Gospel Story Finder

Last year while Elder David S. Baxter and I were driving to a stake conference, we stopped at a restaurant. Later when returning to our car, we were approached by a woman who called out to us. We were startled by her appearance. Her grooming (or lack of it) was what I might politely call “extreme.” She asked if we were elders in the Church. We said yes. Almost unrestrained, she told the story of her tragic life, swamped in sin. Now, only 28 years old, she was miserable. She felt worthless, with nothing to live for. As she spoke, the sweetness of her soul began to emerge. Pleading tearfully, she asked if there was any hope for her, any way up and out of her hopelessness.
“Yes,” we responded, “there is hope. Hope is linked to repentance. You can change. You can ‘come unto Christ, and be perfected in him.’” We urged her not to procrastinate. She sobbed humbly and thanked us sincerely.
As Elder Baxter and I continued our journey, we pondered that experience. We recalled the counsel given to a hopeless soul by Aaron, who said, “If thou wilt repent of all thy sins, and will bow down before God, and call on his name in faith, … then shalt thou receive the hope which thou desirest.”

But some problems persisted in Winter Quarters. Since leaving Nauvoo, the apostles had continued to perform spiritual adoptions among the Saints. Brigham observed that a few Saints were urging friends to be adopted into their families, believing their eternal glory depended on the number of people sealed to them. Jealousy and competition rose as they argued over who would have the biggest family in heaven. The contention left Brigham wondering if any of them would make it there at all.44
In February, while speaking on the practice of spiritual adoption, Brigham admitted that he still did not know much about it. He deeply loved the dozens of Saints who had been adopted through the ordinance into his family. He nevertheless felt unschooled in this practice and wondered about what it meant.45
“I will attain to more knowledge on the subject,” he promised the Saints, “and consequently will be enabled to teach and practice more.”46
The next day, he felt sick and lay down to rest. As he slept, he dreamed that he saw Joseph Smith sitting in a chair in front of a large window. Taking Joseph’s right hand, Brigham asked his friend why he could not be with the Saints.
“It is all right,” Joseph said, rising from his chair.
“The brethren have great anxiety to understand the law of adoption or sealing principles,” Brigham said. “If you have a word of counsel for me, I should be glad to receive it.”
“Tell the people to be humble and faithful and sure to keep the Spirit of the Lord,” Joseph said. “If they will, they will find themselves just as they were organized by our Father in Heaven before they came into the world.”
Brigham awoke with Joseph’s words echoing in his mind: “Tell the people to be sure to keep the Spirit of the Lord and follow it, and it would lead them just right.”47 The counsel did not answer his questions about adoption sealings, but it reminded him to obey the Spirit so that he and the Saints could be guided to greater understanding.

The gray squirrel leaped from limb to limb in a frantic attempt to escape the terrible talons of its attackers, but to no avail. The great horned owls were quick and sure. Like twin lightning bolts they struck their mark, with beak and claw doing their awful work with deadly precision. And then, as if adding insult to injury, the intruders took over the squirrel’s nest, high atop a towering cottonwood tree behind Grandma and Grandpa’s farmhouse.
At first Grandpa was upset by the owls’ brazen behavior, but he began to appreciate them more and more as the days passed. The owls were excellent hunters. Rabbits, gophers, and field mice made up the major portion of their diet.
Intrigued by the owls’ activities, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce soon found themselves observing the birds every day through binoculars. In January they noticed that the great birds were keeping close to their nest and that one of them seemed to be sitting in it at all times. Later that spring Grandpa and Uncle Bruce spotted a fuzzy little face peering back at them from the nest.
One night there was a windstorm, and the next day they couldn’t see the baby owl. They searched the ground around the tree to see if the owlet had been blown out of the nest, and sure enough, it had.
The ground where the baby owl had fallen was cold and very hard. Grandpa figured that the owlet had lain there for about twenty-four hours. He and Uncle Bruce fixed up a plastic ice-cream bucket with some straw. Then they carefully wrapped a warm towel around the baby bird, placed it inside the bucket, and waited.
For about twenty minutes nothing happened. Then the little owl started to move and to make a tiny peeping sound. Half an hour later it was actively wriggling about, so they decided to feed it something—but what? Most birds like worms, but the ground was still frozen. Then an idea struck them: Perhaps the baby owl would think that noodles left over from their supper were worms. When Uncle Bruce dangled one before the little bird, it opened its beak and gulped it right down. Then it opened its mouth wide for another one. Soon the owl had devoured almost a cupful of noodles. For dessert it ate a teaspoonful of hamburger!
Having saved the baby owl’s life, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce had to figure out what to do with it. They tried to get it back into its nest. But the nest was too high to reach, even with their tallest ladder. Their next idea was to build a new nest. Not far away was a dead tree with a hollow in a branch about five feet off the ground. Uncle Bruce lined this cavity with straw and set the owl inside. The next day the bird was still there.
To be sure that it got enough to eat, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce continued to feed it. Grandpa’s dog, Queenie, would catch mice, so Uncle Bruce fed them to the owl after he had skinned them and cut them into bite-size pieces. The owl ate about half a mouse each time, nibbling Uncle Bruce’s fingers in the process. By the next morning the other half of the mouse would be gone too. Periodically other bird feathers were found in the nest, so Uncle Bruce and Grandpa knew that the parent owls were feeding their little offspring too.
After some weeks the little owl’s parents were often seen watching from another tree as Uncle Bruce fed the owlet. Whenever Uncle Bruce approached the growing bird, its parents started to click their beaks nervously. The little one would imitate them, and now and then it would also hiss like a snake. Finally it acquired a natural fear of man, so Uncle Bruce stopped feeding it. The parents took over completely, and Uncle Bruce and Grandpa just checked on the owl now and then to see if it was all right.
In time the baby owl grew to be as large as its parents. Then one day it was gone. Thinking that its wing feathers were not big enough to allow it to fly very far, Grandpa and Uncle Bruce searched the woods around the farm. But they found no trace of it.
Many months passed and memories of the young owl began to fade. Then one evening as they were sitting on their porch, Grandma and Grandpa heard a soft hooting sound from the direction of the old willow tree. Going over to investigate, they were greeted by two pairs of great round eyes. Yes, the owl had returned with a mate of its own to live where it had been so well cared for as a helpless little bird.

Caregiving has been one of the most difficult experiences we have ever had, but also one of the most rewarding. We have seen so many miracles. There were moments when the right resources and people seemed to come out of nowhere exactly when we needed them. Moments when certain medications suddenly became available. Moments when, after an unbearable day, unexpected peace would wash over us. And one of the most beautiful miracles I (Stephen) experienced was watching tender tears fall down Kay’s cheeks as she departed from this world, finally at peace, and seemingly recalling things she hadn’t remembered in years.

“Alexis, would you like to give the opening prayer?” Sister Vigil asked.
Alexis shook her head.
“That’s all right,” Sister Vigil said. “Maybe another time.” She called on another child to say the prayer.
Alexis bit her lip. She wanted to participate in her CTR 6 class, but it was hard for her to speak in front of the teacher and the other children.
On Monday night in family home evening, Mommy gave a lesson about service. After the family talked about ways to serve each other, Mommy opened the Book of Mormon and read from Mosiah 2:17: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”
After family home evening, Daddy asked Alexis to sit between him and Mommy.
“Sister Vigil told us that you don’t feel you can say a prayer in Primary class,” Daddy said.
Alexis nodded.
“You are a big helper in our family,” Daddy said. “If you think of saying a prayer as serving your teacher and the other children, that might help you not to be afraid.”
Alexis wanted to be able to say a prayer in class, and maybe even to give a talk in opening exercises someday.
“Do you think I could learn to say a prayer in Primary class?” she asked.
“Yes!” Mommy said. “We can help you, and you can ask Heavenly Father for His help. Then have faith that He will give you what you need.”
During the week, Alexis’s parents called on her to say family prayers and blessings on the food at mealtimes. The following Monday, Alexis gave a short lesson in family home evening about tithing. She volunteered to recite a poem in her first-grade class. Sometimes she stumbled over the words, but she never gave up.
When Alexis knelt by her bed at night, she asked Heavenly Father to help her not to be afraid to speak in front of others.
“I think I can say a prayer in Primary class today,” she told Mommy a month later as they walked into the church building.
Mommy squeezed Alexis’s hand.
After sacrament meeting, Alexis hurried to her classroom. “Could I say the prayer today?” she asked her teacher before the other children arrived.
Sister Vigil smiled. “Of course you can.”
When class started, Alexis walked to the front of the room, folded her arms, and bowed her head. She said a simple prayer and closed it in the name of Jesus Christ. “Amen,” she said.
“Amen,” the other children said.

I heard the testimony of a new mission president, Brother Salik, who is now presiding over the Brazil Rio de Janeiro Mission. He was born in Yugoslavia but moved into Austria at the end of World War II because of persecution. He said that the people almost starved to death but were saved by assistance under the Marshall Plan, in which food, clothing, and monetary assistance were provided by the United States after World War II to help those countries get on their feet. Brother Salik emigrated to Australia, and there two Mormon elders taught him the gospel and he joined the Church. He feels that he was saved by help from the United States.

Here is an example of a spiritual and a temporal evaluation of an everyday experience. In a BYU devotional several years ago, Elder Loren C. Dunn described how his father, a busy stake president in Tooele, gave his two young sons the responsibility of raising cows on the family farm. He gave the boys large latitude in what they could do, and they made some mistakes. These were observed by an alert neighbor, who complained to their father about what the young cow-raisers were doing. “Jim, you don’t understand,” President Dunn replied. “You see, I’m raising boys, not cows.” (“Our Spiritual Heritage,” in Brigham Young University 1981–82 Fireside and Devotional Speeches, Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1982, p. 138.) What a marvelous insight! What an example for parents who are inclined to view and evaluate their children’s performance solely in temporal terms.

When I was a boy, our family lived in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake. The ward population was rather transient, which resulted in an accelerated rate of turnover with respect to the teachers in the Sunday School. As boys and girls we would just become acquainted with a particular teacher and grow to appreciate him or her when the Sunday School superintendent would visit the class and introduce a new teacher. Disappointment filled each heart, and a breakdown of discipline resulted.

Prospective teachers, hearing of the unsavory reputation of our particular class, would graciously decline to serve or suggest the possibility of teaching a different class where the students were more manageable. We took delight in our newly found status and determined to live up to the fears of the faculty.

One Sunday morning a lovely young lady accompanied the superintendent into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself, and then she asked questions which gave her an understanding and insight into the background of each. She told us of her girlhood in Midway, Utah, and as she described that beautiful valley she made its beauty live within us and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much.

When Lucy taught, she made the scriptures actually live. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, Joseph Smith, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.

We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic Christmas party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys with typical appetites, we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious event. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this was to be.

The summer months faded into autumn. Autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.

None of us will forget that gray morning when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sincere sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.

The lesson this Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were Depression times, and money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked: “How would you like to follow this teaching of our Lord? How would you feel about taking our party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted so carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope. A beautiful card was purchased and inscribed with our names.

This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that it is indeed more blessed to give than to receive.

The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons. Her personal influence for good was contagious.

The Prophet’s parents, Joseph Smith Sr. and Lucy Mack Smith, married in Tunbridge, Vermont, USA, in 1796. After six years of fairly successful farming, the Smiths moved to nearby Randolph to try their hand at storekeeping.3

The line of goods Joseph Sr. acquired with the help of Boston-based creditors moved quickly to eager new customers—not for cash but for promises of payment once harvests came in at the end of the growing season. As he waited for promised payments to pay off his creditors, he jumped into a new investment opportunity.

In those days Chinese markets were clamoring for crystallized ginseng root. Though Joseph Sr. had a hard-cash offer from a middleman for $3,000 for the ginseng root he had collected and prepared for shipment, he decided on the riskier but potentially more lucrative strategy of taking the product to New York himself and contracting with a ship’s captain to sell his goods in China on consignment. By eliminating the middleman, he stood to make as much as $4,500—an immense sum in those days.4

As bad luck or sinister planning would have it, Joseph Sr.’s shipment ended up on the same boat carrying the son of the middleman with whom he had declined to do business. Taking advantage of the situation, this son sold the Smith ginseng in China “at a high price” and kept the proceeds while spinning tales that the venture had been a bust, producing only a chest full of tea as reward.5

Meanwhile, just as this swindle was unfolding, the payments for a large inventory of merchandise had fallen due at the Smith store. In the face of demanding creditors, the Smiths hit a desperation point. To pay their debts, Lucy gave up a wedding gift of $1,000 that she had saved for years, and Joseph accepted $800 for the family farm in Tunbridge.6 The farm was the one thing that would have at least guaranteed a modicum of economic stability and long-term physical security in the often harsh world of the early American frontier. Now, penniless and landless, the Smiths would be forced to move eight times in 14 years, constantly looking for a way to provide for their family.

At least one of those moves was triggered by the financial difficulty of accumulated medical bills incurred from the 1813 typhoid fever epidemic that struck all the children of the Smith family with great and debilitating force. A few weeks after Joseph’s fever had passed, he experienced tremendous pain in his shoulder. A local doctor misdiagnosed the pain as a consequence of a sprain. Two weeks later, when the pain had escalated to excruciating levels, the doctor returned and discovered a pool of infection linked to Joseph’s extended fever.7

A lancing of the sore area drew out a quart of infected matter, but the procedure was incomplete, and new infection moved to Joseph’s lower left leg. For this, a surgeon was summoned. He made an eight-inch (20 cm) incision from the knee to the ankle, which eased the pain somewhat. But the infection, unfortunately, shot into the bone.8

At this point the family sought the latest medical advice from leading authorities at Dartmouth Medical College. Lucy insisted that the most logical and customary procedure, amputation, not be used. Instead, the Smiths would try a new and painful procedure—one without promise of success. Doctors would open Joseph’s leg and bore two holes in each side of the bone. Then they would chip off three large pieces of the bone to remove all the infected area.9

All of this was to be done without the advantages of today’s general anesthesia. As a consequence, the family was urged to give Joseph alcohol or to tie him to the bed so he would not jerk away in pain during the delicate procedure. At the tender age of seven, Joseph refused both options. Instead, he made two requests—that his father hold him and that his mother leave the room.10

When Joseph’s cries became so great that his mother could not be kept away, twice she entered the room over his pleading objections. What she saw seared an indelible memory. There was Joseph lying in a blood-drenched bed, “pale as a corpse, [with] large drops of sweat … rolling down his face, whilst upon every feature was depicted the utmost agony.”11 Fortunately, the operation was a success, but Joseph would spend the next three years on crutches.

I began to more fully understand the gospel of Jesus Christ when I was serving in the Nigeria Lagos mission from 2015 to 2017. The understanding came when I sat down to read and ponder the scriptures and the lessons that I taught my investigators. Sometimes I asked myself how my parents became members of the Church because teaching people the gospel and their understanding of what you teach became a concern to me. I knew that I was teaching the truth, but their commitment was not enough to convince me that I was doing my best as a missionary.
I had a good trainer who always advised me to write down concerns and questions from our investigators to guide me how to study and teach, to meet the needs our investigators, as the Spirit directs. I did what my trainer told me and during my personal and companionship study I did my best to review all the concerns and to pray for God to inspire me with divine truths to teach people.
During my missionary service, I felt the love of teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ because I knew our Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to understand how my parents became members. I have the need to feel others’ understanding about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and the need for me to improve my learning and teaching skills as a missionary.

After months of logistical planning and bike training, 30 young men, young women, and leaders in the Crossroads and Beech Grove Wards from Indianapolis, Indiana, got on bikes and pedaled from their chapel to the Louisville Kentucky Temple. But this was not just a little Saturday morning ride. The bike trip extended over two days and covered 155 miles (249 km). It was an experience these youth will never forget.
Along the way were devotionals, occasional police escorts, campouts, firesides, overcoming steep hills and illnesses. When they finally arrived, the temple opened an hour early so the youth could have an extra hour to do baptisms; many of the youth doing family names they had brought with them.

Gary loved to visit Grandpa and Grandma McGregor on their farm near Cardston, Canada. It had been nearly four years since the family had made the long trip there from their home in Quebec. But at last they had reached the farm, and Dad stopped the car by the back gate.
Everything was quiet as they opened the doors. Suddenly Mother whispered, “Sh-h! Don’t move—listen!”
Gary and Dad listened carefully. “What’s the matter, Mom?” Gary asked. “I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s a swarm of bees” Mother answered, “and it’s close by.” She looked around and then pointed toward the lilac bush by the door. “There it is. Look, Gary!”
Gary could hardly believe what he saw. There were bees flying around the lilac bush—more bees than he had ever seen before.
“What are they doing?” Gary almost shouted. “There are thousands of them. Where did they come from?”
“They’re swarming, Gary. Every spring some of the bees leave a hive with a queen,” Mother explained. “We mustn’t get too close to them or they’ll chase and sting us, but I want to show you something special. Do you see that large brownish clump on the underside of the limb?”
Gary looked at the lilac bush. “You mean that big thing hanging down? The bees are flying around it.”
“That’s the swarm of bees. The queen is inside the swarm,” Mother answered.
“You mean that big clump is solid bees?” Gary asked.
“Yes,” Mother replied, “and I haven’t seen one for years.” Then she smiled as she reminisced. “One time a swarm landed on the bottom of Grandpa’s tractor seat, and he couldn’t go to work until he’d put them in a hive. They were hanging almost to the ground. Another time they were so high in the quaking aspen that Grandpa couldn’t get to them. A bad wind came up and the bees blew about so much that part of the swarm broke off and fell to the ground.”
“Can Grandpa get all of these bees out of the lilac tree?” Gary asked. “Where is he, anyway?”
Just then they saw Grandpa coming from the field. Gary ran to meet him. “Oh, Grandpa,” he said, “I just love being back on the farm, even with the bees.”
Grandpa McGregor laughed. “Well, we’ll take care of the bees later, when they’ve settled down a bit. I’ll show you how to handle them so no one will be stung.”
Gary watched the bees from the back porch. He was fascinated by the funnel shape clinging to the branch. Only a bee or two hadn’t settled down with the others. Gary wondered how they could hang on like that and why they didn’t break off and fall to the ground.
When Grandmother called Gary to eat, he was afraid the bees might disappear while he was in the house. Grandpa assured him they would still be in the lilac bush. “Sometimes they’ll stay like that for a day or two. Then if someone doesn’t put them in a hive of their own, they’ll leave.”
“Where would they go?” Gary asked.
“Sometimes they find an old hollow tree and make their home inside it,” Grandpa explained.
“Will you give the bees a hive of their own so they won’t fly away?” Gary wondered.
Grandpa smiled. “After dessert I’ll show you what we’ll do.”
When everyone had finished with supper, Grandpa pushed back his chair and said, “I’d better put on my bee clothes. That’s a large swarm, and I don’t want to lose any bees. They make a lot of honey for us.”
Gary saw Grandpa open the cupboard on the back porch and take out some strange-looking clothes. He watched Grandpa put on the clothes. Grandma tied his gloves at the wrists. “So the bees can’t crawl up his arms,” she explained. Grandma also tied his pants tightly at the ankles over some high boots. But when Grandpa put a big covering over his head, Gary could hardly believe what he saw! A net covered Grandpa’s hat and was tied tightly around his neck. It made him look like a man from outer space.
Grandpa made a little fire in an odd-shaped can. He put some oily rags in the can, touched a lighted match to the rags, and put the lid on. When Grandpa squeezed the handle, smoke came out of the spout on the can.
“What’s that for, Grandpa?” Gary cried.
“Bees don’t like smoke, Gary. If some get angry while I’m working, the smoke will keep them from stinging me.”
Then Grandpa went out to the shed and carried out an empty beehive. Gary watched from the back porch as Grandpa set the beehive directly under the big clump of bees. He removed the lid from the hive, and with a quick movement he shook the limb of the lilac bush. The large cluster of bees fell into the hive. Some of the bees were angry at being disturbed. They began buzzing around Grandpa’s head, but he aimed the smoking can at the bees and puffed some smoke at them. A few bees flew away, but some of them still buzzed around.
When the bees were in the hive, Grandpa put the lid on and carried the beehive out behind the bunkhouse with the others. “That’s one place I’ve never explored,” Gary said to himself.
“I’d like to go out there when the bees are asleep and take a look.”
The next morning after breakfast Gary headed straight for the bunkhouse. Gary looked at the first hive. He thought it was the one Grandpa had put out last night, but then all the beehives looked alike.
Quickly Gary lifted the lid to take a little peek. As if they were waiting for him, the bees swarmed up into the sunlight! Gary turned and ran for the house, but it was too late. The bees were after him. One flew down his shirt. Others flew around his head and hands.
When they heard Gary’s cries, Grandma and Mother came running. They helped chase the bees away, and Grandma put mud on the bee stings. Gary’s face was so swollen, he didn’t look like himself. And his arms and hands were swollen too.
“You know, Grandma,” Gary admitted, “I didn’t want to steal their honey, but I guess the bees didn’t know that. Next time I’ll go with Grandpa and wear bee clothes.”
Then Gary was quiet. He was thinking about the report he’d have for school next fall after learning all about bees. He thought he might leave the bee stings out of the report—but he’d have all summer to decide about that!

One evening several years ago, my wife and I were visiting the home of one of our sons and his wife and children for dinner. It was a typical event for a family with small children: there was much noise and even more fun. Shortly after dinner our four-year-old granddaughter, Anna, and I were still sitting at the table. Realizing that she had my full attention, she stood up straight on a bench and fixed her eyes on me. When she was sure that I was looking at her, she solemnly ordered me to “watch and learn.” She then danced and sang a song for me.
Anna’s instruction to “watch and learn” was wisdom from the mouth of a babe. We can learn so much by watching and then considering what we have seen and felt. In that spirit, let me share with you a few principles I have observed by watching and learning from wonderful, faithful marriages. These principles build strong, satisfying marriages that are compatible with heavenly principles. I invite you to watch and learn with me.

For years we have enjoyed reading through the conference issue as a family, one article at a time. When we began, we would simply gather around the table and in turn each read a paragraph out loud. But we found that we were reading it to get through it, without stopping to digest the messages.
To get more out of what we were reading, my wife and I purchased one copy of the conference issue for each family member and planned how many talks we would need to study each week so that we could read them all before the next general conference. Some weeks we would read one talk, and other weeks it would be two, but everyone was to study the talk and highlight portions they liked. Then for family home evening we would teach each other from our highlighted sections.
Often our children had questions that opened up our discussions, or my wife and I asked questions from our study. We treasured hearing our teenagers explain their answers to those questions, sharing things they learned in seminary, at church, or in their personal study. This became a great way of hearing each other’s informal testimonies on a regular basis in a very comfortable, relaxed atmosphere.
Soon we found that our morning scripture study took on the same tone. Some days we would make it through only a few verses before the time would be gone quickly from discussion about those verses and how they applied to what was going on around us.
Our mornings are now filled with conversation, laughter, and unity before we each go out to our individual pursuits. We have strong testimonies of our prophet’s counsel to study and pray together daily. Our family has been transformed into one that learns from and strengthens each other. All of this is a result of wanting to get a little more out of general conference.

It was the first time in ten years the annual all-Alaska youth conference had been held in Fairbanks, a grown-up mining town, rather than the more metropolitan Anchorage. The youth of Fairbanks had decided they needed a challenge and a chance to show the Anchorage Saints they were willing to share the load. So they decided to host the conference for more than 300 people in their small city. They knew there would be struggles; perhaps they didn’t know just how hard the struggles would be. But they were determined.
The first trial was the weather. The committee began its work in October and continued through the winter when the temperatures reach 30 to 70 below zero and when the sun only weakly shines three hours a day. Planning sessions for the conference were held in homes even when Sunday School and other meetings were canceled in the chapel because of the cold. Some members of the committee drove as many as 33 miles to attend the sessions. At those low temperatures and in that darkness, life and death situations can arise from as common an occurrence as a stalled car. There were no mishaps, although constant worry.
The steering committee pushed on; their faith grew with each challenge. The sunny June day that sat so patiently on their calendars was a beacon of hope, and those silly moments that sprang up so unexpectedly were buoys of spirit. They found their worries slipping into laughter.
They worried about planning menus and getting enough food for the crowd they expected. Finally, two girls sat down with an expert Relief Society sister in the branch and cooked up scrumptious menus that included fried chicken, fresh vegetables, fresh fruit, potato salads, and homemade desserts. Then they found that a local supermarket would give them a discount on their food purchase. Finally the sisters in the branch Relief Society offered to run the kitchen. Their worries were eased and they found themselves laughing together at the fun they were having.
One by one the problems were tackled. Working together, the young planners became excited by the great conference taking shape. The months passed quickly.

I have always loved music and felt strength in the words of the hymns. Yet prior to my stroke, when I was called to be the ward’s Primary music leader, I was very apprehensive. How was I supposed to make a difference in the children’s lives? My music education background had taught me to set goals in my teaching, so I decided to try to help the children feel the Spirit as we sang. When we sang songs such as “I Lived in Heaven,” I was astonished by the strong presence of the Holy Ghost in the room and by the children’s deep, thoughtful questions about the lyrics.
One of my favorite teaching methods was using American Sign Language (ASL). I found that the children understood the songs better when we discussed how the signs offered a visual representation of the words. I really enjoyed hearing the children sing and watching them sign “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” The message rang true in my heart, and I often felt that I was the benefactor of the Spirit that the children invited. I could sense my testimony growing, and I truly felt blessed by the Lord.

I had some other experiences that year, too, that I am not too proud of, but will admit to you by way of teaching by example, maybe the example of overcoming. As part of being Joe Fraternity on campus, I was invited one evening to go up the canyon with a bunch of senior active members of my fraternity to a beer bust. I’d never been to a beer bust and was kind of curious, assuming they would have soft drinks for us Mormon boys. Wrong assumption. I was persuaded by these active members that I thought a lot of to have a beer or two. I’d had more than two. I had three to five and became sick. They drove me back home to the fraternity house and I went down to my little hovel of a room and immediately threw up on the floor. As I tried to clean it up, there appeared at the door the president of the fraternity, Ross Bradford. Ross said, “What’s going on in here, Skunk?” (I was a pledge to the fraternity and they were called skunks. I think I smelled worse than a skunk that night.) “What’s going on in here, Skunk?” he said, and I told him I was sick. He said, “Have you been drinking?” And I said, “Just two or three.” And he said, “I can’t believe it. You were raised in a better family than that.”

Ross was an experienced man. He had been in the Air Force for three years, was finishing school on the GI bill, and I admired him greatly. He helped me clean up the mess on the floor, which I thought was very charitable for the president of the fraternity, and then he led me down the hall to the furnace room. He opened up the door to this dingy hot furnace room, and there was an old dirty mattress in there. He said, “You go in there and sleep there tonight, and take this garbage can, and if you get sick again, throw up in that. I don’t want to clean up any more.” Well, I felt rightfully challenged and criticized as well, and I sat there for a few minutes with my head in my hands, rather sick and ill. He came back, and he had the pledge manual in his hand, and he said, “I have a poem I want you to memorize, and if you can memorize this by tomorrow morning by the time I go to class and have breakfast in the chapter room, then you can stay and become a member of this fraternity. If you can’t, pack your bags and leave.” Well, I stayed up all night, memorizing that poem. It was a defining moment of my life. The poem was called “The True Gentleman.” The next morning I was awake (I had stayed up all night) and I showered and shaved and cleaned up and even put on my best suit and tie, shined my shoes, and when Ross came down to his breakfast table, at the head of the table in the chapter room, I was ready to give him my poem, “The True Gentleman.” He slowly ate breakfast while I fidgeted, standing there at attention, and when he finished, he put his napkin and spoon down and said, “All right, let’s hear it.” And I quoted this poem called “The True Gentleman”:

The True Gentleman’s a man whose conduct proceeds
From good will and an acute sense of propriety
And whose self control is equal to all emergencies
Who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty,
The obscure man of his obscurity, nor any man of his inferiority or deformity
Who is himself humble if necessity compels him to humble another
Who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power nor boast of his own possessions or achievements
Who speaks with frankness, but always with sincerity and sympathy
And whose deed follows his word.
A man who appears well in any company
A man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

When I finished, Ross stood up and embraced me, and said, “Nice job, Skunk, you can stay,” and off he went to school. Before he left, he turned at the door and said, “The real challenge is: Now try to live it. Try to live it. Try to be a true gentleman in all that you do.” Well, I’ve found you can live it if you hale to the promptings of the Holy Ghost, if you hale to the power and influence of the priesthood in your lives, if you follow the commandments of God, if you follow the directions of your parents and friends and family.

When I was in high school, I thought I wasn’t as valuable a disciple of Jesus Christ because I struggled with talking to people. I wasn’t just introverted—I was severely shy! I was so shy I had a difficult time making friends and being my true self around my classmates at school and at church.
Because of that, I shied away from callings in Young Women and felt like I couldn’t be as spiritual as my peers who were a lot more talkative and social than I was.
So when I graduated from high school and decided to serve a mission, I was terrified!
I felt like God wanted me to serve, but my first thought was, “Why does God want someone like me to serve? I can’t talk to people!”
But as scared as I was, I decided to trust God and serve a mission anyway.
As I served, things were difficult at first, but as I continued to try (and to let myself fail), I found that the Lord strengthened me to do the work He asked me to do.
In the Book of Mormon the Lord says: “If men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).
On my mission I realized that Jesus Christ could do wonderful things with me not because of my strength but because of His. And I also realized that His strength didn’t come to me just because I was a missionary, but it was also something that I could have relied on in high school.
The wonderful thing about Jesus Christ is that we don’t need degrees or extensive résumés to serve in His kingdom and be strong disciples! If we are humble and sincere in our desires to serve, Jesus Christ will take us exactly as we are, where we are, and give us the necessary help and strength to serve Him.

It was a stormy winter night. At the airport in Chicago, Illinois, many people were stranded due to delayed or canceled flights. A young pregnant woman stood in the long check-in line, nudging her two-year-old daughter forward with her foot.
Many people made disapproving comments, but no one offered to help.
Man: Why doesn’t she pick up that screaming child?
Woman: What a terrible mother.
With a kind smile, Elder Kimball walked up to the woman.
Elder Kimball: Can I help you?
Mother: Thank you.I’ve had four previous miscarriages. My doctor told me I can’t lift anything—not even my own child.
Elder Kimball picked up the crying child, rubbed her back, and gave her a piece of candy. When the girl was comforted, he informed the other passengers and the airport workers of the woman’s condition.
Airport worker: We’ll have you on the next available flight.
Supervisor: Come and sit and rest until your departure.
The woman’s stress was lessened. Later, she saw a picture of Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Mother: That’s him! That’s the man who helped me.
A few months after that, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
Twenty-one years later, President Kimball received a letter. It was from the son of that young mother.
Student: I served a faithful mission and am now a student at Brigham Young University. Thank you for helping my mother that terrible night!
President Kimball was happy that his small act of service had resulted in so much good.

In 2001, the old Spori Building was scheduled for demolition so a new one could be built in its place. We at the electrical shop were concerned that a high-voltage distribution switch, powering numerous buildings and sitting next to the Spori Building, may be damaged from falling debris three stories up. The decision to cover it with railroad ties seemed like a reasonable solution. As we waited for the building to be razed, one of our vendors from California was scheduled to visit us and discuss some new transformers they were selling. Instead, he brought a sales representative to show us a new temporary junction bus for high-voltage distribution that could be used anywhere. Well, that was random, but interesting. Then, the next few weeks proved even more interesting and urgent as the Spori high-voltage switch began to leak dielectric gas insulation. SF6, or sulfur hexafluoride, is very expensive, and we were losing about $1,500 in gas every 4 days. We were in between a rock and a hard place. To buy a new gas switch would cost around $20,000 and take about 16 weeks to build and ship.

Don’t worry, we now have spares. But back then, no spares and no way to stop the leak. But ding ding, in my mind, the vendor from California had on his shelf a temporary solution. How convenient. We air freighted the junction bus in, removed the leaking switch, and pulled all of the high-voltage cable into an underground vault and onto our junctions, then ordered a new switch and waited for the demo. The night the demolition started, two caterpillar dozers looped a cable between them and were going to drag it through the old, pioneer-built, rock structure. Nothing happened, so they decided to saw through the building with the cable. A small friction fire developed after a few back and forth pulls, and suddenly the entire building was on fire. It burned to the ground. How long those railroad ties would have burned protecting our switch—well, we never had to find out; the high-voltage cables were safely underground and out of harm’s way. Even more miraculous, the leaking gas switch never lost another ounce of sulfur hexafluoride. We replaced it anyway, and that became our spare.

With Christ and our Heavenly Father, there are no random events. They are in the very details of our lives. The Spori miracle had to be so precise and the timing so exact in order for so many moving parts to come together at the right time.