Gospel Story Finder

In 1958 a group of MIT students who decided to measure the distance across the Harvard Bridge that spans the Charles River between Boston and Cambridge, Massachusetts. Exactly how they came to the decision that this action was needed is not clear but I suspect a certain level of alcohol, perhaps a substantial level of alcohol, was part of the decision process. The choice of measurement was probably also influenced by alcohol. The measurement was not in feet, inches, meters, not in any standard unit of measure but in terms of the height of a fellow classmate. His name was Oliver R. Smoots and this is what the students decided to do with him in order to measure the length of the Harvard Bridge. Smoots was placed horizontally on the bridge and every time he was laid down the distance between the bottom of his feet and the top of his head was marked. The distance between his feet and head was labeled a "Smoots" . And on this particular night the Harvard Bridge was measured in Smoots. I believe that a "Smoot"  is roughly 5 feet 7 inches in length.

I first discovered this unique measurement when I was jogging over the bridge and saw the distinctive and rather odd markings. First, five stoops were marked then ten stoops until I reached the end of the bridge where I discovered the Harvard Bridge is 364.4 Smoots in length "Plus or minus one ear."  There is no indication about whose ear was used but I assume it was Mr. Smoots. This event is has been reenacted multiple times. The tradition is over 50 years old.

Does it matter how a bridge is measured, or for that matter, how we measure our lives and the direction of our lives? I believe it does. For example when I flew to Honolulu this weekend I traveled about 3100 miles between Salt Lake City, Utah and Honolulu, Hawaii. The pilot of the plane calculated the distance of the flight, the weight of the plane, and the expected temperature and head and tail winds the flight would face. He then calculated how much fuel he needed. When I am in the middle of the Pacific Ocean I want to make sure our pilot did his calculations correctly. But what if instead of measure in miles the pilot had measured the distance in Smoots? If the plane had started out from Salt Lake and been off target because Smoots are imprecise I might not be here today. I want my pilots to use the best and most accurate method to calculate the jet fuel need to fly to Hawaii from the mainland.

Now think about being off in how you measure your life by just a small amount. Perhaps you miss judge by only one "Smoot"  or some other inappropriate measure the results could even be more disastrous. In this case the trip, the trip of life, is not 3100 miles here the trip covers eternity. And the implication of missing something that has eternal implications is almost impossible to comprehend. We need to clarify what we use to measure and validate our lives. I hope as fun as it might sound to use Smoots to measure distance the process is simply too crude to be of any significant use.

During my sophomore year of high school, I became friends with Courtney. Initially I’d known her only by her reputation as “the cool party girl,” but then she was in my math class and we had many mutual friends. I was surprised when she took an instant liking to me and was so willing to become my friend. Because of my standards, I didn’t attend the high school parties she did, and I didn’t fit in with her lifestyle at the time.
But things changed after a few simple conversations. Before I knew it, we were quickly becoming best friends. Courtney began going to parties less and instead began coming over to my house. She would occasionally attend church with my family and me. I was thrilled! I could see that Courtney was thirsty for knowledge about the Church.
I wondered what had prompted her to make these changes in her lifestyle, so I asked her. I will never forget when she told me that she was impressed by my lifestyle and how happy I was all the time. She wanted to be my friend, but she didn’t think I would want to be hers. I found this funny because I used to feel the same way about her.
I believe that as youth in the Church, we should all “stand as witnesses of God at all times” (Mosiah 18:9), because people are watching us. I’m grateful for my opportunity to be an example to Courtney, who was eventually baptized five years after our math class together. I’ve never felt any feeling like I did when I watched Courtney be baptized, and I will never forget the smile on her face as she came out of the waters of baptism.

A number of years ago, because of a statement that appeared to represent the policy of the Church, a faithful member feared he was supporting the wrong candidate for public office. Humbly he took the matter up with the Lord. Through the Spirit of the Lord he gained the conviction of the course he should follow, and he dropped his support of this particular candidate.

This good brother, by fervent prayer, got the answer that in time proved to be the right course.

We have a sweet young woman who is a convert to the Church. Her father is a Baptist minister. I spoke to a group of young adults and counseled them regarding temple marriage as President Kimball has asked that we do. Later in a testimony meeting, she said, “I am a convert to the Church. My father is a Baptist minister. It just about broke his heart when I joined the Mormon Church. The only hope to which he could cling to salvage his ‘wayward’ daughter was to perform the wedding ceremony when I get married. Not only will he not be able to perform the ceremony, but he will not even be able to see me married. I love him and mother dearly, but I must follow the prophet’s counsel to be married in the temple.” Many thousands of people listen to the missionaries and believe the Church is true. Some confess they have a testimony of the truth of the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith. However, when they consider the many supposed pleasures of life that they will have to deny themselves, they ask the missionaries not to return.

Many cannot deny themselves the physical gratification of a cigarette, a glass of liquor, or the other vices. And so in one moment, which they will never forget in eternity, they dash to pieces an opportunity to follow in the footsteps of Jesus and become joint heirs with him in the kingdom of our Father.

Some months ago I had a conversation with a young father. He was desperately trying to meet his financial obligations and at the same time graduate from college, work, support his young family, attend church, read the scriptures, and do everything that was expected of him. He seemed like a boxer--half groggy, half conscious--listening to the countdown by the referee. He seemed almost relieved with the thought that, with the sound of the bell, it would all be over.
With a note of desperation in his voice, he said, "What's the use of continuing this crazy kind of life, disciplining, working, sacrificing? Anyway, I'm a failure at what I have been doing." His perception was wrong. Again, the adversary was using his favorite weapon: to distort the perception of our spiritual identity and potential and to transform us from agents to victims of the system. How can we face this constant challenge? How could this young man come out of this depression? The answer is relatively simple. Perceive correctly the Spirit of the Lord and feel the companionship and influence of the Holy Ghost. Do not turn your heart from the Lord because of the precepts of man. There is the power, the strength, the will to overcome despair about one's responsibilities and role in this life.

I think of the woman I met in the Dominican Republic right after Christmas in 1983. Some missionaries and I were sitting in her San Francisco home as she told us of the dramatic changes Church membership had brought into her life. I was impressed with her courage in blazing trails through habits and traditions she felt needed to be changed. My faith was strengthened as this great pioneer soul spoke of her deepest feelings about Jesus Christ and her joy in discovering the gospel.

I cried as I had to leave. We had been together for only a short while, yet I felt as if I had known her forever. As my companions and I walked down the street, I kept looking back to wave. She was still waving back as we turned a corner and lost sight of her radiant face.

I went on a two-day school field trip with other fifth and sixth graders to study paleontology. I shared a motel room with three of my friends. One of my friends found a Bible in the nightstand drawer. He flipped through some of the pages and then asked me if I would help him read it. I was surprised that he didn’t know any of the Bible stories I thought everyone knew. I taught him about the Creation, Adam and Eve, and the Resurrection. I also told him about Joseph Smith. I told him some of the stories I learned in Primary.
Afterward, I felt like we should have a prayer. I let my friend say the prayer. I led him through it by saying one phrase at a time and having him repeat it. I had a warm feeling, and my friend said he felt good inside.
I never expected that to happen on a school field trip. I was glad that when I had an opportunity to be a missionary, I was prepared and I wasn’t afraid to share my beliefs.

Branch members’ cars slowly follow each other convoy-style down farm lanes past stubble fields toward the beach cliffs. It is a cold Canadian Thanksgiving day, but that isn’t unusual for Prince Edward Island. In a few months occasional Greenland icebergs will further chill the air and water as they lie grounded offshore waiting to melt free.
Everyone scurries to the protection of the cliffs above the beach, and once they are out of the wind, families gather together and wait for the service to begin.
Every family in the Summerside Branch turns out for the baptism of John Simon and Mary Pearl Keeping. It isn’t long before the field looks like a parking lot. Even 90 miles isn’t too much of a drive when you can welcome a new family into the Church.
Brother and Sister Keeping carefully make their way down the rocky cliff to the beach below. They want to be baptized in the sea on this Thanksgiving day.
Occasionally lobster traps break loose and are washed ashore. One such trap is used for a music stand and another one serves as a chair during the confirmation service.
Everyone, including the children, feels a special spirit as the group sings and prays together in a short service before the baptism.
The water is shallow, and it takes several minutes of walking through breakers before the baptismal party reaches water deep enough. The Keepings say they do not notice the cold of the air or the water. After they are baptized, friends lovingly wrap them in warm blankets before they are confirmed members of the Church.

I have a friend who got married recently, and I gave her a Liahona magazine that talks about marriage and the sacred responsibility to love each other and care for each other. Even though my friend is not a member, she read the magazine with her husband, and she thanked me sincerely because it helped her strengthen her marriage. The Liahona brings blessings to both members and nonmembers.
Beatriz de Guaigua, Venezuela

My friends in Nauvoo, Elder and Sister Woods, have a deep and abiding love for the Savior and his servant Joseph Smith. They said, “Every day our experiences here give more indications of [their] greatness.” To close their letter, the Woods spoke about the spirit of Joseph that still permeates the City Beautiful and related a tender experience about John.

John (not his real name), about thirty years old, walked into the visitors’ center alone, where he was greeted by the Woods and asked if he’d like to take a tour—the Woods asked how much time he had. John answered, “As long as it takes to see it all.” John said he was a member but had not been inside a church in almost twenty years.

I paraphrase Brother Woods’ story as follows:

I was prompted to conduct him as though he knew nothing about the Church and began the tour about the founding of Nauvoo, the First Vision, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and the organization of the Church. I asked him often, “Do you remember hearing about that in Primary?” And many times he affirmed that he did remember.

I bore my testimony to John. Next I took him into the theater to see Remembering Nauvoo. John was the only one there for the film. As the movie began, I withdrew, but returned twenty minutes later just as John exited. He had enjoyed the presentation, and we continued the tour.

This part includes details about the city of Nauvoo and its temple—during which we arrived at the Christus statue, where we played the message of the Savior. Generally I don’t bear my testimony here, but for some reason I sat down beside him and afterward bore my testimony about Jesus Christ.

I saw tears come to his eyes and felt impressed to say, “John, when you return home to Florida, will you seek out your bishop and tell him you want to become actively involved in the Church? Ask him what you have to do, and he will advise and help you all the way.” John looked me in the eye and promised me he would do that. The tour continued to the martyrdom scene, and I again bore testimony—this time as to Joseph Smith being a true prophet. Again John’s eyes moistened [and] we continued on to the Saints’ arrival in Salt Lake and the temple there. I explained that my temple marriage to Sister Wood was for time and eternity—if we live worthy. John said, “Awesome.”

We completed the tour and said our emotional good-byes. But John stopped and turned and said, “Can I ask you a very important question?” I answered, “By all means.” John asked, “When you started the movie, did you stay in the theater with me or did you leave?” I told him I had left—why? John answered with tears in his eyes, “All during the movie I kept looking over my shoulder to see who else was in the theater.” I asked him who he thought was there. He said, “I guess my grandparents are trying to tell me to clean up my act.” By this point he was crying openly. We embraced and wept joyful tears together. I told him I loved him and knew he was sent to us not by chance. Elder Wood closed this account by saying, “It is the spirit . . . of Joseph Smith [in Nauvoo] that allows experiences like this . . . and gives us the hope and courage to carry on and endure to the end.”

Sophie had a problem.
Mother’s Day was coming, and she wanted to give Mom a gift. Mom was going to have a baby, and she had to stay in bed so the baby could grow stronger. Sophie thought staying in bed sounded like the most boring thing in the world! So she wanted to give Mom something special to cheer her up. But she didn’t have any money to buy a present.
After school Sophie went to Mom’s room. She climbed up on the bed and got comfy.
“Tell me about your day,” Mom said.
Sophie started telling Mom about a silly poem she wrote about parrots in polka-dot pants parading around the park. Then she thought of her problem. Her voice trailed off, and her eyebrows scrunched up.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“I don’t have any money to buy you a present for Mother’s Day!” Sophie blurted out.
Mom smiled and patted Sophie’s hand. “Oh, honey. The best presents come from the heart,” she said. “Besides, you and Dad and the new baby are all the presents I need.”
Sophie sighed. Mom was always saying stuff like that. But Sophie still wanted to get her a present.
That night Sophie knelt by her bed.
“Heavenly Father, please help me think of a present I can give Mom for Mother’s Day,” she prayed.
In the morning, Sophie hadn’t even opened her eyes yet when an idea popped into her brain! She hopped out of bed and ran to tell Dad what she wanted to do.
“That’s a great idea,” he said. “Mom will love it.”
Since it was Saturday and she didn’t have school, Sophie got to work on her idea right away. She got out paper, markers, and scissors. She got out glitter glue and stickers. She used a ruler to draw a rectangle. Then she carefully cut around the edges.
In her best handwriting, Sophie wrote, “This coupon is good for a hug and a kiss.”
Sophie made another coupon for setting the table. She made one for picking up baby toys. She made one for washing windows. With each coupon, Sophie thought about how much she loved Mom. Soon she had a colorful stack. She wrapped them in gold paper and tied a ribbon around the bundle.
On Mother’s Day morning, Sophie handed the shiny package to Mom.
Mom smiled as she opened the crinkly paper. Her smile got even bigger when she saw what was inside.
“Thank you, Sophie! This is the best present ever,” she said, pulling Sophie into a hug.
Sophie felt warm and happy inside. Mom was right. The best presents did come from the heart.

You know, it wasn’t long after my “you look holy” experience, however, that I painfully realized as the great poet Robert Frost so eloquently put it that I had “miles to go before I sleep.”[9] There were multiple personal exhibits, of course, but I learned how just how far I yet needed to go in my discipleship and real conversion one terrible night years ago as a young father.
Early in my married life, one of my toddler sons would not go to bed without several hours of painstaking coddling every night. All our efforts that worked with our other children were fruitless with him. As the days, weeks, and months went by I came to dread bedtime and one night I snapped. After several hours of trying to settle him without success I caved in to the frustration and roughly picked him up, yelled in his face, and tossed him back down onto the bed. As I strode out of the room broiling with anger, the horror and shame of what I’d done washed over me as I collapsed on the stairs and openly wept. I felt utterly hopeless and weak – all my worst fears over being a father seemed to be confirmed. It was awful. As I groped around in my mind for something, anything, to answer this terrible weakness toward anger and frustration that I had dealt with since I was a child, I felt the gentle tugging of the Spirit. As I listened with my freshly broken heart, I received a key gospel insight about how to receive the Lord’s help, along with a spiritual invitation. Wonderfully, my helplessness turned to hope as I began that night to ponder and apply His invitation.
I had come face to face with the crushing truth that Elder Oaks taught so well in his landmark address aptly titled “The Challenge to Become” in the October 2005 General Conference. He said, “Jesus’ challenge shows that the conversion He required for those who would enter the kingdom of heaven (see Matt. 18:3) was far more than just being converted to testify to the truthfulness of the gospel. To testify is to know and to declare. The gospel challenges us to be “converted,” which requires us to do and to become” (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 33). While I had testified of and knew and even loved the gospel truths, they had not yet worked their acceptable conversion in me, because somehow I was missing the Savior in all my doing.
Very soon after this experience, I found an exciting statement about how to become truly converted by President George Q. Cannon. His fervent exhortation seemed to confirm what the Spirit had invited me to do the night of my extremity. Pres. Cannon urged us to be “seeking for [the] gifts that God has promised to bestow” instead of
That night I had come so close to my imperfection and a life-changing accident that I felt sick! But, the Lord knows exactly each of our weaknesses and capacities as unique children of God. And so, as I began more earnestly and faithfully to seek for the Lord’s perfecting gifts for me specifically, I learned that He often responds to our pleadings with very specific directions detailing an invitation for us to enter the next phase of our conversion. As we’ve discussed today, since our bodies are constantly recording and registering, it only makes sense that the Savior will know perfectly what we need to do in order to receive more of His image in our countenances.[11]

There were people everywhere—doctors and nurses in white coats, tired and crying children standing in line to get shots, anxious foster parents searching for their Indian children, and other families happily reuniting. Eight-year-old Rose Begay had been so excited to come on the Indian placement program this year with her older brothers and sisters that she’d hardly slept the night before she was to leave. But during the long bus ride from Arizona she began to realize how far away she would be from the world she knew. She had loved the twinkling lights of the Salt Lake Valley she’d seen the night before from the bus window, but the harsh lights in the building stabbed at her tired, scratchy eyes. When Rose was finally introduced to her new family by her caseworker, Brother Hall, she was so exhausted that the people blurred before her eyes.
“Rose, this is Brother and Sister Robbins, and Julie, Jason, Eric, Scotty, and Susan,” he was saying. They all had blue eyes, freckles, and big smiles. Rose peeked at them through a curtain of black hair, then quickly lowered her eyes and looked at her toes.
The Robbins family lived in a brown house on a quiet circle. Rose gazed in wonder at the large, comfortable rooms and the shiny kitchen with a sliding glass door looking out onto the lawn and garden. In the distance she could see snow-covered mountains. She touched the pink gingham curtains edged with wide white lace in the bedroom she would share with Julie, and her eyes were drawn to the matching bedspreads.
When it was time to be tucked into bed, Sister Robbins had wanted Rose to wear the pajamas she had ready, but Rose shook her head no. How could she explain that the clothes she had on were her only link with home? She looked so tired and ready to cry that she was allowed to get into bed in the clothes she wore. But the bed still felt strange, and she couldn’t get comfortable. She longed for her goatskin rug on the hard floor at home. She squirmed and squiggled. Finally, after Julie had gone to sleep, Rose took a blanket, curled up in a corner on the floor, closed her eyes, and thought about her desert home. She could almost see the piñon smoke drifting through the clear air and feel the gentle touch of a smooth brown hand. At last she slept.
During those first weeks with her new family, Rose had many things to get used to. It seemed strange to be allowed to have cookies and popcorn after school. At the small reservation boarding school Rose had attended for a few months, children could eat only at mealtimes. And, with a twinkle in her eyes, Julie would often remind her, “Oops, you left the fridge open again, Rosie.” Sometimes Rose would eat until she felt like bursting, and still the ache of strangeness was inside her.
One morning there were pancakes for breakfast—crisp and brown on the edges—with hot maple syrup. Rose was just about to pour herself a glass of milk when she noticed that her foster mother didn’t have any and that there was only enough for one glass. “I don’t feel thirsty for milk today,” she said.
Sister Robbins looked at Rose strangely, then glanced down at her own empty glass. “Rose, I don’t want milk this morning,” she said. “I’m going to buy more milk at the store as soon as you go to school.” Rose filled her glass and drank the good cold milk with the hot pancakes.
“Will you vacuum for me today before you go, please, Rose?” Sister Robbins asked after breakfast. She plugged in the vacuum cleaner, turned it on, and showed Rose how to use it. Rose pushed it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth …
Jason grabbed his jacket and hollered, “Hurry up, Rose. You’ll be late for school.”
In desperation, Rose turned to Eric and whispered, “How do you stop this thing?”
Vacuum cleaners and refrigerators weren’t the only strange new things in Rose’s world that gave her problems. She was having trouble in school.
“Why don’t you look at me when I talk to you?” Miss McBunn asked Rose. “And why haven’t you been turning in your assignments?” Rose turned her eyes to the floor and retreated even farther behind the curtain of dark hair. She was embarrassed to tell her teacher that Navajos consider it rude to look right into peoples’ eyes when they are talking to them. Her assignments were all completed as well as she knew how, but she feared turning them in. What if they are all wrong? she thought. I would be ashamed.
The bell rang for their next class.
“Saved by the bell,” Rose’s friend Angie whispered.
“OK, girls, we’re going to run the forty-yard dash today,” the gym teacher announced. When the girls had lined up, the teacher put her whistle to her lips and BLEW!
Rose streaked across the field, her hair flying behind her. She glanced back and saw that she was far in the lead. Her feet went slower until most of the others were even with her.
“Why did you slow down? Why didn’t you try harder to win?” Angie wanted to know.
Rose shrugged her shoulders shyly and said nothing. She didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t the Navajo way.
After school Hank Holton walked by Rose and poked her with something sharp. He made an imitation of an Indian war whoop and taunted, “Where’s your tomahawk?”
Rose’s heart felt heavy, and her feet carried her home in slow, plodding steps. She felt much better when she got home and discovered that everyone was making preparations for family home evening.
“Mondays are my favorite times,” she commented to Julie as they put the best red glasses on the table with the good dishes and two tall candles. They were especially excited tonight because Grandma was coming for the evening.
“Be sure to pick all the toys up off the steps so Grandma won’t stumble on them,” Sister Robbins warned Scotty and Eric. But they ran off to play, and the toys were still there. Rose carefully gathered them up and put an extra cushion on Grandma’s chair so that she would be more comfortable. Then Rose went to the kitchen to check on the good smells. “What are you cooking tonight, Mom?” she asked.
“Oh, a special treat,” Sister Robbins replied, “shrimp and french fries.”
Rose had a funny look on her face.
“What’s the matter?” Sister Robbins asked.
“I don’t know whether to be a Navajo or a billigona (white person) tonight. Navajos aren’t supposed to eat fish, but oh, it smells so good!”
“Why, I didn’t know that Rose. I guess you will have to decide.” Sister Robbins gave her a hug.
“Why do white people touch each other all the time—hugging and kissing?” Rose asked with a puzzled look.
Sister Robbins laughed. “I guess it’s just a way we have to show our love for each other. Besides, I think it’s kind of nice, don’t you?”
Rose sat deep in thought for a while, then said, “Yes, I guess it is. One time my grandfather and I were going for a walk together. He held my hand so that I wouldn’t stumble in the holes. It was nice.”
After dinner Julie played the piano and Jason played his flute. Baby Susan clapped with everyone else and cooed.
As Rose watched Susan pick up a toy and play with it, all the lonely, homesick feelings and the strangeness of her new experiences seemed to swell inside her. She wanted to be as carefree as Baby Susan again. Rose reached over and snatched the toy from Susan so quickly that the baby lost her balance and tumbled over backward.
“Why, Rose!” Sister Robbins exclaimed in a shocked voice, “You mustn’t treat the baby like that! What’s gotten into you? Please go to your room and stay there!”
A while later Rose’s foster mother came into the darkened room to find the young Indian girl sobbing in a corner. Sister Robbins gathered Rose into her arms and carried her—even though she was eight years old—to the big rocker. Rose huddled on her lap choking on sobs that wouldn’t stop. “My Indian mother loves me,” she said brokenly again and again.
Sister Robbins stroked the damp hair from Rose’s hot face. “Oh, Rose, I love you, too,” she said soothingly.
Rose looked up and saw tears on her foster mother’s cheeks.
“You have become part of my heart. I don’t know what we would do without our little Rose. You bring a special gift to our family. Tonight I noticed how you cleared off the steps for Grandma and fixed her chair. None of my other children have ever watched to see that I had enough milk like you did this morning. You understand about peoples’ feelings in a special way.” She pressed her cheek against the smooth dark hair on the top of Rose’s head.
“Rose, I raised my voice at you tonight, and I’m sorry. I know that your Indian mother always speaks softly. Many of our ways must seem strange to you. Apples and bananas are not alike either, but they are both good. The gospel in our lives can be a bridge to cross over our differences.
“When I was only a few years older than you are now, I was baptized and became the only Mormon in my school in South Dakota. Some kids called me names like ‘Seagull’ and teased me because they thought I was different. But it didn’t matter because when I read the Book of Mormon, it seemed to fill a longing that had always been inside me. It seemed familiar to me, like my mother’s kiss, warm and comforting, as I drifted off to sleep at night. Your people helped to write that book, Rose. It is a great gift and blessing they have shared with us.”
“It is?” Rose looked up in wonder, her eyes still wet with tears.
“Oh, yes, my little Rose. Long years ago your people wrote that the time would come when we would care for you as nursing mothers and carry you on our shoulders—teach you the gospel. The placement program is part of the fulfillment of that prophecy. Saturday I will take you to Temple Square. You can see how Jesus came to your people long ago and how they gave us the Book of Mormon.” Rose snuggled deeper into her lap. She felt loved and safe as she drifted off to sleep.
On Saturday Rose felt special and important as she and Sister Robbins visited Temple Square. She enjoyed the stories and films about her people. Her grandfather liked to tell stories just like the Indian grandfather in one of the films. Grandfather had taught her to walk in beauty, to see the good and beauty in everything around her.
During the film, she heard the words of the Savior, “And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd” (John 10:16).
Rose thought, I know about sheep. I’ve spent many hours tending sheep, finding them shade and water. I may be different from Julie and the others like apples and bananas are different, but I am one of His sheep.
Rose felt a comforting warmth, as familiar as snuggling down under her own goatskin rug or hearing her grandfather telling her stories. She had felt an ache and hunger inside that food could not satisfy, but it was beginning to melt away like the dew fades from the unfolding rose petals reaching for the sunshine.

Cold wind blew as Brigham Young arrived at Sugar Creek on the evening of February 15, 1846. Scattered around a snowy patch of woods, not far from an icy brook, hundreds of Saints shivered in damp coats and blankets. Many families collected around fires or underneath tents fashioned from bedsheets or wagon covers. Others huddled together in carriages or wagons for warmth.1

Right away Brigham knew he needed to organize the camp. With the help of other Church leaders, he divided the Saints into companies and called captains to lead them. He warned against taking unnecessary trips back to Nauvoo, being idle, and borrowing without permission. Men were to protect the camp constantly and monitor cleanliness, and each family was to pray together mornings and evenings.2

A good spirit soon settled over the camp. Safely out of Nauvoo, the Saints worried less about mobs or government threats to stop the exodus. In the evenings, a brass band played lively music while the men and women danced. Saints who practiced plural marriage also became less guarded and began to speak openly about the principle and how it linked their families together.3

Two semesters back, I had an encounter with a former student that worked for me over 25 years ago on campus. Meeting him was completely unexpected for both of us, and it was a great chance encounter. The next day, he sent me a text to say what a thrill it was to see me again and how a couple of us in the electrical shop had really transformed his life at a time when he was struggling. I had no idea that we had any good influence on this young man, because we were relentless tricksters. After the text message, I reflected on the inspiration that occurred for both of us to meet on campus at such a random time and location, and how the encounter reaffirmed my testimony that we are inspired and inspire others regularly to bring about the Lord’s purposes.

In preparing my remarks for today, I could not help remembering a recent experience of mine.
Some months ago, I enjoyed the privilege of presiding at a stake conference alongside Elder Donald J. Keyes, one of our noble Area Seventies. During the course of the Saturday evening session—often one of the highlights of a stake conference—we were required to adjust our program at short notice because of the inclusion of some additional speakers. In view of the fact that a duet, sung by a young couple, was to be moved in the program to follow Elder Keyes’s remarks and precede mine, I accordingly quietly whispered the proposed change in the program to him.
After doing so, it was quickly apparent that he had not fully grasped what I had just said, which required me to repeat my message a second time. Unfortunately, this time, and to my dismay, his lack of understanding was now amplified by a look of incredulity and utter disbelief. Realizing now that I had somehow failed in my attempt to clearly convey the change in our program, I repeated my message in a manner that could not be mistaken: I said, and this time more clearly and slowly than I had done previously, but with some added emphasis, “Don, the duet will be sung between you and me!”
This time my message hit the mark, for now his incredulity and disbelief were replaced by a nervous giggle and a hint of terror.
I then reviewed carefully in my mind what I had just said and at last realized my terrible error: When I had said, “The duet will be sung between us,” he had taken my words literally. In other words, he had understood that the duet would be sung by the two of us!
I am pleased to reassure all of you here today that neither I, nor President Samuelson, have any intention of singing any duet, anywhere, at anytime, to anyone!

I have just entered room 3021 and plopped my books down, preparing for my Family Relations 101 class. Why, you might wonder, does a guy studying to be a construction engineer want to learn about nonverbal communication with babies and how to deal with a teenager who has an attitude?
The answer is simple. I took this course because I am loaded down with pre-engineering classes. I want a change of pace, something where I don’t have to figure out structural stress coefficients. The fact that the female to male ratio is 7:1 has nothing to do with it.
Well, maybe a little.
The early indications are it is a wise choice. A blonde-haired girl with a trace of freckles across her nose just sat down a row in front of me. She looked around the class, smiled when she saw me, and said, “Hello.”
This is a most excellent sign. I sort of smile back at her and nod, trying to be very cool. I started to say something really original like “How ya’ doin’?” but decide not to rush things.
I am feeling good about this relationship. It is at least 20 seconds old and going well. Why not rush things a bit? What should I do next? Change seats? Ask her what her major is? Tell her she looks like she is from California? I’m feeling slightly euphoric.
But the enchantment vanishes seconds later when a woman in her early 50s briskly walks into the room and sits down beside me.
“I had no idea that we were is this class together,” she says pleasantly.
“Neither did I, Mom.”
I love my mother. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. But I see my chances of getting to know the blonde-haired girl in the next row slipping through my grasp. Let’s face it. It’s very difficult to display your charm, wit, and intelligence to a woman when your mother—who knows what you’re really like—is only inches away.
“This will be a great experience for us,” Mom says enthusiastically. “Maybe we can study together for tests.”
I glance at the girl and think about what might have been as the professor clears her throat and begins to lecture.

Some of the full-time missionaries in the Ilopango Zone—(from left to right) Elder Monterroso, Elder Payne, Elder Albino, Sister Rivera, and Elder Cammack—do a puppet show to teach children to eat healthy foods and to avoid tobacco, alcohol, drugs, and other addictive substances.

The missionaries gave the puppet show at a local hospital and in a parking lot of a large supermarket. Those who saw the show, including members of the hospital staff, enjoyed it and appreciated the missionaries’ efforts.

Valerie Walters and Becky Warnick, dressed in white robes with sparkles in their hair, were participating in an angel choir, singing about the birth of Jesus Christ. Seated between Valerie and Becky was Chelan Feller, also dressed as an angel. Chelan needed the comforting shoulder of Becky and the kind touch of Valerie to be able to participate. Chelan attends the American Fork Special Education Seminary, and she, along with 40 of her fellow students, were participating in the first of what they hope will be their annual Christmas pageant. Serving the American Fork Training School in Utah, the seminary has classes geared to the levels of their special education students.
Valerie and Becky, 18, were just two volunteers from the Alpine Utah 11th Ward who volunteered to help the Special Education Seminary stage their pageant. Each special needs teen was assigned a helper to assist in putting on costumes over everyday clothes, to be by the sides of the students as they spoke or sang their parts, and to accompany them as they entered and exited.
It turned out to be an exciting evening. With parents and families crowding the seminary building, the age-old story of the Savior’s birth was presented. But more than the story, the example of kindness and unselfishness that represented the Savior’s life also filled the room.
Becky said, “Many of the students can’t bear their testimonies in words, but when I look into their eyes I see that they know Christ.”

During filming, my brother Byron lay in a hospital bed in California, USA, while my newborn granddaughter lay in a hospital bed in Salt Lake City, Utah. Byron was dying of cancer, and my granddaughter, born with a serious birth defect, was not expected to live.
I had to miss the reunion because my daughter Angie needed my help and support. On June 3, her first child, Athena, was born with a diaphragmatic hernia. Surgeons operated on her three days later. They did not expect her to survive.
Fortunately, my husband and I were nearby during this trying time. Each afternoon after I finished my Book of Mormon video work, Angie would leave her vigil at the hospital and join us at our motel, where we comforted her and prayed for Athena.
That night, I learned that God had taken Byron home. I’m grateful for the faith I have that I will see him and my parents again. I’m also grateful that God heard our prayers for Athena. After she spent 88 days recuperating in the neonatal intensive care unit, we finally brought her home.