Gospel Story Finder

Sometimes we think that we have learned all that we need to know about something and that we don’t need to learn the same things over and over. I had an experience that taught me how important it is to be humble and willing to learn the same lessons again and again.
A number of years ago, while teaching at a university, I received an invitation to attend a professional seminar in Dallas, Texas. I was delighted because my wife’s sister lived there with her family. We were able to combine a family vacation with my seminar. When my sister-in-law learned of the seminar’s location, she informed me that the hotel was difficult to locate due to construction in the area. She drew up a map with numerous details to assist me in getting to downtown Dallas.
On the first morning of the seminar, I was extremely careful and gave much attention to the map. Remarkably, I made all the correct turns and arrived safely at the hotel. As I approached the hotel, I realized that it truly had been a difficult route. I knew that without the map, I would have been lost. I was pleased that I had arrived on time and never had to seek directions from anyone.
After the day’s seminar, I drove home, once again closely following the directions on the map. It was even more difficult, as I had to reverse the directions. Again, I was pleased to make all the correct turns and arrive home safely. The drive took more than an hour.
The second morning found me being a little casual about the map, due to my success of the previous day. At times, I even tried to rely solely on my recollections of the previous day’s journey. I arrived at the hotel on time, amazed at my ability to navigate in this unfamiliar city. That day the seminar instructors presented us with two armloads of books and other materials to study in the evening.
When I arrived at my car for the drive home, I tossed the map onto the backseat and put my new materials on the front seat. I started to think that my sister-in-law did not have enough confidence in my ability to drive in this city. I decided that I no longer needed the map.
I had no trouble getting onto the right interstate highway and making the correct exit to the next one. Then I took the right exit to the subdivision where my sister-in-law lived, found the right street without any problems, and parked in front of the house.
I retrieved all my materials from the car and juggled them in my arms as I picked up the evening paper from the lawn. I entered the front door and turned right, walking down the hall to the guest bedroom. I put my books on the dresser, sat down on the bed and removed my shoes, anxious to study my new materials. As I opened my first book, I glanced quickly around the room, then looked again. The furniture had been changed. I thought that my family should have told us that they were changing furniture. I looked more closely at it, thinking that I liked the old bedroom set better than this new one. I stood up and looked across the hall into another bedroom. Two teenage girls were sitting on the bed, talking. I thought that my sister-in-law must be serving in Young Women, as her own children were three young boys. The girls didn’t seem to notice me. I tried to study my materials again, but I couldn’t concentrate. A suspicion was growing in me that I had made a dreadful mistake.
By now you have realized what it took me a long time to figure out: I was in the wrong house, sitting on a stranger’s bed with my shoes off! Somehow I put on my shoes, collected my books and the newspaper, and started down the hall toward the front door. Just before I reached it, I encountered two ladies. “Pardon me,” I said. “I haven’t met you before.” Then I quickly shouted, “I am in the wrong house!” They watched calmly as I bolted through the door and tossed their newspaper onto the lawn where I had retrieved it only minutes before. My heart was beating wildly! I jumped into the car and made my getaway. I had stopped one block short of my destination.
I got myself into this predicament because I became too casual in following the road map. I learned a great principle from this experience: We can do many things right but still leave important things undone and come up a kingdom short. I had made all the correct turns on my journey home, but it was clear that I still needed to pay attention to the map.

Min-Yo and the Moon Dragon In this modern Chinese fairy tale about a time almost before time, the moon is about to crash into the earth. The moon dragon might help, but the gossamer ladder to it will only support the lightest person. Min-Yo is that person. She gets to the moon and finds the dragon, which agrees to help—but how? The solution to the problem creates serendipity (a happy, unexpected side effect).Elizabeth Hillman6–9 years

Many years ago an associate of mine decided he would please his wife by sharing with her a specific compliment each night as he arrived home. One night he praised her cooking. A second night he thanked her for excellence in housekeeping. A third night he acknowledged her fine influence on the children. The fourth night, before he could speak, she said, “I know what you are doing. I thank you for it. But don’t say any of those things. Just tell me you think I am beautiful.”
She expressed an important need she had. Women ought to be praised for all the gifts they possess—including their attentiveness to their personal appearance—that so unselfishly add to the richness of the lives of others. We must not let ourselves go and become so casual—even sloppy—in our appearance that we distance ourselves from the beauty heaven has given us.

Sophie had a problem.
Mother’s Day was coming, and she wanted to give Mom a gift. Mom was going to have a baby, and she had to stay in bed so the baby could grow stronger. Sophie thought staying in bed sounded like the most boring thing in the world! So she wanted to give Mom something special to cheer her up. But she didn’t have any money to buy a present.
After school Sophie went to Mom’s room. She climbed up on the bed and got comfy.
“Tell me about your day,” Mom said.
Sophie started telling Mom about a silly poem she wrote about parrots in polka-dot pants parading around the park. Then she thought of her problem. Her voice trailed off, and her eyebrows scrunched up.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“I don’t have any money to buy you a present for Mother’s Day!” Sophie blurted out.
Mom smiled and patted Sophie’s hand. “Oh, honey. The best presents come from the heart,” she said. “Besides, you and Dad and the new baby are all the presents I need.”
Sophie sighed. Mom was always saying stuff like that. But Sophie still wanted to get her a present.
That night Sophie knelt by her bed.
“Heavenly Father, please help me think of a present I can give Mom for Mother’s Day,” she prayed.
In the morning, Sophie hadn’t even opened her eyes yet when an idea popped into her brain! She hopped out of bed and ran to tell Dad what she wanted to do.
“That’s a great idea,” he said. “Mom will love it.”
Since it was Saturday and she didn’t have school, Sophie got to work on her idea right away. She got out paper, markers, and scissors. She got out glitter glue and stickers. She used a ruler to draw a rectangle. Then she carefully cut around the edges.
In her best handwriting, Sophie wrote, “This coupon is good for a hug and a kiss.”
Sophie made another coupon for setting the table. She made one for picking up baby toys. She made one for washing windows. With each coupon, Sophie thought about how much she loved Mom. Soon she had a colorful stack. She wrapped them in gold paper and tied a ribbon around the bundle.
On Mother’s Day morning, Sophie handed the shiny package to Mom.
Mom smiled as she opened the crinkly paper. Her smile got even bigger when she saw what was inside.
“Thank you, Sophie! This is the best present ever,” she said, pulling Sophie into a hug.
Sophie felt warm and happy inside. Mom was right. The best presents did come from the heart.

On January 12, 2007, a man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt walked into a Washington, DC, subway station, pulled a violin from its case, and began to play.2 He put his soul into the performance, sometimes pounding his bow against the strings, sometimes gently caressing them to bring out soft and sorrowful tones.

As he played, more than a thousand commuters passed through the train station on their way to work. They had busy days ahead of them: lists of things to do, worries, and troubles. Their minds were occupied with everyday trivial things—like where and what to eat for lunch, how their favorite sports team was doing, or whether anyone would notice their new glasses.

Some, undoubtedly, were wrestling with greater problems: a challenging health diagnosis, relationships that were unraveling, financial loss, or some other pressing anxiety.

In short, these people were people like you and me: unwrapping the gift of a new day, even the gift of a brand-new year, but consumed with the trivial and tragic, the petty and profound.

Did they notice the musician? Or was the man with the violin merely part of the impressionistic blur that shaded the all-too-familiar backdrop of their daily lives?

What these commuters did not know was that this musician was no ordinary violinist, he was playing no ordinary instrument, and he was playing no ordinary music.

The man’s name was Joshua Bell—one of the most accomplished musicians in the world.

The violin he played was handcrafted in 1713 by Antonio Stradivari. Joshua Bell had purchased it a few years earlier for an estimated $3.5 million.

And the music he played was some of the most challenging and beautiful ever composed.

Now, this whole experience in the subway station had been set up by a journalist from the Washington Post who was curious to know what would happen if a world-class musician gave an anonymous, virtuoso performance in the walkways of an ordinary subway station.

Would people recognize the sublime music played by a brilliant artist on an unparalleled instrument?

Or would they ignore him? Would they throw a coin or two into his open violin case and walk by?

Some people at the Washington Post worried that the experiment would cause a traffic-control nightmare at the station, with hundreds of people crowding around to listen.

Here is what happened.

Of the nearly 1,100 people who passed by Joshua Bell during his forty-five-minute performance, only “seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and take in the performance, at least for a minute.”3

One person who had passed within four feet of Joshua Bell later could not recall that he had even seen a musician on his way to work. As it turns out, this man had been wearing earbuds, listening to a favorite rock song on his personal playlist. Ironically, the lyrics of the song were about failing to see the beauty right before your eyes.

When he arrived at stake youth conference, Jade Meynders got out of the car, picked up his things, including his sleeping bag, and started walking down a dirt road cut through a thick forest. Those around him were dressed as if from a day long past—the girls in long dresses and bonnets, the boys in shirts with full sleeves and some in long-tailed coats, styles from 150 years ago.
As they walked, they noticed markers set up several yards apart with years painted on them. Each step took Jade back in time. “It really helped prepare my mind to comprehend and feel what was going to happen,” said Jade.
At the end of the road, the groups walked into a full-size replica of a pioneer town, complete with the Whitney store and the Grandin press, although those two businesses, significant in the history of the Church, were not originally in the same town. The Abbotsford British Columbia Stake was taking the youth back in time so they could witness several events from a variety of locations in Church history.
So when Jade and his friends entered the town, it really felt like they had stepped back in time to the 1830s.
The town was dressed with garlands and flowers. The teens, their leaders, and members of the stake who agreed to play the parts of prominent Church members in history gathered for a typical fair from pioneer times. The group played games, held competitions, and enjoyed entertainment. At the end of the day, the mayor gathered everyone together and organized them into families. Under the direction of their leaders, the “families” set up their camps in a nearby wood, which would be home for the next week.
“I finally understood what the early Saints lived through and how their testimonies were their only possessions that were certain,” said Alex Loewen. “It inspires me to keep a strong testimony and rely on the Lord like they did.”

When I was in the seventh grade I walked home from school with my friend Mardean, who was an eighth grader. A new girl, Sandra Kleinschmidt, moved into our school, and we found that she walked home the same way. She was taller than we were and naturally a little gawky at that age. We found her comical and made up a few code words so we could make fun of her without her understanding. I don’t really believe my friend Mardean thought that game up or even completely understood it, but I knew what those code remarks meant nevertheless.
Then the class learned that Sandra’s father was in some way involved in television production. That was a rather new medium then and quite glamorous to us. Suddenly we were much nicer to Sandra. What if she should invite us home? What if her father should see us and be struck with our great looks or talent or both? What if we should get to be on TV or, at the very least, get to see a live show?
Many years later I recalled that phase of my life, and I suddenly envisioned Sandra Kleinschmidt’s Father—not the TV producer—but her eternal Father in Heaven. I imagined him coming to say, “Yes, Sandra is my daughter, a princess, a potential queen. You, Jean, are also my daughter, and I am so disappointed in your behavior. My daughters behave with grace and courtesy, with love and compassion.”
Who did I think I was as I walked home from school?
Who did I think Sandra was?

I walked briskly to the campus library, a number of thoughts racing through my mind. The sun was bright, turning the snow to glitter. The mountains stood majestic against the blue sky, begging me to stop and gaze for a while. But there was no time. Despite the beauty of the day, I had to study. Other students passed me, anxious as I was to prepare for midterms. I felt, however, that they would not have the same difficulty studying that would inevitably confront me. I tried to squelch these negative thoughts, telling myself that this time it would be different. I pushed the library door open and was hit by a warm blast of air, a welcome contrast to the chilling temperatures of February. As I hurried down the stairs to the second floor, I mentally reviewed the composers I needed to know for my humanities test.
Music had always been a part of my life. My grandfather was a percussionist for the Cleveland Orchestra, and both my parents sang and played instruments. We children inherited our parents’ love for music and were all involved in both playing instruments and singing. The holidays were wonderful as we vocalized our way to our grandparents’ house. And at home, singing always accompanied vacuuming, dishwashing, or any other task that didn’t require mental concentration. Not only did I love music, but I loved to write words to simple melodies. Sometimes the words would be serious, expressing my innermost sentiments; other times they would be nonsensical, usually written to entertain the children I baby-sat. Now here I was at Brigham Young University studying the humanities and having a difficult time. Try as I might, for several weeks I had not been able to retain the information needed to do well in my schoolwork. Maybe I would do better today.
I quickly situated my coat on an adjacent chair and opened my humanities book. Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, born 1756 in Austria and died 1791. Composer of …
It started. “Not today!” I silently prayed. “Oh please, not today!” A confusion and blackness interfered with my train of thought. For two weeks now I had battled this. Every time I tried to concentrate on an important matter it happened. A stream of black, evil thoughts from an outside force would fill my mind. As a recent convert to the Church I was just learning ways to overcome the adversary. I had tried prayer, petitioning the Lord for help. But still this black cloud entered my thought process making it impossible to study or read.
“Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born 17 … 16. … I couldn’t remember. I felt my mind being pulled in different directions. As I tried to memorize, a hazy blackness distorted my thinking. Wolfgang … Mozart, what was his middle name? Words bounced around in my head having nothing to do with the subject at hand. Try again. Ignore the confusion in your mind. Who was I studying? I glanced back at the page telling of Mozart’s life. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born 1756 … a deluge of vulgar words made their entrance.
Frustration mounted within me as the intensity of this blackness grew stronger. I felt my head would burst. My eyes filled with tears. “Please, Father,” I pleaded silently, “Please help me. I can’t go through this much longer.”
No sooner had I offered up this prayer than the heavens responded. Cutting through the confusion, a beautiful poem was spoken to my mind—not only spoken, but imprinted so that after hearing it only once I knew it by memory. Each word was clear and full of meaning. The mental anguish I had experienced moments before gave way to a beautiful message of hope:
Fear not, I am with thee;
Oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee,
And cause thee to stand,
Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.
For the next few minutes I sat awestruck, marveling over what had happened. It was hard for me to grasp the idea that God not only answered my prayer but answered it in an artistic way. Not that I thought him incapable, but I found it hard to comprehend that God would take time to relate to my specific personality in such a personal way. I repeated each word to myself, thinking about God’s message to me. He really loved and cared about me. He knew all the frustrations I had experienced, and before they became too much to handle, came to my aid. I believed what he said to me; he would never forsake me. I let the wonder of this experience sink into my soul as I studied for my test.

I have not always been a zealous advocate of learning. I was a typical dumb high-school athlete, the typical class-sloughing freshman, the typical marriage-minded RM (though it did not do me much good), even though I deny it and refuse to admit it to almost everybody. I did emerge for a breath of learning every semester in time to cram for finals, but, with the exception of a few days twice a year, I was in a mental coma. Nevertheless, my grades maintained the appearance of excellence; and I was satisfied, even proud, of my nonthinking state.

My emergence from the rut of a mental stupor is something of a miracle to me. It just so happened that the summer before I entered graduate school I had a great deal of free time I had not expected. To combat the discomforts of prolonged boredom, I finally did something I had not done for a long time: I picked up a book and read it. Fortunately the book was one of those only-put-down-to-sleep kind. I read it in two days. I was very excited, so excited about my accomplishment that I borrowed another book from a friend and read it in two days. From that very humble beginning, I committed myself to be involved in continuously reading unrequired books throughout my graduate school years. And they have been many, many years. I will not say that it has been easy to maintain that commitment, but I have maintained it. I consider reading to be the most important element in effective learning. If your goal is learning, you must commit yourself to reading. If everything else I say tonight is forgotten but you remember the importance of reading, then I will consider this talk to have been a great success.

I also think of my mother and father and how they faced the troubles of their day. They both entered BYU in the 1930s during the Great Depression. They met at BYU, married in 1936, and had their first child early in 1938 while they were still in school. They struggled to pay tuition and to earn enough money for food and rent. My father majored in agronomy, and as he approached graduation in 1938, the unemployment rate was 15 percent, about twice what it is today. He wondered if he would be able to find a job and support his wife and child. One of his professors encouraged him to take the civil service exam, and he did well enough on the exam that he was offered a job with the Soil Conservation Service within the Department of Agriculture. He was assigned to do soil surveys in New England, North Dakota—a small town in the southwestern part of the state. It was not where he or his wife would have chosen to go, but it was a job, and they went.

When they arrived, they discovered that there were no other members of the Church in the town. Dad and Mother held Sunday School in our home, and occasionally the full-time missionaries, who served in Dickinson, 30 miles to the north, would visit us. Money was tight, and some vital commodities were rationed during World War II, including gasoline, meat, sugar, and butter. These items were in short supply, and rationing was the only way to make sure everyone got their fair share. Even if you had money to buy more, you were only allowed to buy small amounts of the rationed items.

When I was six we moved to Dickinson, North Dakota, and after 14 years of marriage, my parents were able to buy a home. The economic situation improved somewhat after World War II; we had basic necessities, but with six children it was a challenge for my parents to meet their expenses. My mother taught us Primary at home, and we held church in our living room with our family, the two full-time missionaries, and Frank Whitney, the only other Church member in the town at the time. Gradually the Church grew—several families moved in, and a few were baptized. We rented a hall in the community center to hold church services. My Dad worked with the local Lions Club and Methodist Church to start a Scout program.

When I was 13 my dad was transferred to Bismarck, North Dakota, a beautiful little town on the Missouri River. My parents bought a three-bedroom rambler with an unfinished basement and no garage, and our family had one car, which we all shared. Mother took a job as a medical stenographer. I was happy that there was a small branch of the Church in Bismarck with several other teenagers. Our branch met in the basement of a local hotel, and as we set up for church on Sunday mornings, we usually had to clear away a few beer cans that had been left from the night before. As the branch grew, we were able to rent a small church from the Seventh-day Adventists.

At that time, Church policy was that local units had to earn a certain percentage of the cost before they could build a chapel. I remember many branch bake sales being held so we could earn money and one day have our own chapel. In addition, members were encouraged to contribute what they could to the building fund, but the branch was small and most members could not afford to give much. Accumulation of funds was slow, and I wondered if we would ever be able to build our own chapel. Finally, when I reached age 18—after years of dreaming, planning, and working—we had earned enough to pay our share of the cost to build a small chapel.

After I left North Dakota, the Church continued to grow. The Bismarck Stake was organized in the 1980s, and then in 1998 a small temple was constructed. For those of us who grew up in North Dakota and lived through the early struggles, the construction of a temple in Bismarck was a miracle that we had never dreamed could happen. Prior to that time the closest temple was in Idaho Falls, Idaho, 750 miles away.

My parents married and graduated during a challenging time—the Great Depression. They were sent to a cold and unknown place far from their families and their beloved Utah. Mother and Dad experienced North Dakota blizzards, rationing during the war, and the birth of a handicapped son. They went forward with faith and did the best they could during difficult times. As I look back on my life, I cherish the experiences I had in North Dakota. It is not where my parents would have chosen to raise us, but I thank God for sending them there. We associated with many good people of different faiths who enriched our lives, and we learned much from facing economic and spiritual challenges. I thank my parents for their faith and courage through much adversity. They taught us well and were true to their ideals.

More than 230 youth from the Roswell Georgia Stake took part in a youth conference over the course of four days. The goals for the conference were to help the young men and women of the stake build integrity, improve face-to-face communication, and do good works within the community.
Many of the youth said their favorite part of the conference was the service day, where they had a chance to care for abandoned babies and do landscaping at an infant shelter, along with hammering, painting, and landscaping at local schools. “Each place looked so much better when we were done,” says Mitch Mills, of the Alpharetta Ward. “It made me happy inside that the kids would have a better place to go to school.”

I remember Christmases from my childhood, and they remind me of the love and preparation that my parents went through to provide great experiences for us at Christmas. To show my age, I remember a Christmas when I dearly wanted what some of my friends already had: J. C. Penney walkie-talkies. We used them to play army. Imagine the dim recesses of time before the cell phones and twittering you now experience. Contact was not constant then. I know there are some here managing text and twitter contacts even as I speak, arranging dates or Christmas travel or taunting a Yankees fan that the Red Sox won the World Series.

On that Christmas long ago in the sixties, I thought walkie-talkies cost so much that I had no hope of getting a set. When I got one, it was a miracle that I still remember with a little frisson of happiness. Almost immediately I went out with my friends on that Christmas day in Arizona to use our walkie-talkies to play army, as was our custom in those days, complete with gun sounds and medics who would attend to you after you had been wounded. Those medics would come up to the wounded and shamanistically wave their hands, muttering the magic words “Fix, fix, fix,” and you were back in the game.

I realize that acting out such a bloody scenario today could be seen as troubling and would violate most schools’ safe-school policies if it occurred during recess. Times have changed. Television in my childhood consisted of a grand total of three to five channels—one from Mexico showing bullfights and one an educational channel. Then prime time included weekly doses of the popular TV showCombat! with Vic Morrow, et al., or Twelve O’Clock High and other such shows based on World War II.

It’s a little different today. Today most of you don’t know that Jimmy Stewart, star of the Christmas classics Mr. Krueger’s Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life, served through the horrors of World War II as a wing commander flying B-17s with great courage and skill. Most of you were not raised by a decorated World War II combat veteran who saw and inflicted horrific death as a B-17 pilot, flying daylight bombing raids over Germany when he was younger than most of you. And yet after the hell that such parents and society had experienced, such men and women as my parents, and perhaps your grandparents or great-grandparents, through Christmas and throughout our lives, protected us and let us be children untouched by the horrors they had waded through. They even let us play war without scaring us too much about what it actually meant. They knew that Christ hasn’t promised we can avoid the horrors this world is capable of inflicting upon us. They also knew that we are to become as little children by choice, despite the world’s horrors.

Melinda was almost eight, and she was eager to be baptized and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. She was ready to make a covenant—a sacred promise—with Heavenly Father.
Melinda had already practiced making and keeping promises. When her mother asked her to read to her little brother each evening, Melinda promised to do it—and she did! And each time she went to her friend’s house, she promised she would be home on time. She kept that promise, too.
Most of all, Melinda was trying to always remember Jesus. When she was tempted to pretend she didn’t hear her father call her to come home, she thought, What would Jesus want me to do? She quickly ran home.
Now she was eager to promise Heavenly Father to keep His commandments and to take upon her the name of His Son and always remember Him. She knew when she was baptized and made that promise, He would promise her that she would always have His Spirit to be with her.
In family home evening, her father taught about the Liahona, a special compass the Lord gave to Lehi’s family to guide them through the wilderness (see 1 Ne. 16). The Liahona worked only when the people were faithful and diligent in keeping the commandments (see 1 Ne. 16:28). Melinda knew she must also be faithful and diligent in keeping her baptismal covenant so she could have the Holy Ghost to guide her. She knew if she kept her promise, Heavenly Father would keep His promise.

Not long ago at the end of fall semester, my advanced composition class decided to have a gift exchange. Because we had worked hard to have the spirit of unity in the class, we thought that we might stretch ourselves to give gifts in the spirit of the Zion classroom. That semester in two classes we generated more than $200 for the Perpetual Education Fund. One student, Aaron Bahn, gave me a gift I will always treasure. It is a mission pin from his mission in Peru. To it was attached a note: Early in my mission in Peru, my native senior companion had only two or three pair of garments. I gave him a couple of mine; he gave me all he had--this mission pin. I would like you to have it in love and memory. Aaron's gift, both to his companion and to me, illustrates spiritual mindedness because to him service and giving exceeded the desire for personal possessions.

7. Two relevant memories for young fathers. When I was such, I had just received a phone call telling me of a friend’s death in an accident. I was sitting in the living room with tears streaking down my cheeks. Our young son, Cory, saw the tears as he passed in the hallway. I learned that he had anxiously assumed the tears were because he had disappointed me in some way. He didn’t know about the phone call. Brethren, we underestimate how genuinely and frequently our children want to please us.

When I was in my 20s, I had to take a very hard exam to get into a prominent business school in France. I had been studying long hours every day for two years. But I always went to church and institute and fulfilled my Church responsibilities.
The most important part of the exam was the interview. I had an interview with one school, and when they found out I was a member of the Church, it didn’t go well.
Then I took the exam with the school I wanted to go to most. After some time in the interview, the interviewers started asking questions about what I did outside my studying hours. I knew that it was a go/no-go question for me. But I decided in a second I would be faithful to my principles.
I said, “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” and then I spent 15 minutes explaining what I did in the Church.
The director of the school said, “You know, I’m glad you said this. When I was a student, I studied in the United States, and one of my best friends was a Mormon. He was a great man, a very kind person. I consider the Mormons to be very good people.”
What a relief! I was one of the first candidates that year to be accepted to this school.

Nancy arrived at the edge of the crowd, breathing hard and feeling damp and uncomfortable in her heavy skirt and jacket. Now, as she looked around, fear clutched at her. She’d never seen so many people as had come together on this barren hilltop. Here and there were sprinkled a few bearded Amish in flat black hats and some hobbling veterans in their faded uniforms. An occasional brightly garbed woman stood out in bold relief among the drab browns and grays of men’s clothing.
Directly ahead, a square wooden platform caught her attention. On it stood a white-haired man gesturing with generous motions. That must be Senator Everett, she thought. Nancy studied him briefly, then scanned the faces of the men seated in twos on the platform. Is that bare-headed man sitting in the center President Lincoln, she wondered, or is that other gentleman to the right of him wearing the tall hat? Both had beards, so it was difficult for Nancy to tell from a distance. She edged closer for a better look.
She pushed past the onlookers who smelled of sweaty wool and stale food even in the outdoors.
“How much longer before the president takes his turn?” she whispered to a boy in front of her.
“Soon, I hope,” he said. “I’m hungry.” He eyed her parcel. “Is that something to eat?”
“No,” she said and hugged her parcel closer. They both looked up as scattered applause began around them. Peering between men’s shoulders, Nancy saw Mr. Everett bowing and waving as he made his way to his seat then watched as he sat down heavily, pulled out a billowing kerchief, and wiped his face.
“Lookee there,” the boy said. “He worked up a sweat making a speech and all I did was work up an appetite listening to it.”
Nancy smiled and continued searching for a good vantage point from which to hear the president. As a chorale group on the stage began to sing, she saw a man and woman standing nearby, and she edged closer to them. Somehow, the presence of a woman made her feel more comfortable.
They turned as she stopped beside them and Nancy saw that they were very old. The man’s face looked like a shriveled, dried-out apple and the woman’s colorless face reminded Nancy of her favorite china doll. Their clothes had an ancient look, too, worn to a thinness that even patches would no longer hold together.
“Did you come far?” Nancy asked.
“All the way from Ohio,” the old man replied.
Nancy gasped. “That’s a long, long way. You must be very tired.”
“Sarah, my wife, is not feeling so good,” the man said. “She’s not over her sickness.”
“I had to come. I had to find our son’s grave.” The woman spoke so softly that Nancy wasn’t sure she heard her at first.
“Oh,” Nancy said. She felt a sudden rush of sympathy for them and knew she’d cry if she tried to talk anymore. If only Papa were here now, she wished, he’d know what to say and do.
The chorale group finished and the crowd surged forward in anticipation, as someone announced simply, “The president of the United States.” Nancy looked up, paralyzed with the depth of her feelings. There he stood—tall, thin, somber-looking in his steel-rimmed glasses—as he began to read from a paper.
She hardly heard his words because her emotions threatened to boil up and outside of her and carry her away. To realize the dream, to be here at long last was almost more than she could physically handle. Her head buzzed and pounded and her stomach threatened a revolt. She swallowed hard and hugged her package closer.
Then the president stopped talking. Surely he can’t be finished already, Nancy thought. He’s hardly said anything yet.
People looked at one another uncertainly for a moment, then slowly began to applaud. The applause gathered momentum and Nancy joined in, disappointed because she had paid so little attention to what the president said. She’d have to ask Papa about it later.
Now the crowd pushed forward again and Nancy felt panic. She was afraid she might be crushed or trampled and never get to give the president his gift. She looked around wildly and saw a small opening to slip through. Perhaps she could work her way out of the crowd and go around to the other side of the platform. The president was still busy shaking hands and talking. She hoped she had enough time to meet him.
Nancy pushed and poked with her elbows, slowly forcing her way through until she came to the edge of the gathering. Sighing, she stopped and licked a salty drop from her lip. The air was close and sticky as though it might rain soon.
Then she saw them, the old man and woman, standing away from the crowd. Suddenly, the old lady seemed to sag as though someone had let the air out of her, and then she slipped to the ground through her husband’s grasp. Nancy ran to them.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“My wife, she’s so sick,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Where’s your wagon? Can’t you take her to it?”
“It’s too far. She’d never make it,” he replied.
“You go get it. I’ll stay with your wife,” Nancy suggested.
“Oh, thank you, young lady. Thank you.” Gently, he touched Nancy’s cheek and even though the touch of his old gnarled fingers felt like prickly berry bushes, she was strangely moved.
“Hurry, Edward, hurry!” his wife whispered.
The old man trotted off and Nancy looked down at the crumpled form on the ground. Sweat stood out on the woman’s forehead and yet she shook uncontrollably with chills.
“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked.
“I’m so cold,” she said. “My fever’s come back.”
Nancy took off her jacket and put it over the nearly threadbare cape the lady wore.
“Does that help?”
“Don’t worry about me. You run along and find your family.”
“Oh, no, I can’t leave you alone,” Nancy told her.
The minutes ticked by and the crowd thinned out, and still the old man did not appear with the wagon. People stopped to stare at them curiously, but no one offered to help and Nancy grew increasingly anxious. She looked at the platform again where the president stood talking to several men. Oh please, let him stay a few minutes longer, she silently prayed. Don’t let him get away from me now.
She glanced down and found the woman shaking worse than before. Nancy tried to tuck her clothes about her, but the girl knew it wasn’t enough. The woman needed more covers, something warm and woolly, to cover her now.
Nancy realized what she had to do. She’d known it all along. Slowly she unwrapped her parcel and pulled out the blue woolen shawl she had made for President Lincoln.
“I think this will help,” she said.
The look of gratitude in the woman’s eyes when she saw the shawl warmed Nancy deeply, the way a cup of hot milk spreads its comfort on a cold day. She felt infinitely older as she tucked the shawl around the old woman and smiled at her with newly awakened feelings.
After a moment, Nancy turned to look at the platform and watched the president move through the people massed around him, away from her and out of her life. She knew she’d not meet him face to face today, perhaps never. And she knew she would never give him the shawl but, somehow, it didn’t matter anymore.
Is this growing up? she wondered. It felt different, yet made to order, like a new cloak put on over an old dress. The old dress was still there underneath, but the cloak was what showed. Underneath she was still a child and the child would always remain a part of her, but as she grew she’d add more garments of growing. Precious moments of understanding would be added until one day she’d be a woman.
She hugged the thought closer and then settled down to wait for the old man and her father to find her.

Last year marked the Oregon Trail’s 150th anniversary, and to celebrate, young women from the Unity First Ward, Burley Idaho Stake, decided to try a four-day, authentic pioneer trek along the trail that runs close to their homes.
They donned pioneer skirts and bonnets and ditched modern conveniences like makeup for the 32-mile trek. They camped out, pressed their own fresh cider, made “johnny cakes,” and listened to numerous stories about pioneer experiences along the way. Every night two girls kept watch over the horses, camp, and fire.
On the last day, as they tromped into Oakley, Idaho, they noticed a man standing on the balcony of one of the original pioneer homes. As they got closer, they realized it was Elder David B. Haight. He greeted the tired group and invited them into his ancestral home, recounting the history of the area, and bearing his testimony that “the gospel is the hope of the world.” By the time the trek was through, the young women had learned more about hope than they’d ever dreamed.

Earlier, I told you of a time when John Taylor was prompted to help Sister Emily Woodmansee by giving her $50. Let me share with you the rest of her story.

When Emily was 12 years old she heard LDS missionaries preaching the gospel in her neighborhood and quickly became convinced of the truth of their words. Emily’s family and friends were less than thrilled with her enthusiasm for the Church. She was told by her father that if she joined the Church she would not be welcome in their home. Despite this opposition Emily was baptized when she was 20 years old and immediately left England for the United States with her older sister, Julia, who had also converted. Upon their arrival in America, Emily and Julia traveled from New York to Iowa where they joined a handcart company to make the Mormon trek west to Utah. Their company experienced many difficult trials and may not have made it to Utah except for the timely rescuers sent from Salt Lake City by Brigham Young.

Emily entered into the covenant of plural marriage in 1857 in Salt Lake City. The couple had one child before her husband left on a mission for the Church. He had been gone three years when Emily received a message from him stating that he would not be returning to Utah and severed their relationship. Following this difficult trial Emily married Joseph Woodmansee in 1864 in Salt Lake City and bore him eight children…Emily was well-known for her abilities as a poet. Many of her poems were published in various magazines, journals, and used as text in our hymnbook (http://marialouisapickett.homestead.com/Emily_Hill_Mills_Woodmansee.htm).

I suspect you know people like this because for a long time, I was someone like this—I was spiritually face-blind.
I thought my life was about following rules and measuring up to abstract standards. I knew God loved you perfectly but didn’t feel it myself. I’m afraid I thought more about getting into heaven than being with my Heavenly Father.
When I realized that I was spiritually face-blind, that I saw rules but not the face of the Father’s mercy, I knew it wasn’t the Church’s fault. It wasn’t God’s, and it didn’t mean everything was lost; it’s something we all have to learn. Even the early witnesses to the Resurrection often came face-to-face with the resurrected Lord but did not recognize Him; from the Garden Tomb to the shores of Galilee, His first followers “saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus.” They had to learn to recognize Him, and so do we.
When I realized I was spiritually face-blind, I started to follow Mormon’s counsel to pray “with all the energy of heart” to be filled with the love promised His disciples—my love for Him and His love for me—and to “see him as he is … and have this hope.” I prayed for years to be able to follow the first great commandment to love God and to feel that “first great truth … that God loves us with all of His heart, might, mind, and strength.”
I also read and reread and reread the four Gospels—this time reading not to extract rules but to see who He is and what He loves. And, in time, I was swept away by the river of love that flowed from Him.
As I saw this, my heart leapt in loving recognition, and I began to feel that He might love me. As President Nelson taught, “The more you learn about the Savior, the easier it will be to trust in His mercy, His infinite love.” And the more you will trust and love your Heavenly Father.