Gospel Story Finder

How could a young man from Chatsworth, South Africa, support himself and create a future with only fourteen rand in his pocket? That was the dilemma facing Mervyn Pillay when he returned home a number of years ago after serving a mission in Johannesburg.
“When I came home . . . I said to myself, ‘How am I going to make it with R14?’ . . . but I talked to myself and said, ‘The Lord will bless you as you do what He wants you do.’”1
Soon after this, Mervyn bought one bottle of nail polish with his very limited cash. He went to the market and sold it for a profit. That was the beginning of a business, and soon he was selling more and more nail polish—in the market and door-to-door. Being self-reliant, he had gained some knowledge in repair work, so as he walked door-to-door, he also asked if homeowners had appliances in need of repair and found additional work—and income—that way.
At one home, Mervyn met a man who turned out to be the maker of the brand of nail polish he was selling. When he learned that Mervyn was a savvy salesman who could also make repairs for him, he invited him in and saying, “You can repair my stove.” Then he asked, “And could you also sell this nail polish for me?”
Having learned how to work hard as a missionary, Mervyn energetically applied himself to his new job and, over time, sold about three million bottles of nail polish.
“I bought my home and I started . . . an electrical business and . . . a cosmetics business, and the business has boomed.”2
Many years later Mervyn still runs both businesses and says, “I just know that if I pay my tithes, then Heavenly Father is going to bless me.”
The self-made businessman Mervyn Pillay has gone on to indeed bless the lives of many others, including his family, his employees, and those he has served as a branch president and bishop.

“We love to study the gospel together,” Esther says. They joined the Church after the missionaries came to their home in 1954. “Eternal marriage impressed Palle, and I was struck by the plan of salvation.”

They took the discussions for a while in 1956, and Palle felt spiritual promptings when he read Nephi’s writings. Then one day, without mentioning it to Esther, he was baptized. Soon, Esther noticed a difference in him and asked, “You’ve been baptized, haven’t you?” After more missionary lessons, she was baptized, too. Since then, she has served as Relief Society president twice, and he has presided over both the branch and the district, as well as serving as Fredericia’s first bishop.

Their baptisms occurred just a little more than a hundred years after the first baptisms in Denmark in August 1850, after Elder Erastus Snow had opened the Scandinavian Mission. Today, Denmark has two stakes and 4,100 members.

“I need help!”
Lizzy heard Mom yell from the kitchen and ran to see what was wrong. Mom was standing by the stove, where she had been putting jars of apricots into a pot of water. One of the jars had broken, and the glass had cut her hand deeply.
Lizzy grabbed a clean towel and wrapped Mom’s bleeding hand while Daniel, Lizzy’s older brother, found his keys so he could drive Mom to the hospital.
When Mom came home hours later, she explained that the glass had cut through an artery, a tendon, and a nerve. The doctors had been able to fix her hand, but Mom was supposed to keep her hand dry and hold it above her shoulder for several weeks.
“We’ll all need to help out even more until Mom can use her hand again,” Dad said.
“What if we don’t know what to do?” Lizzy’s younger sister, Jamilyn, asked.
“Don’t worry about that,” Mom said. “I can’t use my hand, but I can coach you if you need help.”
Jamilyn and Lizzy looked at each other and smiled. It sounded like fun.
The next morning after family prayer, Dad left for work.
“I don’t want the rest of the apricots to go to waste,” Mom said. “How do you girls feel about canning fruit today?”
Mom explained how to clean the jars and fill them with apricot halves. Lizzy liked mixing the syrup and carefully pouring some into each jar. Jamilyn wiped the rims and tightened the lids. Soon most of the apricots were stored in glass jars. Lizzy wondered what they would do with the mushy apricots that were left over, until Mom said they would use them to make jam. Lizzy grinned as she and her sister mashed up the apricots. She loved homemade jam!
“This is the best jam I’ve ever eaten,” Mom said during lunch as she munched on a peanut butter and jam sandwich the girls had made for her.
After lunch, the girls were eager to learn what other grown-up chores were on Mom’s “to do” list. Lizzy helped Mom pay the bills. Jamilyn folded laundry. They had just finished pulling weeds from the rose garden when Mom introduced their final adventure of the day: making dinner. The menu included spaghetti, meatballs, and salad.
“What about your breadsticks?” Lizzy asked. Lizzy loved Mom’s homemade breadsticks that they always ate with spaghetti.
“They’re a little tricky to make,” Mom said. But Lizzy and Jamilyn begged Mom to teach them the recipe.
When Dad saw the golden breadsticks and juicy meatballs at dinnertime, he thought Mom had broken the rules about her hand.
“No, the girls did it all!” Mom said proudly.
Before long, Lizzy and Jamilyn could do housework and cook nutritious meals without much help from Mom. Daniel helped out with the evening chores, and Dad went grocery shopping after work. By the time Mom could work around the house again, she found things had changed at home.
“I’ll make dinner tonight,” Lizzy said. “I’m in the mood for spaghetti, and I like my recipe best.”
“Do you need any help with the breadsticks?” Mom asked.
“No, thanks. Jamilyn wants to make them, and you might get in her way,” Lizzy said with a smile.

I have been a member of the Church since I was 10 years old. I don’t think I really knew what I was doing at first. I’ve been through my ups and downs in life, but right now I’ve made up my mind about what I want in life. In the last few weeks I have experienced the pressures of life and the hurt and loneliness of death. Last December I remember discussing the importance of reading and studying the gospel with my brother, Scott Macy. Scott wasn’t really a blood relative, but we were close enough to be. That December he sent me a letter that has a message for all of us. He wrote, “I think it’s really neat that you want to study the gospel more. It has everything anybody needs. How does it feel to be one of those who want, and can get, what is right?”

Scott’s goal in life was to serve a mission. Even though he was too young for a full-time mission, he was a great missionary to his friends and to everyone around him. On August 1,1976, Scott left to serve a mission for the Lord, but not on this earth.
I have received the New Era for many years, and I have just recently become interested in it. Feedback has been interesting to me. It helps me grow and want to learn what makes people so happy. The articles hit close to home and make me realize that I don’t have it so hard after all. I’m very thankful that my father has ordered the New Era even though no one would read it. Now I look forward to getting it. Scott’s question is very valuable. Can you answer it? Well, I can. It’s great!
Name WithheldCanby, Oregon

When I was about seven years old, living with my parents in Arabia, a children’s film called Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was released. The film is about a magical car that can drive itself, float on water, and even fly! I knew that back home in England they made a miniature toy car just like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and oh, how I wanted one! You could pull a lever, and the toy car’s wings would pop out! My father went on a business trip to England and asked if I wanted him to bring anything back for me, and I told him how very much I would like to have one of those Chitty Chitty Bang Bang cars.

He came back from his trip, and no car appeared. I was very sad and thought he must have forgotten. But about 10 days later was my birthday, and a little package, beautifully wrapped, was waiting for me. With great anticipation, and hardly daring to hope too much, I opened the gift and found my car. I was so happy that I cried. I pulled the lever, and the wings popped out, just like the car in the film! How I thanked my father for this most treasured gift. I played with that car for years and kept it for many more. I think my dad loved giving me that car at least as much as I loved receiving it.

Family—what a sacred name for those we love the most. If someone asked you to name the greatest thing about your family, what would it be? I know that most families, including mine, are not perfect, but every day we are trying to be more kind and thoughtful to each other. This past month my father died. I learned many lessons from my dad. He had such great faith. He said, “Dying is just like walking into another room.” The day he died, I thought: My dad died today! This was his last day on earth! He has just walked into another room. It was such a sweet, sacred experience for my family and me.

Isabelle was happy that it was spring. She liked to listen to the birds. She liked to play in the green grass.
Isabelle was happy it was time for Easter. She knew Easter was a special day. On Easter we celebrate when Jesus came back to life.
In Primary, Sister Martin gave crayons to all the children in class. She asked them to draw the greatest gift Heavenly Father gave them.
Michael drew a picture of his family.
Eliza drew a picture of her friend.
Anthony drew a picture of his house.
Isabelle looked at the drawings. They were very good.
Isabelle thought about what she should draw. She was happy to have a family. She was happy to have friends. She was happy to have a house.
Isabelle thought about another gift that Heavenly Father gave all people. He gave everyone the gift of a Savior. Isabelle picked up her crayons. She drew a picture of Jesus Christ.
Sister Martin asked Isabelle what she drew.
“I drew a picture of Jesus,” Isabelle said. “He is the greatest gift.”

Many years ago, two of my teenage friends and I decided to take a drive into the mountains to a place where several small lakes collected melted snow in the spring to water thirsty summer crops in the valley below. We decided to drive in an old car which had been parked for sometime and had long ago exhausted its usefulness. We put gasoline in it, checked the radiator and oil, and by pulling it with a tractor, finally got it started, and we were on our way.

We soon realized why the car had been abandoned. The steep hills were more than it could easily negotiate, and frequently it stalled before reaching the top. When this occurred, we backed down the hill and up the one behind us. Then with a roar of the engine and all the encouragement three teenagers could muster, the old car pushed up the hill, over the top, and down the other side.

We soon reached the crest of a tall hill -- the last obstacle that stood between us and our destination. We opened the gate and looked down -- way down. The road was steep, much steeper than we anticipated. Still, we felt invincible, and although we were miles from home, no one wanted to mention or think about whether or not the car had the power to return up the hill.

We had set our minds upon enjoying ourselves at the lakes. The possibility of not being able to get back was far from our minds, so we drove through the gate and down the steep hill. The car engine revved up as it held back the car's descent to the lakes. We felt the quick drop in the pit of our stomachs.

We enjoyed this beautiful place, the scenery, skipping rocks on the lake, and the simple joy of life and living. As the sun began to lower in the sky, we knew it was time to go home. We looked up the hill, which seemed even steeper now. There was only a short distance from the edge of the lake to the point where the road began a steep angle upwards.

We piled in and started up the hill. We only made it part way -- not nearly far enough. We tried again and again. It was only then that the consequence of our earlier decision began to rest squarely on us.

We were not really concerned about our safety. We could sleep in the car that evening, and even if our tee shirts didn't keep us very warm, we would survive and walk out the next day.

We tried practically everything. Each new effort seemed to propel us a little farther up the hill. Perhaps, we thought, if we could muster one more major effort and have everything work right for us, we could make it out.

We cleared away brush near the lake to provide more distance to make our run. We removed rocks and debris from the road, and two of us stationed ourselves part way up the hill to push when the car reached its limits. One last chance! With the gas pedal to the floor, the old car fishtailed up the road, and as it slowed down, two teenage boys with arms under the rear bumper and faces squashed against the trunk pushed with all their might, as rocks spun from the wheels and stung their hands, arms, and legs.

Finally, we reached the top and were on our way home, a little wiser and armed with a life-long reminder that while we are free at any given time to make choices, we do not choose the consequences of the decisions we make.

Michael Molling, 12, from Orem, Utah, was selected to be the young Vincenzo. For Michael, being cast was a pleasant surprise. He and a friend had been handed a flyer in the local shopping mall. He went to the studio, filled out a card with his name and address, and had his picture taken. He was called to come back for another picture-taking session, then received a phone call telling him he had the part.

“They called and said I got the part,” Michael explains. “After I hung up I ran and did somersaults and jumped all over the couch. I was happy.”

For his scenes, Michael had to learn to quote scripture in Italian. And he had to learn to put up with makeup and old-fashioned shoes several sizes too big as part of his costume. “The hardest thing,” says Michael, “was memorizing the words. When I would start to talk, I would start moving my knees, and the director would have to tell me to not move my knees. I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

One of Michael’s scenes is in a schoolroom with other boys his age. These boys are extras, called in to dress in costume and fill up the rest of the desks in the background. Erika Anderson, 18, is working as extras’ coordinator for the film, and it is her job to see that the boys are where they should be when they should be. Erika is rather young to have such an important position, but she’s been working in films for several years. Her father, David, is a film distributor and producer, and Erika has had a chance to work in different ways on films since she was 10.

“The first thing I ever did,” says Erika, “was be an extra. Then I worked on a commercial shoot in New York. I was a production assistant. My dad was in charge, and I helped run errands and time the shots.” Erika was recommended for the BYU film job, and Peter Johnson, the producer of the film and director of the Motion Picture Studio has been pleased with her work. “She shows such integrity in her work. She’s always there, always on time. We give her instructions, and she does what we ask. We never have to follow up with her.”

Erika has learned a lot about the importance of doing a good job. “What I’ve known all along is whenever a job is given to me, I have to get it done because someone is expecting me to do it. If you don’t hold your end up, everything can fall apart. I learned that at 13, so I’ve been practicing for a while.”

As extras’ coordinator, Erika describes her job this way, “When there are kids, I’m in charge of the kids. When there are adults, I’m in charge of telling them where to go and getting them all there and getting them committed to do it. It’s really hard, but it’s rewarding to see it all come together.”

Erika’s first thoughts after being told that they needed 250 extras for the scene in the marketplace outside the temple at Bountiful was, “Where am I going to find 250 extras on a Tuesday?”

Erika and her supervisor, Kathy Bessinger, casting director, did find them. They sent the call out to wards in Salt Lake and Orem areas. Then buses were arranged, lunch and dinner ordered for the crowd, and makeup and wardrobe people alerted. On this Tuesday, they had the crowd of extras they needed to shoot the scene.

Russ Holt, the director and screenwriter, explains how the project was initiated. “It started with President Benson’s call to the membership of the Church to increase their study of, interest in, and use of the Book of Mormon. It really originated with that.”

As the director, Russ has worked with a group of professionals that have translated the script into beautifully photographed scenes on film. Russ explains, “There are times when as a scriptwriter you envision this scene, and when it finally gets on film, it surprises you because it’s better than you imagined. Take the scene at the dock at Palermo, Italy. I thought we were going to do a simple little scene, but the art director, the cameraman, and others had a concept of what that could become, and they turned that scene into something gorgeous.”

Making the film has been a huge undertaking, lots of hard work and long hours. Because a film is produced in bits and pieces and then put together in the editing room, the actual day-to-day work is often not highly charged emotionally. Peter Johnson, the producer, explains, “We are magicians in the film business. The process that you see is not glamorous, and it’s not that emotional. When it’s all put together, then it reaches you.”

In this age of video, Peter also explains that seeing a movie about the Book of Mormon in no way replaces the experience of actually reading it for yourself. “You cannot replace through watching television or motion picture the actual one-on-one experience that you have with the Lord when you are reading scripture. That cannot be duplicated. I hope that the work that we do stimulates people to have a desire for that personal experience like Parley P. Pratt and Vincenzo Di Francesca had with the Book of Mormon.”

Before I was a General Authority, I had an extremely frightening experience while flying from Reno, Nevada, to San Rafael, California, with a friend in his twin-engine Aztec airplane.
When we left Reno, the weather was a little cloudy, and my friend was somewhat worried about it. Because of his concern, we landed at the Lake Tahoe airport to get a second report on the weather. It did not indicate that the weather was too bad, so we continued our flight to San Rafael.
Our destination was an airport in the northern part of San Francisco Bay. As we approached the Bay area, the clouds became increasingly low and dense. We tried to stay under the clouds so we could see the water and keep our bearings. But suddenly we flew into dense clouds and could see nothing.
When you fly into such clouds, you become totally disoriented. You do not know whether you are flying straight, sideways, or upside down. You lose your sense of forward motion, and it takes a few minutes for the pilot to orient himself from visual flying to instrument flying. At 180 miles an hour, you move a long distance in that few minutes and can get into serious trouble very quickly. Unfortunately, my friend had not flown entirely on instruments for two years.
My friend struggled intensely and was near the point of panic as he tried to recall all that he had learned about instrument flying. I knew very little about instrument flying, so I could not help him. All I could do was put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to take a deep breath and get hold of himself. The only instrument that I could read was the altimeter. I said, “We are now at 500 feet. Don’t make any quick moves; just think it out, and you can pull us through.”
It seemed an eternity before he finally made radio contact with Hamilton Air Force Base. He said to the people there, “I am in trouble; please help me.” The air traffic controllers had us on their radar screen and immediately began to help my friend regain control of the plane. They told us where we were and started to give us instructions to help guide us to safety.
When my friend heard the voice from Hamilton Tower, he regained a sense of confidence that enabled him to gain control. But he knew that the plane was completely out of control and that our chances of pulling out of this danger were marginal. We could easily go the wrong way. The foothills, buildings, towers, and bridges were not far away. At one point we dropped to only 200 feet. We must have been flying upside down at one time because the maps and other items in the visor above my head fell into my lap.
At the peak of this crisis, an instant replay of my entire life flashed through my mind. I thought of my wife, my seven children, my parents, my business partners, the 37 priests whom I was the adviser to, and many other things. I prayed fervently all through this crisis and made a commitment more deep and more sincere than ever before in my life. I began, “Heavenly Father, guide us out of this thick, dense cloud, and help my friend remember all he knows about instrument flying.” And then I said, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy priesthood, bless my friend that he might regain control.” My prayer continued. I committed to Heavenly Father that if He would help us, I would place my life in His hands. I promised Him that I would be what He wanted me to be.
Finally, we saw the lights on the runway. The white line in the center of the runway was a most welcome sight.

Packets of seeds in bundles were scattered all over the floor. Mixed in were Bibles, copies of the Book of Mormon, and hymnbooks in Russian. The girls of the Bountiful Hills Ward, Bountiful Utah Central Stake, were busy packing both plant seeds and seeds of the restored gospel into boxes ready to make the trip to Armenia. With food scarce, Armenians are turning to small gardens to supplement their family’s diet. With religious freedom so new, copies of scriptures are hard to come by.
Amy Poulton, the Young Women president of the Bountiful Hills Ward, can look back and see how a series of small miracles led to the girls in her ward being able to help new Church members in Armenia. Seeds just happened to be on sale at an incredibly low price right when they needed to buy 6,500 packets. A person was found who could take the seeds and books personally to Armenia with him. The little branch in Yerevan, Armenia, became real people to them as they began to correspond.
Their own copies of the scriptures became more precious as the Young Women thought about the girls their age who are just learning about the truths of the gospel. “Reading the scriptures has changed my outlook on things. I don’t take things for granted, especially after doing this project,” said Heather Bodily, 18. “I think it’s exciting to see people opening their minds and listening to the gospel. The seed is planted. Now it just needs to mature and grow.”
As the girls in the Bountiful Hills Ward looked at pictures of the Armenian branch Young Women with their flags of value colors displayed and a picture of Christ on the wall, they felt a connection. These girls are like them. They love the Lord and his gospel too.
“Now when I read the scriptures, the message jumps out at me and says this is for you. They are talking directly to me” said Jennifer Petersen, 18. And somewhere around the world, some other girls are thinking the same thing.

When I was a boy, we lived in a home surrounded by an orchard. There never seemed to be enough water for the trees. The ditches, always freshly plowed in the spring, would soon fill with weeds. One day, in charge of the irrigation turn, I found myself in trouble. As the water moved down the rows choked with weeds, it would flood in every direction. I worked in the puddles trying to build up the bank. As soon as I had one break patched up, there would be another. A neighbor came through the orchard. He watched for a moment, and then with a few vigorous strokes of the shovel, he cleared the ditch and allowed the water to course through the channel he had made. He said, “If you want the water to stay in its course, you’ll have to make a place for it to go.”
I have come to know that thoughts, like water, will stay on course if we make a place for them to go. Otherwise, our thoughts follow the course of least resistance, always seeking the lower levels. Probably the greatest challenge and the most difficult thing you will face in mortal life is to learn to control your thoughts. In the Bible it says, as a man “thinketh in his heart, so is he” (Proverbs 23:7). Those who can control their thoughts have conquered themselves.
As you learn to control your thoughts, you can overcome habits, even degrading personal habits. You can gain courage, conquer fear, and have a happy life. I had been told a hundred times or more as I grew up that thoughts must be controlled, but no one told me how. I’ve thought about this over the years and have decided that the mind is like a stage. During every waking moment the curtain is up. There is always some act being performed on that stage. It may be a comedy, a tragedy, interesting or dull, good or bad; but always there is some act playing on the stage of your mind.
Have you noticed that shady little thoughts may creep in from the wings and attract your attention in the middle of almost any performance and without any real intent on your part? These delinquent thoughts will try to upstage everybody. If you permit them to go on, all thoughts of any virtue will leave the stage. You will be left, because you consented to it, to the influence of unrighteous thoughts. If you yield to them, they will enact for you on the stage of your mind anything to the limits of your toleration. They may enact themes of bitterness, jealousy, or hatred. They may be vulgar, immoral, even depraved. When they have the stage, if you let them, they will devise the most clever persuasions to hold your attention. They can make it interesting all right, even convince you that they are innocent, for they are but thoughts. What do you do at a time like that, when the stage of your mind is commandeered by the imps of unclean thinking, whether they be the gray ones that seem almost clean or the filthy ones that leave no room for doubt? If you can fill your mind with clean and constructive thoughts, then there will be no room for these persistent imps, and they will leave.
I realize that in today’s world it’s often difficult to keep your mind filled with worthy thoughts. This takes careful control. However, it can be done when you make a safe place for your thoughts to go. I’ve found a way to make such a place, and I’d like to share it with you. It has to do with music—worthy music. A wise man once said, “Music is one of the most forceful instruments for governing the mind.” Whether it governs in a positive way or a negative way is determined by what it brings onto the stage of your mind. If you can say that a song is spiritually inspiring or that it urges you to see yourself in a more noble perspective, the music is worthwhile. If it merely entertains or lifts your spirits, then it also has a useful place. But if it makes you want to respond in a carnal, sensual way or to consider unrighteous desires, then that music should be avoided. It is not worthy.
There have always been those who take the beautiful things and corrupt them. It’s happened with nature; it’s happened with literature, drama, art; and it certainly has happened with music. For centuries it has been obvious that when the wrong kind of words are set to appealing music, songs can lead men astray. And music itself, by the way it is played, by its beat, by its intensity, can dull the spiritual sensitivity.
We are living at a time when society is undergoing a subtle, but powerful, change. It is becoming more and more permissive in what it will accept in its entertainment. As a result, much of the music being performed by popular entertainers today seems to be more intended to agitate than to pacify, more to excite than to calm. Some musicians appear to openly promote unrighteous thoughts and action.
Young people, you cannot afford to fill your minds with the unworthy music of our day. It is not harmless. It can welcome onto the stage of your mind unworthy thoughts and set a tempo to which they dance and to which you may act. You degrade yourself when you identify with those things that at times surround extremes in music—the shabbiness, the irreverence, the immorality, the addictions. Such music is not worthy of you.
Be selective in what you listen to and produce. It becomes part of you. It controls your thoughts and influences the lives of others as well. I would recommend that you go through your music and throw away that which promotes degrading thoughts. Such music ought not to belong to young people concerned with spiritual development.
I don’t mean by this that all of today’s music produces unworthy thoughts. There is music today that builds understanding of people; music that inspires courage; music that awakens feelings of spirituality, reverence, happiness, and awareness of beauty.
The Lord has said, “For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12). The First Presidency of the Church, commenting on the influence of music in our lives, has said: “Through music, man’s ability to express himself extends beyond the limits of the spoken language in both subtlety and power. Music can be used to exalt and inspire or to carry messages of degradation and destruction. It is therefore important that as Latter-day Saints we at all times apply the principles of the gospel and seek the guidance of the Spirit in selecting the music with which we surround ourselves.”
Let me say to you young leaders, pay careful attention to the music you plan for your activities. Consult with your advisers as selections are made. You need the benefit of their wisdom, for the breach between the Church and the world, with the extremes of its music, is wider in our day than ever in generations past.
President J. Reuben Clark Jr. (1871–1961), one of our great Church leaders, explained it this way: “We may not, under our duty, provide or tolerate an unwholesome amusement on the theory that if we do not provide it the youth will go elsewhere to get it. We could hardly set up a roulette table in the Church amusement hall for gambling purposes, with the excuse that if we do not provide it the youth would go to a gambling hall to gamble. We can never really hold our youth thus.”
Nor is it proper to provide the kind of music and atmosphere that attracts youth in the world. You must stand firm and not compromise with what you know is right and good; you must have the courage to turn the lights up and the music down when they don’t contribute to the kind of atmosphere that produces worthy thoughts; and you must insist on high standards of dress and performance from those who entertain as well as those who attend.
I would counsel you to develop your talents, and if you have musical talent, think of this: There is much music yet to be created, much to be performed. Yours can be the worthy music that will be uplifting, that will spread the gospel, touch hearts, give comfort and strength to troubled minds.
There are many examples, both ancient and modern, that attest to the influence of righteous music. Discouragement disappeared and minds were filled with peace as the words to “Come, Come, Ye Saints” gave the pioneers courage to face their trials. This same song has been an inspiration to many over the years. At one time I was talking to a pilot who had just returned from a hazardous flight. We spoke of courage and of fear, and I asked how he had held himself together in the face of what he had endured. He said, “I have a favorite hymn, and when it was desperate, when there was little hope that we would return, I would keep it on my mind, and it was as though the engines of the aircraft would sing back to me.”
Come, come, ye Saints,
No toil nor labor fear;
But with joy wend your way.
Though hard to you
This journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day.
From this he clung to faith, the one essential ingredient to courage.
The Lord Himself was prepared for His greatest test through the influence of music, for the scripture records, “And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives” (Mark 14:26).
Remember, young people, I want each of you to remember that this is your Church, and He is your Lord and your Savior who stands at the helm. His constant guidance and inspiration are available to you when you keep your mind filled to overflowing with the good, the beautiful, the inspiring. And this is one way to do it. Choose a favorite hymn or song, just as my pilot friend did, one with words that are uplifting and music that is reverent, one that makes you feel something akin to inspiration. There are many beautiful songs to choose from. Seek the guidance of the Spirit in making your selection. Go over the song in your mind carefully. Memorize it. Even though you have had no musical training, you can think through a simple song. Now use this as the course for your thoughts to follow. Make it your emergency channel.
Whenever you find shady actors slipping from the sidelines of your thinking onto the stage of your mind, put on this CD, as it were. It will change your whole mood.
Because the music is uplifting and clean, the baser thoughts will slip shamefully away. For while virtue, by choice, will not associate with filth, evil cannot tolerate the presence of light. In due time you will find yourself humming the music inwardly, almost automatically, to drive out unworthy thoughts. As you young people involve yourselves with righteous and worthwhile things, keep your minds filled with worthy thoughts, for as a man thinketh so is he, and you will have the ability to accomplish those things that will bring fulfillment to your lives.
You are a son or a daughter of Almighty God. I bear witness that God is our Father, that we are His children, that He loves us and has provided great and glorious things in this life. I know this, and I thank Him for the uplifting influence of good music, which has influenced my thoughts and uplifted my soul.

Yvette gets up at 4:00 A.M. every day to study for school, which starts at 7:00 A.M.. Once, getting good grades seemed impossible to her. “When I used to study, I was never able to remember and understand the things I was studying,” she said. “When I had tests, I’d get very nervous and not remember anything. My father told me that before I study and before taking tests, I should pray. When I follow his advice, I always do better. Before I started praying about my studies, I was never one of the better students in my class, but now I’m in third or fourth place in the whole school.”

When thirteen-year-old Thad is called to be the rope maker of the United Order in Orderville, he is thrilled to finally have a job. Rope making is not easy, but after a number of failures, he masters the craft. The tithing house clerk records his first batch of rope as “quality excellent.”
That Sunday, as usual, my Uncle Claude rode his horse over from Kanab to go to church with us. He was the envy of all the young men in town in his store-bought pants and shirt, bright bandanna, real felt hat, and fancy cowboy boots. I knew that he came over so often because he was courting a girl who lived down the street.
At dinner, Mother said, “Thad, tell Uncle Claude about your new job.”
He listened carefully as I explained about the rope machine. Then he said, “How about showing me what you’ve done.”
After dinner we rode over to the harness shop on his pinto horse. I opened the shop door and unshuttered the windows so he could see the machine.
Then I got out samples of all the different kinds of rope I had been making. I could see that he was impressed.
“Thad, do you think you could make me a horsehair rope on that machine? I’ve seen two or three, and they’re the best rope for lassoing cattle. I’ll be glad to furnish the hair. What do you say?”
I thought about it for a few moments, I had only worked with cotton and flax, and they were twine when I got them. Turning the horsehair into twine would be the hard part. It was much too heavy and stiff to use on a regular spinning wheel, so the job would have to be done by hand. “Uncle, I’d like to try,” I replied.
I soon made all the cotton and flax twine that had been delivered to me into rope. Brother Lamb came over one afternoon and showed me how to backsplice the ends of the rope to make them neat. As he left, he said, “I’m going to put in an order for some of your two-strand rope for a clothesline. Wait until my wife sees how uniform and clean your rope is!”
In just a day or two, all the rope I had delivered to the tithing office was gone and people started asking me when I was going to make more. All I could reply was, “When they bring me more cotton or flax. Put your order in at the tithing house, and I’ll fill it as soon as I can.”
It was two weeks before Uncle Claude rode up with a big sack full of horsehair from the manes and tails of many horses. He arrived on Saturday afternoon, and we went down to the harness shop and worked until dark, trying to make some of the hair into twine. Having watched wool being carded to be spun, we tried the same thing with the hair, using a currycomb to make it into uniform rows. We weren’t doing very well until a brief thunder shower drove us inside. Returning to the hair, we found that it twisted up very nicely when wet, just like our own wet hair combs better.
The next week, I worked until dark each day on the horsehair and soon had enough twine to try making a three-strand rope. The first two or three attempts didn’t produce a very good rope. The hair was stiffer and less pliable than flax or cotton, but I kept adjusting the tension on the machine and experimenting with how fast and hard to turn the handle to get the right twist. Soon I was turning out a nice-looking, uniform rope. Each night I took home the rope I had made that day and studied it, trying to work out how to make it even better.
I took that rope apart several times. Each time I put it back together it got better looking, and by the next Saturday I had a nice three-strand horsehair rope almost forty feet long for Uncle Claude.
I took the rope to show Brother Lamb, and he spliced a running noose in the end so that it could be used as a lariat. “Thad,” he said, “you will make your uncle the envy of every cowboy in Kanab. Now you need to make another rope to show at the town fair. You’ll probably win a first prize. Think about it.”
I did. Uncle Claude’s praise for the rope when I gave it to him on Sunday decided the issue. I would make a bigger, longer rope just for the fair, and I would do it without anyone knowing about it until it was done. But how would I get enough horsehair? When Theo mentioned the big dance the next Saturday, I had my answer.
Saturday night I carefully counted the horses around the hall. Most of them were teams still hooked to wagons and buggies. I waited till the dance was in full swing and the full moon came up before slipping out. After looking carefully up and down the street to make sure that no latecomers were about I got the pair of sheep shears I had hidden in the shrubs. Standing there, shears in hand, I almost changed my mind. A strong feeling came over me that it was wrong to take the hair without asking. But I wanted that first-place ribbon, so I ignored the feeling and went to work.
I started on the manes of the bishop’s team of good-looking young roans. In moments their hair was on the ground. I tied it into a bundle and went to work on their tails. I didn’t take all the hair, because they would need some left in their tails to keep the flies off.
Next came a team of matched black horses. Their manes were already clipped, so I only got hair from their tails, As I finished, I noticed that one had less tail left than the other—they were no longer a matched pair. The next horses were gray with long, unkempt manes that were hard to cut. Their tails were even worse—all tangled and full of burrs. As I started on the second horse, it kicked at me twice. I added their bundles of hair to my growing pile and moved on.
Occasionally someone would come outside for a breath of fresh air, but I just hid behind a horse, and no one noticed the extra legs. Working steadily, I soon finished the horses on one side of the street and crossed to the other. As I went past a wagon, a dog sleeping underneath started barking, defending his territory. I almost panicked, fearing that someone would come out to investigate. But I held out my hand in friendship, and the dog wagged his tail, stopped barking, and just watched as I clipped the team he was guarding.
The shears were getting quite dull and I wished I could stop to hone them back to a sharp edge. A half hour later my hands were red, and my arms and shoulders ached from the effort, but all the horses were clipped. I gathered the bundles of hair and made two trips to hide them in Brother Cox’s corn crib. I finished, washed my hands in his livestock watering trough, and went back to the dance.
Lounging against a wall as if I had never left. I glanced down at my pants. They were covered with horsehair of every color! Trying to look inconspicuous, I quickly rolled the hair into little balls and put them into my pocket. As the closing prayer was being said, I said my own little prayer that people wouldn’t be too angry.
After the amen, most people moved quickly outside into the cool evening air. I lingered behind, a little afraid. Suddenly the laughter and talk outside was interrupted by a loud, angry cry: “Someone’s clipped the mane off my horse!”
Everyone still inside the hall rushed out to see what had happened. I went out with the last of them and stayed at the edge of the group. Some were amused at the sight of horses with their clipped manes and tails. Others were not. Some said it needed to be done. Others replied that it was a poor job and would look bad for a long time until the hair grew back.
Everybody was asking, “Who did it?”
Someone suggested, “I bet it was those boys from Glendale or Kanab. They’re always trying to pull some trick on us. We’ll have to find a way to get even with them!” That made me feel as if the balls of horsehair were in my stomach instead of my pocket.
Before going home, I moved the hair to the harness shop, hiding it under the cotton and flax. During the next week, I worked on the horsehair rope when no one was watching. And in the evenings, when Brother Spencer had gone home, I worked on it until it got too dark to see.
First I soaked the hair overnight in the irrigation ditch. This not only made it clean but took the curl out of it and made it easier to twist together into twine-sized strings. When it dried it stayed in place just like my sisters’ hair did when they rolled it up at night.
Using three spools of twine each time, I made four ropes, each over 150 feet long. With all four spools full of three-strand rope, I twisted the whole thing together into one big rope of four big strands. It was hard work turning this much rope into its final size. It came out about the same diameter as a half-dollar coin and was the biggest and longest rope I had made.
With the rope finished, I back-braided the ends as Brother Lamb had taught me, soaked it again, and then stretched it tight between two trees to dry. While it was drying, I went over its entire length, tucking every loose hair back inside the rope. This made it even tighter and very neat looking. The drier it got, the tighter the twist became and the stronger the rope looked.
I stood there admiring my work, wondering how strong it was. I looked forward to the town fair. Perhaps they would test my rope in one of the pulling contests with teams of horses. Someone had told me that one strand of horsehair would easily hold ten pounds. There were hundreds of strands of hair in my beautiful rope. I wanted to feel excited and proud, but I couldn’t. I had no right to the hair, and I had no right to the rope. If only I had asked!
I tried to forget how I had gotten the horsehair, but people kept talking about it. One day at the harness shop, while I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could work on the horsehair rope, a man said, “We’ll have to watch our young men. They’re talking about going to Glendale or Kanab and pulling some stunt to get even for the horses’ tails and manes getting clipped.”
I spliced twine furiously and tried to think about the town fair.
At the fair, I entered the rope in the contest and won first prize. But I was not happy about it. The next day I went to the bishop and told him what I had done. I said I was sorry and asked him to forgive me. He did forgive me, and I felt better.
I also learned that it is better to do things the right way, even if it means losing the prize. I never forgot how uneasy I had felt while making that rope, and I never again took anything that did not belong to me.

I am interested in free throw records because I believe I also set a free throw record in high school—unrecorded, but a record that I believe would stand even today. It was in a game between my alma mater, Preston High, and Malad High in Idaho. It was played in the old Malad High School gymnasium in 1954.
Early in the game I was fouled in the act of shooting and was awarded two foul shots. I calmly stepped to the free throw line, set my toe about one-eighth of an inch from the line, and did my best imitation of my then basketball idol, Bob Cousy, by bouncing the ball twice, spinning it in my hands, taking a deep breath, and shooting. It was a pretty good imitation—until I released the ball. I missed both shots.
A few moments later I was again at the foul line going through the same established routine. To my despair I missed again—twice. As fortune would have it, we were into the game only six or seven minutes, and I was at the line missing my sixth and seventh foul shots. As I approached my ninth and tenth shots, I noticed that the basket, which was regulation size at the beginning of the game, was in some magical way beginning to shrink. Each time I came to the line, it got smaller and smaller.
My confidence wasn’t bolstered much as I saw images of distress in the faces of my teammates and expressions of calm glee and a twinkle in the eyes of my opponents each time I came to the line. By my fifteenth miss, my arms and legs were frozen stiff, and I could see the basket getting so small that even a softball couldn’t pass through it. When I approached the line to miss my eighteenth consecutive free throw, the basket seemed about the size of a golf hole, and I knew that even Bob Cousy would not stand a chance. I was not shooting with much confidence.
Thankfully, the final buzzer sounded and my record ceased at eighteen consecutive misses—a record not easily achievable and one I doubt any of you sports enthusiasts have ever witnessed. As I left the court, my confidence was devastated, and ahead of me remained the frightening task of getting ready to face the foul line again in upcoming games. My challenge was not so much related to foul shooting as it was to confidence.

A youth activity on a chilly night in January 2017 changed the Sorenson family forever. Terry and Jenilyn’s son Tanner was 14 years old. The combined activity was wrapping up. A leader was offering the last of the refreshments. Tanner, who was allergic to peanuts, grabbed a cookie and bit into it. He shouldn’t have. It was a peanut butter cookie.

“He was usually so careful,” Terry says.

Tanner managed to get home—his house was just down the street from their meetinghouse. But he lost consciousness quickly after. He stopped breathing. Paramedics and emergency room staff fought valiantly for him. But unfortunately their efforts were not successful.

Tanner passed away that night because of his food allergy.

Tanner’s family has felt many miracles, large and small, since losing their son. They hope increased awareness of food allergies is one of them.

“It’s not that these kids with allergies are irresponsible. It’s not that they aren’t paying attention. But they are kids,” says Tanner’s father, Terry. “It just takes one second of letting your guard down.”

Not long ago, our youngest daughter, Christie, was getting ready for a party when I heard this horrible sound. It was somewhere between a scream and a groan. Fearing she had burned herself with the curling iron that had been left on for an hour (with five daughters, Rex has spent the past fifteen years running around our house unplugging curling irons—that’s how he trained for marathons), I rushed into her bathroom. There she sat on the counter with her feet in the sink and her face two inches away from the mirror.

“Gross,” she kept repeating. “Gross! I am so ugly, I can’t believe I would even go out of this house!” I stepped closer to see what was so gross, but it escaped me.

“Look at this,” she said, turning her face toward me. “Did you ever see anything so gross?”

“What? Where?” was my honest response. “You look wonderful to me!”

“Oh, you’re just saying that because you’re my mother. If you can’t see this red thing on my face then you are blind. It makes me look so ugly.”

As she turned into the light, I finally saw the object of her distress, but just barely. It was a tiny bit pink and vaguely visible. In no way did it render her whole person ugly. I stood there by her side, the two of us looking at her reflection in the mirror. She saw only one thing, yet I could see so much more. I saw a beautiful young girl and could envision her beyond the beginning of her teens and see what she would become. She could see only the moment of anguish. I could see the loving heart and caring spirit. She could see only the blemish, a magnification of what was wrong, and it became the whole of her. No amount of talking on my part could convince her that my image of her was the clear one.

I thought to myself, “How can she not see who she really is? How can she complain when she has been given so much? How can one little blemish diminish her image of herself? Why can’t she see the total picture of who she is and who she can be?”

And then I had a humbling thought. Aren’t we all at times a little like Christie? How often do we fail to see things in their eternal perspective? How often do we let one flaw, one mistake, one bad grade, one disappointment, or even many disappointments loom so large before our eyes that we fail to see circumstances as they really are?

One day at church, I was sitting quietly on a bench, listening to the music, and I started to get a warm feeling inside. The warm feeling was the Holy Ghost. I knew it was the Holy Ghost because I could hear the still, small voice telling me that I was setting a good example for the little children. I have felt the Holy Ghost at church on other days, too, usually when I am being reverent, sitting calmly, and listening. I like to feel the Holy Ghost, and I am eager to be baptized so that I can have the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Joshua Morgan, age 6West Lafayette, Indiana

When the new mission president arrived, he eventually found out where I was and transferred me to another area. This second area consisted of 16 small islands. That mission president told me that we were so short of missionaries I would not have a companion. He told me that I should preach the gospel and build up the Church on those 16 islands. Those were my only instructions. Again I kept moving and trying to do some good. There were members on some of those islands. I often took them with me on preaching trips. We mostly traveled by small sailboat.

I suppose the Lord has his way of testing all of us. It seems that I was born with a weak stomach, and most of my boat trips (which were many) found me seasick. We would go to one island and tract all day and invite everyone out to a meeting that evening. The whole island usually came, sometimes a few dozen, sometimes several hundred.

Because I knew I wouldn’t be back for several months, I would start with lesson one and spend three or four hours and go through all the lessons. When I concluded, I would ask the people to pray sincerely that evening about what they had heard. Then I would explain that those who felt it was true and had a testimony of it should be down to our boat by 8:00 A.M. the next morning to be baptized and confirmed before we left for the next island.

We often baptized people, and they were good members of the Church. We gave them instructions and called couples from some of the other branches to help them. Then we would leave for the next island and try to get back a few months later. Thus, by constantly going around, we gradually built up several good branches that have today evolved into some very good units with some very strong leaders. There was a lot of persecution in those days; so when they joined, they were usually committed. They had a spiritual conversion. It wasn’t a social thing to join the Church. They had to believe it.

Some years ago while I was serving as a mission president, my wife, Evelia, witnessed a touching scene of happiness when she saw a faithful family enter the chapel. This mother and her two small children had walked from their humble home under oppressive heat to church that day. They never imagined they would find Elder Cruz, the dedicated missionary who, the year before, had shared the message of the restored gospel with them. This wonderful surprise was key in their recognizing the great happiness the gospel had brought into their lives. The children ran to embrace him, and while tears of joy ran down the cheeks of Elder Cruz, the mother clasped his hands in hers and profoundly thanked him for all he had done to bless their family. Surely they found that happiness which is prepared and reserved for the Saints.