were sometimes late for sacrament meeting. Occasionally we didn’t dress as appropriately as we should have. And we talked during the meeting, not loudly and not during the sacrament service, but enough that it was noticed. They were small things, but they took away from the sacredness of the ordinance we were charged with.
The bishop asked our adviser to talk to us about it. Every Sunday morning for weeks he tried to explain to us the importance of what we were doing, of the priesthood of God, and of the ordinance of the sacrament. He told us of the sons of Aaron, of Gethsemane, and Calvary. He was an older man, and we could tell he felt strongly about the things he was telling us. We would straighten up a little. Then a few Sundays would pass, and we would slip back again.
One Sunday after our priesthood class had ended, our adviser stopped us.
“You don’t have to worry about the sacrament today,” he said. “It’s been taken care of.”
We were surprised and curious, but we were also glad to get out of the job, even if it was just for one day. We came into the meeting late as usual, during the song, and sat on a middle row. Sitting on the deacons bench with our adviser were the high priests of our ward. They were the oldest and most respected men in our ward. Two of them had been bishops, one a stake president. All held or had held positions of honor and leadership. The song ended. They rose, and the prayer was said.
By their bearing and by their reverence it was easy to see they felt great respect and honor for what they were doing. It was no menial task for them. They were all dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and ties. But it was more than the way they were dressed or even the way they carried themselves in performing the ordinance. The congregation was silent. The sacrament became something deeply felt and sacred. There was something deeper, something much more significant. There was a spirit to it. A feeling deeper than words.
The windows in the chapel were open that Sunday. It was late fall, and the fragrance of fall came in through the windows. I could see patches of a blue sky. Leaves were falling from the trees. I was humbled. Passing the sacrament wasn’t a job no one else wanted. It was a job I had been given as a sacred trust. It was the greatest of honors.

My mission president’s journal of 1986–1989 describes the same pattern, repeated again and again, with only a few variations: The sisters in Solothurn were prompted by the Spirit to go home from church via the town square, some distance out of their way, just at the moment a young father, a devout Pentecostal leader, crossed the same square. From Yugoslavia, very ill, and seeking a blessing of health, he had been told by the Holy Spirit to go to the town square at noon and he would find someone who could heal him. They met in the square—” by chance,” of course. He told them his need; the sisters led him back to the bishop’s office of the Solothurn chapel, where he received his promised blessing. They went to the man’s home on the following day to inquire after his health and learned that he had been instantly healed. They taught him and his wife and his family, who all joined the Church and later moved back to Yugoslavia- just in time to host the first LDS missionaries sent to open the country to missionary work. And a host of people shouted, “Hosanna!”

As a teenager, there were many times when I felt the Spirit of the Lord. When I was 16, I participated in a dance festival at the University of Utah’s stadium. It was June, and the sky was completely overcast and threatening to rain. As we were ready to march onto the field with our flags, the opening prayer was given. In the prayer it was asked that the weather be tempered so it wouldn’t rain. I vividly remember marching onto the field, looking up, and seeing the clouds part. The Lord had answered our prayers, and having watched it happen, I felt the warmth of the Spirit and knew the Church was true.

I learned a valuable lesson about staying in the boat. One summer, I took a 10-day break from my graduate studies to raft the Colorado River. Two of my friends who were working as summer guides on the river invited me to be a boatman on one of their trips. Even though the boatman is the person who ends up doing the duties that everyone else does not want to do, like setting up and taking down the portable latrine each day, I was in. A few days into the trip, after having experienced exciting rapids and gentle waters, we approached a rather small rapid, I do not recall the name of the rapid, but it was small. One of my guide friends suggested I join him in jumping off the raft and floating the rapids with just our life jackets. I was a bit hesitant, but he assured me he had done it a number of times in the past and that it would be fun.

I had been down rapids in smaller rivers on inner tubes and sometimes even without a life jacket or an inner tube. So, I excitedly said yes. As we approached the rapids and the spot where we were to jump in, my friend told me to put on an additional life jacket. I quickly followed his example and put on the second vest. Now at this point, any rational human being would pause and say, “if this is so safe, why do I need two life vests” and would question if this was a good idea. But in we went. These rapids were not like others I had been in, they were larger, the waves more closely packed together, and it seemed instead of going up and over the wave, I went through the waves requiring me to hold my breath for long periods of time and exerting tremendous effort to get my head out of the water. It seemed like the waves were just right on top of each other, not giving me enough time to catch my breath and resulting in drinking a number of mouthfuls of dirty, brown river water as I gasp for air. Finally, after what seemed to be forever of a constant struggle against the forces of the river to get life-giving air, I was through the rapids and into what I believed was safe, gentler waters. The raft was about 75 yards downriver, but that didn’t concern me. I thought oh I’ll just relax and float down to it. To my surprise, the river had other plans as I was sucked into a whirlpool and pulled under. I fought with all my energy to get back to the surface, which I did long enough to get a small gasp of air before being sucked down again. This happened three or four times. Finally, for some reason, I escaped and was in calm waters again. Fortunately, others on the boat saw me struggling and made their way to me. When the raft was finally within grasp, I was physically exhausted, requiring others to pull me from the river into the safety of the boat.

You may think that all was well, no harm done, and it was exciting, to say the least. But the consequences of my decision continued. Hours later, my gastrointestinal tract was reacting to the swallowed dirty river water, you know Montezuma’s revenge. This prevented me from participating in what was one of the highlights of the trip. Riding donkeys or burros up to the rim of the Grand Canyon to a ranch for a barbeque, an evening of fun, and a donkey ride back down the next morning.

I have learned from this and many more experiences that staying in the boat is the best decision.

Auckland, New Zealand, seminary students decided to develop their “talents” and lend a helping hand to others at the same time.

Following the principle in the parable of the talents (Matt. 25:14–30), each student was given $1 and one month in which to invest in any undertaking.

One motivation factor was a previous “Project Concern” activity that involved youths in picking tomatoes and netted a profit of $186. This money was sent to the Philippines to purchase library books for Church students.

After discussing suitable investments for their “talents,” students were each given $1 to invest. A special newsletter was also sent out informing others about “Project Talents.” The students voted that all money earned should be sent to the Church to be used in Mexico or South America.

What can one person do with $1 and one month?

One student bought wool and knitted a poncho. This was sold and the money used to purchase enough wool for two more ponchos that were also sold. The net profit was $8.

Another bought several flashlights from a teacher who works as a sales representative and sold them to ward members at a profit since the country was going through a power shortage and power cuts were threatening. Candles were also sold, and, together with the flashlights, resulted in a $15 profit.

Cakes were sold, babysitting services established, car washes organized, lawn mowing operations set up, and a mini-restaurant made its debut. All proved successful. All together the students made a 137 percent profit from the $165 investment. One interesting factor was that the few losses that occurred were the result of cooperative efforts rather than individuals’ projects.

When my little sister, Lillian, was born, I had just been baptized. My father told me that if I stayed worthy to the covenants I had just made, he would let me baptize Lillian when she turned eight. He said that it is a great honor to baptize someone and challenged me to always live worthy of that great privilege. Throughout the next eight years I would often think about my father’s promise and challenge and was careful to always make good choices.
Lillian and I spent a lot of time together growing up—I even taught her how to ride a bike! In coming to know Lillian more, I’ve learned that she has a kind heart and a Christlike spirit. My mom always reminded us how important family relationships are, and she encouraged me to be kind, helpful, and compassionate to all my siblings. That counsel, along with my goal to qualify to baptize my sister, helped Lillian and me to develop a special and unique bond.
On the day of Lillian’s baptism, our dad took us into an empty classroom in the church building. He went over the baptism prayer with me and showed Lillian where to put her hands on my arm. We were both so excited! When Lillian came out of the water, neither of us could stop smiling. As she exited the font, she turned back and said, “Thank you, Kent, for baptizing me!”
My dad confirmed her, and we drove to the temple, which was nearby, and took pictures—a family tradition at baptisms to remind us that we are an eternal family. I’m so thankful for the gospel in my life. Baptizing Lillian was testimony-building and has helped me in my preparations to serve a full-time mission. Just as my dad kept his promise to me, Heavenly Father keeps His promises to us. Honoring covenants brings great blessings, and I look forward to making my temple covenants in the future.

Sturdy gospel roots that go deep into rich spiritual soil strengthen and steady us in times of trial and difficulty. One of the leaders of the Church once related to a group of religion instructors[8] that not long after he had been called as a General Authority someone planted a bomb at the door of the Salt Lake Temple. The bomb had exploded and knocked the large, heavy door off its hinges. He commented that the episode was chilling to him and created an anxiety and discomfort, a fear, that lasted all day. To his utter surprise, he noticed that all through the day, in the many meetings he attended with other General Authorities, no mention was made of this scary incident. Finally, at the end of the day, he asked one of the senior Brethren about the temple door, only to have his colleague remark, “Yes, we need to get that fixed, don’t we.” Then he added this important principle, one that will help each of us to be steadfast and immovable as we move into ever more troublesome days ahead: “We do not take counsel from our fears.”

Now, for starters, let me tell you about an experience I had with a group of young adults a couple summers ago up in Sweden. I was invited to attend a conference for young adults held throughout Scandinavia and this particular conference was held outside of Stockholm. I had never been to Sweden before. I loved being in this young adult conference with about 1,000 young adults from various countries in Scandinavia. As part of the conference, the presiding officer came over to me and asked me if I would be willing to submit to an interview with one of the newspaper reporters from one of the large newspapers there in Stockholm. Because he asked me, I agreed to do it. This was a reporter who was about my age; she started to ask me questions, and clearly was very interested in the fact that I was from the United States.

She began: “Now is this your first trip to Sweden?” I answered, “Well, yes it is.” She asked, “How long are you going to be here?” I answered, “Just a couple of days.” She then asked, “Well, did you know anybody before you came here?” I said, “Well, yes and no,” stating that I did not really know anyone particular in terms of a close personal friend, “But all of these individuals who are part of this conference who are members of my faith, they all feel like brothers and sisters, so in a way, I knew them all.” She said, “Well do you mind if I ask—did you pay your own way to come to this conference?” I replied, “Yes, I did.” She said, “Let me get this straight. You came all the way to Sweden and you are just staying here two days, to speak at a conference with people you have never met before, and you paid your own way to do it?” I answered, “Yes.” She asked, “Why? Why would you do that?”

Well I do not know if it was the jetlag because I had just gotten off the plane or just did not have my wits about me, but I started trying to explain why that made perfect sense to me and zero sense to her. But my explanation was not crisp, it was not concise, it was not compelling, and I watched her eyes glaze over. I could not even repeat to you what I said to her because it was such a non-descript, pathetic answer. We finished that interview, and I left just kicking myself. In fact, I left Sweden kicking myself because I knew she had given me this opening and I needed to have a crisp answer, something someone not of our faith would understand—but I did not. It was a missed opportunity and I absolutely hate missed opportunities.

One of President Hinckley’s children has told me that her father did not lecture them very much and she does not remember him giving them long speeches. But she said, “Now that I am an adult, I realize that he was teaching us in our prayers—in our family prayers.” She said: “He would always kneel down and say (when he was praying) ‘We pray that we may live without regret’.”

I left Sweden with some regret that day because there was a missed opportunity. I was on my way to Salzburg to participate in another conference for young adults for all of the Germanic speaking youths and Central Europe. I started thinking, ‘How would you answer that Sheri, in a way that would be crisp, and that the Spirit would convey was true?’ I prayed about it, I thought about it—I was really bothered that I had ‘muffed’ that interview.

I got to Salzburg and once again the presiding officer asked me if I would do an interview. This time I was interviewed by a man from a newspaper there in Salzburg. He asked almost the identical set of questions in almost the same sequence.

Now that very morning, before I had left for the conference, I had knelt in my room and asked the Lord to help me, because I had still not crystallized exactly how I would explain that to someone not of our faith. I asked in my prayer that if I opened my mouth, it would be filled and I would know what to say. So when the reported asked the same sequence of questions—“Why do you do this? Why do you come?” I found myself answering his question with a question. I asked, “Well, tell me—how do you feel about our society today? What do you see in your society here in Austria?”

He said, “Well, I think we have problems. I think we have all kinds of problems.” Then he volunteered and said, “I think, actually a lot of our problems come from the younger generation.”

I asked, “Why did you come to this conference?”

He answered, “Well, I heard that these Mormon youth were different.”

I replied, “What are you finding?”

He answered, “Well it feels different here. There is something different about this group of young men and young women.”

At that moment I heard myself say, “They are different.” I said, “I will tell you why I have come to Salzburg. I have come because this is a pivotal generation, and if there is anything I can do as a member of my generation to help them, then I want to do it—even if it means flying across an ocean and spending my own money to do it, and making a quick trip to do it.”

I said, “This is a pivotal generation.” I do not remember ever having the thought go through my mind in that way. I do not remember ever saying or thinking that you are a pivotal generation—but you are, and I am here this morning to tell you I feel certain that that morning in that little interview in Salzburg, I feel certain that that phrase was given to me. I feel certain that you are a pivotal generation.

Not to be overlooked is the hand of a father. Whether he be a skilled surgeon, a master craftsman, or a talented teacher, his hands support his family. There is a definite dignity in honest labor and tireless toil. During the period of the Great Depression, I was a small boy. Fortunate were those men who had work. Jobs were few, hours long, pay scant. On our street was a father who, though old in years, supported with the labor of his hands his rather large family of girls. His firm was known as the Spring Canyon Coal Company. It consisted of one old truck, a pile of coal, one shovel, one man, and his own two hands. From early morning to late evening he struggled to survive. Yet during the monthly fast and testimony meeting, I remember specifically his expressing his thanks to the Lord for his family, his work, and his testimony. The fingers of those rough, red, chapped hands turned white as they gripped the back of the bench on which I sat as Brother James Farrell bore witness of a boy who, in a grove of trees near Palmyra, New York, knelt in prayer and beheld the heavenly vision of God the Father and Jesus Christ, the Son. That boy was Joseph Smith. The memory of those hands serves to remind me of that father’s abiding faith, his honest conviction, and his testimony of truth.

Bong! Bong! Bong! 6:00 A.M. Thirty sleepy girls, all students at the School of Domestic Science in Lier, Norway (Lier Husmorskole), awoke to the cold Norwegian morning. Bonnie Heather Shand, the only American admitted to the school in the last ten years and probably the first Mormon to ever have the opportunity, jumped out of her feather bed and raced to find her warmest clothing. This week she was assigned to work out in the barn, and she and a few of her classmates knew they must hurry to milk the cows and clean their stalls, feed the chickens and gather eggs, and feed the pigs and clean the pigpen before coming back into the warm spise stue (dining room) for breakfast at 7:45. Their assigned chores in the barn had to be completed, and completed under the exacting eye of one of their instructors, no matter what type of weather the often hostile Norwegian winter had to offer.
In the hall of their dormitory Bonnie greeted the girl she was assigned to work with this week, and together they ran laughing, shivering, and singing out to care for the animals. “You know what we’d sing on the way to the barn in the morning?” Bonnie asks. “‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.’”
Though Bonnie had studied some Norwegian before going to Lier, at first she had to communicate by using a lot of pointing, pantomime, and smiles. “And the communication problem was especially hard the weeks I was assigned to learn farming,” says Bonnie, “since my barn partner knew absolutely no English at all. But everyone at Lier tried to help me learn Norwegian quickly. Of course, they liked to practice their English too. Most of the girls had studied some English in school. My best friend tried especially hard to speak to me. One morning she said to me, ‘Oh, Bonnie, it’s such a cruel breakfast.’ It wasn’t exactly correct, but it was very descriptive.”
Twenty-year-old Bonnie, from Midway, Utah, first learned of the Husmorskole from some Norwegian friends in Salt Lake City. One of them had attended a similar school as a young girl in Norway, and when Bonnie expressed interest, she sent to Lier for more information and an application. Since only thirty girls are admitted to each six-month or one-year course, Bonnie was very pleased when her application was accepted.
“I think they accepted me because I had lived in Europe before and had attended a well-known cooking school in France. They knew I could adapt to living away from home and that I was interested in housewifely skills.
“My mother was so excited to have me go,” continues Bonnie. “She was proud to think I wanted to learn to scrub, clean, cook, sew, raise a garden, and care for animals. Some girls would have felt it was beneath them, you know, but I loved it. And now I want to make my home as nearly like Lier as possible.”
Upon arrival at the school, it didn’t take long for Bonnie to fit into the routine. “For the first week of the five-week rotating schedule I studied cooking. The second week was sewing, the third cooking again, the fourth farming, and the fifth washing. I was there for the six-month course. One year there will be two six-month courses and the next year the course will go for the full year. Girls who take the course for a full year also learn to weave.”
Bonnie found the farming week to be one of the most interesting. “We would have to clean the barns every morning, really clean them. They say Norwegian barns are almost as clean as Norwegian homes, and I believe them. At Lier there were about twenty cows, and above each stall there was a chalkboard with the cow’s name, the average amount of milk it gave, and its pedigree. The cows have to be kept inside all winter and one of the funnest days in the spring is the day we let them out for the first time. You should have seen them! They ran and jumped and pushed each other as if they had been in prison for twenty years and were just getting out. They were so frisky it sort of scared me, and I ran back and hid in the barn.”