Gospel Story Finder

Becoming one of England’s three and a half million unemployed proved to be a blessing in disguise for 20-year-old Simon Dewey. As a diversion from job hunting, he picked up his brushes and painted portraits. Soon he found a full-time job as a graphic designer, but his portraits proved so popular that he continued doing them, putting the money aside for his mission.
Simon received his call to serve in Vancouver, British Columbia, which fulfills a lifelong ambition. His mission area is the birthplace of his best friend, Tim Leavitt, currently serving a mission in Texas.
“I’ve wanted to see Canada since we became buddies after I stole his cowboy hat as a five-year-old kid at a church social,” Simon explained. “Living just around the corner from each other, we were constant companions and Tim would talk about Canada, showing me beautiful pictures, and reminiscing about the people and the lifestyle.” Simon will be leaving family, his work, and his paint brushes, but as he says, “Serving the Lord will be a wonderful way to spend the next 18 months.”

Before President Hugh B. Brown was a General Authority, he served in England as an officer in the Canadian army and had great power. Men stood at attention before him and called him “sir.” One day Brother Brown received a message that he was wanted in the hospital. When he got there, someone directed him to a little room where a sick young man lay. Brother Brown remembered that he had once been that young man’s Sunday School teacher. “Brother Brown,” said the young man, “would you use your authority in my behalf? The doctors say I cannot live. Will you give me a blessing?” All the pride Brother Brown felt in wearing the uniform of the king disappeared as he laid his hands upon the boy’s head and gave him a blessing. The help that the boy needed was not from any authority of an officer in the king’s army but from the authority of the priesthood.

Their family often goes camping and fishing. “We went camping a couple of weeks after they moved here,” Brother Campbell said.
“They didn’t know anything about mountains, camping, or sleeping in a tent,” Sister Campbell added. “But they adjusted really well. Both of them even caught a fish on their first try!”
“You didn’t catch it,” Jessa told James. “Daddy helped you.”
“Daddy helped you, too,” James said with a laugh.

When my brother and I were young, we loved to visit our grandmother. She lived about 15 minutes away from our house, so we visited her frequently. Many times when we arrived at her house, she would be on the telephone. A neighbor called nearly every day just to talk. We never could understand why Grandma spent all that time talking on the phone with a neighbor. So we told her to tell her neighbor she was busy. Grandma would finish the call, smile, and then turn her attention to us.

Sixty or more years later, I realize that Grandma wasn’t being bothered by her neighbor’s frequent calls. Rather, these two widows were supporting each other—talking together when others didn’t have the same time or interest just to visit.

Recently one summer I traveled with my family to the East Coast to visit Palmyra, New York. Ever since I was little, I loved listening to the story of Joseph Smith. My family and I went through the visitors’ center near the Hill Cumorah, Grandin’s Print Shop in Palmyra, the Sacred Grove, and the Smith homes. We watched a video about Joseph Smith and the First Vision. While watching, I felt the Spirit telling me that the Church was indeed true. I more strongly came to realize that when Joseph prayed in the Sacred Grove, he wasn’t the prophet yet. He was just a farm boy who knew nothing about talking with angels or the writings of the inhabitants of ancient America. If more people only knew that Joseph Smith started as a confused person in this world, then maybe they would understand the power of the First Vision and Joseph’s seed of faith that turned into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I know that these things are true and that with faith like that of Joseph Smith, we can receive powerful revelation and answers to our prayers. If we just “ask of God … it shall be given [us]” (James 1:5). I love the gospel, and I love the story of Joseph Smith, who had the courage to ask a simple question.

As a young child I often wondered, “Where did I come from?” Deep within my heart I knew I had lived somewhere before I became who I am now, but I had no idea where.
For many years I was afraid to tell anyone—even my parents—for fear they would think I was crazy. But one day while I was in my early teens, I was brave enough to ask the pastor of our church, “Where did we live before we came to earth?” He told me I should not think about such things. He said no one lives anywhere before they are born; we simply do not exist in any way before.
I was afraid he was right and that I was crazy, but I still could not put these thoughts out of my mind. I kept searching, but no one had any answers.
When I was 18 years old, our family moved. I thought the preachers in our new town might know more than our last preacher, so I decided to ask one of them my question. His response was the same: he told me it was not normal to think of such things and suggested that I see a psychiatrist.
Soon after that I stopped going to church. I got a job, met a young man, and got married. Five years later the marriage ended in divorce. So I packed up all of my belongings, two children in tow and one on the way, and returned home.
Sometime during those five years, my mom had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She had mentioned the Church when I visited her and had asked me to talk to the missionaries. I finally consented, but before our meeting, I made up my mind that I would agree to take the missionary discussions only if the elders could tell me where I had lived before I came to be who I am now.
To my surprise, they not only answered my question but also gave me the answer straight from the Bible (see Job 38:4–7; Jeremiah 1:5; Jude 1:6). After that, they had my undivided attention! Their answer helped me understand why all my life I had felt that I had lived before. Now I understood that I had lived in a premortal existence with my Heavenly Father.
It wasn’t long before I became a member of the Church. For the first time in my life, I felt like somebody and that I had a destination to pursue—to return home to my Heavenly Father.
I am grateful that the missionaries were able to answer the question that no one else could.

Christmas was just three days away, and there were huge piles of snow by the barn and corrals. Grandpa had pushed them there with his tractor so that Mom and Grandma could go to the store when they needed to. The windows in the house were covered with frost, and my brothers, Alma, Aaron, and Jared, and I knelt on the sofa and pressed our hands against the glass to melt little peepholes so that we could look out into the night.
Grandpa’s haystacks looked like huge cupcakes topped with white sugar frosting. His cows, huddled under the sheds, were blowing big puffs of steam from their noses and bunting each other to find a warm place on the straw.
“Well, have you seen any deer?” Grandpa asked, coming up behind us.
“Deer?”
“Sure,” Grandpa said, winking. “I’ve never seen as many deer as I have this year. There’s so much snow in the mountains that the deer can’t find enough to eat, and they come down and dig in the fields and meadows for grass. Sometimes they even nibble at my haystacks.”
“Really?” I asked.
Grandpa nodded his head. “That’s a fact, Jarom. About this time every evening they start coming down the mountain.”
We pressed our faces against the icy glass until our noses and cheeks were numb with cold.
“It’s too dark to see much,” Aaron said, still squinting through his peephole.
“Do you really think there might be some deer now?” Alma asked.
Grandpa laughed. “Why don’t you boys get your boots and coats on. We’ll go out and turn on the Christmas lights. Maybe we’ll see something.”
Before Grandpa could say another word, all four of us were racing for the kitchen closet. We pulled on our boots, squeezed into our sweaters, tugged on our coats, and jerked our knit caps down over our ears. Finally we were ready to go.
Grandpa carried Jared, who is only two, and took me by the hand, while Alma and Aaron led the way outside. The cold burned our cheeks and made our eyes water. As we clumped across the snow, it crunched and chittered under our boots and made us laugh and want to stomp on it some more.
We tromped around to the back porch, and Grandpa flipped a switch. Suddenly there were twinkling yellow, red, blue, and green Christmas lights everywhere! Grandpa had tiny lights around his windows, along his roof, on the shrubs, and in the trees. He had a big fat Santa on an old poplar stump. And out in the middle of the lawn, under the apple tree, was a lighted manger scene.
For a while we just stood on the back porch and admired Grandpa’s lights. Then Grandpa motioned for us to be quiet and to follow him. We crossed the lawn and came to the alfalfa field fence. Grandpa slowly pulled a big flashlight from his coat pocket.
“Watch,” he whispered. He turned on the flashlight, and a skinny finger of yellow light jabbed into the night, cutting across the field. At first we couldn’t see anything but a few fuzzy shadows. Then we saw some orange sparkles out in the field.
“What’s that sparkling in your field, Grandpa?” Aaron asked, pushing against the fence so he could see better.
“They look like eyes,” I said.
“They are eyes, Jarom.” Grandpa chuckled and squeezed my hand.
“They are?” I asked. “Whose eyes are they?”
“They’re deer eyes. My alfalfa field is their favorite spot.”
“Do you think they belong to Santa?” Alma asked with a grin. “Maybe he lost them.”
Grandpa laughed. “Well, if Santa needs any deer, there are plenty of them here. There are probably twenty or thirty in the field right now.”
That night when my brothers and I went to bed, we couldn’t sleep. We each wrapped up in a blanket and crept to the bedroom window. Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa were still talking in the kitchen.
None of us said anything for a while. We just stared out the window at Grandpa’s lights and squinted to see if we could spot any deer. Soon Jared fell asleep, and Alma and Aaron carried him to his bed. Just as they were covering him up, I whispered, “Look! A deer!”
Alma and Aaron hurried back to my side. “Where?”
“Out by the old poplar tree stump, where Santa Claus is standing. It’s just a shadow now, but it was moving.”
“I can’t see anything,” Aaron grumped. “That’s just—”
“It moved!” Alma cut in. “It is a deer!”
“He must have come to see Grandpa’s lights,” I joked.
“It doesn’t look very big,” Alma said.
For a long time we watched the deer wander around the bushes and trees, sniffing and nibbling. It even stopped by the manger scene and looked in at Joseph and Mary and the Baby Jesus. In fact, it ambled up to the house and stopped right by our window.
“He sure is a curious fellow,” Alma murmured.
For the longest time we watched the curious deer tiptoe around Grandpa’s yard. Suddenly it pricked up its ears, held its head high, and looked toward the highway, where the yellow lights of a car peeked over a hill and moved toward us. The deer bounded into the shadows and disappeared.
“I guess the car scared him,” Aaron said. “Looks like he’s headed across the road for the mountain.”
We thought our deer was gone forever. Then, when the car lights were right in front of Grandpa’s house, we heard the screech of brakes and a terrible thump.
“The deer!” Alma shouted, jumping up and starting down the hall.
Aaron ran after him, but for a moment I just stared out the window, trying to see the deer. The car had stopped, and Grandpa and Dad were running up the driveway to the road.
I pulled on my pants and shirt over my pajamas, stomped my feet into my shoes, and hurried down the hall. Mom and Grandma and Alma and Aaron were all looking out the kitchen window. I put on my coat and slipped outside before anyone saw me. I raced up the driveway to the road where the car was.
“Well, Brother Rawls,” Grandpa was saying, “I really can’t tell how badly he’s hurt; he just looks stunned.”
I saw our curious deer lying by the side of the road. He tried to get up but fell back down with his head lying on the snow. He looked sad and cold. Before Grandpa and Dad knew I was there, I ran over and knelt be side the deer. At first he jerked back, so I whispered, “I won’t hurt you,” and I touched one of his big ears.
“What are you doing out here, Jarom?” Dad asked. “I thought you were in bed.”
“We were watching out the window. We saw everything. Is our deer going to die?” I asked, looking around at Grandpa.
Grandpa tugged on his ear and came over to me and the deer. “I don’t know, Jarom. If he doesn’t have any broken bones and if he’s just bruised and shaken up, he might be all right.”
“Can we put him in your barn until he’s well?” I asked. “We can’t just leave him here.”
Grandpa looked back at Dad and Brother Rawls. “Well, maybe. But you can’t keep him, you know. You can’t keep wild animals. We’ll have to let him go if he gets better.”
“Let’s try,” I pleaded. “We have to try!”
Dad carefully picked up the little deer. The animal shivered just a little and shook his head and tried to kick his long, skinny legs. But Dad held him tightly.
“I don’t think he’s hurt much,” Dad said. “I think he’s just in a daze. Maybe a night in the barn will do him good.”
I ran ahead of Grandpa and Dad and opened the barn door and turned on the light. The barn was full of hay and straw, and I could smell the rolled oats in the grain bin.
“Let’s put him in the old horse stall,” Grandpa said. “We can shut him in there, and he won’t be able to run around and hurt himself.”
I scattered some straw around and got a pan of oats and an armful of hay. Then Dad laid the deer down. For a moment it lay real quiet on the straw with its eyes dark and wide and its nose quivering and its ears pricked up. Then it kicked its legs and pushed itself to its feet. For a moment it wobbled on its shaky legs and hung its head down, but after a while it limped around in the stall, sniffing the corners and smelling the straw.
“He might need some water,” Grandpa said. “Maybe Jarom—”
Before Grandpa could finish, I was out of the barn and halfway to the house. I burst into the kitchen and shouted, “Grandma, do you have a pan? Grandpa sent me for some water for the deer.”
Grandma got one of her old plastic buckets and filled it half-full of water, and I ran back to the barn with it. Grandpa and Dad and I stayed out there for a while, making sure everything was all right. Then we went back to the house, and Alma, Aaron, and I crawled back into bed.
“What’s the deer like?” Alma asked.
“Does he have horns?” Aaron wanted to know.
I laughed. “No, he’s just little, probably not even a year old.”
“Can we keep him and take him back to Arizona with us?” Aaron asked.
“No,” I explained, “Grandpa said you can’t keep wild animals. We’ll just make sure he gets well.”
“Maybe he’s one of Santa’s reindeer,” Alma said excitedly.
I smiled. “I think he’s too little to pull anybody’s sleigh.”
“We ought to give him a name,” Aaron said.
“Let’s call him Rudolph,” Alma suggested.
“That’s too much name for such a little deer,” I pointed out. “Why don’t we call him Rudy? That’s a good little-deer name.”
For a long time we lay in bed whispering about Rudy. Finally Alma asked, “Do you think Rudy will get better?”
“He just has to!” I said.
“Maybe we should pray for him,” Aaron whispered. “Then he’ll get better for sure.”
Quietly the three of us crawled out of bed and knelt down. Each of us said a little prayer for Rudy, our curious Christmas deer.
The next morning, before it was even light, we were all up and dressed and out in the barn, peeking into the stall at Rudy. He still limped a little, but I could tell that he was much better. He had nibbled at the hay and had eaten half the oats I’d given him the night before.
All that day we took care of Rudy. Grandma gave us some carrot sticks to feed him, and we changed his water every hour or so and made sure his grain box was always full. We kept throwing straw into the stall until Grandpa said that there wasn’t any room for Rudy. But we made the floor nice and soft for him to lie on.
That night we wanted to sleep in the barn with Rudy and make sure that he was all right and didn’t get scared, but Mom wouldn’t let us. Before crawling under the covers, we each said another little prayer for Rudy.
Rudy stayed in Grandpa’s barn two days. Then on Christmas Eve Dad and Grandpa said that we should let him go.
“Oh, but it’s Christmas, and it’s cold outside,” I said.
“And he’ll get hungry,” Alma added.
“And he might get run over again,” Aaron put in.
Grandpa shook his head. “Rudy’s a wild deer. He belongs outside so that he can run with the other deer. He wasn’t ever meant for a pet.”
We didn’t want to, but just before supper we opened the doors of the stall and the barn. At first Rudy seemed almost afraid to leave the barn. But as soon as he crept to the open door, he poked his nose out, looked around, and bounded up the driveway, across the road, and into the sagebrush on the mountainside.
That night after we had sung some carols, listened to the Christmas story, hung our stockings, and crawled into bed, Alma whispered, “I wish we had been the shepherds or the Wise Men and had taken gifts to the Baby Jesus. My Primary teacher said that at Christmastime you’re supposed to help people, and we haven’t helped anyone. I sure wish we had made someone’s Christmas special.”
“We helped Grandma make popcorn balls for the Bensons,” Aaron said.
“And we helped wrap presents for the Wilsons,” I pointed out.
“But I wish we could have done something for someone all by ourselves,” Alma sighed.
I rolled quietly out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Grandpa’s lights were twinkling in the night. The big Santa was glowing brightly on the old poplar tree stump. The manger scene was lighted up under the barren apple tree. Then I saw a shadow moving out by the bushes.
“It’s Rudy,” I whispered loudly.
Soon Alma, Aaron, and Jared were pushing their faces against the icy glass. Sure enough, Rudy was down on the lawn again, sniffing and creeping around, just as curious as ever. We all held our breath as we looked out the window. Rudy came closer and closer until he was right by the window. We tapped lightly on the windowpane, and Rudy looked toward us. For a long time he just stood there staring. Then he flipped his short, stubby tail once, turned, and bounded into the night.
“We did help someone this Christmas,” Alma said quietly.
“We did?” I asked, rubbing my cold, wet nose.
Alma nodded. “We helped Rudy. We helped him get well.”
“But is that anything?” Aaron asked.
“Of course,” I said. “All the animals belong to Heavenly Father. He cares about them too. Rudy needed help, and we took care of him. Helping Rudy was our special Christmas gift.”
All four of us nodded our heads, took one last look out the window, and crawled back into bed.

The tribal bond is very strong. Abel discovered just how strong when, a year after joining the Church, he says, “My heart began to yearn for my parents and my tribe.” He took his family back to Lifou. With no branch of the Church there, he lost contact with his new religion for six years.
Brother Seiko remembers: “During those six years, I didn’t have a good job, and I had problems with my wife. Nothing was going as I wanted it to. Then, after a big argument, Louise left for Nouméa. She knew it wasn’t good to be away from the Church. I was alone on the island. After she left, I went to my house and prayed all night to have the Spirit again.”
A few days later, Brother Seiko had his answer. Before he could have the peace he wanted, he had to come back to the Church. “I knew the Church was true,” he says, “and I knew I needed to repent. From then on, my goal has been to work for the Lord all the time.”
And work he has. In the years since, he has served as a Primary teacher, president of the elders quorum, counselor in two branch presidencies, branch president, high councilor, counselor in the district presidency, and now district president.

The wind wheeled through the empty lot in great gusts, pushing down the knee-high grass like a huge, flat hand. Overhead, the sky shone a vivid blue as it opened into endless space.
Geoff came running through the field, folding back the long green blades with his body. Held above his head was the kite, its knotted tail snapping at his back. In his other hand, wrapped around a stick, was a very large ball of string.
Out of the midst of this green carpet rose a grassless hill that was just round enough on top to hold one boy Geoff’s size.
“So you’re going to fly the world’s highest kite?” The words Dad had spoken earlier that day came back to Geoff now.
“Yep.” Geoff had continued to wrap the twine around the stick. If he held both ends of the stick loosely in his hands while his kite was airborne, the string would spin off freely, carrying the kite higher and higher.
Dad had sat down beside Geoff on the back porch. “Sure is a great day for flying a kite. How high do you suppose you’ll get it?”
“Oh, I figure about a hundred miles high.”
“You sure that’s high enough?” Dad had asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems to me that if you’re going to try to do something as important as flying the world’s highest kite, you should take the time to do some research and planning.”
“It doesn’t take planning to fly a kite,” Geoff had responded.
Dad had put his arm around Geoff’s shoulders and said, “But you’re not flying just a regular kite. Yours is to be the highest-flying kite in the whole world! Doesn’t it make sense to check how high other kites have flown? Then you’d know how long your string has to be for your kite to fly the highest. And wouldn’t it be worth your time to find out how hard the wind is blowing so that you’d know how strong your string has to be? There are other things you probably need to know, too, if you’re going to fly the highest kite.”
“I guess so, Dad, but this kite’s ready to go.”
Now the wind was beating back Geoff’s hair and clothes. The kite’s tail began to split the air that tugged at the kite itself, and Geoff gave the kite up to its hunter.
For a moment the kite hung suspended just above the grass. Then the wind bit into it, and it rose shakily higher.
As he played out the string in his hands, Geoff watched the kite shrink into the sky. The tail was now waving lazily from side to side. Geoff moved his hands to the left; the kite bowed to its right. He pulled right; it went to the left. String zipped off the spool as the kite climbed ever higher!
Geoff thought again of his dad’s advice. He was sure his dad had meant well, but a kite was just something you put together with the supple limbs of a eucalyptus tree, some giant-size tissue paper, and a long tail of tied-together strips from one of Mom’s old sheets. You didn’t have to go to all the trouble Dad was talking about …
Geoff had to squint now to see the kite. It was a small triangular speck against the blue. The fat ball of string had become thin.
Suddenly Geoff felt the string go limp. Then he saw about fifty feet of limp twine drifting listlessly to the ground. He peered at the triangular thing way up in the sky. At first it didn’t appear to be falling, but as he watched it, it began to twist and zigzag toward the earth. The tail wiggled every which way, like a drowning swimmer clutching the water.
In a flash, Geoff was down the side of the hill and running as fast as he could through the tall grass toward home.
Dad was already waiting for him in the pickup. “I saw it go and thought you might like some help in retrieving it.”
Geoff jumped into the cab, and the truck sped down the road, leaving a billowing cloud of dust behind them.
“There it is!” Geoff’s finger stabbed at a place in the sky about a quarter mile away from where they were.
“Looks like it’s over by Hansen’s Pond!” Dad said. The side road to Hansen’s Pond suddenly appeared out of the field, and Dad took the corner with tires screeching.
Geoff stuck his head out the window to get a better view of the falling kite. It was swiftly approaching the ground now and would be crashing any minute.
Dad pulled the truck to a quick stop. “It’s out of the upper airstream now, so it’s going to fall pretty straight. Let’s go!”
The field around Hansen’s Pond had lots of small trees and shrubs, making it difficult for Geoff and Dad to spot the kite.
“I can’t see it anymore!” Geoff groaned.
“I think I know where it’s going to fall. Just follow me.”
A dozen feet later Dad stopped and pointed to the ground. The end of the broken string lay at his feet. “If we follow the string, we’ll find it.”
Geoff picked up the string and began to wrap it around his hand. The twine led along a trail of tangled underbrush, around the base of some gnarled tree trunks, and through a dry creek bed. Finally, rounding the edge of a scrub oak, Geoff saw the kite hanging in the limbs of a small tree that grew half in, half out of Hansen’s Pond.
With Dad’s help, Geoff retrieved the kite. On the way home he examined it closely. The branch he’d used as a crosspiece was split, and there was a six-inch-long tear in the tissue paper. It was obvious that he could never use this kite again. He looked at his dad. “Since I have to build a new kite anyway, I think I’ll do some research first—and use stronger string.”

When I was married for only a short time and we had our first child, I had just finished three wonderful years doing a show “It’s a Miracle” for Janice Kapp Perry and Joy Lundberg. I found myself working two somewhat part-time jobs to get by while I looked for more permanent work in my field. I was in serious conversations with several different employers over the span of more than a year, including BYU, the Church, and a large drugstore chain in California. All were very serious about hiring me and had wonderful jobs for me that seemed exactly what I wanted to do. It seemed only a matter of time before I was back to a job I was suited for.

Then the strangest things started to happen. One position was frozen, just minutes before the manager, who had flown out from California to Salt Lake to make me an offer, met with me. Another was given to a different person when I was already temporarily hired and the new position created using me as the template and the managers assuming I would get the job automatically. The third job just kept stringing the offer out, promising a decision at some future date, but assuring me they really wanted to hire me, but not just yet.

I was looking heavenward, wondering what I had done to offend God that this was happening to me. I remember my wife asking me if I had done something wrong to bring the wrath of heaven down on our family. I felt like the Prophet Joseph in Liberty Jail, asking God where He is hiding. What was going on? Why were these perfectly matched jobs slipping through my fingers? Why were my prayers going seemingly unanswered? I’d been good.

During the later part of this, a slight acquaintance of mine working in the Northeast called my apartment and told my wife of a job at Virginia Tech he had heard, and thought of me. I ignored this, because who wants to move across the country and work for a strange university that I knew absolutely nothing about on the recommendation of someone I barely knew? And besides, these other jobs were going to happen at any moment.

My wife wouldn’t let it go and asked me repeatedly over several months if I had applied. Finally in late spring one day, I grabbed an old résumé—those were the days you had to type them on a typewriter, get them printed on nice paper costing a small fortune, and handwrite the cover letter—put them in an envelope right in front of her, licked a stamp, and asked her if she now was happy and to get off my back. In the mail—end of story. Nothing will ever come of it.

Years later I found out the other side of my story. Virginia Tech had this All-American musical-performing group of 22 singers, a 12-piece show band, a full technical crew of 25, and lots of equipment, sets, and costumes, doing about 25 shows a school year around the eastern United States. They had suddenly lost their Technical Director and for about half a year had conducted two national searches and countless interviews, finding no one that fit what they wanted, someone who fit what they were trying to portray: the All-American image, “Mom, Home, Apple Pie.” They had given up hope when my résumé and hand-written cover letter showed up. Mormon, BYU graduate, can do all technical things required. They opened another official search, accepted only my application, closed the search, and made a phone call.

I had just decided I would quit the daytime job, even if I starved when the phone rang at work. Some lady in a thick Southern accent tried to get me to fly across the US for three days that weekend to consider this job. I really thought someone was playing a joke on me or I was on Candid Camera. It took three times for me to really understand what was happening. I ended up going three days later to Virginia. While there watching the show group at a performance, I received a very powerful witness that I was to move there and take the job.

My wife almost wouldn’t believe me when I called to tell her the news. They hadn’t even made me an offer yet, and the pageant committee at the Church was mad because they found out I was interviewing for another job. Monday morning the offer came, and Wednesday I left Provo for Blacksburg for 13 wonderful years. Thirty years later I realized, while cleaning out a stack of rejection letters from that time period, that while seeking heaven’s will and help in my employment, that we must abide heaven’s timing as well. Although I was being considered for many good jobs that fit me, Heavenly Father knew the best job was still in the future, not quite ready for me yet. And sometimes he speaks through my wife!

I’m a landlubber, and to me one life preserver would have seemed as good as another. But not anymore! What changed my mind?
I attended a safety exhibit. The exhibit stressed accident prevention and covered safety in many situations.
The display that intrigued me most was water safety. A beautiful large blue and white boat caught my eye. Over the bow lay a variety of familiar pieces of lifesaving equipment. On each piece was a simple card. The card read YES on the pieces of equipment that were safety approved; NO on those that were not. I was dumbfounded. I thought all life preservers were approved and would save life in an emergency. I expressed my surprise to the gentleman who was in charge of the display.
“Most people think they’re perfectly safe,” he said, “but that’s the tragedy of it. Now take this skier’s vest. It will protect the skier from getting his ribs broken if he should hit the water hard when making a high jump. The belt will aid him some, but he needs this life jacket to be protected from drowning. Ski belts are not approved because of insufficient buoyancy and failure to ensure face-up flotation.”
He picked up an orange, U-shaped life jacket. It had a YES sign. “Inside this life jacket are strong waterproof plastic bags. They’re filled with kapok and surrounded with this heavy water-repellent canvas. You could float for days wearing this,” he said. “It’s designed to save life.” He put it on demonstrating it for me. “It fits securely around the neck. This holds the head up out of the water,” he said.
“Now, let’s compare this approved vest with this piece of equipment over here.” He rested his hand on the familiar khaki canvas vest with a NO sign on it. “This is nothing but a death trap,” he said. “It’s about as helpful as a bucket of cement. It can become saturated with water in 15 or 20 minutes. When it’s saturated it weighs 29 pounds. The weight of the human body is 10 to 11 pounds when in water. You put this 29 pounds around your neck and it just drags you down.”
“That’s terrible!” I protested. “Why are they allowed to manufacture such death traps? They’re worse than nothing at all!”
“You’re right.” he said emphatically. “They are just a money-making deal. There is no guarantee they will save.”
As I drove home, I thought how foolish I had been to assume all lifesaving equipment would do the job. I began to wonder if I was making other incorrect assumptions that were potentially as dangerous. Then a very striking comparison entered my mind. There are many different philosophies of life, but not all are designed to save. Some, like the khaki vest, can even be death traps.

Every month it was the same. It had been that way as far back as I could remember, so by the time I was a deacon I knew the drill—on fast Sunday, Brother Andersen got the microphone first.
As soon as the bishopric member finished speaking, and before even the quickest deacon could get there with a microphone, Brother Andersen would stand up in place and start speaking in his heavy Danish accent (“Brudders and Sisters, …”) and then give his testimony of a particular gospel principle. You could rely on it like the rising of the sun, the changing of the seasons, death, taxes, and a mother’s love.
I don’t recall that Brother Andersen ever took all that long. He simply spoke about Jesus Christ, Joseph Smith, faith, the scriptures—something different every time. And you could tell he put some thought into it.
I once heard some people wonder why Brother Andersen insisted on being first. I wondered myself. Only some time later did I hear a story about him that made me see his monthly testimonies in a different light.
When Brother Andersen was a young man, World War II started and Nazi-controlled Germany invaded Denmark. Like many, he was afraid for his future. He prayed to Heavenly Father for help in surviving so that he might leave Europe and come to the United States. He promised Heavenly Father that if He would help him through this ordeal, he would bear witness of Him and His Son and of the restored gospel at every opportunity.
He eventually made it, and his monthly testimony was one way he felt he could keep his promise. Now, of course we’re not expected to bear testimony in sacrament meeting every month, but this example made me wonder how I kept my baptismal promise to “stand as [a witness] of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

As we attend the various stake conferences, it is thrilling to meet the young leaders whom the Lord has raised up—men such as President Eraldo dos Santos. He embraced the gospel as a young boy of seventeen. When he elected to accept a mission call, he was disowned by his family and put out on the street with his meager belongings. He served faithfully, however, and later was led to a beautiful young convert girl. They were sealed in the temple and are rearing their family under the covenant. Still under thirty years of age, he is successful in his business and is a great leader in the stake. How the Lord blesses the faithful members of the Church!

And in another area of the Church the youth from several wards were meeting together; the hour was late; many sweet and moving testimonies had been shared that evening when Bishop Rogers signaled to the capable young priest conducting to bring the meeting to a close, even though the bench was still filled with youth eager to bear their testimonies. But having waited this long for courage to stand, and being next in line, Melany could not pass this opportunity to tell “how it works.” She moved quickly to the pulpit.

“You see,” she said, “I was called to be a class president of 17 girls, and the bishop said I was responsible for them. I was scared to death. I didn’t even know for sure where they were. Then he told me to decide on my counselors and reminded me of the need to pray and ask the Lord. I wondered how it worked—how would I know who the Lord wanted.”

At that moment this young class president stopped shifting from one foot to the other, stood erect, leaned forward, and with a tone of conviction through a choked voice, she related her experience.

“I wrote 17 names on a piece of paper. Then I prayed about those names. Each time I would finish my prayer, I felt right about crossing off one or two names from the list. I kept thinking and praying and trying to decide until the third day. With only two names remaining, I had a strong feeling that I knew who Heavenly Father wanted. That’s how it works.”

Seemingly relieved from an urgent need to bear testimony, she continued in an enthusiastic tone: “I love these girls, and we’re going to try to be good examples and reach every girl in our class so we won’t lose a single one.”

From where I sat I could look into the faces of the youth and I, too, could see who the Lord had desired to be counselors to Melany. Two girls sitting together, with smiles of confidence and eyes brimming with tears, convinced me they “won’t lose a single one.”

Romaine, seventeen, and his teammates on the A-l basketball team from the Church College are well known nationally in New Zealand. The school had won the national schoolboy basketball championship five years in a row—until two years ago. Romaine doesn’t like to talk about it, but that year the team came in third. They had the painful experience of having to come back to school and explain the loss to the other students. They didn’t want to go through that again. The team was determined to regain the top spot. And they did. The next year, the A-1 boys’ and the girls’ basketball teams both took first place in the national basketball tournaments.

“I’m hungry,” Becky grumbled as she plodded along behind the wagon.
“Me too!” Jonathan said. “Do you think Pa would mind if we stopped to pick some berries?”
Becky shook her head. “We’d better not. Pa says that if we don’t keep up with the rest of the wagons, we won’t be able to get down the mountain.”
“I wish Ma were here.” Jonathan’s eyes filled with tears. “She’d find us something to eat.”
From the front of the wagon came the sound of music, and Jonathan perked up a little. “Jacob’s hungry, too,” he said. “He always plays that harmonica when his stomach growls.”
Laughing, they hurried along. Sure enough, Jacob Brewster was tapping his foot and playing as hard as he could. With one hand he guided the oxen; with the other he played a tune on his harmonica.
Jacob Brewster was seventeen years old and an orphan. He had asked to join the wagon train in North Platte, and Pa had offered him meals and a place on their wagon if Jacob would help with the oxen.
Soon the signal came to stop for the noon meal. Becky made a thin gruel from a small handful of cornmeal, sweetened with a few drops of the carefully hoarded molasses. Pa cut each of them a small piece of a tough biscuit, and they dipped it into the gruel.
“Brother Snow says that we’re almost there,” Pa said. “He thinks that we’ll make it in the next two days.”
Jonathan jumped up and down. “Really, Pa? Does he really mean it?” Pa just smiled and nodded.
When the meal was over, Becky and Jacob quickly repacked the wagon and stomped out the small campfire.
Just after the family had left Omaha, Nebraska, Becky’s mother had a bad fall from the wagon. Within a week she had died. Now fifteen-year-old Becky had to fix all the meals, take care of the wagon, and help young Jonathan get over their mother’s death. It wasn’t easy when she still missed Mama terribly herself.
While they were stopped, Becky hurried to fill the water cans at the small stream. With a gentle touch she watered the tiny lilac plants in the back of the wagon. Her mother had taken care of them so carefully. In her mind she could hear her mother’s sweet voice tell Pa: “Why, it won’t be home without lilacs around the door! Don’t you worry, Becky and I will take care of them.”
“Time to go, Becky.” Pa’s shout broke into her thoughts.
“I’m ready, Pa. Jonathan, why don’t you ride for a while.” She helped her seven-year-old brother into the back of the wagon, knowing that in a little while he would be asleep.
The trail up the mountain grew steeper, and the pace began to slow. Anxiously Becky watched the darkening sky. A thunderstorm is one thing that we don’t need today, she thought.
The huge clouds grew darker. The slight breeze gusted fiercely, then became a stiff wind. From the north came the first flashes of lightning.
“Becky! We’ll have to lighten the load if we want to get up this mountain.” Pa’s words were all but lost in the wind. “Wake Jonathan and unload everything that we can possibly leave behind.”
“Yes, Pa.” Becky hurried to obey.
Out went the extra washtub and the small chest of linens that her mother had so carefully packed for Becky’s hope chest. Jonathan tearfully dumped his precious rock collection, and Becky resolutely removed the extra bedrolls and cooking pots.
“What about these?” Jonathan asked.
Becky turned to see the bucket of lilac plants in the young boy’s hand. “No, not those, Jon!” she cried. “I promised Mama that we’d plant those by our new home.”
Pa put his arm around Becky’s slight shoulders and gave her a hug. “Yes,” he said. “The lilacs stay.”
The sky became an angry black, and the thunder rolled from mountain to mountain.
“We’ll have to stop, Brother Webster,” Jacob called. “The trail will turn into a slippery mud slide as soon as the rain hits.”
Looking around, Jacob spied a level clearing off to the left of the trail and guided the wagon over to it. The other wagons followed.
As if on signal, the rain began. Great, heavy drops splattered here and there at first, then came down in a torrent. The north wind blew, the thunder roared, and the lightning blazed continually across the sky.
Inside the wagon the four shivered as they listened to the storm. Jonathan’s eyes were round with fear and Becky held him close. They could hear trees being split by the lightning, and the wagons creaking with the wind.
Suddenly the tether holding the oxen snapped. The freed animals headed for the meadow below. Pa and Jacob leapt from the wagon. “Stay here with Jonathan, Becky!” Pa called. “Jacob, you go straight down, and I’ll circle around behind them.”
The men disappeared into the driving rain. Becky and Jonathan anxiously waited. Finally the rain began to lessen, and the thunder grew more distant. When Becky peered from the wagon, she saw limbs strewn like kindling and several trees completely uprooted. Although most of the other wagons had come through the storm without serious damage, some of the smaller ones had lost their canvas tops. There was no sign of Pa or Jacob.
Night was approaching, and Jonathan was hungry. “When’s Pa coming, Becky?”
“He’ll be here soon. Don’t worry.” Becky tried to sound calm, but inside she trembled at the thought of a night alone. There were other wagons nearby, but those folks had troubles of their own, and Becky knew that Pa would want her to stay put.
She gave Jonathan some dried beef and tried to bed him down for the long night ahead. It was chilly in the wagon with its damp canvas, and Becky wished that she still had the discarded bedrolls. Finally she managed to get Jonathan to sleep.
Around midnight Jacob returned, leading one of the oxen. “I had a terrible time getting up the mountain in the mud,” he said weakly. “Where’s your father?”
“He hasn’t come back yet. Oh, Jacob, do you think he’s all right?”
Jacob could see the worry in Becky’s face. “He is probably waiting until morning,” he said consolingly. Then he added as he slumped wearily onto the wagon floor, “Be sure to wake me when he comes.”
Morning brought no sign of Pa. Search groups were hastily organized, with Jacob leading the main one. “We’ll find him,” he said, patting Becky gently on the arm. He gave Jonathan a loving hug and was on his way.
At midmorning Jonathan spotted the first searchers returning. “Here they come, Becky. Do you see Pa?”
Becky looked into the bright sunlight and carefully scanned each group as it appeared. The men were downcast and returning slowly. Suddenly she spotted Brother Snow’s brown mare being led by Jacob. Across the saddle, like a huge rag doll, lay the form of a man.
“No! Oh, no!” she cried and broke into a run with Jonathan right behind her.
“Pa, Pa,” Becky moaned. “Oh, Jacob, how did it happen?”
Jacob’s eyes were red with grief. “Lightning.” He held Becky close. “At least it was quick.”
Becky gazed at the stiff form, then quietly slipped to the ground in tears.
Pa was buried near the edge of the small clearing. Becky planted two of the precious lilac plants near the makeshift marker, just as they had planted two on Mama’s grave a few weeks earlier.
Becky stood in the mountain sunshine with Jacob and Jonathan as the simple service was completed. Tears streamed down her face as she held Jonathan’s hand. Jacob’s hand under her elbow steadied her. “Oh, Jacob,” she murmured. “What will I ever do? How can we manage without Pa?”
“Don’t you worry, Becky. I’ll take care of both of you.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent repairing the damage caused by the summer storm. Wheels were mended and canvases tightened. Bedrolls were laid out in the sun to dry.
About dusk one of the scouts arrived leading the other ox. “Found him a good three miles up the trail,” he said.
Jacob gratefully tethered the animal next to its mate. Women from other wagons prepared a dinner from their own precious food stores for the grieving trio.
As Becky helped Jonathan prepare for bed, she watched Jacob build up the fire and check the wagon. We’ll arrive in the valley the day after tomorrow, she thought. She didn’t know what the future would bring, but she didn’t fear. She had faith that Heavenly Father would watch over Jonathan and her. As she carefully watered the remaining lilacs, she thought, Soon we’ll have a home, and these lilacs will remind us of Mama and Papa. She pulled her shawl tighter around her slim shoulders and went to sit with Jacob in the glow of the dying campfire.

Rebecca Swain Williams heard several Book of Mormon witnesses in Ohio beginning in 1830. She bore her testimony to her father and brothers: “I have heard the same story from several of the [Smith] family and from the three witnesses themselves. I heard them declare in public meeting that they saw a Holy Angel come down from heaven and brought the plates and laid them before their eyes.”

When her family members rejected her testimony, Rebecca did not cower. She continued to love them, pray for them, and value her father’s good counsel. She also continued to testify to him that the Book of Mormon witnesses told the truth: “They are men of good character and their word is believed. … They have seen an angel of God and conversed with him.”2

In the late 1830s, a period of widespread dissent in the Church, Rebecca remained faithful, choosing to abide by the precepts of the Book of Mormon.3

Running was one of my favorite activities when I was young. I was on the track and field team, and my specialty was the 800-meter dash. That meant I ran two laps around the track.
My dream was to be in the Olympics. My trainer had been an Olympic athlete. He thought I was talented enough to go to the Olympics if I practiced hard.
I practiced a lot and ran in many races. When I was 15, I was the second-place champion for my category in the whole country of Argentina. I hoped that if I continued working, perhaps I could go to the Olympics.
But there was a problem. Often our races were on Sunday. Soon I realized that I could not continue competing. So I chose to stop running.
The choice was hard. I had to give up my dream of being in the Olympics. My trainer didn’t understand why I stopped. But I knew I had made a good decision. Even though sports are a good thing, choosing to follow the Lord and His Church is better.

Sister Dew explained that she had begun her remarks the prior year by telling the women student athletes how thrilled she was to be invited to speak because she had long wanted to be a part of BYU athletics. She said something to this effect:

You will remember that I told you that when I arrived at BYU, I felt like I was the most ill-prepared, socially awkward freshman who had ever set foot on this campus. I told you then that I was from a very small town in Kansas—a town much smaller than the student population of BYU—and I felt completely overwhelmed, wondering if I would ever fit in. But there was one thing I thought might provide an entry into the BYU community, and that was basketball. I had played basketball in high school in Kansas, and, quite frankly, I thought I was pretty good. So I decided I would try out for the women’s basketball team. I learned all I could about the team: who the coach was, who had left the team, who was returning, and when the tryouts were to be held.

Sister Dew then said:

You will recall that I told you last year how I summoned up all my courage and went to the appointed gym in the Richards Building where tryouts were to be held. Wanting to make sure I maximized my chances, I had arrived early. You will also remember how I told you that I opened the door to the gym with some confidence, and then I watched the girls who were playing there. I thought to myself, “Wow, they are really good.” You will remember how I told you that I closed the door and then spent the next three hours walking up and down the hallways of the Richards Building trying to muster up enough courage to go back for the tryouts but that I finally gave up and returned to my dorm room without making the effort to try out.

I told you that story last year so that you would understand that I truly meant it when I told you that I was thrilled more than you knew that I had been asked to speak to the women student athletes at BYU and to be made an honorary member of that group. I wanted you to know that it really was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.

But I am telling you this same story this year for a much different purpose because of what happened immediately after I spoke last year. After I had spoken last year, Sister Elaine Michaelis came up to me.

Now many of you here will know Sister Michaelis. She is one of the legendary figures in BYU athletics. She worked in the Athletics Department for more than forty years, serving as women’s athletics director for much of that time. She was such an impactful and ­successful ­women’s volleyball coach that the volleyball court in the Smith Fieldhouse is named for her. During her coaching career at BYU, Elaine Michaelis at one time or another coached every single women’s sport.

Now, with that background, let me share what Sister Dew went on to say:

Sister Michaelis had spoken after me last year, and she then engaged me in a conversation while we were still on the podium.

Sister Michaelis asked me, “Sheri, is that story true?”

“Of course it’s true,” I replied.

Sister Michaelis then responded, “Do you know who the coach of the women’s basketball team was the year you were a freshman?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “It was you. I knew everything about the team that year.”

Then Sister Michaelis said, “I should tell you something, Sheri. In all my many years of coaching and of all the teams that I coached, there was only one year and one team that did not have a full roster. It was the women’s basketball team that year. We were one player short.”

Sister Dew then said, pretending to stab ­herself in the heart:

It would not have hurt any more to be stabbed in the heart than to have heard those words. There was a place for me on that team. God had prepared a way for me to fit in and had given me inspiration as to what I should do, and I let my fears keep me from that blessing.

Sofía was almost eight years old. She was getting ready to be baptized. She was learning lots of important things. One thing she had learned about was prayer. She knew she could pray to Heavenly Father anytime. She knew she could pray anyplace.
One day Sofía and Mama decided to visit Papa at work. It would be a long trip. Papa worked in another town. They would have to ride on a bus, then in a truck, and then in a taxi.
During the bus ride, Sofía fell asleep. She woke up when she heard a baby crying. A mom and dad with a baby had gotten on the bus. The baby was sick and crying loudly. The baby’s parents looked worried.
Sofía felt sorry for the baby. She felt sorry for the parents too. Then she had an idea. She whispered in Mama’s ear. “Could I say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to bless the baby?”
“Of course,” Mama said with a smile.
Sofía bowed her head and said a silent prayer. She prayed hard. She asked Heavenly Father to bless the baby. She asked Him to help the baby feel better and stop crying.
Sofía knew that we do not always get what we pray for. She also knew that our prayers are not always answered right away. But in a short time, the baby calmed down. Then the baby stopped crying. She seemed to feel better. Her parents did not look so worried.
Sofía felt warm and happy inside. She was happy for the baby—and for the baby’s parents. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her prayer.