Gospel Story Finder

We stopped by the man’s house the next day. His name was Favio. A month before, he told us, his friend had loaned him a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“I have always been interested in Jesus Christ, but I had never heard of another testament of His life,” Favio said. “I knew only about the Bible and Christ’s ministry in the East. No one ever told me that Christ came to America! I was excited to learn more.”
A few weeks later Favio had to return the book. “I didn’t know where I would get another copy,” he said. “I wanted more than anything to know if the book was true. I got down on my knees and asked for Heavenly Father’s help. I said, ‘Father, if the Book of Mormon is true, please let another copy fall into my hands so I can continue to study it.’ ”
One day Favio was at a train station. Out of the corner of his eye he saw what looked like a blue book lying on the sidewalk. As he approached it he recognized the golden letters. It was Heavenly Father’s answer.

Tandy loved to frisk and frolic. Then he would wag his tail with happiness. But for over a week now he had hardly wagged his tail at all. Something was different in the Phillips’ house where he lived. Everyone was too busy to play with him.
One of the things Tandy liked to do best was to roll over on his back, put his feet in the air, and play dead. Before all the busyness, his playing dead trick always brought him a playful tickle on his tummy or a soft tug on his ear from Paul. Sometimes, Paul’s younger sister, Wendy, or Mother or Daddy would stop and play Tandy’s make-believe game with him. When they tussled him “awake,” Tandy would open his eyes, jump up on his four feet, and dance around the room, fanning the air with his tail.
But since Daddy had brought a tree into the house and the family had covered it with shiny balls and bright lights, no one had time to play with Tandy. The little dog was curious about the tree and sniffed at it suspiciously, wondering what it was all about.
Lately, right after supper, Mother would go to the back bedroom and close the door. Soon Tandy could hear the humming of a sewing machine. When Daddy excused himself from the table, instead of going into the living room to relax and read the newspaper, he went out to the garage and shut the door. It wasn’t long until Tandy could hear a tap-tap-tap of a hammer and the whirrrrrr of an electric drill.
And as quickly as Paul and Wendy finished washing the dishes, they disappeared into their own rooms. When Tandy pattered up to their doors, they were closed, and he could hear that they were busy.
One day Paul didn’t shut his bedroom door tightly, and Tandy trotted in. Next to playing dead, Tandy liked best going into the closet and getting hold of Paul’s old leather slipper to chew on. But the closet door was closed. Of course Tandy had Roscoe, a rubber frog, to play with, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as the slipper.
Although Tandy was given food and water every day, no one stopped to play with him. That’s why his tail had stopped wagging—he, was lonely and unhappy.
One night after supper Tandy could feel a kind of excitement in the air. Soon he saw Mother and Daddy and Paul and Wendy putting packages under the tree. When the doorbell rang, Paul ran to open it. “Hi! Grandpa,” he called, “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you,” said Grandpa, bending down to give Paul a squeeze. When the doorbell rang again, Wendy answered it. In came aunts and uncles and little cousins. Everyone was smiling and saying, “Merry Christmas!” to each other. When they came over to put their packages by the tree, Tandy had to run behind the couch to get out of the way of all the feet.
Then Paul and Wendy’s mother played the piano and everyone sang happy carols. Tandy came out from behind the couch to sit by Paul and listen. And when Paul rubbed his ears, Tandy’s tail started to wiggle just a little bit.
Tandy felt his loneliness slipping away. He scampered through the bedrooms, happy that the closet doors were open. But when he rooted around for his favorite slipper, it was gone.
Trotting back into the living room, Tandy saw that the tree made the only light in the room. Daddy was calling out names and everybody was smiling as packages were handed to them. When Daddy said, “Here’s one for Tandy,” the little dog’s ears pricked up. He tugged at the wrapping until something fell right between his paws. Tandy’s tail began to wiggle when he found Paul’s old slipper inside!
Tandy was content just chewing on the slipper, but when Paul called, “Here Tandy, play dead for the cousins,” he quickly dropped it and did his trick. And when it was finished, Tandy jumped up and frisked about, his tail wagging so fast it was only a blur.

My opinion of myself as a teacher was also somewhat deflated by my youngest son. In the course of trying to teach a four- or five-year-old the principle of tithing, I described how as a young boy on the farm I had gathered every tenth egg to pay in tithing and how I had once driven the horses and a load of hay to the bishop’s storehouse. After I finished with such illustrations, drawing liberally on my farm experience since I thought this would be most interesting and vivid to a little boy, I sought to test the effectiveness of my teachings by asking him a question. “If you were a farmer and had a harvest of crops and some livestock, what would you give to the bishop?” The little fellow thought carefully for a moment and then said: “I would give him a very old horse.” I have thought of that childish reply many times as I have observed how supposedly mature individuals handle themselves in relation to the principle of tithing. Fortunately, I have had some additional years to work with my son on the subject.

Micky was sitting on the curb when his friend John came and sat down beside him. “What can we do on such a hot day?” John asked.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Micky suggested. “We might find adventure.”
“Adventure? What’s that?” John asked.
“Grandfather said it’s finding new and happy things to do,” Micky explained.
“Let’s go then!” said John.
They walked to the end of the block and turned the corner. “My mother told me not to cross the street,” Micky cautioned.
“Mine too,” said John as they continued up the street.
A dog was sitting on the grass wagging its tail in front of a house. “Hello, doggy,” Micky called.
“Hello, doggy,” John echoed.
The dog followed them wagging his tail. Soon they turned another corner and saw a boy bouncing a ball.
“Hi!” said the boy. “My name’s Steve and we just moved here. Where do you live?”
“Way back there. I’m Micky and this is my friend John. We’re taking a walk. Would you like to come too?”
“Sure,” said the boy. “Mother says I can take a walk but I mustn’t cross the street.”
“Me neither,” said Micky.
“Same here,” said John.
The friendly dog was still following them wagging his tail. When they came to the end of that block, they saw a low stone wall that went all the way around the corner. Micky stepped up onto the wall. Arms held wide, he balanced himself carefully. “Look, I’m a tightrope walker,” he boasted, putting one foot down right in front of the other.
John climbed up on the wall, too, and followed Micky around the corner, arms held wide. “Zoom! I’m an airplane,” he said and laughed.
Steve tagged along behind John. “Chug, chug, chug. I’m a train,” he pretended. The dog followed along on the sidewalk.
When the wall came to an end, the boys jumped down.
“What’s that on the sidewalk?” Micky suddenly asked, pointing at something sparkling.
Micky ran and picked it up. “It’s a rock,” he said, turning it around and around in his hand. It felt warm. “I think I’ll keep this for my collection.”
As John reached for the rock to inspect it, a yellow butterfly fluttered down and settled on his hand. He held his hand very still, hardly breathing. “Wow!” the boys said when the butterfly fluttered on its way again.
Micky put the rock in his pocket and the boys started walking again.
“Is that your dog?” Steve asked.
“No,” Micky answered, his eyes laughing, “he lives around the corner from us and likes to walk too!”
“It would be fun to play ball there sometime,” Micky said, pointing to an empty lot.
“Or build a clubhouse,” John suggested.
“Or have a picnic,” added Steve.
As Micky, John, Steve, and the dog walked around another corner, Micky shouted, “There’s my house.”
John shouted, “Mine too!”
“I live just around the alley from you. That’s my house by the flag. See you later,” Steve said as he hurried home.
“We really found adventure,” Micky said. “And it was fun.”
“And we found two new friends,” said John, as he waved at Steve and then watched the dog turn in at its own house down the street.

My freshman year in high school, my family and I moved to Vancouver, Washington. I was trying to adjust to a new school, and I ached for my friends in Saratoga Springs, New York. I missed the nice big house we’d lived in there and its peaceful country setting. We were now living in a cramped apartment on a noisy street while my parents house-hunted. I wanted so badly to live in a house again. I wanted my own room, not one that I had to share with my little sister. I wanted the feeling of permanence that comes with living in your own house.

Just when Mom and Dad were narrowing down their choices and I was daydreaming about the wallpaper and frilly curtains I’d put in my new room, Dad was laid off. The small company he was working for was not doing well, and Dad was one of several employees to be let go. Buying a house was now out of the question. Finding a job became Dad’s urgent priority.

Christmas was quickly approaching, and I had never felt so depressed. It was at this time that the Young Women in my ward organized a service project. We would visit the battered-women’s shelter for 12 consecutive nights before Christmas.

On the first night, we drove to the shelter with Sister Harris, our Young Women president. I think we were all a little nervous. As the van pulled up in front of the old two-story house in a dilapidated neighborhood, I suddenly felt sorrow that women and children would be forced to flee to such a dismal place.

Once inside the bleak, chilly house, I didn’t feel any better. The faces we saw looked sad and dejected. All except the face of little Aisha. This beautiful baby girl never stopped smiling as she looked at each of us. We took turns cradling her in our arms, and her mother confided that the small scar on Aisha’s face was due to an injury inflicted by her father.

Another woman asked who we were. Sister Harris told her we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and then bore her testimony of the Lord’s love and concern for each of his children.

We left a Christmas tree and decorations that night and took with us the good feelings that come when we show others we care.

On the nights that followed, we brought gifts donated by members of our ward—baskets with combs and brushes and toiletries for the women, toys and blankets for the children.

The drab living room looked a little less drab each night. We hung homemade stockings on the bare wall above an old television set and taped Christmas cards above the fireplace. The tiny lights on the tree reflected in the silver ornaments. It was actually beginning to look and feel like Christmas in that humble shelter.

On the 12th night we arrived with a turkey dinner and all the trimmings. My heart was touched when a ten-year-old boy cried out, “This is the best Christmas I ever had!”

Something else happened to me during those 12 nights of Christmas. I returned home to our apartment each night feeling so blessed. As I walked into our living room, I saw for the first time how warm and pretty it was. I felt the love that was there and the strong sense of security even during this difficult time. I was grateful that my home was a place of safety and refuge instead of one of violence and fear. I felt a new appreciation for my mom and dad. I no longer resented having to share a room with my little sister.

And I had to agree with the little boy at the shelter—it was the best Christmas I ever had.

Andrea tells about a girl at school who asked about her weekend. She was amazed that Andrea and her sister, Heidi, did some shopping together and went to a movie. The girl asked, “Don’t you ever fight?”
Andrea answered, “No, not really. If we do, we get over it in two seconds.”
Andrea explained, “When people say that Mormons are really family oriented, we really are. That’s what makes us strong. To be a better sister, do stuff together.”

My father was very fond of reading the Bible. He wasn’t a Catholic, but my mother was. She took us to the Catholic church from the time we were very small. Then, in 1956, when I was twelve, the LDS missionaries came to our home. My mother didn’t want to listen to them and, rather than offend them, told them to come only when my father was home. They did and began to teach us. Only two of my brothers were still at home with me—the others were all married.
The missionaries were not only competent but very inspired in getting my mother and us children involved. Each time they came, they read something to us from the scriptures—almost always from the Book of Mormon—and the next time they came, they asked us to report on what they had told us and on what we had read. The three of us and my father and mother were baptized six months later.

Years ago, my company offered me a new job in Hong Kong. Making an international move with a family is a big life decision. At the time, our oldest child was ten years old and my wife, Jennifer, was six months pregnant with our sixth child. I was also serving as a stake president. It was daunting to know that this decision would affect not only me but the people I love the most—my family. It would have been easy to be paralyzed by indecision. That was a stressful and anxious time for us. We prayed, we studied, we counseled with family and Church leaders, and still could not get a clear answer. So, we decided to decide. We moved forward as far as we could without making a final commitment. It was only then that it became clear that this would be a good move—not an easy move—but a good move for our family.

Several years ago I met one of our sons in the mission field in a distant part of the world. He had been there for a year. His first question was this: “Dad, what can I do to grow spiritually? I have tried so hard to grow spiritually, and I just haven’t made any progress.”
That was his perception: to me it was otherwise. I could hardly believe the maturity, the spiritual growth that he had gained in just one year. He “knew it not,” for it had come as growth, not as a startling spiritual experience.

Because of the probability that some may join the Church for the material security they think they will find here, missionaries are counseled not to emphasize the Church welfare program in their proselyting. I met an investigator once in New Hampshire who was joining the Church for just that reason. He told me how impressed he was with the welfare program and how much he wanted that security. I told him, “Yes, by all means, if you know about the welfare program, join the Church for that reason. We need all of the help we can get, and you shall be called upon continually to contribute to the welfare of others.” His enthusiasm for baptism faded immediately.

I used to attend a school where it was really hard to be a Latter-day Saint. The LDS students were a minority, and there weren’t many who shared similar standards. It seemed especially frustrating for me because my parents divorced during my freshman year.
During that time life was pretty confusing for me. I guess that’s when I really discovered the scriptures. But my family wasn’t supportive of my scripture reading. Even my mother used to tell me it was a waste of time. But through the scriptures I found someone else who dealt with family contention.
Lehi counseled Laman and Lemuel “because of the stiffneckedness of Laman and Lemuel; for behold they did murmur in many things against their father” (1 Ne. 2:11–12).
My family was divided. We fought all the time, my parents couldn’t say anything kind about each other, and they discouraged me from attending church. Our home was full of conflict.
“And it came to pass that Laman was angry with me, and also with my father; and also was Lemuel, for he hearkened unto the words of Laman. Wherefore Laman and Lemuel did speak many hard words unto us, their younger brothers, and they did smite us even with a rod” (1 Ne. 3:28).
I tried to set a good example for my family. I went to church, attended Mutual, and prayed regularly. I even invited my mom to get active in the Church again.
“And now I, Nephi, … spake unto them, saying, … Behold ye are mine elder brethren, and how is it that ye are so hard in your hearts, and so blind in your minds, that ye have need that I, your younger brother, should speak unto you, yea, and set an example for you?
“How is it that ye have not hearkened unto the word of the Lord?” (1 Ne. 7:8–9).
Sometimes, in private, I cried. Sometimes I prayed for them. Always I felt lonely.
“But, behold, Laman and Lemuel would not hearken unto my words; and being grieved because of the hardness of their hearts I cried unto the Lord for them” (1 Ne. 2:18).
When I was sad, I knew that Nephi knew sadness. When I was discouraged, I knew that Nephi knew discouragement. When I was lonely, I knew that Nephi knew loneliness.
No, my story doesn’t have a nice, neat ending. I wish it ended “happily ever after,” but it hasn’t yet. My home is still unhappy. But Heavenly Father has given me the scriptures, and I know that he understands exactly what it is like for me at home. Though the conflict hasn’t stopped, at least I have found comfort and peace and ways to cope.
“I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7).
Just as Nephi knew that the Lord would help him accomplish anything that was commanded, I too know that Heavenly Father will continue to strengthen and support me from my heavenly home as I struggle to deal with a torn earthly home. The scriptures are my lifeline to that heavenly home.

Two young couples from the Northwest came, bowed in sorrow. The husband of one and the wife of the other had lost themselves in frustration arising out of disloyally finding comfort where no association should have been tolerated. Their problems reached the maximum, and sorrow resulted.
It is generally the same. The two young people, unfaithful to their spouses, had conversed and confided too much; then secret meetings followed, then disloyal disclosures concerning the spouse of each. And finally, that which surely could not have been dreamed of—the transgression.
Both couples had reduced their activity, become casual in their church-going. They had joined a social group who were also turning to spiritual casualness like themselves. Their new way of living was beyond their means, and debts crowded out tithing.
Too busy they were for home evenings and too rushed for family prayer, and when the great temptations came, they were not prepared. Their grass had been consumed, and with it the poles had been burned off and the dangling charred stubs were hanging to the sagging wires.
Sin comes when communication lines are down—it always does, sooner or later.

September 23, 1846—on the western bank of the Mississippi RiverTremendous thundershower today. The rain came down in torrents, drenching everything. We have only a tent to shelter us. We left Nauvoo in haste a few days ago. Our carefully packed belongings were scattered by the mobs looking for firearms. We have little left. It was not hard to leave the deserted city, but it breaks my heart to see our beloved temple just across the river—so near, yet unreachable. Papa is still grieving. As Brother Joseph’s bodyguard, he feels he should have somehow prevented the martyrdom. If he would just make music again on his fife, I am sure my heart would not be so heavy.

The chapel I worship at in Nigeria is close to a school whose principal wants nothing to do with the Church. On one occasion the principal told a teacher never to return to the school after learning that the teacher was a Latter-day Saint. A Church member who volunteered to visit and explain the mission of the Church was rebuffed.
As a salesman for laboratory and medical equipment, I often visit schools and hospitals to make sales. After one unsuccessful month, I had no choice but to visit this school. My plan was to sell my product and leave, hoping the principal would not find out I was a member of the Church. The Spirit, however, told me that she would want to know about my religion.
My business with the head of the school’s science department went smoothly, and he took me to the principal for payment. After filling out the check, she started asking questions to get to know me better. When her questions became personal, I began to feel uncomfortable. Then she asked the question I had been praying she would not ask: “Which denomination are you a member of?”
I was tempted to lie, collect my check, and go because I badly needed the sale. But I felt I should tell her the truth. After all, the early Saints had experienced worse than this minor test of my faith.
With renewed courage, I looked her straight in the eye and said, “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Then I bore my testimony. To my surprise she smiled, said we all worship the same God, and handed me the check.
As I left, a scripture came to my mind: “Now this was a great trial to those that did stand fast in the faith; nevertheless, they were steadfast and immovable in keeping the commandments of God, and they bore with patience the persecution which was heaped upon them” (Alma 1:25).
I was happy not to have disappointed Heavenly Father or myself. Because of this experience, I made a commitment to always be a good sales representative. More important, I committed to always be a good representative of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

“What are you doing?” Nate asked his big sister, Jessica.
“Writing a thank-you to Grandma for my birthday present.”
“I want to write one too.”
“You don’t know how to write yet,” Jessica said. “Besides, you write thank-yous to someone who gives you a present, and it wasn’t your birthday.”
“Oh,” said Nate, rolling his tongue around in his cheek. Then he started to grin. “I know someone I can make a thank-you for. I’ll be right back.”
A minute later, Nate dumped crayons, markers, and a big sheet of plain white paper on the table.
“Now what are you doing?” Jessica sighed, moving over.
“Making a thank-you picture. I can’t write, but I can draw.”
“Who are you thanking?”
“It’s a surprise.” Nate picked up a yellow crayon, drew a round sun, and colored it in. Then he used markers to make a red house with two blue windows, and a door.
Jessica peered at it. “I know who that picture’s for. It’s for Dad.”
“No,” said Nate, smiling. He drew his black cat, Pepper, and the swing hanging from their big oak tree.
“I bet that picture’s for Mom,” Jessica said.
“Nope.” Nate picked up a blue crayon. He colored birds flying in the sky, and the pond next to their house.
“I’m done,” said Jessica, putting her note into an envelope. “Now I have to write Grandma’s address on it and send it.”
“I’m done, too,” said Nate, coloring a frog by the pond.
“I bet that picture’s for your kindergarten teacher,” Jessica said.
“No,” Nate said. “It’s for someone who gives me different things every day. It’s a thank-you picture for Heavenly Father.”
Jessica smiled. “You’re right, Nate. He does give us all kinds of presents.”
“Do you think He likes my thank-you picture?”
“Sure He does. Everyone likes it when you say thank you.”
Nate smiled. “Help me hang my picture up for Heavenly Father to see. Then I’ll help you mail yours.”

The personal miracle I speak of had its earliest beginnings with the Prophet Joseph. He introduced the concept of constructing temples where sacred ordinances and instruction could be received. You’ll remember the first temple was built at great sacrifice in Kirtland, Ohio. It was completed and dedicated in 1836.

The saints had hoped to build additional temples; but, during the next few years, circumstances prevented them from doing so. In 1839, the main body of the Church moved to a bend on the Mississippi River known as Commerce. Now it is known as Nauvoo, meaning beautiful.

Under the direction of the Prophet Joseph, the Saints drained the swampland and created one of the most prosperous and populous cities in the state of Illinois. That was a big miracle.

The following year, plans were underway to construct a temple, a sacred House of the Lord. The Prophet Joseph appointed Brother William Weeks as the architect of the temple. Yet it was the prophet who gave significant instructions regarding the design of the building: “I have seen in a vision the splendid appearance of that building”, he said, “and [I] will have it built according to the pattern shown me.”[6]

An official cornerstone laying ceremony was conducted on April 6, 1841.

In addition to their financial contributions, Church members also gave a tithe of their time – one day in ten to working on the temple. Men labored in the construction areas and women sewed clothing for the workers and provided food, as well as raiment.

Because of donated labor and the donation of many building materials, it is very difficult to accurately calculate the cost of the six-year construction project. However, some estimate that in the monetary value of the time, the temple cost in excess of $1,000,000.00. That was a very big miracle!

Portions of the temple were dedicated and used prior to its completion in the spring of 1846. The first of several public dedication services for the Nauvoo Temple took place on May 1, 1846.

An uncontrolled lawless element forced the Saints to leave Nauvoo, broken-heartedly, leaving their temple behind. In October 1848, an arsonist destroyed the interior of the temple. In May 1850, a tornado knocked down one wall of the gutted structure and weakened the other walls. They were eventually taken down.

Now move forward with me almost 100 years.

In 1937, ninety-one years after the main body of the Church left their beautiful city and headed west, the Church purchased portions of the original temple site in Nauvoo. Over the next half a century, other properties, formerly owned by the Church and its members, were purchased and restored.

One day in early 1999, at the conclusion of a regular Temple Sites Meeting, President Hinckley mentioned that he was very seriously considering rebuilding the Nauvoo Temple. He said something like, “My father wanted to rebuild it back in 1946, when he was serving as President of the Northern States mission. Father actually wrote a letter to the First Presidency and he was turned down. Now you brethren, Elder Sorensen and Bishop McMullin and your associates, need to find a way to reconstruct the temple. The plans we have in the historical department are inadequate and incomplete.”

In April 1999, President Hinckley announced the Church would rebuild the Nauvoo Temple on the original site. He said, "The new building will stand as a memorial to those who built the first such structure."[7]

Groundbreaking ceremonies for the temple took place on October 24, 1999. "A sense of joy and spirituality returned to the Temple Lot,” wrote a newspaper columnist."[8]

Traditional cornerstone ceremonies were conducted on November 5, 2000. Under priesthood direction, prayers and talks were given on each of the four cornerstones. This tradition dated back to April 6, 1841, the original Nauvoo Temple dedication date, in the days of the Prophet, Joseph.

The dedication of the restored Nauvoo Temple commenced on June 27, 2002. It was the 158th anniversary of the martyrdom of the Prophet Joseph Smith and his faithful brother, Hyrum. The limestone exterior of the restored temple is a near duplicate of the original temple, including the design elements.

The restored building has six floors, circular stairs, and is crowned with an upright statue of the Angel Moroni with the trumpet in his hand.

This is a facsimile of the original Angel Moroni that adorned the first temple until it was destroyed.

Yet, 150 years later, Sister Sorensen and I and several members of our family were at the dedication of a beautiful temple, the exact replica of what once was, in that beautiful city, Nauvoo, being led by a Prophet of God, Gordon B. Hinckley. We were now a prosperous and blessed people. His watchful eye had prevailed.

The terrible sacrifice and loss of those early saints made everything possible. In that moment, when everything seemed lost, everything was actually being won. As real as the suffering was, Heavenly Father was working in His mysterious way to bring to pass a great miracle.

During Charlie’s five-year struggle to reach the age to become a deacon, he became a hero in another way, in the unselfish help he gave doctors doing research about his disease, even though he would not directly benefit. In the year before and after Charlie died, he was in the spotlight. He was featured on the news show 20/20 and was named by the ABC television network as one of its heroes of the year. His story of sacrifice also became the plot for a television show. Charlie found out that if he let doctors study his body, they might be able to discover a cure for other children who have this rare form of cancer. Charlie traveled to the University of Michigan, where a specialist in medullary thyroid cancer was working at the time. He went through a series of studies and new tests. He gave blood many times for future research. The doctors continued to ask for more blood from Charlie because the research from Charlie’s mutation was proving significant and became the link to solving many unanswered questions about this disease. In June 1996, the mysterious mutant gene was discovered. “Charlie was excited about that,” his mother says, “but he also understood that he would not be alive when the cure for this disease would be found.”
“Because of Charlie,” his mother explains, “it will be easier in the future to detect this type of cancer. It will now be possible to detect it early enough to stop the cancer from spreading. Charlie helped save other children’s lives. That’s an incredible gift he left behind. But to me, the second gift he left behind is just as incredible. He outlived his life expectancy by many years. He set an impossible goal for himself, to become a deacon. Charlie weighed less than 35 pounds when he died. He should have died months or years before. But he wanted to live to pass the sacrament. And he did. That is a miracle. He wanted to be a true follower of Christ. That’s why Charlie is my hero.”

Let me begin with a legend. There is a story of a grandfather, a holy man, who, caring for his grandson, sent him out to play. Shortly the boy returned sobbing as if his heart would break. He explained, “I was playing hide-and-seek with my friends. I went and hid and waited but no one came for me. They all ran away.” The grandfather embraced him and said, “Now you know how God feels. He hides and no one comes for him.”

In 1980 my wife, daughter, and I moved to Baltimore, Maryland. Soon after our arrival we were invited to a ward party at the home of a member. We were told it was to be a crab feast. We were excited, but we really didn’t know what to expect. Our experience with seafood consisted of trout, canned salmon, and pickled herring. As we came to the member’s backyard, we saw that newspapers had been spread on picnic tables and steaming bushels filled with red creatures the size of my fist had been dumped out on them.
My wife, Ruth, asked, “What are these?” referring to the red creatures.
We were informed that these were Maryland blue crabs, which turn bright red when they are steamed.
Ruth asked, “How do you catch them?”
We were told that early that morning, two of the brethren had gone to a butcher shop and purchased a bucket of chicken necks. As you know, chicken necks look like chicken and smell like chicken when cooked, but if that is what you are given for dinner, you will go hungry. The chicken neck consists of bone, tendon, and skin.
The assigned men had gone out in a skiff on the shallow Chesapeake Bay. In water about eight feet deep, they began the process of catching a crab. They tied a chicken neck to a string, dropped it into the water, and allowed it to settle on the sandy ocean floor. Sensing a potential feast, a crab scurried along the bottom and grabbed the chicken neck with its big claw. The men then slowly and steadily began pulling on the string. The crab held on to the chicken neck, and just as it was about to breach the surface of the bay, the crab became agitated and let go. But by that time the men had placed a small net under the crab. They took it out of the water and flung it into the boat. And, voilà: ward dinner!
Ruth said, “So, that’s it? There’s no hook? There’s no rod? There’s no reel?”
“That’s right,” they replied.
She said, “The crab could let go at any time?”
“Right.”
“But they don’t?”
“No,” was the reply.
Ruth summed up this newfound knowledge by saying, “Boy, are those crab stupid!”
If you were writing a pamphlet called For the Strength of Young Crabs, it would be pretty short, wouldn’t it? It would say, “Lay off the chicken necks! They are a trap. Don’t be fooled.”
There are many chicken necks in the world: things that look enticing, things that look like a veritable feast, and things that seem worth a minor detour. But if we take that detour, we will, like the prodigal in the parable, experience a fleeting paroxysm of enjoyment followed by degradation ranging from slight to abysmal and misery ranging from small to unutterable before coming to ourselves and recognizing the mistake. The mistake is that these detours are traps.

It was an overcast morning in December 1973, but the weather did not reflect my mood. Standing on the deck of a cargo vessel with my parents and two younger siblings, I was in high spirits as we began to pull away from our small South Pacific island. The ship was the Uluilakeba, bound for Suva, the capital of the Fiji Islands.
For a 12-year-old boy from the outer island of Ono-i-Lau, a trip to the big city was no everyday experience. Along with my parents and two of my siblings, I had eagerly awaited this day. The five of us were traveling to Suva to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
At long last, after we had spent nearly two years planning and preparing, the day had finally come, and we stood aboard the Uluilakeba. Energy was thick in the air as we crowded on with the other passengers. Hope and excitement filled our hearts as we waited to depart on our journey.
The ship left the dock at approximately 8:00 a.m. on Monday, 10 December 1973. With all the emotions of that day, I hardly noticed the gusty winds and threatening clouds that loomed ahead. As the boat crawled into the open sea, however, the weather worsened. Soon forecasts came in of an approaching tropical storm. Despite the warnings, our captain was confident of a safe voyage. We continued onward, while around us the sea steadily grew fiercer and the rain fell harder. Before long all passengers were instructed to take shelter inside, while the crew navigated the rough waters.
The captain was a relative of my father, and he gave us his personal cabin to rest in while we endured the storm. There we huddled together as a family and waited. In spite of the now heavy rocking of the ship, after a few minutes, my brother and sister and I fell asleep.
After what seemed only an instant to me, we were awakened by my mother’s scream. Water was now coming in through a small porthole. Sitting up, I noticed that my father was not with us, and thinking he must have gone on deck, I left my mother and two siblings. Climbing up to the deck was quite difficult, although in my panic I did not realize why. I did not understand that the ship had taken too much water and was sinking. Just as I reached the deck, the Uluilakeba began to capsize, and I was plunged into angry waters.
My only instinct was for survival. Desperately I swam with all my strength to stay on top of the monstrous waves. Within a few minutes, I caught sight of an older man holding fast to two floating bags of coconuts. Managing to swim to him, I pleaded for a bag, and he mercifully gave me one. I took hold of the bag and clung to it for my life.
Minutes passed, and suddenly I spotted my mother. Seeing me as well, she swam over and we embraced. With words I will never forget, she told me to hold on to that bag no matter what, for it would save my life. Then, after kissing my cheek, she left me to search for my brother and sister. That was the last I ever saw of my mother.
As the storm continued to rage, I did not think about what had happened. I only fought to stay above the waves. Bobbing up and down in the sea, I could see many other people, but I could not find my family.
The hours stretched on like a terrible dream. Soon night fell, and we swam on in the darkness. After what seemed like forever, the sun rose again, and I held on through another day and another night. Finally, around 5:00 in the afternoon on Wednesday, a rescue boat discovered us.
More than two full days had passed. Of the approximately 120 passengers who had boarded the doomed ship, 35 were found alive in the water. We were taken to Suva and admitted to the hospital. There, I learned the details of what had happened. Less than four hours after leaving the dock, we had been struck by Cyclone Lottie, a short-lived Pacific storm. The Uluilakeba was never found. I also learned that of the five members of my family who had been aboard, I was the only survivor. My family’s plans to be baptized into the Church had sunk in the depths of the ocean.