Gospel Story Finder

George Albert Smith loved his mother very much, and he had an experience as a boy that taught him the importance of faith and prayer. One day while his mother was cleaning in the kitchen, she bumped the kitchen cupboard and sent it crashing down on top of her. Hearing the noise, he came running to help her. He found her unconscious on the floor underneath the cupboard and prayed to Heavenly Father with all his might that He would save her life. In return, young George Albert promised to devote his life to God’s work. His mother did recover, and he never forgot his promise to the Lord.

Brenna was crying. She sat in a barber’s chair, hair pulled back, her ponytail just moments away from being cut off. The hairdresser holding the scissors was crying. Those watching the scene were also in tears.
Snip! Brenna’s long hair, which had taken years to grow out, was gone. Her ponytail would now become a gift, a donation to an organization called Locks of Love. It would be combined with other donated hair and made into wigs for children who had lost their hair because of cancer treatment or who suffer from alopecia, a permanent hair-loss condition.
Brenna Reaney is just one of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, Torrance California Stake, who donated hair. For Brenna, the sacrifice of her long hair represented something concrete she could do to help Jessica James, one of her friends from the ward. Jessica, 17, had been diagnosed with aplastic anemia, a life threatening illness that would require chemotherapy treatment. At first, the girls were upset that Jessica would lose her beautiful long hair. But after Jessica had a brain hemorrhage and sank into a coma, they quickly realized that they had not understood the full spectrum of what was important. As Peggy Kirts, a member of the ward, said, “It’s been a very helpless couple of months, with everyone wanting to help and not really knowing what to do or how to do it.”
The girls would visit Jessica in the hospital as she struggled to awaken from the coma and learn again to communicate. While there, they saw many little bald children in the same area of the hospital undergoing treatment. They read to Jessica and sat with her, but they felt that they wanted to do more.
Sister Kirts, a professional hairdresser, met a family who had come to her salon for haircuts. They were donating their hair as their family’s Christmas project. From them she got the information about donating hair and did a little research. A minimum of 10 inches of hair was needed, bound in a ponytail. Especially needed was fine, light colored hair that would be more appropriate for children’s wigs.
With some hesitation, Sister Kirts presented the idea to the girls in her ward. It wouldn’t help Jessica directly, but the donation of their hair would help other girls and boys. At first, the thought was stunning. Ten inches! That was so much. “They were petrified at first,” said Sister Kirts. “I didn’t want to pressure them. But later that day, the phone just started ringing. And, one at a time, the girls called and said, ‘I’m in.’ I couldn’t believe that they would do it.”
The word spread through the ward. Even two little girls from Primary joined the Young Women in donating their hair. The local newspaper and a television station covered the event because so many girls were donating their hair at the same time. And at Christmastime, people could not help but compare this event to O. Henry’s story “Gift of the Magi,” about a young couple who each gives up the thing they value most to buy a gift for the other. In the story, the young wife sells her long hair to buy a chain for her husband’s heirloom watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy combs for his wife’s beautiful hair.
After the young women’s story aired on the news and was printed in the newspaper, the salon offered to cut the hair of anyone who wanted to donate it. Dozens of people responded. “Teenagers have so much power for good or for bad,” said Sister Kirts. “For these people who came to donate their hair, their biggest reason was that if an 18-year-old girl can do this, I can too.”
Rachael Ward, another of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, was a little frightened to go back to school after Christmas vacation with her new short hair. “It was awful waiting for that day. Everyone noticed my hair, even people I didn’t know before. A lot of people looked at me differently. They said it made them realize that people really do good deeds for each other. It’s not just a story on television. That made me feel good.”
Rachael’s friend Brittanie Streetmaker also donated her hair. “I was nervous, but now whenever I look in the mirror, I think of a little girl who will be so happy to have a cute styled wig. My friends ask me if I miss my hair, and I say I do, but I don’t regret it for a second.”
Editor’s note: Jessica is home from the hospital. She still suffers from partial paralysis and is continuing treatment for aplastic anemia. She loves the way the girls sacrificed to help others.

As all of you are aware, last fall a terrible storm hit Central America. For six days and nights, Hurricane Mitch locked in over that area and particularly over Honduras. The winds blew ferociously and the rains fell without letup. Rivers swelled and took with them houses that had been built along their banks. More than 200 bridges were washed out in Honduras, destroying means of travel. The soil from the highlands washed towards the sea in a deluge of filthy mud. Houses were filled to the tops of the windows. Yards and streets were filled. People fled in terror, leaving all behind them.
One of our bishops secured a big truck and went about gathering his people, taking them to higher ground. When the truck could no longer get through, he somehow secured a boat. He was looking after his flock.
I went down there to see what had happened and to give comfort, where possible. I beheld a miracle. I witnessed in operation the simple and marvelously effective organization of this Church.
Every member of this Church has a bishop or a branch president. I have only commendation for other relief efforts which came in from across the world. But I have unending admiration for the wonderful manner in which the Church operated. The bishops appealed to their stake presidents, who appealed to the Area Presidency, who appealed to headquarters here in Salt Lake City. Within hours, great quantities of basic foodstuffs, medicine, and clothing were on their way from our storehouses.
A warehouse was rented in San Pedro Sula in the area of the greatest damage. It was the bishops who marshaled their people to work shifts in the warehouse putting into plastic bags enough food to take care of a family for a week, clothing to put on their backs, medicine to safeguard them against disease. Every bishop knew his own people. He, with his Relief Society president, knew their needs. These were not faceless strangers working as employees of government. They were friends, each a member of a ward family small enough that they knew one another’s needs. There was no argument, no greedy grasping for food and clothing. Everything was orderly. It was systematic. It was friendly. It was motivated by love and concern, and it was done quickly to meet an immediate need. It was the gospel at work in a quiet and magnificent manner.
The waters finally subsided, but mud was left in a thick and ugly coating on everything. Nothing became more valuable than shovels and wheelbarrows. And together, again under the direction of the bishops, the mud was cleaned from the houses.
We visited a meetinghouse on a Saturday. There were many people there, with a bishop, a loving father to his flock, giving direction. The pews, which had been floating in the water, were taken out and carefully cleaned. Mud was scraped from the walls and the floors. Then the mops came out and the polishing cloths, and before nightfall that Saturday evening, the building had been made ready for worship services on the Sabbath.

Thank you for sharing “A Year on Temple Square” in your magazine and online at friend.lds.org. My family has enjoyed it so much that we decided to spend a day on Temple Square during a recent trip to Utah. We got to see the temple where our mom and dad were married. We also toured the Beehive House and talked to the sister missionaries. Our favorite part was seeing the Christus statue and watching videos about how families can be together forever. We had so much fun!

Now, you may be thinking: “It’s not that easy for me. I have so many people to watch over. And I have so little time.” But where the Lord calls, He prepares a way—His way. There are shepherds who believe that. I’ll tell you about one.
Two years ago, a man was called as the president of his elders quorum. He had been a member of the Church for less than 10 years. He had just become worthy to be sealed to his wife and family in the temple. His wife was an invalid. He had three daughters. The oldest was 13, and she cooked the meals and, with the others, cared for the house. His scant earnings from manual labor supported not only those five people but a grandfather who lived with them in their small house.
When he was called to be president of his elders quorum, it had 13 members. That tiny quorum was responsible for another 101 men who either had no priesthood at all or who were deacons, teachers, or priests. He was responsible to watch over the souls of 114 families, with little hope that he could devote more than his Sundays and perhaps one night a week to his service, with all he did to serve his own family.
The difficulty of what he faced drove him to his knees in prayer. Then he stood up and went to work. In his efforts to meet and know his sheep, his prayers were answered in a way he had not expected. He came to see beyond individuals. He came to know that the Lord’s purpose was for him to build families. And even with his limited experience, he knew that the way to build families would be to help them qualify to make and keep temple covenants.
He began to do what a good shepherd always does, but he did it differently when he saw the temple as their destination. First, he prayed to know who were to be his counselors to go with him. And then he prayed to know which families needed him and had been prepared.
He called on as many as he could. Some were cold and did not accept his friendship. But with those who did, he followed a pattern. As soon as he saw interest and trust, he invited them to meet the bishop. He had asked the bishop beforehand: “Please tell them what it takes to be worthy to go to the temple to claim its blessings for them and their families. And then please testify to them, as I have, that it will be worth it.”
A few then accepted the quorum president’s invitation to a temple preparation class taught by stake leaders. Not all completed the course, and not all qualified for the temple. But each family and each father was prayed for. Most were invited at least once to a feast of the good word of God. With every invitation came the president’s testimony of the blessings of being a family sealed forever and the sadness of being separated. Every invitation was issued with the love of the Savior.
During the president’s service, he has seen 12 of the men he taught ordained elders. He has seen four of his elders ordained high priests. Those numbers don’t come close to measuring the miracle. The families of those men will be blessed over generations. Fathers and mothers are now sealed to each other and to their children. They are praying over their children, receiving the help of heaven, and teaching the gospel with the love and inspiration the Lord gives to faithful parents.
That president and his counselors have become true shepherds. They have watched over the flock with the Master and have come to love Him.

“My dad stressed the importance of honesty to all his children. He was one of the most honest and fair men I have ever known. When I was a young boy, a neighbor widow’s chickens used to come over to the back of our lot and lay eggs in the high grass and bushes. Even though I used to take eggs to the store to trade (we didn’t have much money in those days), I never took any of those eggs to the store, because they weren’t mine. I took them to the widow, their rightful owner.

It seems like everybody is getting a tattoo these days, and at one point I wanted one too. A lot of my friends had tattoos, and I thought they made you look cool and tough. Thankfully, Heavenly Father reminded me through the Spirit who I really am and gave me the strength to respect my body.
One day a tattoo shop my friends talked highly about was having a big sale. At that time in my life, I’d made some mistakes that had hurt and wounded my spirit, but I believed that Heavenly Father still loved me and could heal me. Still, I didn’t think a cool tattoo was that bad. As I went down to the tattoo place, I contemplated where I wanted to place the snowboarder tattoo I was about to get. As I sat down in the tattoo shop, however, the Spirit brought other questions to my mind: “Why do I want something that would permanently alter my body just to fit in? Have I forgotten that my body is a temple?” (See 1 Corinthians 3:16–19.) The longer I sat, the more the Spirit prompted me that I was about to make a huge mistake. Fortunately, I couldn’t ignore what I was feeling, so I got up and left.
I’ve never looked back on that decision. I am grateful that Heavenly Father had not forgotten me and was willing to warn me through the Spirit. I know that Heavenly Father does care about all of us, no matter where we may be.

I remember the feeling of sinking into the chair in my bishop’s office. I felt hopeless and lost. What I had dedicated years of preparation to—what I had spent so long hoping for—was gone.
After many discussions with my bishop, stake president, and mental health professionals, we decided that because of my ongoing mental health issues, I would not be able to serve a teaching mission. The mental pictures I had painted of myself wearing a name tag, knocking on doors, riding bikes, and attending zone conferences couldn’t become reality.
With a broken heart, I remember asking my bishop, “Does the Lord want me? Do I still have a place in His work?”
He assured me that I did. And since that conversation, I’ve learned there are so many ways I can help build the Lord’s kingdom on the earth.
Elder John C. Pingree Jr. of the Seventy once asked: “Have you ever wondered if Heavenly Father has a work for you? Are there important things He has prepared you—and specifically you—to accomplish?”1
These questions followed me for the next several years. I yearned for places to serve. I wanted to contribute my whole heart to the Lord. But I felt lost in knowing how or where I could do that.
I served in callings and did what was asked of me, but I still felt like I wasn’t doing enough. After a few years of trying to find my place, I was at stake conference, in a new state and a new stake, feeling piercing isolation. But I listened as a sister began to speak about the temple. She told stories of her service as a temple worker that brought her and others closer to the Savior. Looking at her, I could tell she was glowing with the Spirit. She had found her place.
As she finished her address, she said the temple was currently looking for workers on Fridays. Immediately, I felt the Spirit pierce my soul. “That is what you can do. That is where you can serve.” The Spirit reinvigorated my desire to find a place in the Lord’s work.
The following Sunday, I asked my bishop about becoming a temple worker. And within a month, I was starting my first shift at the temple. When the temple president set me apart, I felt so much gratitude that I had found my place to serve the Lord. I had been set apart to work in His House.
The Lord wanted me to serve Him there.
I felt what the Apostle Paul described: “Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Ephesians 2:19). I felt like I was no longer a stranger in the Lord’s work.

During the final phases of World War II, I turned eighteen years old and was ordained an elder—one week before I departed for active duty with the United States Navy. A member of my ward bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a book. Its title, the Missionary Handbook. I laughed and commented, “I’m not going on a mission.” He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”
It did. During basic training our company commander instructed us concerning how we might best pack our clothing in a large sea bag. He advised, “If you have a hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom of the bag, your clothes will stay more firm.” I suddenly remembered just the right rectangular object—the Missionary Handbook. Thus it served for twelve weeks.
The night preceding our Christmas leave our thoughts were, as always, on home. The barracks were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a Mormon boy, Leland Merrill—was moaning with pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”
He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”
I advised him to go to the base dispensary, but he answered knowingly that such a course would prevent him from being home for Christmas.
The hours lengthened; his groans grew louder. Then, in desperation, he whispered, “Monson, Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so; whereupon he asked, “Give me a blessing.”
I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing. I had never received such a blessing; I had never witnessed a blessing being given. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the sea bag.” Thus, at 2:00 A.M. I emptied on the deck the contents of the bag. I then took to the night-light that hard, rectangular object, the Missionary Handbook, and read how one blesses the sick. With about sixty curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could put away my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child.
The next morning Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood.” His gladness was only surpassed by my gratitude.

When I was in Primary, my brother was a toddler, and my sister was a baby. My mother was very busy taking care of them during the day, so when I came home from school, I helped her. I put my brother in the stroller and walked around the block with him, again and again. We talked about the beautiful world together and looked at the birds, bugs, and our neighbors’ pets. It was a small thing, but it made a big difference! It helped my mom feel happy and rested. It helped my whole family. It was a way of helping like Jesus wants us to help.

May I conclude with a simple little illustration of the response of one who stood at level three. He had passed from level one because his eyes were fully open to the reality, including some of the pain, of seeing things for what they were. Yet he had moved from a level two kind of realism to a third level where his mature perspective permitted what he saw with those wide-open eyes to be subordinated to what he felt in a wide-open heart.

The man in this case is my own father, who died about fifteen years ago. At the time of this incident, he was in his mid-fifties and was very involved in his professional life and in other heavy obligations that frequently took him out of his hometown for several days at a time. He was tired. At a much earlier time in his life, he had served for ten years in a stake presidency and had fulfilled numerous other assignments for the Church. One day his friend Brother Whitehead approached him to say the stake presidency had called him, Brother Whitehead had told the presidency he would accept the assignment only if my father would act as his first counselor.

It is one thing to be called as a counselor in the bishopric when one is young and full of fresh enthusiasm to learn about leadership in the Church, and when one’s time is not heavily committed. One might understandably have a somewhat different attitude at a later time in life. Let me share with you the inner thoughts of my father’s heart as he wrote them that day in his personal journal:

My first reaction was, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me . . . I know something of the work required of a bishopric; it is a constant, continual grind; there is no let up . . . I am busy and my state affairs demand what spare time and energy I have. In some respects I am not humble and prayerful enough; I have not always been willing to submit unquestioningly to all the decisions of the Church . . . but neither do I feel that I can say no to any call that is made by the Church, and so now I add to my first reaction, ‘nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.’ I will resolve to do it as best I can. There will be times when I will chafe under the endless meetings, but I am going to get in tune with the program of the Church in every way. I do not intend to get sanctimonious, but I know there must be no reservations in my heart about my duties and responsibilities. The work of the Church will have to come first. It will not be hard for me to pay my tithing and attend regularly, as I have been doing that. But I will have to learn, I suppose, to love the Deseret News, or at least the Church Section, as much as I love the Tribune . . . I will have to get to the temple more often . . . I will have to become better acquainted with the ward members and be genuinely interested in them and their problems . . . I will have to learn to love every one of them and to dispose myself in such a way that they might find it possible to feel the same toward me. Perhaps in my weak way I will have to try and live as close to the Lord as we expect the General Authorities to do.

Perhaps my appreciation for understatement and my personal knowledge that my father was an honest man makes that statement seem to me a more striking example of dealing humbly with ambiguity than it really is. But his statement stirs me to want to be as childlike as my education has taught me to be tough-minded—wise as serpents and harmless as doves, I believe the Savior called it.

Of all the requirements Rocco has fulfilled to earn his various awards, he points to one in particular as most valuable for his personal growth: “Reading the Book of Mormon,” Rocco says without hesitation. “That was the biggest and most rewarding challenge.”

“I had read the Book of Mormon once already, a year or so ago, but I was just reading to get it done,” Rocco explains. “When I started reading it again, I really wanted to learn and gain a testimony of it.” He approached reading the Book of Mormon in a completely different way his second time through. “Every time I read now, I pray before to ask Heavenly Father’s Spirit to be with me as I read.”

Rocco’s already begun on his next big project—to more actively share his testimony with others as he prepares to serve a full-time mission. His Scouting experiences and earning the Duty to God Award have helped him in his personal development and in becoming a missionary. “To spread the gospel, I needed to know what is in the Book of Mormon, and I needed to know that it is true,” he says. “After reading the Book of Mormon for the second time, I received a testimony of it.”

Now that he has received his call to serve as a full-time missionary, the testimony Elder du Plessis has built is proving much more useful than the rope-and-log bridge he built for his Springbok construction project. However, some of the backwoodsman skills he learned as a Scout may come in handy as he serves in Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Malawi.

As soon as we accept the Lord’s invitation “Walk with me,” the nature of our priesthood service changes. It becomes all at once higher and nobler but also more achievable, because we know that we are not alone. I felt this most powerfully when President Thomas S. Monson laid his hands on my head nine years ago and blessed me as I began my service in my current calling. In that blessing, he recited these words of the Savior: “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88).
I have relied upon that promise many times, and I have seen it fulfilled in many ways throughout my 72 years of priesthood service. It happened when I was a new Aaronic Priesthood holder with an assignment to pass the sacrament. Terrified that I would make a mistake, I went outside the chapel before the meeting started and prayed in desperation that God would help me. An answer came. I felt that the Lord was with me. I felt His confidence in me, and so I felt confidence in my part in His work.
It happened again while I was serving as a bishop. I received a phone call from a woman who had made a serious mistake and now faced a difficult, life-changing decision. As I visited with her, I felt I knew the answer to her problem, but I also felt strongly that I should not give her that answer—she needed to obtain it for herself. My words to her were “I believe God will tell you what to do if you would ask Him.” She later reported that she did ask Him and He did tell her.
On another occasion a phone call came when I was a bishop—this time from the police. I was told that a drunk driver had crashed his car through the glass into the lobby of a bank. When the bewildered driver saw the security guard with his weapon brandished, he cried, “Don’t shoot! I’m a Mormon!”
The inebriated driver was discovered to be a member of my ward, baptized only recently. As I waited to speak to him in the bishop’s office, I planned what I would say to make him feel remorseful for the way he had broken his covenants and embarrassed the Church. But as I sat looking at him, I heard a voice in my mind say, just as clearly as if someone were speaking to me, “I’m going to let you see him as I see him.” And then, for a brief moment, his whole appearance changed to me. I saw not a dazed young man but a bright, noble son of God. I suddenly felt the Lord’s love for him. That vision changed our conversation. It also changed me.
I learned important lessons from these experiences walking with the Lord in doing His work. I would like to share with you three of them. The first is that God notices and will support even the newest and youngest deacon. You need never feel that you are too small or too insignificant for Him to take notice of you and the service you are giving in His name.
The second lesson is that the Lord’s work is not just to solve problems; it is to build people. So as you walk with Him in priesthood service, you may find that sometimes what seems like the most efficient solution is not the Lord’s preferred solution because it does not allow people to grow. If you listen, He will teach you His ways. Remember that God’s work and glory is not simply to run an effective organization; it is “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” (Moses 1:39). This is, after all, why He gives His priesthood authority to flawed mortals like you and me and invites us to participate in His work. Our progress is His work!
Now the third lesson: Walking with the Savior in priesthood service will change the way you look at others. He will teach you to see them through His eyes, which means seeing past an outward appearance and into the heart (see 1 Samuel 16:7). This is how the Savior was able to see Simon not as an impulsive fisherman but as Peter, the rock-solid future leader of His Church (see Luke 5:1–11). This is how He was able to see Zacchaeus not as the corrupt tax collector others saw but as an honest, upright son of Abraham (see Luke 19:1–9). If you walk with the Savior long enough, you will learn to see everyone as a child of God with limitless potential, regardless of what his or her past may have been. And if you continue walking with the Savior, you will develop another gift He has—the ability to help people see that potential in themselves and so repent.
My dear brethren of the priesthood, in many ways, we are like the two disciples who walked the road to Emmaus on that first Easter Sunday. It was Resurrection morning, but they were not yet sure there was a resurrection or what resurrection even meant. They had “trusted that [Jesus of Nazareth] should have redeemed Israel,” but they were “slow of heart to believe” everything the scriptures taught about resurrection. As they walked along and tried to reason it out together, “Jesus himself drew near, and went with them. But their eyes were holden that they should not know him.” (See Luke 24:13–32.)
I testify that when we walk the path of priesthood service, the Savior Jesus Christ goes with us, for it is His path, His way. His light goes before us, and His angels are round about us. We may lack a full understanding of what the priesthood is or how to exercise it as He does. But if we pay close attention to those moments when our hearts “burn within us” (Luke 24:32), our eyes can be opened and we will see His hand in our lives and in our service. I testify that we come to know Him best by working with Him and serving Him in the great work of bringing salvation to God’s children. “For how knoweth a man the master whom he has not served, and who is a stranger unto him, and is far from the thoughts and intents of his heart?” (Mosiah 5:13). Jesus Christ is our Master. This is His Church. It is His priesthood which we hold. May we each choose to walk with Him and to recognize how He walks with us.
I give you my solemn witness that Jesus is the Christ, our resurrected Lord. I bear you my testimony that the priesthood He has trusted us with is the power to speak and to act in His name. We are children of a loving Heavenly Father who answers our prayers and sends the Holy Ghost to strengthen us in every priesthood responsibility we are blessed to receive. Joseph Smith saw the Father and the Son. He received the keys of the priesthood, which have been passed on to President Thomas S. Monson, who exercises them today. I so testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Since I have talked a little earlier tonight about repentance, let me repent a bit myself—or at least do the confessing part and hope even now there is a way for me to make some restitution where that is still possible. My confession is that I wish I could go back to my youth and there have another chance to reach out to those who, at the time, didn’t fall very solidly onto my radar scope. We are so vulnerable in our youth. (And I certainly consider you in your youth. In fact, you look younger to me every year of my life!) We want to feel included and important, to have the feeling we matter to others. In your years people deserve to have true friendships—the real value of which, like our health, may never be realized until we face life without them. I think that my problem was not that I had too few friends but almost too many—maybe more friends than anyone I know. But it is the associations I didn’t have, the friends I didn’t reach that cause me some pain now all these years later.

Let me cite just one case, which will be guilt enough for tonight. In 1979 we held in St. George our 20-year class reunion for Dixie High School. We had great high school years filled with state football and basketball championships and a host of other “hometown, USA” memories. My life was straight out of Happy Days. I was Richie Cunningham before Ron Howard was Richie Cunningham. We even had our own Fonzie—black leather jacket and all. Anyway, an effort was made to find current addresses for the entire class and get everyone to the reunion.

In the midst of all that fun, I remember the terribly painful letter written by one very bright—but, in her childhood, somewhat overweight and less than popular—young woman who wrote something like this:

Congratulations to all of us for having survived long enough to have a 20-year class reunion. I hope everyone has a wonderful time. But don’t reserve a place for me. I have, in fact, spent most of those 20 years trying to forget the painful moments of our school days together. Now that I am nearly over those feelings of loneliness and shattered self-esteem, I cannot bring myself to see all of the class and run the risk of remembering all of that again. Have a good time and forgive me. It is my problem, not yours. Maybe I can come at the 30-year mark.

(Which, I am very happy to report, she did.) But she was terribly wrong about one thing—it was our problem, and we knew it.

I have wept for her—my friend—and other friends like her in our youth for whom I and a lot of others obviously were not masters of “the healer’s art.” We simply were not the Savior’s agents or disciples that he intended a group of young people to be. I cannot help but wonder what I might have done to watch out a little more for the ones not included, to make sure the gesture of a friendly word or a listening ear or a little low-cost casual talk and shared time might have reached far enough to include those hanging on the outer edge of the social circle, and in some cases barely hanging on at all.

Every year it’s the same just before the football game between Ridgewood and Central High, the two high schools in town. Each school does everything it can to fire up for the big game. On Thursday night there’s a big pep rally in the parking lot where the symbol of the opposing team is burned in effigy.
Another tradition, one which is not appreciated by school officials, also takes place during the week. A group of students go to the opposing high school and leave their mark. One year a group from Central painted Ridgewood’s sidewalk with a large C for Central Cougars. The next year Central High was broken into and an old car painted with Ridgewood colors was driven onto the gym floor at night, and then the wheels were removed. It was not until noon that authorities finally removed the car.
Unfortunately in some people’s minds it’s more than just a game. Since most students attending Central are of Mexican heritage, and most at Ridgewood are white, sometimes the cross-town rivalry is just an excuse to promote racial prejudice.
For as long as anyone can remember, it’s always been the same.
Jason Miller played the trombone in Ridgewood High’s marching band. On Thursday night he attended the pep rally because the band had to play for it. Afterwards he went home and watched TV for a while, but then decided that he’d better start studying for an algebra test. It was then that he realized he’d left his algebra book in the band room at school. He’d have to go back to the school and get it before the janitors locked up for the night.
He drove to Ridgewood High, parked, got out, and walked to the door.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” a voice called out.
Jason stopped. Two large guys stepped out from the shadows. “What are you doing here?” one asked.
“I’m in the band,” Jason said. “I left my algebra book in the rehearsal room, and I’ve got a test tomorrow.”
“I’ve never seen you before. How do I know you aren’t from Central and have come here to make trouble.”
“I’ve got my activity card here.”
“Let me see it.” Jason showed him his card. “All right, go ahead, but you better be telling the truth, because if you’re not, and we catch you messing around …”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“All right, you can go.”
Just then there was the sound of shouting from the other side of the building. “There are people inside with cans of paint!” someone yelled.
The two self-appointed guards ran inside the building.
Jason walked up to the third floor where the band room was. He could hear people yelling back and forth and the sound of running. “There they go!” someone shouted.
Because Jason was a section leader, he had a key to the rehearsal room. He went inside and began searching for his algebra book.
Suddenly a girl ran into the room. She was dark-eyed, with black hair and olive skin. She was breathing hard from running. “Hide me, okay?” she asked.
She’s from Central, he thought to himself. “You can’t stay here. I’m going home now, and I’ve got to lock up.”
“Just let me stay here until they’ve gone.”
One of the student guards barged in, saw the girl, and yelled out into the hall. “I’ve got one!” He turned to the girl. “Where’d your friends go, huh?”
“They all got away.”
Two guys rushed in the room.
Jason looked at the clock. If he didn’t start studying soon, he’d end up not doing well on the test tomorrow. “Can you all go someplace else? I’ve got to close up now, and I can’t let you stay in here because there’s thousands of dollars of musical instruments and …”
“Hey, cool it. We’ll be out of here in a minute. First we have to decide what to do with our prisoner.”
“I think we should make her clean up the mess where she and her friends painted on the wall.”
“I don’t want to sit around and watch some chickie clean walls.”
“Let me go, okay?” the girl said. “C’mon, a joke’s a joke.”
“I think we should keep her our prisoner and make her wish she’d never come here tonight,” the one in charge said.
The smile on the girl’s face vanished.
“Yeah, let’s teach her a lesson she won’t ever forget,” another said.
Jason could see the girl was getting scared.
“Let’s take her for a ride in my car.”
The girl’s lip started to quiver. “Please let me go.”
“No way. Hey, I just thought of something. I’ve got some handcuffs in my car.”
“Good, go get ‘em.”
The girl made a break for it, but they caught her and held her. “Let me go!” she cried out.
“You’re not going anywhere. Go get the handcuffs like I said.”
When Jason began speaking, he realized how thin his voice was compared to the others. “I think you should let her go.”
“Hey, geek, who asked your opinion? Look, just walk away from here and go home and forget you ever saw any of this.”
He’d never stood up to anyone before, and these guys were big and mean. But he had to say something. “I can’t let you hurt her.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t, that’s all. Can’t you see you’re scaring her.”
“You think we care? Look, whatever happens to her is her own fault. She was the one who broke in. She’s got to be punished.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“I don’t know. But it’ll be so bad she’ll never come back here again, that’s for sure.”
The girl had the look of a trapped animal. She kept trying to free herself, but it was no use.
Jason looked at the girl. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
The ring leader shoved him backwards. “What are you going to do to stop us?”
Jason didn’t know. They were all so much bigger than he was.
The handcuffs arrived. Two of them held her while the other put the handcuffs on the girl.
Jason saw the phone on the band director’s desk. He went to it and picked it up and started to dial.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling the police.”
One of them grabbed the phone from his hand. “Let’s take both of them with us. Handcuff Twinkle Toes to the girl too.”
A few minutes later Jason and the girl sat in the back seat of an old beat-up car, a guard on each side of them. Jason could hear the terrified shallow breathing of the girl. He leaned over. “Don’t worry. They’re not going to hurt you.”
She reached out and grabbed his hand and held it tightly.
Fifteen minutes later the car left the highway and started down a nearly abandoned road which led to a place called Crescent Ridge where people went target shooting. No more than a dozen vehicles used the road in a year’s time.
“Let’s all think of things we can do to our prisoner when we get to the end of this road,” the driver said. They each took their turn describing various forms of cruelty. The girl held on tightly to Jason’s hand.
Suddenly the car stopped. “Let Twinkle Toes out here. We’ll take the girl on with us alone.”
“No,” the girl pleaded.
“He’s still handcuffed to the girl,” the one next to Jason said.
“Well, undo them, stupid.”
“I can’t see anything. How about turning on the dome light?”
“It doesn’t work. Get in front of the headlights.”
Jason and the girl were pushed out in front of the car. One of them took the key to the handcuffs from his pocket and waved it in Jason’s face. “You’re lucky we’re letting you go—you’re luckier than she’s gonna be.”
With his free hand Jason hit the hand holding the key. The key flipped into the air and landed somewhere off the road. In the soft sand at night it would be nearly impossible to find.
“He just threw away the key!”
The driver got out of the car. “What’s wrong with you anyway?” He shoved Jason backwards. Because they were bound together by handcuffs, he and the girl both fell down to the ground.
“Now what do we do?”
“Hey, they’re both such great friends. Let’s just leave ‘em here. Let ‘em try walking back in the dark. It’ll serve ‘em right. I’m tired of this anyway.”
They got in the car and drove away.
The girl was quiet for a minute and then she started sobbing. Jason kept saying it was all right now.
After a while she calmed down. “Maybe we’d better start walking toward the highway,” he said.
“Okay.”
At first their progress was slow because it was hard to see, but eventually their eyes adjusted to the darkness.
“Why did you help me?”
“I don’t know. I just did.”
“You must have had a reason.”
“It’s the way I was raised.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was taught a guy should protect the girl he’s with.”
“You weren’t exactly with me.”
“No, not exactly.”
“Who taught you that about girls?”
“The church I go to teaches that. I’m a priest.”
She snickered.
“You’re no priest.”
“In my church I am.”
“What church is that?”
“The Mormon church.”
“You a priest? In my church a priest looks like a priest. I’m Catholic.”
“Well, I bet that’s a nice church too.”
“I go every Sunday,” she said.
“No kidding? Me too.”
“I don’t want you to think my church says it’s okay to do vandalism.”
“I don’t.”
“I just don’t want you going around saying we do that.”
“I won’t.”
“People do things like that though. Sometimes when I go in a store, salespeople stare at me like I came to shoplift. Maybe one time they caught one of us shoplifting, and now they think we all do that. That’s wrong.”
Jason paused. “When I was nine years old, I got a bike for my birthday. Two days later it was stolen. The police found it on Del Marco Street, all smashed up. After that I figured every Mexican kid was the one who’d stolen my bike.”
“Hey, it wasn’t me, okay?” she teased.
They started laughing.
“What’s it like to be … like you are?” he asked.
“It’s great on our side of town. It’s only when we cross over we get hassled.”
“Sometimes I wish my skin was dark like yours.”
“Why?”
“I can’t ever get a tan. I’m either white or sunburned. When I go swimming my stomach looks like the underbelly of a dead fish.”
She started laughing.
“You’re very funny, but in a nice way. What’s your name?”
“Jason Miller.”
“That’s a good name. It kind of fits you.”
“What’s yours?”
“Rita Sanchez.”
“Rita’s a nice name too.”
They walked for a time without talking and then she said, “This is so strange.”
“What is?”
“Me taking a walk with a guy named Jason Miller.”
“I know what you mean.”
“If we saw each other on the street, I never would have talked to you,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have talked to you either. But it has nothing to do with prejudice. I don’t talk to many girls anyway.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Bashful I guess.”
“You shouldn’t be bashful. You’ve got more to offer than most guys.”
“Me? What’ve I got to offer?”
“You’re a nice guy. There aren’t many nice guys around anymore.”
“Maybe I could see you once a week and you could pump me up by saying things like that to me.”
She paused. “Sure. On what side of town would we meet?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we could talk on the phone.”
She nodded her head. “Sure. Except I should tell you I’m going with someone. He doesn’t like Anglos, and he doesn’t like me talking with other guys. His name is John.”
“Is John big?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it. Big John. And mean too, right?”
“To others, but not to me.”
“Big and mean, huh?” Jason paused.
“Maybe if you just send me a letter once in a while.”
She laughed.
“You’re so funny.”
“Nobody else laughs at what I say.”
“I can’t believe you were willing to get yourself beat up just to try to protect me. I wish my parents could meet you. I know they’d like to thank you too. Maybe we could have you over for dinner sometime.” She paused. “Would you come if we asked you?”
“Sure. I love Mexican food.” He paused. “I’ve got a question. When ever I go out to eat, I always get Mexican food because it’s different from what my mom fixes most of the time. So I was wondering, well, like if you go out to eat, do you ever order mashed potatoes, canned peas, and roast beef?”
She looked at him strangely and then started laughing again.
“I didn’t think it was that funny,” he said, pleased that she appreciated him.
“Why do our two schools hate each other so much?” she asked.
He thought about it for a minute. “I guess because we don’t know each other.”
“It’s not right to hate an entire school, is it?”
“No. Especially if there are people like you at Central.”
“And people like you at Ridgewood.” She paused. “Jason, you know what? I’m really sorry I broke in. I was brought up better than that.”
“I know. I can tell you’re basically a good person.”
“We ought to try to change the way things are,” she said.
“How?”
“I don’t know. Like if I could talk to the kids in my school and you could talk to the ones in your school. And we could tell them it’s not right to hate somebody just because of the color of their skin.”
“Sure, why not? I could ask to speak to the band sometime and tell them that.” He paused. “It might make a difference.”
There was a prolonged silence.
“Do you really think it would make any difference?” she asked.
He sighed. “No, not really. I guess everybody’s got to find it out for themselves. Like we did tonight.”
They made it to the highway. Across the street was a truck stop. They would have to cross the highway and walk inside and ask to use their phone. He knew people would stare and make jokes at their expense. After they phoned, her parents would come and her father would use a hacksaw to free them and then they would be separated and it would never be the same for them again.
“Looks like we made it,” he said quietly.
“Thanks for being such a good person.” She looked at him and smiled. “You’d make a good Catholic. You could even become a priest.”
He smiled. “Hey, you forget, I already am a priest.”
“Father Jason,” she teased.
“They don’t call me that.”
“What do they call you?”
“Mostly just Jason.” He paused. “Well, sometimes they call me brother.”
“Then I will call you brother too,” she said.
They walked across the highway to the glaring lights of the truck stop.

I had been in Barcelona, Spain, compiling the data collected by an eighteenth-century ancestor of my nonmember husband. I had obtained almost two hundred names. They came principally from diaries written in Catalan, my native tongue. I knew that, in addition to this information, my husband’s family had available about three hundred parchment scrolls of genealogy, all written in Latin and in fifteenth-century script.
Family circumstances allowed me to stay only a very short time in which to work with this Latin material, but I wasn’t able to decipher the writings. I had no money to make photocopies, and with such limited time, I commented to a friend that I worried for the souls who would have to wait longer for their work to be done.
She suggested that I get a priesthood blessing. I did, after a period of fasting, and through the blessing felt a surge of spiritual strength. But the monumental task still discouraged me, and I set aside the scrolls for a while.
Finally, when I only had one week left in which to translate, I fell to my knees in prayer, pleading for help. If it be the Lord’s will, I asked, please permit me to be an instrument in helping to redeem these people from their prison.
From that time on, my understanding of the writings became clearer. I was even able to translate without a dictionary. Each scroll became easier, and I read more and more quickly. I somehow obtained the privacy I needed and, though I worked nights with only a few hours of sleep, I wasn’t tired. I seemed to sense the presence of those I was working for, and that gave me much-needed spiritual support.
I found that rats had nibbled away at the documents over the centuries, taking away some of the data. However, in nearly every case, I located the missing information elsewhere in the documents. When I had forgotten to write down something, I sensed that I needed to reread the scroll. As I unrolled it, the information I needed fell before my eyes immediately. Whenever the translation became difficult, I prayed sincerely for help, and always received it.
I finished the translation in four days, just before I was to leave. The information I had gleaned went as far back as A.D. 1212. I saw no angels nor visions, but I had experienced a miracle every day—a miracle as natural as the sun rising.
I will always be grateful to my Father in Heaven for helping me. Now, more than ever, I have a testimony that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has the spirit of Elijah, which enables us to redeem the dead out of their prison. I know that through that spirit, “the prisoners shall go free” (D&C 128:22).

We bowed our heads as Travis said the closing prayer in our Sunday School class.
I had only lived in the ward for a few months, so I did not know much about Travis. I eventually became aware of his slurred speech and slightly awkward walk. From what I understood, he had been hit by a car when he was a small child. As a result, he had suffered some permanent brain damage.
From my first day in the ward, Travis had always been kind to me. He was happy, outgoing, and sincere. He never hesitated to strike up a conversation with me. Because his speech was sometimes slurred, I found it difficult to understand him at first. But gradually I became a better listener, and conversation became easier. However, every once in a while, Travis’s speech was nearly impossible to understand.
This was the case one day as he began to say the prayer. His words were garbled and incomprehensible. I felt a giggle swell up inside me. I sensed a chorus of laughter about to erupt from my classmates. It seemed hilarious that we couldn’t understand the prayer.
But the inclination to laugh suddenly ceased. Instead I felt tears pushing on my closed eyelids. I still could not understand Travis’s prayer, but I realized Heavenly Father did. Heavenly Father heard each word with perfect clarity. Travis knew this. He knew Heavenly Father understood his prayer. Travis prayed with sincerity and, I believe, a knowledge that he was in communication with God. Then I knew I could not understand Travis’s prayer with my ears, but I could with my heart.

I chose to speak about hope today because I have learned a lot about it over the past several years. There were other serious health issues, other surgeries, and other miracles. However, our trudge up Rocky Ridge in the face of the icy winds of adversity began on the afternoon of February 1, 2006, when we received the shocking news from Kansas that our daughter Laycee was in a hospital in a coma. She died the next day. We will be eternally thankful for the rescue parties the Lord sent in the form of loving family and friends. Truly they fulfilled the admonition of Alma “to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). We are especially thankful for the anonymous individual who allowed us to purchase a gravestone immediately after Laycee’s death. This brought a great deal of comfort.

It was months before I began to see color in a life that had become gray. I feared that I might forget how to laugh or that I might never feel genuinely happy again. A day still does not go by that I do not think about Laycee several times. She was too well loved to ever be forgotten. Gradually the road became less steep and rocky. However, real healing, for me, did not come until 18 months later, after I climbed one more section of our own Rocky Ridge.

To set the stage for this experience, I will start by telling you that I have kept a daily journal for years. Writing in my journal is somewhat therapeutic. I record my thoughts and feelings along with events in my life. I also need to tell you that my career has caused me to travel a considerable amount. These trips involved many airline carriers, both foreign and domestic, to nearly every continent in the world. During all of this traveling, I had never lost a bag until one trip about six months after Laycee’s death.

I was on a long trip that took me from Argentina to Chile to Ecuador, back to the U.S. through Miami, and then to Reno before I returned home to Provo. All of the bags made it through to Miami; however, somewhere between the nonstop flight from Miami to Reno, one bag was lost. I always put my journal in a carry-on bag so that it is with me at all times—I cherish my journals. However, for reasons that I cannot explain, I inadvertently packed it in a checked bag for the trip from Quito to Reno. As you might have guessed, my journal was in the checked bag that was lost. Against high odds, that bag was never recovered by the airline.

At the time it was lost, that volume of my journal included daily entries for the six months following Laycee’s death. I was devastated. The loss consumed me for months. “Why did this happen?” I wondered. After my experience with the aneurysm, I had firsthand knowledge that God is very much involved in the details of our lives. I knew that God knew where that bag was, but repeated prayers, often accompanied with fasting, did not bring it back.

Eventually I accepted the fact that the journal was not coming back and that there must be a reason for it. It wasn’t until a little over a year later, near the end of a sabbatical leave at the University of Iowa, that I learned the reason for the loss of my journal. I was telling my wise bishop, Val Sheffield, of the loss of the journal—pining over the experience again and wondering why.

He stopped me and said, “I know why. It’s because what you wrote following your daughter’s death wasn’t right. It didn’t accurately represent how you should respond to what happened.” He went on, “You need to write how you feel about her death looking back from the perspective you have now; it’s a more accurate one.”

I was stunned. He did not know that over the past year I had been engaged in diligent study, pondering, and prayer about faith and hope, but the Lord knew. I went back to my apartment and thought about that for most of the night. I did rewrite my feelings about Laycee’s death. It turned out to be a sacred and singular experience. Although I can’t recall what I originally wrote in my lost journal, I am confident that it contained much of bitterness and anger. I am now glad that it is gone.

As my wife and I journey on, the depth and vitality of our faith and hope in Christ grows. We believe Christ when He tells us He has the desire and power to save us. That steadfast faith is the bedrock of our bright hope that through our temple marriage we will realize our goal of an eternal family, which includes Laycee. We have an assurance that the struggles involved in getting back home will seem “but a small moment” (D&C 121:7). We have cleaved together in a way that perhaps is not possible without the extreme heat and pressure of adversity. We can see that good can come from adversity if we have a hope in Christ.

This same diligence and attitude was needed for the Laie Hawaii Temple—that journey which started in 1864 when the impression came to build a temple in Laie, then progressed the dream to 1865 and the buying of the property that we know on the North Shore, on to 1900 when President George Q. Cannon of the First Presidency prophesied a temple, coming toward the ultimate destination of 1915 when President Joseph F. Smith actually dedicated a temple site. Of that dedicatory prayer Elder Reed Smoot, who was present on that occasion, said:

“I have heard President Smith pray hundreds of times. He has thrilled my soul many times with his wonderful spirit of prayer and his supplications to our [H]eavenly Father. But never in all my life did I hear such a prayer. The very ground seemed to be sacred, and he seemed as if he were talking face to face with the Father. I cannot and never will forget it if I live a thousand years.”[18]

Six months later, on January 16, 1916, crews began construction. In two years of incredible industry, the interior of our temple was complete. By November of that year, pneumonia took President Smith’s life, but President Heber J. Grant, new Prophet of the Church, continued the work without interruption.

Finally, on November 27, 1919, we are a month away from that centennial moment, President Grant dedicated the Laie Temple during a four-hour session on Thanksgiving Day. “Four additional dedicatory sessions were held [for the benefit of] more than 1,200 additional Saints who wanted to attend.”[19]

In a stake conference a number of speakers mentioned a certain man. After the session the General Authority met the man. He learned from others that more than fifty people had joined the Church because of him. The way he kept his yard, his home, his happiness, his good deeds to his neighbors all brought him opportunities to tell others how the gospel had blessed his life.
These two men had just committed themselves to do what everyone can do.
I know, after many interviews, that many long to become part of the assembly of the blessed. Many times they cry out in the night for help, not knowing where to turn, how to begin. Their eternal spirits seek help. As social beings we need each other. The commitment to reach out to them is a binding invitation from the Savior. When this is done in love, we may help redeem them. It is infinitely more than just confessing Jesus Christ—it is doing what needs to be done.
Church leaders and home teachers have special opportunities to help. The object of all their work, meetings, faith, and prayers will be to help each individual and family.
A sister in France who joined the Church was approached by her former minister who asked her how she could possibly have done such a thing. Her response was beautiful and reassuring. It shows us how important our collective commitment is to serve others. She said that at least once every month leaders or members of the Church would visit her. They looked after her spiritual and temporal needs. She told her former minister that since she had been baptized as a baby, the only time she had been visited by anyone from her former church was this day, and that visit was only to inquire about her membership.
A total commitment to anxiously serve the Lord and others is the surest way to overcome the many temptations of the adversary.
Everyone who truly commits himself to the gospel finds his life expanding and his appreciation growing for all good things. His acknowledgment of God and his wondrous creations intensifies. The Lord described how this process works in a revelation given to the Prophet Joseph Smith in May 1831:
“That which is of God is light; and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day” (D&C 50:24).
Brothers and sisters, a committed person makes goodness look attractive. He builds an inner confidence as he learns light and truth and then practices it. He becomes more like our prophet today, Spencer W. Kimball, who over a lifetime has translated desire into firm commitment to do everything he can do to demonstrate his love for the Lord and all of His children.
We, too, can resolve this day to declare ourselves, give ourselves, devote ourselves; to commit ourselves to do what everyone can do. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.