Gospel Story Finder

As the waves of uncertainty pounded on our door during and after the divorce, our commitment to family home evening became more vital than ever. Regardless of whether or not all of us felt like attending, we pushed through and held an “official” family home evening each week. Sometimes emotional tirades preceded the event, but once the opening hymn began, the Spirit was evident and usually all was calm.
Even those who refused to join the group would leave their bedroom doors open, allowing the sweet sounds of hymns, prayers, and scriptures to do their holy work. By the time we began singing the closing hymn, I would glance around from the piano bench and often see all my children sitting together—a loving miracle and a testimony of the spirit that comes only when we follow the counsel of the prophet.

A few years ago, at the outset of 2011, I introduced to my family an idea that had been on my mind for some time. My brainstorm, received by some of my family with joy and excitement, and by others with a little anguish and trepidation, was to plan an excursion to backpack into the High Uinta Mountains in Utah and ascend Kings Peak. The High Uintas are a beautiful and rugged mountain range with plentiful opportunities for hiking, backpacking, and fishing. Unfortunately, each year some, who underestimate the rugged nature of this wilderness, get lost. Many are rescued after a few scary nights spent wandering the hills. Others experience serious injury, and in some cases lives are lost if the appropriate care is not taken. These are mountains that demand respect and will punish those who do not give it.

Kings Peak sits atop this range and stands supreme as the highest peak in the state of Utah. It is only accessible to those willing to pay the price of an arduous outdoor adventure. I had on multiple occasions stood at the top of Utah and looked over the miles and miles of spectacular views and thought that the moment had been perfect, only to realize that the one thing that would have improved that moment would be to have my wife and children with me. That was the origin of the adventure we would embark on during the summer of 2011.

As the sun rose on August 7, so did we. We ate breakfast, broke camp, and prepared for the day. I checked with each individual, balanced the loads, and adjusted backpacks. Satisfied, we gathered at the trailhead, prayed, took this picture that I love, and then departed. It was a glorious day; there was a brilliant blue sky, the temperature was perfect, and spirits were high. This was to be an incredible trip.

We made great progress for a while, but as the miles began to pile up enthusiasm began to wane. Charlie, for example, our youngest hiker, began to realize how long this day really would be. Discouraged, he slowed, and we slowed with him. I realized we were falling behind schedule and that I needed to do something to motivate him. To this day the kids tease me about the story that I made up as I held Charlie's hand and hiked, side-by-side with him for probably five miles. Somehow, ideas came to my mind and I weaved a tale of intrigue, aliens, explosions, betrayals, and surprises.

With Charlie distracted, our momentum increased. We made great progress for several miles and eventually we arrived at Henry's Fork Basin. Not long after, we came to our next obstacle. We had to cross a swelling Henry's Fork River. The bridge, constructed from trees and some rope, was safe, but crossing it tired and with the weight of the backpacks created some fear in a few of the team. After some coaching and motivation, everyone successfully forded the river.

At this point, the trail slopes into a significant ascent that would be our most challenging climb of this first day. Not long after we began to climb, we were faced with our next challenge; Doug, our son-in-law, began to suffer with respiratory problems. The closer we got to timber line, the altitude where the oxygen is too thin for trees to grow, the more serious Doug's problems became. Finally, after his courage and determination were overcome by his biological need for air, we were forced to stop again. After a prayer and a priesthood blessing, it was decided that Doug would leave his pack and begin walking. I hiked as fast as I could to the top of the ascent, dropped my pack and returned to carry Doug's to the top of the hill. From there we regrouped and moved forward to our camping spot at Dollar Lake.

That night, surrounded by my family in this beautiful place, we sang, told stories, and talked until one-by-one the kids and my wife retired to their sleeping bags. As is usually the case with me, I found myself sitting alone by a fire with an incredible sky full of stars and plenty of time to think. As I reflected on the day that had passed, I admit that a little pride set in as I mused at what a great leader I was. After all, during that day I had been presented with challenges of discouragement, exhaustion, fear, and even physical problems. In each case I had used my leadership toolkit to overcome the problems, and now, here we were. Not only that, but how awesome was it going to be to stand on top of Kings Peak with my loved ones. And how great was it going to be to send that picture out as our Christmas card to all my friends. That was going to be an accomplishment I would be proud of.

Well, there's a funny thing about pride; as soon as we begin to be puffed up in our own superiority and accomplishment, God has a knack for teaching us a lesson. The next day He took full advantage of that opportunity and taught me lessons I will never forget.

As we roused ourselves the next morning, we were excited to get moving. We were already behind schedule when we left, but I knew of a shortcut that would get us to the top quicker. As we arrived at the top of Gun Sight Pass, where a slight deviation would lead us to the shortcut, the spirit whispered, nay yelled at me, that it was not a good idea to take the shortcut. We obeyed and decided to take the longer trail considering that we could still make the top and get back down by midafternoon.

As we descended the back part of the pass, and subsequently began to climb, the rough terrain began to take a toll on my family. Over and over we rested and restarted. I started feeling anxious about our slowed progress. As we proceeded, our pace reduced even more. I began to move past anxiety to genuine worry as we were already into the afternoon hours and were not yet close to the peak. In my mind, we simply needed to move faster, so I continued to push.

We arrived at the base of the Anderson Pass. This pass marks the final ascent to the peak, an ascent that is very difficult as there is no path to speak of. From this point on it is a steep and tough climb over huge boulders. After a series of climbs and breaks, I arrived at another resting point and took a moment to look over my flock. It didn't look good. It was already deep into the afternoon, and with the exception of my wife and two daughters, the crew was moving slowly. I was becoming more and more worried and I began to come to the realization that my goal to have all of these people on top of this peak was dwindling away. We gathered in a family council to make a decision that would ultimately require the sacrifice of my badge of honor.

It became clear that getting all of us to the peak, was really not an option, so the question in front of us was whether or not we should split up to allow those still in good shape to make the peak while the others began the descent, or whether everyone would sacrifice the victory and descend together. During this council, I looked at our son Tim, then fourteen years old, and I saw the tears beginning to flow out from underneath his sunglasses. Tim has always had a tender heart and has enjoyed a special relationship with the Spirit. When I asked what was wrong, he replied, through his sobs, "we need to stay together." I was the experienced backpacker, he was just a child. In my confidence, I discounted his council.

We decided that I would turn around and help those who could not make it and still leave enough time to hike back to our camp before dark. My wife and two daughters would continue on to the peak and immediately follow us down to the camp. Yes, we were disappointed to come that close and not be able to attain the goal. It was hard to watch my wife and daughters scurry up the rocks towards the peak.

Anyway, down we went, and much to my worry, our pace had not sped up. In fact we were moving slower than ever. With time ticking away, I began to feel concerned and worried as I realized that there were no lights in any of the bags. After all, we had planned to be back at camp by midafternoon. I began to be even more worried as I arrived at the base of Gunsight Pass and looked back and saw, off in the distance, my wife, Jaime, and Maddie, following the wrong path, off into Painter Basin. This was a big problem, as it would quickly take them in the wrong direction to a very remote and unfamiliar territory with night quickly approaching.

At that moment, I began to question the decision to leave our flashlights at camp. I began to question our decision to split up. And I began to question how well I had prepared the team to navigate in the Uintas.

After a quick prayer, I made a decision, to send the crew I was with up the pass and I turned around and began to sprint back across the expanse of the valley. Once I got to the other side of the valley, I could see my girls afar off, after all they were hiking quickly to catch up with us, only they were still on the wrong path. I tried desperately to yell and wave in hopes that they would see, but at that moment, I had a serious problem. On the one hand I had the crew who were exhausted and struggling headed up Gun Sight Pass. On the other hand, although they were in good shape, my girls were headed the wrong way.

All the time, the day was turning into night. At that very poignant moment, all disappointment at not making the peak, and any other petty worry left me. I was completely helpless. The feelings of confidence and pride that I had enjoyed the night before were completely vacant.

It was at this moment that I realized that our successful reunion would be entirely out of my hands and that I was dependent on the Lord. The prayer I offered was brief but intense as I asked for guidance. I poured everything I could into it, expressed my willingness to submit to God's will, and waited for an answer.

My answer came. It was to turn around and get back with the part of my family struggling to get up Gun Sight Pass. I was not in a place to question the Lord so I turned, wiped the tears from my eyes and again sprinted back across the valley and scurried, as fast as I could up the pass. I caught up with my kids near the top and discovered that things were not going so well. Everyone was exhausted and discouraged. To top it off, my oldest daughter had a severely sprained ankle.

With determination, and after a prayer, asking the Lord to protect our family, we slowly but determinedly moved toward our camp. As we arrived, I was aware that the sun had gone down, darkness was creeping across the world, and the girls were still lost. I was terrified. After getting everyone settled, I grabbed a bag full of flashlights, enjoyed a brief drink of water, and headed back up the trail. I didn't know what to expect, but I knew I needed to go back. I was listening to the Lord at this point.

As I hiked, I cried. I rethought the day and the decisions that lead us to this point. While I knew I was doing what the Lord was telling me now, I could see the things I had done wrong previously in that very long day and realized that the price of my mistakes might be catastrophic. By now, it was dark. The light was gone. I was very worried and offered another prayer.

Although the path in front of me was illuminated by the light strapped to my forehead, there were three out there who were hiking in the dark. A few moments later as I hiked with all the energy I had left in my body, I saw the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. There they were, my wife and daughters, coming around the corner. I fell to my knees, exhausted and grateful. After a quick prayer of thanks, I ran to them and hugged them.

Back at the camp, I sat, surrounded by those people who are most important to me. Each of us, through the trials of the day had all the worldly concerns and pride stripped away. Although my wife and two daughters had reached the peak, my goal was not accomplished. That didn't matter, for I had gained something more valuable. I learned lessons of critical importance. The worldlypride of boasting that my family reached the peak had been stripped away and replaced by a contentment that I cannot describe. Oh how I rejoiced as we sat there in love with one another and feeling the joy of the Lord.

I know a man in Bucaramanga, Columbia. Now if you don’t know where Bucaramanga is, it’s close to Barrancabermeja. He joined the Church about ten years ago, and, the first time the mission president came through that city, the mission president had the difficult job of telling his brother that he would not be able to occupy certain positions in the Church, nor would he be able to perform the ordinances of the Church. This good black brother was hurt, was offended, just like the sister of Canaan, yet he trusted in the Lord. Even not understanding, he remained faithful. Some eight years later the revelation (to give priesthood to all) was received. Last December I was assigned to go to Bucaramanga to form the first stake in that city. I was thrilled, I was inspired, I enjoyed that stake conference as few other spiritual occasions because, as I interviewed the various priesthood leaders of that stake, there was that moment of inspiration when I saw the mantle of the Lord descend upon Brother Insignares, that handsome black man, and he was called as the new stake president. It was a moment of great rejoicing to place my hands on his head and with that special authority ordain him a high priest and set him apart as the first stake president in Bucaramanga. He is a man whom I honor and respect highly. For many long years he trusted in the Lord even though he did not understand.

Let me tell you of an important event that we have had in the Church in the last few months. Not too far from Church headquarters, in Idaho, there was a great tragedy. A great earthwork dam collapsed. There were 17 miles of water backed up in the canyon behind the dam. All of that was loosed on the valley below. It was a beautiful, quiet, sunny Saturday morning. Just below in the valley were two or three little communities—7,800 people in all. A few miles farther down the valley were another 25,000 to 30,000 people, almost all of them Latter-day Saints. All were going about their work, getting ready for Sunday.
The first place the water hit was the Wilford Ward area. It was washed away, all of it: all of the houses, all of the barns, all of the fences. The ward chapel was completely destroyed. The ward was gone, just like that.
Then the water hit Sugar City. The same thing happened. Sugar City was gone. The stake center stood and a few of the houses, but they were terribly damaged. The water broke into the wall of the stake center and picked up all of the benches and just tore the inside of the building out. Then it broke out the other wall and went on its way.
In all, 790 homes were destroyed. Many of them vanished without a trace. Some places you could see a cement foundation. Another 800 homes and many businesses and churches and schools were badly damaged.
Now you are wondering about the people, about the 25,000 Latter-day Saints, all in the face of this flood that Saturday morning. Very few died by drowning. Only six. That is a miracle. An expert said that 5,300 should have perished.
But only six died by drowning. How could that be? They couldn’t just run upstairs and get on the roof and be safe, because the houses were washed away. They couldn’t just run up on the hill—most of them had several miles to go before they reached safety. Then how were they saved? There was a warning. It was only a short one. Some of them only had a few minutes. But there was a warning. And Latter-day Saints pay attention to warnings. If we are living righteously, we are easily warned. And so, the word went out just before noon that the dam was beginning to crumble. Those who heard obeyed the scripture. Let me read another verse or two from the Doctrine and Covenants.
“Behold, I sent you out to testify and warn the people, and it becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor.” (D&C 88:81.)
And that is what happened in Idaho. Some of them heard, and they began to warn their neighbors. Now how did they do that? Call them on the telephone? “It’s a beautiful day today, a nice day for a ride. Do you think you would like to go over to Rexburg some time this afternoon and visit the college? It’s up on the hill. Oh, you are too busy. Well, you think about it, and I’ll call later this afternoon.” No! no! That isn’t the way it was! If they got them on the phone they didn’t speak, they screamed: “The dam is breaking! Get your children! Get to high ground!” They ran from neighbor to neighbor. And they knocked on the door, and if no one would open, they kicked the door down or smashed in the window to warn them.
Only six drowned. What about them? One was a fisherman just below the dam. He had no warning. Two people heard the warning but didn’t believe it. They were found in their car, but they had moved too late. Three others heard the warning but went back to get some of their possessions. Latter-day Saints pay attention to warnings.
There are pages of miracles that took place individually. One young man was in town when he heard the warning. He knew that his parents were not at home out on the farm, but his little sister was there, and she was sick in bed. When it was all over, she had been saved.
One father was at the college in Rexburg doing some work that Saturday morning; someone knocked on his door and said, “Turn on your radio; I’ve heard that the dam is breaking.” He thought of his wife and the boys out irrigating on the farm. And he had the car. There was no time for him to go. When it was all over with, his wife and his children were there with him, warned and rescued by the neighbors. Now there is a great message in this.

Calmly the bishop turned his head toward the sacrament table and gave the dreaded “no” sign. The young priest had missed a word while blessing the sacrament.
Give the kid a break, I thought to myself, trying in vain to transmit my brainwaves to the bishopric. After all, this was Billy we were talking about. This was a kid who had a tough enough time talking in complete sentences, let alone reading prayers in front of a congregation of people, speaking words verbatim from a card.
Just a week before, Billy’s dad had ordained him a priest. With that prayer came a promise that the Lord would help him overcome his handicaps. The following Sunday, that promise was put to the test. Billy was kneeling behind the sacrament table, confronted with a task that demanded nothing less than perfection.
Billy prayed again, and with loving composure, the bishop once again signaled for him to say the prayer over. Billy’s face filled with disappointment as he dropped to his knees, cleared his throat, and prayed. An anxious reverence filled the chapel.
As Billy began again, I prayed along with him, mouthing each word as if I could somehow control his speech. Amazingly, the technique seemed to be working. With only a few phrases to go, Billy’s prayer was perfect. And then the unthinkable happened as the words that I mouthed and Billy spoke went suddenly out of sync.
There would be no need for Billy to look at the bishop. Billy knew he had to start over. For one awkward and eternal moment he remained on his knees as all eyes focused on the bishopric. And then Andy arose from the congregation, walked quietly to the sacrament table, and knelt down next to his younger brother.
Bowing our heads in gratitude, we waited for Andy to offer the prayer and put an end to Billy’s suffering. But it was Billy’s voice—not Andy’s—that broke the silence. I held my breath as Billy tiptoed through the phrases with his brother at his side.
Then at last came “amen,” and the bishop smiled and nodded.
Billy emerged from behind the sacrament table wearing the same big grin he seemed to always have. For one sweet moment he had tasted perfection, and he knew it. We all knew it, and I more fully understood the wisdom of our bishop.
He was well aware of Billy’s weaknesses. But he loved Billy. He loved him enough to allow him the chance to magnify his priesthood and to let him try and fail until he found perfection.
In that perfect prayer that Billy uttered, we were all lifted and edified. We all saw a priest of great courage who knelt with his older brother and preached a powerful sermon from the sacrament table.

While at Eastmont Junior High, Dene was approached by Coach Massey. He knew Dene played soccer and asked him to try kicking a football. Coach Massey was impressed with what he saw. When he moved up to be freshman coach at Alta High School, he asked Dene, who was to be a freshman at Alta in the fall, to come and try out for the freshman team. Dene was kicking so well that Coach Massey sent him to see Coach Berry, who needed a place kicker for the varsity team. And so the 105-pound freshman soccer star found himself competing with two big, strong seniors for the varsity job. When Dene stepped up and booted a 45-yarder, the seniors both started making other plans for the football season.

This story reminds me of an experience I had when I was an undergraduate student here at BYU. Being at college can be a really exciting time, but I found that it was also really challenging. And my guess is that although our specific challenges may be different, you can relate to how hard it was at times. My last semester was probably my most difficult semester emotionally, and I felt as if the wind and waves of life might sink me. My mom had passed away the previous year, and though I did not recognize it at the time, I was experiencing depression. Nothing felt exciting to me, and life did not really feel worth living. Every day it seemed that the best I could do was just to go through the motions.

On top of that, I had just completed an internship working in an orphanage in Eastern Europe. After seeing so many young children abandoned and neglected, I had a hard time seeing how my classes were meaningful, so I did not attend class as much as I should have. And then, of course, I wondered why I was not doing as well as I wanted to on some of my exams.

I had chosen public health as my major, and I had thought that by my last semester I would know just what to do with my life. But with graduation only months and then weeks away, I realized that I was clueless—maybe more clueless than I had ever been. Of course I did what most any BYU student would do: I prayed for direction. I prayed and I prayed. And I felt absolutely nothing. I was so discouraged and afraid. I felt as if I were in that boat with the disciples trying to shake the Savior awake, only this time He kept on sleeping. Where was the peace, and why had He abandoned me?

Now, in hindsight, I can see that the Lord was wide awake and calming the storm. He sent a friend who gave me encouragement and advice as I was having a meltdown in the process of applying to master of public health programs. I ran into one of my favorite professors who suggested that I apply to a program I had never heard of before but that I ended up attending. Even though I could not feel the Spirit guiding me—maybe that was because of my depression, maybe because I was still learning to interpret how the Spirit spoke to me, or maybe because He wanted to empower me to work things out—I now see that He still inspired my logic and reasoning so that I could figure out the next steps.

Eventually my inner storms were calmed. The depression lifted. I had a wonderful experience in my graduate program. I now realize that figuring out what to do with your life is a lifelong process, but I have loved the path that the Lord has guided me on.

Countless were the reports we heard of those who were touched in some way—either directly or indirectly—by the events of that day. Rebecca Sindar was on a flight from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Dallas, Texas, on the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Her flight, like all others in the United States at that time of tragedies, was interrupted; the plane was grounded in Amarillo, Texas. Sister Sindar reported: “We all left the plane and found televisions in the airport, where we crowded around to see the broadcast of what had happened. People were lined up to call loved ones to assure them we were safely on the ground. I shall always remember the 12 or so missionaries who were on their way to the mission field on our flight. They made phone calls, and then we saw them huddled in a circle in a corner of the airport, kneeling in prayer together. How I wish I could have captured that moment to share with the mothers and fathers of those sweet young men as they saw the need for prayer right away.”

“During our annual planning meeting at the beginning of the year, we planned several service projects in our quorums and classes. One was when my quorum helped a family in our ward trim the large tree in their backyard.
“It was pretty awesome! We worked on the tree with chainsaws and branch cutters. With all of us working together, we finished in no time at all. It was also really fun because we got to use power tools. We’d just been looking for an opportunity to serve as a quorum when we heard of this family’s need. At the end, our quorum and the family were very happy!”
Andrew S., 14, Arizona, USA

When I was nine years old, my family purchased a farm and moved to the small town of Fairfield, Utah. I felt that life there was the best a young boy could possibly have. I was fortunate enough to have three outstanding friends my age. In the summertime we swam in a natural swimming hole filled with clear well water. In the wintertime we ice-skated on frozen sinkholes.
Each year as winter approached, a number of sheep herds came through town. One year one of the herds camped about a mile from our home so that the sheep could graze on the sagebrush-covered floor of the valley. The sheepherder left in charge stopped his horse-drawn wagon, which he called a “sheep camp,” not far from a large gully. I remember wondering what life as a sheepherder was like. So with the permission of my parents, I rode my horse out to the sheep camp and introduced myself to the sheepherder. We developed an immediate friendship, and although it only lasted a very short time, it taught me a valuable lesson.
One day as I arrived at his camp, he was about to saddle up and ride around the herd to make sure that everything was all right. He had selected a horse I had never seen him ride before, and the horse seemed nervous. Usually my friend kept the saddle on a cart wheel and simply threw it onto his horse. After buckling the cinch, he would mount the horse and ride past the rear door of the camp, away from the gully, and toward the sheep. It seemed to me he had mastered the art of taking as few steps as possible in accomplishing all these tasks.
This day was different. He watched the horse very carefully. He seemed to take more time than usual in putting the saddle on and in making sure that all the rigging was just right. When he finished, I expected him to just get on the horse as he always had. Instead, he led the horse away from both the sheep camp and the gully.
I followed him and asked about this sudden change in procedure. His answer taught me a lesson that has been important all my life. He said, “This horse isn’t fully broken and therefore can’t be fully trusted. He’s apt to buck or run off in any direction. I didn’t want him to be near the sheep camp or the gully when I got on, for fear he’d begin to buck and get tangled up in the sheep camp and get hurt, or fall into the gully—then we’d both get hurt. So I brought him out here where there’s plenty of room for him to make whatever mistakes he is going to make without getting either of us hurt.”

Let me answer from my own experience. In 1963 I was called to preside over the Scottish Mission. When I arrived, I made a tour of all the branches and could see that the members, many of whom were new converts, were still learning the patterns of the gospel and why we do things the way we do. I realized that what these branches needed was the example of members who were well seasoned in Church experience—priesthood and Relief Society knowledge and operating procedures. I thought of the vast numbers of healthy retired people sitting in rocking chairs on sunny patios when they still had many years of productivity in them. I could visualize how successful we could be in Scotland if we had some of those experienced retired couples in some of our branches. What a help they would be!

So I wrote to some of our retired friends in California, encouraging them to come on a mission and suggesting that they indicate on their missionary applications that they would enjoy serving in Scotland. Seven couples responded to my encouragement.

In addition, as a mission president I submitted my request to the Missionary Department for couple missionaries. Since assignments for missionary service are made by inspiration through the Brethren, there was no guarantee that these couples from California would be able to serve with me. However, to our mutual joy, these seven couples were assigned to the Scottish Mission, and we put them to work in these branches. Their influence was just as successful as I had hoped it would be. What a wonderful resource they were!

The following spiritual experiences speak well for the close relationship Wilford Woodruff had with his Father in Heaven:
—“My missions have been by [the] Spirit of revelation. I was told to go to the Fox Islands [off the coast of northeastern U.S.] by that same still small voice. In the time of the great apostasy in Kirtland the Spirit of the Lord said to me, ‘Get you a partner and go to Fox Islands.’ I knew no more what was in Fox Islands than what was in Kolob. I went there, however, baptized a hundred.”
—Once when he was lost in a severe storm, “groping like the blind for the wall, a bright light suddenly shone around us, and revealed to us our dangerous situation at the edge of a gulf. The light continued with us until we found the road. We then went on our way rejoicing, though the darkness returned and the rain continued.”
—Another time, after he had parked his carriage for the night and he and his family had retired in it, a voice said to him, “Get up, and move your carriage.” A short while later, a big, heavy tree, caught by a whirlwind, was thrown where his carriage had been parked.
—While in London as a missionary, he had a terrifying experience with a “prince of darkness. … As he was about to overcome me I prayed to the Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, for help. I then had power over him and he left me, though I was much wounded. Afterwards three men dressed in white came to me and prayed with me, and I was healed immediately of all my wounds, and delivered of my troubles.”
—“Two weeks before I left St. George, the spirits of the dead gathered around me [in the temple], wanting to know why we did not redeem them. Said they, ‘… We laid the foundation of the government you now enjoy, and we never apostatized from it, but we remained true to it and were faithful to God.’

“These were the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and they waited on me for two days and two nights. … I straightway went into the baptismal font and called upon Brother McAllister to baptize me for the signers of the Declaration of Independence and fifty other eminent men, making one hundred in all.”

“I love the Personal Progress program. I have learned to do things I never knew I could,” says Mindy Sutton of the Twenty Wells Ward. Mindy believed a choir experience would help the youth in her Grantsville Utah Stake feel the Spirit in their lives, and Mindy needed a Laurel project. So she organized and directed a choir for stake Standards Night.
But the task wasn’t easy. Mindy says although she loves music, she has no natural ability. In fact, she was very discouraged after the first practice. “It was so hard to be in front of my peers trying to tell them what to do. But my stake leaders encouraged me to pray for help and promised the Lord would bless me.”
She went home and fasted and prayed. Her prayers were answered when the choir’s outstanding performance two months later not only brought the Spirit into the choir members’ lives but inspired those in attendance.
“I feel a lot closer to my Heavenly Father and know He has helped me so much,” Mindy says.

I conclude with an example from my own life. I once had a treasured friend who seemed to experience more of life’s troubles and frustrations than he could bear. Finally he lay in the hospital terminally ill. I knew not that he was there.
Sister Monson and I had gone to that same hospital to visit another person who was very ill. As we exited the hospital and proceeded to where our car was parked, I felt the distinct impression to return and make inquiry concerning whether my friend Hyrum might still be a patient there. A check with the clerk at the desk confirmed that Hyrum was indeed a patient there after many weeks.
We proceeded to his room, knocked on the door, and opened it. We were not prepared for the sight that awaited us. Balloon bouquets were everywhere. Prominently displayed on the wall was a poster with the words "Happy Birthday, Daddy" written on it. Hyrum was sitting up in his hospital bed, his family members by his side. When he saw us, he said, “Brother Monson, how in the world did you know that today is my birthday?” I smiled, but I left the question unanswered.
Those in the room who held the Melchizedek Priesthood surrounded this, their father and grandfather and my friend, and a priesthood blessing was given.
After tears were shed, smiles of gratitude exchanged, and tender hugs received and given, I leaned over to Hyrum and spoke softly to him: “Remember the words of the Lord, for they will sustain you. He promised you, ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you’ (John 14:18).”

On a Monday evening not long ago, my wife, Lesa, and I stopped by the home of a young family in our neighborhood. While we were there, the family invited us to stay for family home evening, telling us their nine-year-old son had prepared the lesson. Of course we stayed!
Following the opening song, prayer, and family business, the nine-year-old began by reading an insightful question included in his handwritten lesson: “How does the Holy Ghost help you?” This question began a meaningful family discussion as everyone shared ideas and insights. I was impressed by our teacher’s lesson preparation and his very good question, which stirred in me over and over again.
Since then, I have continued to ask myself, “How does the Holy Ghost help you?”—a question especially relevant for Primary children turning eight and preparing for baptism and for those children who have recently been baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. It is also relevant for the thousands of recent converts.

I recall the time I approached baptism, when I was eight years of age. My mother talked with me about repentance and about the meaning of baptism; and then, on a Saturday in September of 1935, she took me on a streetcar to the Tabernacle baptistry which, until recently, was here in this building. At the time it was not as customary as it is now for fathers to baptize their children, since the ordinance was generally performed on a Saturday morning or afternoon, and many fathers were working at their daily professions or trades. I dressed in white and was baptized. I remember that day as though it were yesterday and the happiness I felt at having had this ordinance performed.

Over the years and particularly during the time I served as a bishop, I witnessed many other baptisms in the Tabernacle font. Each was a special and inspiring occasion, and each served to remind me of my own baptism.

by Ruth Duffin
As we piled into the automobiles that would take us on the first lap of our field trip, we paid little attention to the warning hanging heavy in the overcast skies. For weeks we had been planning a re-enactment of the last few miles of the pioneer trek into the Salt Lake Valley, and now that it was here, we were determined to have as realistic and exciting an experience as possible. The clouds added to the atmosphere: after all, hadn’t the real pioneers awakened many times to the threat of stormy weather? We, the Tooele, Utah, seminary students, felt equally ready for the challenge!

The morning began with a devotional, followed by a film presentation concerning the historical spots we would be visiting in our journey from Tooele to Henefer and then up Big Mountain. By the time we arrived in Henefer, splotches of rain could be seen through the windshields of our cars. When we reached Big Mountain, it was raining and hailing so hard that we decided that those who wanted to hike the three miles up the mountain could do so, and those who didn’t want to could ride to the top in cars. We unloaded the large handcart, thankful that, unlike the first pioneers, we could send the contents up in a safe and dry automobile. Nancy Stewart, one of our historians, recorded the hike in her journal:

At the beginning, our journey was quite easy, but soon our troubles began. First the right wheel of the handcart fell off, so we had to stop and repair it. We were on our way again, doing quite well, when the wheel fell off again, and again and again. We finally just took it off and carried the right side of the handcart.

The trail was really wet and slippery. We had a few falls, but none were really serious. The left wheel was also giving us quite a few problems, and finally it got so bad we just took it off and carried the whole handcart. We thought about leaving it behind but decided against it. We continued trudging along through the rain and mud, singing a few hymns when things got rough.

When we finally looked down into the valley, we stood at the monument where Brigham Young had declared, “This is the right place.” We were grateful that our time on the old pioneer trail had consisted of only an afternoon and felt much greater appreciation for those courageous pioneers who had been willing and determined to make the whole trip.

It was my experience as a small boy to come under the influence of such a teacher. In our Sunday School class, she taught us concerning the Creation of the world, the Fall of Adam, and the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
One Sunday morning she announced sadly to us the death of a classmate’s mother. We had missed Billy that morning but knew not the reason for his absence. The lesson featured the theme, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Midway through the lesson, our teacher closed the manual and asked, “How much money do we have in our class party fund?”
Depression days prompted a proud answer: “Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Then she suggested, “Billy’s family is hard-pressed and grief-stricken. What would you think of the possibility of visiting the family members this morning and giving to them your fund?”
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Tears glistened in the eyes of all as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the hand of our teacher to the hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. A God-inspired teacher had taught her boys and girls an eternal lesson of divine truth: “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

This was well illustrated in my father’s patriarchal blessing. He was told in his blessing that he would be blessed with “many beautiful daughters.” He and my mother became the parents of five sons. There were no daughters born to them, but of course they treated the wives of their sons as daughters. This last summer when we had a family reunion, I saw my father’s granddaughters moving about tending to the food and ministering to the young children and the elderly, and the realization came to me that Father’s blessing had been literally fulfilled; he has, indeed, many beautiful daughters. The patriarch who gave my father his blessing had spiritual vision to see beyond this life. There was a disappearance of the dividing line between time and eternity.

Before each game at BYU the captains of the two teams meet at the center circle with the referees and go through a meaningless ritual where nothing of real significance is said. But on the day we played Notre Dame, a referee friend of mine said something during that meeting that really hit home with me. He said, “Men, we referees are going to work hard tonight. We’re going to make some mistakes, but you work hard too.”
I remembered his words, and the game began. During the last few minutes, I went up for a rebound, and a bigger Notre Dame player knocked me to the floor. As I lay there, I looked up, and the referee pointed down and indicated that the foul was on me. Surprised at his decision, I got up off the floor. I smiled at the referee and said, “You know, you were right in what you said before the game.” He looked at me with a puzzled expression. I continued, “You said you were going to make some mistakes tonight, and you just made a big one.” We looked at each other, and we both had a good laugh and continued to play.