Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago our oldest son shared with me a lesson he had learned about prayer. He was a very busy student at BYU. One evening he sat down to eat a quick dinner and, out of pure habit, said, “Please bless this food to nourish and strengthen my body.” He opened his eyes and looked at his food: a Twinkie and a can of soda. He realized there was no way that food was going to nourish and strengthen his body.
He later explained to me that the experience taught him the meaning of the phrase “vain repetitions.” When we repeat the same stock phrases over and over in prayer, but not with real intent—when our heart and mind are not in the prayer—then we are only engaging in vain repetition.

I didn’t want Valjean to die.

Not Jean Valjean, the character from Les Misérables, my favorite novel. I knew his fate. Rather, Valjean my potted plant. He was the lone survivor in a long line of indoor plants who had curled up their roots and done a swan dive into the dumpster.

And though he had long outlasted his predecessors, Valjean looked as if his days too were now numbered. The long, slender leaves were turning brown. The plant drooped as if under a heavy burden. Extra water and fertilizer only seemed to make things worse.

I know it sounds silly, but Valjean’s condition truly upset me. Only a month earlier, my father-in-law had passed away. Two weeks later, my own father passed away. In the midst of all that loss, my failing plant affected me more than it should have.

While staring glumly at Valjean, I had the thought that I should pray. I have to admit, the notion struck me as odd. Pray over a plant? After all, I could simply get another. I always had before. Yet the feeling persisted, and so I uttered a short prayer for my faltering vegetation. Immediately afterward, I had the distinct impression that a little bit of knowledge would go a long way. So I did some research.

My life has been a lot greener ever since. Along the way, I’ve learned plenty of spiritual parallels to plant care that help me in other areas of my life.

There’s another concern that’s less obvious. Many plants don’t respond well to chemicals often found in tap water (particularly chlorine). This is what was killing off Valjean one poisonous sip at a time. I learned in my research to allow tap water to sit for 24 hours before using it. This allows the chlorine to escape the water. That one trick—along with cutting back on the amount of water—turned Valjean’s health around.

When I prayed for help in saving Valjean the plant, I never guessed I would learn as much as I have about caring for plants. Since then, I’ve been able to keep a thriving variety of plants alive and healthy, as well as grow new plants from clippings to give to friends and family just for fun. It’s become a rewarding hobby.

And Valjean is still growing strong!

This experience helped me to learn even more deeply that God is involved in the details of our lives. For me, one main lesson I take away is this: I should always follow a prompting to pray, even if it seems too small a matter. You never know what might grow from it.

A group of 43 teens in Larimer County, Colorado, were able to help a young man complete his Eagle Project, collect 1,800 pounds of food, take the Christmas spirit to the elderly, gather emergency supplies for disaster victims, and build relationships with each other—all in four days.
Each December these youth plan a special youth conference that focuses on building relationships with each other. Last year the youth decided they wanted to make their conference more meaningful. To do this, Sarah Fenton, 17, says, “We decided to focus on a service project.”
By the last day, the youth had collected 1,500 pounds of food for the local food bank and another 300 pounds to go to 40 families in the community. This was 1,200 more pounds than their goal of 600. They then split into two groups. One group sorted and cleaned supplies for the homeless while the other group put together humanitarian aid kits to be sent to Korea. That evening the group went to retirement and assisted living homes to sing Christmas carols to the residents. The priests quorum president, Tanner Kahl, said it was his favorite youth conference and hopes they can do the same this year.

I remember just after I joined the Church, a great feeling of confidence came over me. I felt that since I had chosen the Lord’s side, he was on my side. Several remarkable things happened, of which I will recount but two.

Although I had never had the courage to stand on my feet and speak in debate, either at high school or college, I found myself asking my branch president if I might give a talk in sacrament meeting. I still have the notes of that very first talk. It was on faith and works.

A few months after my baptism, a golden opportunity presented itself at my place of work, where I was a management trainee. Again, I had that strong feeling of self-assurance, and I received my first promotion, which set my feet on the management ladder. I found that through my Church membership and the faith it engendered, I overcame the fear of taking responsibility.

What of marriage responsibility? Are there some who delay marriage for fear of the responsibility? When my wife and I were married, we had the magnificent sum of 20 English pounds between us. Although young, we felt ready for the challenges and responsibilities that we knew lay ahead. What a glorious experience it has been now for almost 40 years to shoulder responsibility and struggle together in building a happy home and a wonderful family of ten precious children.

From time to time I meet members of the Church who do not feel able to take responsibility as an officer or a teacher in the Church. I tell them of my experience in England. Literally within days of baptism, I was called to head the youth program in the Nottingham Branch. This was completely new to me, and I felt inadeqate, but I knew the Lord had need of me. There were less than 7,000 members in the whole of the British Isles where there are now 40 stakes. We all had to be “anxiously engaged” in the work of saving souls, building the kingdom, and establishing Zion. So it is with all of us. It is futile to fear responsibility when we have been called to serve “by prophecy, and by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority” (A of F 1:5).

No amount of effort could keep even the most careful teen dry or clean as 110 young people from the Cincinnati Ohio Stake traveled along a slippery and muddy path during their annual youth conference.
Their theme was “Our Pioneer Heritage,” and they dressed their parts well: full-length dresses, bonnets, and bloomers for the girls; lace-up shirts and hats for the boys.
Each participant helped to pull loaded handcarts along the 7.5-mile trek. At one point, they emptied their carts, carried the contents up a steep hill, then returned to the bottom to pull the heavy carts up.
All along the way, they learned from their physical trials, mistaken turns, and growling hunger. As they learned, their trials contributed to a better understanding of the sacrifice offered by the early Saints. They were grateful for the example of faith and perseverance set by the pioneers.

Lina swung her lunchbox as she walked to the lunchroom. Lunch was the best part of the day. Lina loved sitting with her friends and talking about who said what, who liked who, who got in trouble — there were always fun things to talk about. And today Lina was sure she had the most exciting news. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends.
“Guess what!” she said as soon as she sat down. “Shara Johnson had to go home early today … because she has lice!”
The girls gasped and stared at her.
Trish moaned. “I walked right by her like six times today!” she said. “What if I have lice too?”
“Oh no,” Katy said. “I have to work with her on a science project next week.”
Melissa shuddered. “That is so gross. I don’t think I can be her friend anymore.”
Lina stopped smiling. She squirmed in her seat. She had been excited to share some news, but she didn’t like how they were talking about Shara now. She didn’t want Shara to lose any friends! Getting lice didn’t mean anything bad about Shara; it could have happened to any of them. Lina tried to forget about it and just eat her food, but she just couldn’t.
When the bell rang for them to go back to class, the girls were still talking about Shara. They kept laughing and making faces. Lina felt awful.
Back in class, Mrs. Currier called Lina to her desk.
“Since you’re Shara’s neighbor, would you please take her today’s homework?” Mrs. Currier asked.
Oh no. Lina didn’t want to face Shara. Not after what she’d said. But she nodded and took the worksheets.
On her way home after school, Lina stopped by the Johnsons’ house. She rang the doorbell and hoped that anyone but Shara would open the door.
“Hi, Lina!” It was Shara. She smiled when she saw Lina standing on the porch. “What’s up?”
“I’m just bringing your homework,” Lina said, trying to smile too.
“Thanks!” Shara said. “I was worried I would fall behind after missing today.”
“So you’ll be back tomorrow?” Lina asked.
“Yep! I’ll see you in class.”
“Awesome. See you tomorrow.” Lina smiled the best she could, then walked away. Now she felt even worse. Shara was so nice, and now the girls at school were saying mean things about her. Lina wanted to fix things. But how?
Lina didn’t know what to do, but she knew who could help her. She stopped walking, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.
Heavenly Father, I really messed up today. I gossiped about Shara, and now I feel really bad about it. I am so sorry. I don’t know how to make it right. Please help me fix my mistake.
After Lina finished praying, she felt peaceful. She knew that making things right might be scary, but Heavenly Father would help her.
The next day at lunch, Lina saw her friends at their usual table. As she walked toward them, she said another quick prayer.
Please help me be brave.
“Hey,” Lina said. She didn’t sit down. “I just wanted to say … I wanted to say that I’m sorry I told you Shara had lice. Shara is really nice, and I shouldn’t have said anything. We shouldn’t spread bad news about other people.”
Trish, Katy, and Melissa stared at her. They looked too surprised to say anything. Lina turned away. She felt better for the first time since yesterday! Then she spotted Shara across the lunchroom and waved. Shara waved back, and Lina walked over to sit by her. The warm feeling in her heart told her that she had made the right choice.

One of my fondest memories as a small boy was the annual visit to our home on Butler Avenue in Salt Lake City of my Grandfather and Grandmother Ballard on Christmas morning. Melvin J. Ballard died when I was ten years old. I knew that my Grandfather Ballard was a very important man in the Church, but I did not understand what it meant to be an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. To me he was Grandpa Ballard, and that was enough to make me always very eager for his visit to our home, and especially on Christmas morning.
I particularly remember one Christmas morning, just a year or two before Grandfather Ballard died. My father and mother gave to Grandfather and Grandmother a new set of luggage. This Christmas gift seemed so appropriate to me then, because it seemed like Grandfather was always traveling and was never home.
Reflecting back on those special Christmas mornings with Grandfather and Grandmother Ballard brings special fond memories since today I find myself as a member of the Council of the Twelve and I have a new and deeper appreciation for those special Christmas mornings with my grandparents. I hope now as my grandchildren come to visit me and I go to visit them, I can create memories for them that will live on long after I am gone.

An example of stepping up to serve is found in the life of our own prophet, President Ezra Taft Benson, and the family of which he is a member. President Benson has described to the General Authorities how his father was called to fill a mission. He left behind his wife, who was expecting another child, his seven children, the farm, and all that he had. Did he lose anything? President Benson tells how his mother would gather the family around the kitchen table and there, by the flickering light of an oil-fueled lamp, read the letters from her husband. Several times during the reading there would be a pause to wipe away the tears which flowed freely. The result? Each of the children later served a mission. Each stepped up to serve.

The ?rst meeting of the Beith Branch of the Church (in north Ayrshire), was held in Beith’s community centre on 8 May 1983. The membership was small with only 16 attending.
??About four years later, on 26 July 1987, a conference was held in the Usher Hall, Edinburgh. Its theme was taken from Doctrine and Covenants 65:5: “That his kingdom may go forth upon the earth, that the inhabitants thereof may receive it, and be prepared for days to come, in the which the Son of Man shall come.”
It is a theme that the Beith Branch may well have adopted as it embarked on the way to getting its chapel. Building work for the Beith Chapel was due to begin in January 1988, but after rising to the challenge and meeting the criteria for a building, everything came to a halt. Church policy for rural facilities had changed, and budgets were tight. It was a demoralising blow for Beith Saints.
??Then, in November 1996, Stake President Robert W Watson of Paisley Stake, received a letter giving formal noti?cation that building work would begin two weeks before Christmas. Brother George Dracocardos (of Area physical facilities) phoned President Weston and advised him that plans for the new building were available. They were displayed in the local library along with a model of the proposed design, to be built by Scott Gibson. Local interest from the people of the town picked up, and suddenly the Saints in Beith realised that they were about to get the Christmas gift of their lives.
Plans were made for a groundbreaking service to be held at the site on 29 December 1996, with President Watson presiding. The dreams of those few members who started off the Branch in 1983 were about to be a reality. The efforts and prayers of members from those early days in the spring of 1983 and through the following years had been rewarded.
For fourteen years, meetings had taken place in members’ homes or an often-cold community centre. Each week, hymnbooks and the lectern had been carried, and each week, wives walked home with their children while their husbands drove around the valley dropping off other members. It all seemed hard at the time, but in hindsight it was a little sacri?ce to pay for the beautiful building that was now about to be delivered.
?On 29 December 1996 it was a beautiful clear winter morning; the sun was shining in the sky above, and the high church bells pealed, as around 50 members gathered on the building site. The site had been cleared for the groundbreaking, and a golden spade had been provided. Branch President Cairns said how the sacrament would be administered here to the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of those present, and they would be a blessed people because of what was taking place. As President Watson dug the golden spade into the cold earth, he hailed it a new era for the Church in the Beith Branch. After the groundbreaking ceremony, President Watson thanked the Lord in his dedication prayer for the wonderful opportunity that the Saints in Beith had been given, receiving a chapel in which to worship—the community would be blessed.
???Then, over 30 years later, on 27 May 2018, a realignment of the boundaries took place and the Beith branch was discontinued. The building was put into mothballs. Yet, it may well serve again.? In years to come, all will be a distant memory for some old member sitting in the back row of the building, who will be able to say, “I was there”. Those who worked so very hard to make Beith what it is, members and missionaries alike, will not be forgotten.

In 1922, a 17-year-old young lady enrolled at LDS Business College, then known as LDS High School. She was a farm girl from a small town in southwestern Utah, the eldest of seven children. Her mother suffered from ill health, and the family’s resources were meager. She boarded with her aunt that school year and successfully completed the 12th grade. Her classes included English, algebra, history, theology, physical training, and oral expression. Her grades were respectable. She was always quick to point out the campus of this institution and say, “That is where I went to school.”
The record shows she left LDS High School bound for the Dixie Normal School in St. George, Utah. Three years later she married and, in time, gave birth to and reared three children. She never became a school teacher, was never in the public eye, did not graduate from a great university. But her family adored her, and countless people acknowledge the profound influence for good she was in their lives. For Margaret Mary Savage, LDS High School became a launching pad for the betterment of others. My mother’s legacy became my blessing.

On the first day of our vacation, we stopped at a park in a small town to eat lunch. As we put a tablecloth and paper plates on one of the picnic tables, Jimmy nudged me and pointed at an old man walking toward the tables. “He looks like the guys you see on TV—the ones who don’t have any place to live.”
“He really does,” I answered.
We watched as he came closer. “Do you suppose he’s going to ask us for something to eat?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
We were disappointed when he sat down at a table far from ours.
“Mom,” I said, “see that old man over there? Do you think he has a home anywhere?”
Mom stopped turning the hamburgers on the grill and looked where I was pointing. “No, Crissie,” she said, “he looks like he’s carrying everything he owns with him.”
“That’s what I thought too. Do you suppose he has anything to eat?”
“I don’t know,” Mom answered, “but he doesn’t look like he eats very often. He surely is thin.”
“Could we ask him to come and eat with us?”
“We have plenty of food,” Mom said. “Why don’t you check with Dad first. He’s over by the swings with Susan and Missy.”
When I asked Dad, he didn’t say yes right away. He said he wanted to get a little closer and see what this man looked like. He didn’t want to put any of us in danger.
As we began walking across the grass, the old man glanced curiously in our direction. It surprised me to think that he might be as curious about us as we were about him.
The closer we got, the harder it was for me not to stare. I had never seen anyone quite like this man before. His hair hung almost to his shoulders. It was the color of dirt and looked like it hadn’t been washed or combed for a long time. His face was tanned and wrinkled. His eyes were a milky blue-green color, and I wondered if he could see through that milky haze. But what really fascinated me was his mouth. There were wrinkles all around it, and when he opened it, I could see why. He had hardly any teeth. There was one on the top in the front, and maybe two or three on the bottom. I couldn’t see any more.
His clothes were old and dirty and just hung on his thin body. Next to him on the ground was an old army duffel bag.
As we drew near, he grew apprehensive. He reached down and pulled his duffel bag closer to him. Once again I was surprised to think that he might be afraid of us. “Hello there,” Dad said.
The man didn’t answer, but he didn’t take his eyes off us, either.
“My name is Mike Lambert,” Dad went on, just as if the man had greeted him warmly. “We’re fixing our lunch just over there, and we wondered if you’d like to join us.”
The old man looked up as if he hadn’t understood, so Dad said it again. “Would you like to join us for lunch? We’re just going to have hamburgers.”
Smiling his almost toothless smile, the old man said, “Nobody’s asked me to eat with them for a long time. That’s right nice of you.”
I ran ahead to tell Mom. She set another place at the table, and a few minutes later we all sat down. Our guest was getting ready to dig right in, when he noticed that we were all sitting with our arms folded. He quietly dropped his hands in his lap, and we all bowed our heads as Missy said a blessing on the food. She also thanked Heavenly Father for our guest and asked a blessing on him. When I looked up, I noticed tears in the old man’s eyes. I wondered if anyone had ever prayed for him before.
“No preacher could have said it any better,” he whispered.
Smiling through teary eyes of her own, Mom began to pass out the food. Jimmy and I were so fascinated at how our guest managed to chew his food with so few teeth that we forgot to eat our own. Mom nudged us and, without saying a word, let us know that we shouldn’t stare.
During the meal, we learned that our guest’s name was Joe. He was from Chicago but had traveled all over the United States. He didn’t know where his family was anymore. He’d lost track of them several years before. When Susan asked him if he had any children, he said, “Yes, I had two little girls. The last time I saw them, they were about the same size as you and your little sister. I guess they’re grown-ups now.”
Before we could ask any more questions, Mom asked if anyone would like another hamburger. Joe said that he would. He said he was going to save it for his supper. Mom promptly put several other things in some paper dishes and covered them and gave them to him too. “You might as well take some of this other food to go along with it,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
As we packed our things in the car, Joe carefully packed his food in his duffel bag. We waved to him as we drove away. He waved back for as long as we could see him.
“What will happen to Joe when it gets cold outside?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “Maybe he’ll have gone to a warmer climate by then. Or maybe he’ll find a shelter to stay in.”
“I’m sure thankful we have a house,” I said.
“I am, too,” Mom replied, “and I’m also thankful for children who have caring hearts.”
We had a wonderful vacation that summer, but the thing I remember best was our lunch with Joe.

Although the relationship between Erroll and his father today is as close as it ever was, pressure from both sides of the family was to continue right up to the day of the scheduled baptism. “I remember my feelings on that day,” Brother Bennett now says. “We had gone through a lot of pressure, and we knew what we had to do. Yet somehow I felt I needed a final confirmation, a last indication from the Lord that all was well and that we should proceed.
“I remember going up the side of the mountain near my home where I like to jog, and privately pouring out my feelings to my Heavenly Father. I asked for confirmation, perhaps some message that I was about to take the right step. Halfway down the mountain on the way home, I offered the same prayer again.
“As I drew near my home, there was a car parked outside. It belonged to Gabriel Vaianui, a member who had been inactive for about ten years, attending church only intermittently. Gabriel had been at the market and had overheard someone say that Erroll Bennett had decided not to join the Mormon Church after all. He had then driven over to my home immediately to find out for himself.”
Erroll recognized Brother Vaianui as the messenger he had sought and promptly asked him, “Gabriel, should I be baptized today?” Without hesitation, the answer came: “Erroll, whatever you do, you must be baptized. Do not turn your back on the Church.”
Brother Bennett now speaks gratefully of Gabriel Vaianui’s counsel. “It was just what I needed—that little extra to give me the courage I lacked.”
The baptisms went ahead as scheduled, and afterwards Erroll Bennett had time to think. No one called from the soccer club with congratulations or criticism, and by the end of that quiet evening he had made his decision. It was no good agonizing over an elusive compromise, and there was little point in training if he wasn’t going to play on Sundays. The following day he would talk to Napoléon Spitz and withdraw from active soccer, leaving his position open to some other hopeful.

Years ago I spent quite a bit of time gathering information for my four-generation family group records. The information on one of my group records was eventually complete, with the exception of a great-uncle named Edward. I had searched extensively for his birth and death dates without ever finding a real lead. Every time I glanced at this record, the white space where Edward’s information should have been stared out at me.
Several times I despaired of ever finding his information, but I prayed for inspiration to know what I should do. I asked Heavenly Father to help me find a record or a person who would be able to help. After praying I felt that I must not give up.
One day, after having tried every other source I could think of, I picked up a postcard and addressed it to the “Rector of the City Cemetery” of a town where Edward’s family had lived for a while. On the back I simply asked if there was a grave with Edward Oren Tarbutton’s name on it. I wasn’t even sure a cemetery existed in that town, yet as I sent the postcard I suddenly felt free of frustration.
A few weeks went by without any answer to my postcard, and I did not expect one. Then one day I felt unusually excited. At the normal mail delivery time, I ran out to pick up the mail. The stack was big that day, but I stood at the open box and looked carefully at every piece. In the stack was my postcard, and on it was Edward’s missing information!
As I gazed at the long-sought-for dates on the postcard, a warm feeling embraced me. I felt that Edward was somehow close to me in that moment, and I could feel his great joy.
I will never forget the prompting to send the postcard and the circumstances of its return. Later I learned that the town I had sent the postcard to had no rector and no official cemetery. Realizing no one in the town would know about my ancestor, the postmaster almost stamped the card Return to Sender. Then, on second thought, he decided to search for the grave himself. He remembered once seeing headstones in a field near a small church. It was there he found Edward’s headstone and copied the inscription.
This experience deepened my love for my ancestors and helped me understand how much they long to be linked permanently to their families. And as I have encountered disappointments in the following years of family history research, I have thought of the postcard and kept going.

Let me tell you of an instance when a man's word of honor proved crucial, and indeed, fundamentally changed the history of the world.

At the end of the 18th Century, and the beginning of the 19th, Napoleon Bonaparte bestrode the world like a colossus (to paraphrase Shakespeare's comment about Julius Caesar). A brilliant military tactician, he had conquered most of Europe, become Emperor of France, and King of Italy, and placed his brother on the throne of Spain. Eventually, after his disastrous invasion of Russia, he was forced to capitulate and was exiled to the island of Elba in the Mediterranean. His stay there lasted less than a year. In February 1815, he escaped, made his way to Paris, and once again raised an enormous army to confront his enemies.

Opposing Napoleon towards the north, in Belgium, were two armies of about equal size, one under the command of the Duke of Wellington, and the other more than 10 miles away, under the command of the Prussian Field Marshal, Von Blucher. Although they together outnumbered Napoleon, the French Army was larger than each of them. Napoleon moved quickly toward Belgium, hoping to catch the armies separated, defeat Wellington first, and then turn and defeat Von Blucher. Wellington and Blucher had promised to come to each other's aid if attacked.

On the 18th of June, 1815, the most decisive battle of the 19th Century was fought, at a place called Waterloo. Napoleon attacked Wellington's Army, which was on the defensive most of the day. All day long the battle raged, with the outcome in the balance. Toward evening, after fearsome carnage, and the decision in doubt, Wellington was heard to say: "Night, or the Prussians must soon come."

Earlier, news had been brought to Field Marshal Von Blucher that Wellington was under attack. Von Blucher was 73 years old, and he had been injured when his horse was shot beneath him, so that he could hardly mount to ride; his generals counseled prudence, and that they should prepare to face Napoleon another day.

But Von Blucher had given his word, and he told Wellington's attach: "We are going to join the Duke."[3]

In the evening of that fateful day, after a march of more than 10 miles, the Prussian army arrived at the battlefield, and began to attack the right wing of Napoleon's army.

With the arrival of the Prussians, Wellington then ordered an all out attack, and the Napoleon's Army first retreated, and then gradually disintegrated. Napoleon fled, was captured, and exiled to the island of St. Helena, never to return. The history of the world was changed, because one man, in spite of his difficulties, had given his word, and kept his promise.

As an example, Brother Bishop describes the members the Division found to translate materials into two of the languages of Zaire—Lingala and Tshiluba. Church materials are translated into Lingala by Alfonse and Maguy Muanda, in addition to their being actively involved as stake missionaries and operating their own business.
Tshiluba is the native language of Ambrose and Louise Massala, but in their college days they lived in an area of Zaire where Swahili is spoken, and that became their daily language. Shortly after they were married, Ambrose suggested that they go back to speaking to one another in Tshiluba. Louise thought the suggestion strange because by then they had been speaking Swahili for a number of years. However, they began using Tshiluba again, and their children grew up speaking Tshiluba at home. Surprised when they were asked if they would translate material into Tshiluba, Louise said she finally realized why Ambrose was inspired to return to using a language they had almost forgotten.

As a new mission president in the fall of 2011, I was excited to be out among our missionaries. My wife, Emily, and I decided to do apartment inspections and visit every pair of missionaries in the mission.
As we traveled from Guatemala City to one of our more remote zones, known as Sololá, we learned that a demonstration was blocking the road in front of us. Demonstrations in Guatemala can take hours, and there is usually no way to get past them. But when we inquired about a possible detour, we learned of another route. That route, however, came with the following warnings:
It is not a great road.
Make sure you are not on the road after dark.
Bands of robbers frequent the road.
Like any zealous new mission president and wife, on Emily and I went. After driving a while, we came to a spot on a dirt road that looked like a steep drop-off in front of us. Emily joked that we should get the camera out and take pictures as we went over the edge.
Years earlier, when I was a young missionary in Guatemala, I had learned that a small branch dragged onto the road meant “proceed with caution.” It might even mean “stop.” I had seen a branch but failed to register what it meant.
A moment later, we found ourselves dangling off a 20-foot (6 m) ledge where a bridge had washed out. I managed to climb out my side, but Emily could not open her door. When she tried to climb over the seat and come out my door, the vehicle began to rock. Obviously, it was a very disconcerting moment.
Many thoughts ran through my mind. I could see the headlines: “New Mission President Drives over Embankment Where There Was No Bridge, Resulting in Severe Injury to Wife” or “New Mission President and Wife Missing after Being Robbed on a Road They Should Not Have Been Traveling on.”
Not knowing what to do, I paused outside the vehicle and pleaded with Heavenly Father, “Please help me in my moment of carelessness.” Can you believe that a large banana truck suddenly pulled up behind us? The driver and passengers saw us and came over to laugh and enjoy the predicament of the silly gringo. They pointed out the branch on the road. Literally, it was just a twig.
Then, to our miraculous blessing, they retrieved from their truck the only chain I saw in three years of service in Guatemala. Before they left, they cut down a tree and pulled it across the road. I think they wanted to make sure that the next North American to come by did not make the same mistake.

Allison began playing the piano at age three, and although she was very talented, she had no affinity for the keyboard. “My mother was a concert pianist, my aunt was a pianist, my grandmother was a pianist, my cousins were pianists, all my mother’s students were pianists,” she says. “Everything was piano, piano, piano. I just got tired of it.”
Then came the cello. When Allison was nine, she decided she wanted to play in her school orchestra, which already had a pianist, so she decided to switch. “I didn’t know the cello very well, but my mother loved it, I loved the sound, and I thought it would be a good size for me,” she says.
Within six months of her first cello lesson, Allison won her first competition, against children who had been playing for years. She seemed to be racing ahead, winning competitions right and left. She was invited to play with some of the world’s finest symphonies.
But her success is not without its price. With all that practicing and performing she’s involved in, there’s not a lot of time to spare for other activities. “Of course I feel like I’m missing out on other things all the time,” she says. “But with Church, schoolwork, and my cello, there just isn’t a lot of time for other things.”
It hasn’t been an easy choice for Allison to give up those other things, but she puts her shoulder to the wheel and follows through. “I know that if I want to accomplish the goals I have in mind, I have to make sacrifices,” she says. “Yes, I wish I could go out and socialize with my friends more, and go to all the activities, but if I don’t allow a certain amount of time for my music, it just isn’t going to go anywhere.”
So what makes it all worthwhile? What is the reward for all this work and effort? Just watch Allison play, and you’ll understand. As she draws her bow across the strings, Allison closes her eyes, and you note a visible transformation. It’s as if she becomes one with her instrument, a part of the music. You begin to believe she was born to play the cello, and she becomes enveloped in an unmistakable rhapsody.
To Allison, the music is worth it. At 16 years of age, music has taught this “average” teenager that if you want to go somewhere in life, decisions and sacrifices have to be made. Whether you’re studying for a test, preparing for a mission, or doing anything else, to excel you’ve just got to put in the time.
Maybe Allison Eldredge isn’t such an average teenager after all. She’s learned an eternal principle at a young age. In music, as in everything else, the satisfaction you take out is proportionate to the effort you put in. Allison knows that effort and determination are just what it takes.

“I encouraged my brothers and sisters to participate in a bike-a-thon for cancer research. We also did it to remember our friend Stan Miller. He died last year of leukemia. We rode around Rossmoor Park, and our sponsors donated money for every mile we rode. Among us we earned $250 for the hospital. When we got done, I felt good. I want to do it every year.”
Kacie SeamonsLong Beach California East Stake

We think we know the difference between “friendly” competition and life. But sharp words and cutting remarks inflict wounds that leave ugly scars. The response is usually as vicious. I saw the absurdity of this attitude in a community league game I officiated several years ago. Two players on opposing teams were aggressively playing each other. Each time, as they went up and down the court, they intensified their verbal and physical exchanges. Finally, after several fouls were assessed, both players let all of their frustration out, and a fight ensued. I had found it interesting that the two players referred to each other by their first names, and after they had left the floor I remarked to a teammate that they seemed to be acquainted with each other. He replied, “They are. One is a bishop and the other is his ward clerk.” In the heat of competition we forget about our common brotherhood.

Generally I have lots of questions, both secular and religious. That is one of the reasons I became a librarian. A story is often told of me at a young age telling a family friend that my dream job was to sit in the top of a really big building in a comfy chair behind a mahogany desk. I would be surrounded by books, and people would come and ask me questions, and I would answer them. I have found my dream job because I just love questions. I love answering them, but I also love asking them. I am always the one who wants to know more, and the number of questions I have just keeps growing.

Now let me assure you that I am still working to find suitable answers for the majority of these questions, but the patience of hope allows me to continue in faith despite the confusions inherent in our limited views and the challenges of a mortal existence. However, there is one area in which I had practiced the patience of hope and was blessed to see actual change as I waited in patience on the Lord’s timing. This came in improving one of my own talents in music.

I have always loved music. I have sung, and I have played various instruments. But I also have a learning disability that impacts a lot of things, including my reading, attention, and spatial awareness. I found early on that these challenges really impacted my ability to read four lines of music at once. While I successfully played one line of music on my oboe throughout high school and most of college, I was never really able to learn to play the piano. That was a great sadness in my life, but, realizing that this particular skill was connected to my disability, I lived my life with the patience of hope that someday I would be able to have that skill. I really thought that this might be something that I would have to wait for even into the eternities.

However, as an adult, I felt the lack of my piano skill acutely and decided that I would focus some of my time on working to improve it. I was pretty sure that I would never be a virtuoso, but I knew I could at least try to magnify my talent in whatever way I was physically able. I figured that if I did not become angry or frustrated, then I could work through the trials and maybe gain just a little proficiency. So I began to practice.

The amazing thing was that I had improved because of a connection I had never expected. This was because I had waited on the Lord’s time, and He had guided me in the intervening years to take up tap dancing. Little did I know that the hand-eye coordination I had developed in tap dancing would connect to my piano playing in very fundamental ways. The Lord had opened a way to help me fulfill the blessings of my musical talent. Now I am still not a virtuoso, but I can play the piano and organ in my home and in church.

I am so grateful for the blessings that came into my life because of the patience of hope. I know that sometimes it just takes a little patience to find exactly where our talents lie. At other times it takes patience to let the Lord fulfill His promises to us by allowing our life experiences to put us in the right place to develop the skills we need to work together for our good.