Gospel Story Finder

I am a Beehive. Last month, I got my first CD of Church music. I listened to it a lot and downloaded it onto my MP3 player. One day when I got on the bus, there was no place to sit except in the back, right in the middle of the teenagers who say bad things. They were talking so loudly and using such horrible language that I couldn’t block them out. I had a feeling to get out my MP3 player and listen to my church CD. Once I did, the sounds and words around me immediately melted away, and I felt like I was in another place. I concentrated on the lyrics and felt happy. I’m sharing this story so that everyone can know that if you are in situations similar to this, you can listen to music that brings the Spirit, and you’ll feel better.

A young bishop of my acquaintance can testify to the impact of unkempt appearance on those around us and its relationship to the drug culture. One evening last June, Bishop E. Wayne Nelson of the South Shore Ward in Griffith, Indiana, received a telephone call from a jailer in an Indiana city, fifty miles from his home. The jailer was holding two Mormon boys who were charged with possession of narcotics. Bishop Nelson made several visits as these young men waited in jail for their cases to be heard. He learned that both were from Utah, the sons of active Latter-day Saint parents. Both had tampered with drugs in this state. Both had adopted an unkempt appearance, including shoulder-length hair. Soon after they arrived in Gary, Indiana, to look for work, and while they were walking down a street, a peddler of narcotics approached them and invited them to make a purchase. Faced with that temptation at that time in that place, the boys chose not to resist. Soon after this transaction they were arrested and charged with possession of the drugs they had purchased. After the bishop heard their story in jail, he asked them, “Why do you think the peddler approached you?” One boy responded, “I guess it was our appearance; we just looked like users.” These young men had taken upon themselves the badges of the drug culture, and they were easily identified and approached by those who sought to profit from their weakness.

Elizabeth Xavier was a well-educated young woman who enjoyed a life of ease as part of a wealthy, noble family in India. But life took a challenging turn in 1850 when she married William Tait, a regimental drill master in the British navy who had been baptized by Elder Parley P. Pratt in Scotland.
Illustration by Michael T. Malm
Elizabeth’s family deeply disapproved of her baptism. The stress of strained relationships was followed by the tragedy of losing her first son to cholera. Then, eight months pregnant but yearning to be with the Saints and become an eternal family, Elizabeth sent William and their second son off to prepare a home for their family in Zion.
After the baby was born, Elizabeth’s family begged her to forsake her husband and her religion and stay with them. But fixed in her determination to follow the Savior, she left her family and homeland forever, sailing for Liverpool, England.

After Old Panama burned down, the people of Panama chose a location a few miles away that was easier to defend and started building their city from scratch. It probably wasn’t easy, but the results soar above Old Panama’s ruins.

Mayka and Minerva Moreno’s personal progress has followed a similar course. When the sisters joined the Church, Mayka was the age of the Beehive girls, and Minerva was only a few months away from entering the Young Women program. They were essentially starting from scratch in the gospel without the benefit of a foundation built in Primary. Now, several years later, they look back at what Personal Progress did for them as new converts.

“We didn’t get to go through Primary,” Mayka says. “Personal Progress helped me to understand the doctrines of the gospel. It strengthened my testimony a lot about Christ’s Atonement and other things I didn’t understand.”

“I’ve learned so much more about the gospel and about Joseph Smith,” says Minerva. “I’ve been able to figure out what are the lies some say about the Church and what is the truth.”

Their mother, Justa, has noticed their progress as well. “I’ve seen a great change in them,” says Justa. “It’s been complete, 100 percent, but for the good—in their daily lives, their behavior, their friends, in school.”

“I have learned so many things,” Mayka says. “I’m not the same person I was. I’m better.”

President Hinckley tells of a time he learned about having the courage to make his own decisions.
The year we enrolled in junior high school, the building could not accommodate all the students, and so our class was sent back to the elementary school. We were furious. We’d spent six years in that building, and we felt we deserved something better. The boys of the class all met after school. We decided we’d go on strike.
The next day we did not show up. But we had no place to go. We couldn’t stay home, because our mothers would ask questions. We didn’t think of going downtown to a show. We had no money for that. We didn’t think of going to the park. We were afraid we might be seen. We just wandered about and wasted the day.
The next morning, the principal, Mr. Stearns, was at the front door of the school to greet us. He told us that we could not come back to school until we brought a note from our parents. Striking, he said, was not the way to settle a problem. If we had a complaint, we could come to the principal’s office and discuss it.
I remember walking sheepishly into the house. My mother asked what was wrong. I told her. She wrote a note. It was very brief. It was the most stinging rebuke she ever gave me. It read:
“Dear Mr. Stearns,
“Please excuse Gordon’s absence yesterday. His action was simply an impulse to follow the crowd.”
I have never forgotten my mother’s note. I resolved then and there that I would never do anything on the basis of simply following the crowd. I determined then and there that I would make my own decisions on the basis of my standards and not be pushed in one direction or another by those around me. That decision has blessed my life many times.

A few years ago I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with almost 500 missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the surgeon prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He said that there was a great likelihood that Elder Davidson could not survive the surgery. The parents came; and late that evening, his father and I, in the hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of that young missionary and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
Elder Davidson was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of Elder Davidson’s surgery, his bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these husky men normally ate. She brought a tray over to bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you.” Bed number one was occupied by a man who was lying on his bed with his toe wrapped up in a bandage. He had suffered an accident with his lawn mower. Other than his injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we’ll give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two!” As she went over to him, he said, “No, I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
She said, “That’s two in a row. I don’t understand you men, and there is no one this morning in bed three.” She went on to bed four, bed five, and bed six; and the answer was the same. “No, this morning we’re not hungry.”
The young lady put her hands on her hips and said, “Every other morning you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat. What is the reason?”
And then the man who occupied bed number six came forth with the answer.
He said, “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend Davidson is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church; and while he has been lying on that bed while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He said, “We don’t know much about the Mormon church, but we have learned a great deal about Davidson; and we are fasting for him today.”
I might tell you that the operation was a success. In fact, when I attempted to pay the surgeon, he countered, “Why, that would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high helped me to perform.”
Elder Davidson framed his life with faith.

I had not planned on becoming a single parent of four children in my mid-20s and found myself reeling. I had a modest home to care for, four small children, and no post-high school education. I wondered how I would ever financially support my young family. My answers did not come in days or months but over many years of obeying one prompting after another.
Fortunately I had the habit of turning to the Lord in times of trouble. One night the answer came clearly: “Go to school.” I wondered how this would be possible with the financial obligations I had, so I spoke to my parents and my bishop. They agreed that going to school was the right course, and within a few weeks I was enrolled at a local university, where I earned a degree in elementary education with a special education endorsement.
As a teacher, I was still not making enough money to meet the financial demands of my growing children. I continued to petition the Lord about the lack of funds. During a visit with my bishop, he recommended that I go back to school to obtain a master’s degree. I went home, prayed about it, and enrolled back in school the following semester.
Several years later I was prompted to go back to school again. I scheduled the needed tests, interviewed for programs in educational administration, and found myself enrolled, once again, in a master’s program at another local university. Upon its completion, new employment opportunities opened up to me that have enriched my life with new relationships, fostered personal growth, and helped me discover new talents.
In the temple one night, I was sharing my frustration with the Lord that in spite of my efforts, I was still not able to consistently make ends meet. I felt the warmth of heavenly communication reminding me that all my family’s needs had been met, either by my own work or by the generosity of others, and that as long as I remained obedient, we would be cared for. And as I am reminded by Alma 20:4, “I know, in the strength of the Lord [I] canst do all things.”
I am so grateful to Heavenly Father for the promptings to complete my education and the consequent employment opportunities. I am also grateful for all those in my life who have been so thoughtful throughout the years. I’ve learned I can do more than I thought possible with the help of my Heavenly Father. Of equal significance, I’ve learned to receive graciously and to give generously.

Three years ago when President Wheelwright and I were service missionaries at BYU-Idaho for a short period of time, I received a telephone call from my stepmother in Salt Lake City. She said that my dear 96 year old father was not doing very well and she thought that I should come home. I left Rexburg that same morning and drove to Salt Lake. I was blessed to be with my father the last two weeks of his life. What a blessing that was for me to help care for him as he lay in a hospital bed in the family room of his home. I was able to sit beside him and talk to him and read to him and kiss his wonderful forehead each time I walked by his bed, even when he didn't know I was there. Those were incredible days for me!
Four days before Dad died he became very lucid and wanted to talk. It was a Sunday afternoon and all five of us children were with him, surrounding his bed. When he started talking I was wise enough to take a notebook and pen and write down the things he said to us. Those were the last words he uttered to us. As I tell you this story, you need to know that my mother had passed away 25 years before. Dad began by saying, Your mother is with me to tell you some important things. His message for us was that the family is the most important thing on this earth. He was able to tell us children several other wonderful things before he drifted back into silence, but I will never forget those words The family is the most important thing on this earth.

When my oldest son, Eric, was a senior in high school, he wanted to give his family gifts for Christmas. He had little income, so he decided on a gift of the heart.
For each family member Eric made a list of the 10 things he would miss most about him or her while he was at college and on his mission. His lists were rolled up like scrolls and tied with ribbon.
At Christmas we opened our gifts with great enthusiasm and curiosity. My list included things like “Watching her try to use the computer” and “Her hugs.” It must have taken him a long time to think of 10 things for each of us. I cried, his brothers laughed, and his only sister cherished her list. It still hangs on the door of her room today, three years later.
Now as Eric serves a mission in Guatemala, we wanted to send him something different for his last Christmas before returning home. Each of us wrote our own version of the present he gave us three years ago. We titled them “Ten Things I Have Missed Most about Eric While He’s Been on His Mission.”
For some of us it was easy. Eric’s brothers had a hard time but finally finished. It was a great project for family home evening, and we all laughed and cried as we thought of our 10 things. What a great family tradition we’ve started and hope to continue as our other children leave for college and missions.
I will never forget this gift from a busy son who thought to make a gift that would make a difference. We are grateful we were able to receive this from him.

Illustration by Lee Montgomery / IllustrationX
In 1998, I began my studies at the University of the Andes. I greatly desired to earn my university degree with a good grade point average. But my criminology classes were difficult, and I had trouble adapting to university work. Also, I was busy serving as a counselor in my ward bishopric and working at night to provide for my family.
Doubt and worry frustrated my hopes that first year as I earned grades far below the class average. As the school year ended, I increased my pleas to God in prayer for help understanding each theory, principle, and procedure.
During my second year, I met a classmate I had not noticed before named Argenis. I discovered that he had not seen me either—nor would he ever see me because he was blind. One day he approached me with his cane and braille tablet and asked for help. He said I had a good voice and that he needed me to record the written study guides so he could listen to them.
He had asked others, but they refused. Those who had helped him the year before were reluctant to help him again. Between my busy schedule and poor grades, I was also reluctant to help.
Despite never officially agreeing to his request, however, I soon found myself reading and rereading the guides to record their content for Argenis. In time, we became friends, and I began to share the gospel of Jesus Christ with him. I even gave him a Book of Mormon in braille. He appreciated my help but never became interested in learning more about the Church.
As I continued reading and recording the study guides, however, my grade point average began to rise. Even my peers noticed that I was becoming a better student and growing in my understanding.
Eight years after I graduated, my friend Argenis also graduated. He hadn’t been interested in the Church, but he had helped me understand “that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17). He had also helped me see that as I serve others, God blesses me and increases my ability.

Near the end of a stressful day, John A. Widtsoe sat in his office, “rather tired after the day’s work.” He was facing a controversial problem, and he was feeling the heavy weight of his responsibilities. “I was weary,” he said.
“Just then there was a knock upon the door, and in walked George Albert Smith. He said, ‘I am on the way home after my day’s work. I thought of you and the problems that you are expected to solve. I came in to comfort you and to bless you.’
“… I shall never forget it. We talked together for awhile; we parted, he went home. My heart was lifted. I was weary no longer.”
Recalling this experience many years later as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Elder Widtsoe (1872–1952) said: “That was the way of George Albert Smith. … He gave of his own time, his own strength.”1

After that, the missionaries came to our home and gave us the first discussion. Then came the invitation: “Will you pray to Heavenly Father to know if the Book of Mormon is true?” We both agreed to do it.
On the first night I prayed before sleeping, but I was so tired that I fell asleep without waiting for a response. On the second night I prayed again, but I didn’t receive an answer. The next night I prayed once again. I wanted to feel what the missionaries had taught me: “Your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8). I prayed and waited, but I didn’t receive a response. Still, I went to bed certain that one day I would receive it.
The next day was the first Sunday of the month, and we went to church. It was then that it happened. During class I began to feel something I had never felt before—something that made me feel so happy. When sacrament meeting began I had a desire to bear my testimony, but I didn’t have the courage. However, I was certain that the Book of Mormon was true.
My brother and I accepted the gospel without reluctance. We had testimonies of the Book of Mormon, and we knew that everything else the missionaries taught us would be true too.

Eric couldn’t stop grinning as he walked off the soccer field, the field where his team had just won the league championship. Eric was hot and tired but he knew he had played his best.
As he picked up his bike, he thought of his dad’s familiar words: “Not much of what is important in life comes easily,” his father said. “Our effort puts a shine in things—such a shine sometimes that they glow for years and years in our hearts.”
“This game will definitely glow for years!” Eric thought.
“Hey, Eric!” a voice called from behind him. He turned around and grinned at his teammate, Clay. “Where are you going?” Clay asked. “The victory party is at the coach’s house.”
“I can’t go,” Eric said. “I promised Davy I’d come over right after the game. I was going to spend the rest of the day and evening with him.”
Clay looked upset. “How much fun can you have with someone who’s sick all the time, and can’t even leave the house? We just won the championship, Eric. Isn’t that worth something?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Coach said a reporter is coming to the party. He’s going to take our pictures and interview us. We’re going to be in the newspaper!”
Eric’s eyes widened. “Really?” Clay’s excitement was contagious. “I guess I could just see Davy later tonight,” he said.
“You can’t,” Clay said. “Don’t forget the coach said if we won the game he would take us on an overnight campout to Big Bear Falls. Well, the campout is tonight. You don’t want to miss out on that, do you?”
“No way!” Eric said.
“Davy’s just a sick kid with nowhere to go and nothing to do, except ruin somebody else’s fun,” Clay said, spinning a soccer ball on his finger. “Come on, Eric. It’s time to celebrate!”
Eric eyed the spinning soccer ball. The more he looked at it the more his mind began to spin, and he got caught up in the moment. “OK, let’s go!” he said. He jumped on his bike and headed across the field toward the rest of his team.
During the reporter’s interview, Eric looked at the clock in the coach’s living room. It was three o’clock. He had promised Davy he would be to his house by one. He knew Davy would be disappointed. He always looked forward to Eric’s visits with excitement. But because of school, homework, soccer practice, and family and church activities, it was hard for Eric to spend a lot of time with Davy. But today Eric was going to spend the whole afternoon and evening, and Davy had been marking off the days on the calendar for weeks.
The reporter asked each boy how it felt to be part of a winning team. When Eric’s turn came, he didn’t answer. He was thinking of the time he and his father were hiking in the Big Bear Mountains. They had come to a three-way fork in the trail and had to decide which path to follow. “Like most things in life, Eric,” his dad said, “it comes down to choices. It’s getting late, so …”
Eric studied the three paths. One was overgrown and hard to see in the evening shadows. It looked jungly and mysterious. The second was straight, narrow, and clearly defined, but uninteresting. The third trail was wide and curving with room to wander.
“What will it be?” Eric’s dad asked.
“The wide one, I guess,” he said. “There are lots of turns so it will be more exciting, not knowing what’s ahead.”
They started down the path, but 20 minutes later it ended at the edge of a cliff. Below them in the distance they could make out the small lake where their family had set up camp. Shadows crept across the woodlands below and the sun had sunk behind the mountains.
“Now which path, Eric?” his dad asked.
“How about the jungly one?” Eric suggested. “It looked cool.”
They made their way back to the original path, then started down the dark, overgrown trail.
After a few minutes, though, the path was lost in the tangles of underbrush. “What do you think we should do now?” Eric’s dad asked. “It’s getting dark and we’re no closer to camp than we were two hours ago.”
Eric pulled a thorn from his shirt and rubbed a scratch on his arm. “I guess we better get back to the path we were on in the first place.”
His dad nodded, and the two started back. They finally set their feet back on the original path and faced the trails at the triple fork. It was dark now, but the stars lit up the final path. “What do you say we take that third trail, Eric?”
Eric glanced around uneasily at the darkening woods and took hold of his father’s hand. “Yes,” he said. “I can see the path clearly because it’s straight, and it’s narrow so we won’t wander off it.”
As they made their way through the night, Eric’s dad spoke up. “The Savior said that we should always take the straight and narrow path for the very reasons you pointed out. We can clearly see our way and won’t stray from the path unless we choose to. This path is like the iron rod in Lehi’s dream, isn’t it? Straight and true. And look,” he said, pointing toward the stars. “They light the path, like the prophets we have to guide us back to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”
They paused on a small knoll above the lake, and looking down they could see a glowing light in the darkness where Eric’s mother had started dinner over the campfire. “Kind of looks like the tree of life in Lehi’s dream, don’t you think?” his dad asked. “A welcome sight to any weary, faithful traveler on the road of life. And just like the food your mom is preparing, the Lord has filled His living tree of life with sustenance to nourish our spirits and lift us up in our darkest hours.”
Eric squeezed his father’s hand, and his eyes filled with warm tears.
“What are you crying for, Eric?” Clay laughed. Eric looked around and suddenly realized he was still in the coach’s living room surrounded by his teammates.
The reporter quickly wrote on his notepad and said, “It’s his way of saying what it feels like to be part of a winning team.”
“What it is,” Eric said, “is my knowing that I want to be a part of another winning team, as well.”
The boys looked confused. “Another winning team?” one of them blurted. “What team is that?”
Eric whispered something to the coach, waved good-bye, and left the room.
“What did he say, Coach?” Clay asked.
Their coach smiled. “He told me the name of the other team he wanted to be a part of—the Lord’s team. And he said to be a part of it, he needed to be somewhere else. Any of you boys know where that is?”
“Davy’s place, I think,” Clay said slowly.
The coach’s smile deepened.
Two weeks later, Davy passed away quietly in his sleep.
A few weeks after that, Eric and his father were hiking in the Big Bear Mountains. When they reached that familiar triple fork in the trail, Eric paused and studied the straight, narrow path. He took his dad’s hand and they stood quietly for a few moments.
“Which path do you want to take, Eric?” his dad asked.
“The straight and narrow one, Dad,” he said.
“You’re sure?” his father asked, smiling.
“It’s one thing I am sure about,” Eric smiled back. “It is the right way.”

Staley’s Butte—7,921 feet high. He knew its elevation by heart after studying an old road atlas that Grandpa had in the bookcase. And he knew the mountain because he’d climbed it right to the top.
Sam’s mind wandered back to a Friday in the fall four years earlier, just after school had started. The family was around the kitchen table, talking about lots of little things that seem to be best discussed over a warm supper. Along about dessert time, Dad abruptly brought up the subject of climbing Staley’s Butte.
“You got much planned for tomorrow, Sam?” Dad asked between bites of chocolate ice cream.
“Nothing outside of the regular chores,” he answered cautiously, wondering if his answer would lead to additional work.
“What do you think of the two of us packing a lunch and making a climb up Staley’s Butte? I don’t believe you and I have ever climbed it.”
“Sure, Dad!” Sam said. “Really? That’s a pretty hard climb isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s a test. That’s for sure. But you’ll make it,” Dad encouraged, and then turning to Mother. “Say Ruth, did you hear Vernon Henderson sunk a new well …”
Nothing more was said about the climb, at least until five the next morning when Sam felt someone gently shaking his shoulder.
“You going with me on the hike today, Son?”
Sam was a little startled by having his sleep broken so unexpectedly. “Huh … hike? Oh yeah, Staley’s Butte,” he said groggily. “We’d better fix something to eat for when we get to the top,” he said, proud of what he felt was admirable foresight.
“Already done,” Dad reassured, smiling. “I’ve been up an hour. Breakfast is on the table, and I’ve got a pack full of sandwiches. Are you going up there in your pajamas?”
“Be right with you,” Sam said, swinging out of bed and fumbling around with some clothes.
Thirty minutes later they were turning away from the highway and onto a dirt road that led to the mountain. The morning air was clear, still, and cool. Sam leaned back in the car seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The air smelled mostly like dew and juniper, with the fragrance of sage intermingled. Higher up, where the road started switching back on an upward path, he knew the fresh smell of pine would dominate.
They poked ahead for another ten miles before Dad slowed up and pulled the car over where the road flared just before a wooden bridge crossed a hard-running stream. Light had been making steady gains on the darkness, and now sunshine was reaching the tops of the trees. Sam pulled back on the door handle and jumped out into the nippy, tingling air.
“There’s a trail that runs parallel to the stream. We’ll follow it for a couple of miles,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “There’s a little draw that washes down almost from the top of the mountain. We can follow it up almost to the summit. The last stretch is tough, but I think we can lick it.”
Dad was digging through the back seat for the pack with the food in it. He fished it out and hefted it onto his back, then stopped just short of letting it rest on his shoulders.
“You know, Sam, I think it might be time to let you carry the pack. You’re about as big as I am now.”
They started off on the trail, Dad in the lead, taking long, loping strides. Gradually the trail left the streamside, climbing higher into the thick pine forest. The harsh noise of the rumbling water was slowly replaced by the sounds of the wind stirring through the tree limbs and a host of mountainside birds clucking and calling. Soon the sunshine filtered to the trail and Sam was mildly surprised to find perspiration forming on his forehead. They pushed on for an hour, not saying much, but sharing the communication that seems to come naturally for fathers and sons in the outdoors.
They hiked on for 45 minutes. The pine forests were thinning into small meadows and patches of rock. Sam noticed they were now able to look down on the tops of the lower peaks nearby.
“This is where we leave the trail,” Dad said, stopping for a rest. “The streambed should lead us almost to the top. How about some water?”
Sam took the pack off and passed a plastic jug to his father. Far below, perhaps a half-mile, the stream thrashed and twisted down the canyon. Its gurgling could only be heard during the moments when the wind died down.
Dad handed the water jug back to Sam, who took a couple of long swallows before wiping the top off and placing it back in the pack. He looked at Sam. “How about you taking the lead? I’m getting sort of tired I guess.”
“Okay, Dad, but don’t expect me to slow down on your account,” Sam teased.
“Then let’s go, Mr. Young and Arrogant.”
Sam turned and faced Staley’s Butte. It wouldn’t be an easy climb, this last stretch. The slope was steep and there was plenty of loose rock. And the top of the butte resembled a king’s crown, with tall spires that seemed to dare anyone to climb them.
They made steady progress for the next hour, zigzagging along the rocks. But the small streambed they’d been trying to follow began to narrow and steepen, finally disappearing among the upper reaches of the mountain. It wasn’t long before both father and son were using hands and feet to help them work their way to the top. Sam found himself nearly out of breath as he searched for hand holds and solid footing. Dad was right behind, and Sam could hear him breathing hard. They rose, slowly, arduously, until the terrain flattened into a small mesa two dozen feet wide with a few good-sized stones sprinkled about.
“Ready for a rest?” Sam questioned, hoping that his father would say yes.
“I think so … that was quite a climb … that last little stretch,” his father panted. “There’s some good sittin’ rocks here. Let’s take five.”
Both of them were quiet for a few moments. The water jug was passed around again.
“By the look of things, we’re going to have to grow some wings if we want to make it to the top,” Dad said, studying the steep spires above. “You still game?”
“I think we can do it, Dad,” Sam said slowly. “If we stay to the left there seem to be places between the spires where we can get some good holds.”
“That’s our best bet, no doubt about it,” Dad agreed. “You know, my foot is kind of bothering me. Blisters. Why don’t you start up, and if you make it okay, then I’ll follow you in a few minutes. I think I’d better take care of my foot,” he added with a trace of playfulness in his voice.
Sam took the challenge. “See you at the top,” he said.
The last part of the climb was the most difficult. Sam carefully crept up an opening between two of the spires, ignoring a dozen scrapes and small cuts he received as he pulled himself up. After 20 minutes, he crawled over the last ledge. He stood up and gazed at the panorama around him, then called down to his father to let him know he’d reached the top of Staley’s Butte.

My office in the Relief Society Building has a perfect view of the Salt Lake Temple. Every night, as regular as clockwork, the outdoor temple lights turn on at dusk. The temple is a steady, reassuring beacon just outside my window.
One night this past February, my office remained exceptionally dim as the sun went down. As I looked out the window, the temple was dark. The lights had not turned on. I felt suddenly somber. I couldn’t see the temple spires I had glimpsed every evening for years.
We, or people we love, may temporarily go dark. In the case of the Salt Lake Temple, the facilities manager, Brother Val White, got a call almost immediately. People had noticed. What was wrong with the temple lights? First, the staff went in person to every electrical panel in the temple and manually turned the lights back on. Then they replaced the batteries in the automatic power supply and tested them to find out what had failed.
It’s hard to get the lights back on by yourself. We need friends. We need each other. Just like the temple facilities staff, we can help each other by showing up in person, recharging our spiritual batteries, repairing what went wrong.

When I was a very small boy, my father found a lamb all alone out in the desert. The herd of sheep to which its mother belonged had moved on, and somehow the lamb got separated from its mother, and the shepherd must not have known that it was lost. Because it could not survive alone in the desert, my father picked it up and brought it home. To have left the lamb there would have meant certain death, either by falling prey to the coyotes or by starvation because it was so young that it still needed milk. Some sheepmen call these lambs “bummers.” My father gave the lamb to me and I became its shepherd.
For several weeks I warmed cow’s milk in a baby’s bottle and fed the lamb. We became fast friends. I called him Nigh—why I don’t remember. It began to grow. My lamb and I would play on the lawn. Sometimes we would lie together on the grass and I would lay my head on its soft, woolly side and look up at the blue sky and the white billowing clouds. I did not lock my lamb up during the day. It would not run away. It soon learned to eat grass. I could call my lamb from anywhere in the yard by just imitating as best I could the bleating sound of a sheep: Baa. Baa.
One night there came a terrible storm. I forgot to put my lamb in the barn that night as I should have done. I went to bed. My little friend was frightened in the storm, and I could hear it bleating. I knew that I should help my pet, but I wanted to stay safe, warm, and dry in my bed. I didn’t get up as I should have done. The next morning I went out to find my lamb dead. A dog had also heard its bleating cry and killed it. My heart was broken. I had not been a good shepherd or steward of that which my father had entrusted to me. My father said, “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” My father’s remark hurt me more than losing my woolly friend. I resolved that day, as a little boy, that I would try never again to neglect my stewardship as a shepherd if I were ever placed in that position again. …
After more than sixty years, I can still hear in my mind the bleating, frightened cry of the lamb of my boyhood that I did not shepherd as I should have. I can also remember the loving rebuke of my father: “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” If we are not good shepherds, I wonder how we will feel in the eternities.

Thomas Moore joined the Church in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, when he was 83 years old. Brother Moore is a baker, and he enjoys inviting the missionaries into his home “for whatever food they would like. Most of the time, I see them living on sandwiches,” he says. Brother Moore loves to serve the missionaries because he sees them making time “for people like me, whom they don’t even know. What a privilege to help them even just a little!” Brother Moore has discovered for himself the joy that comes from serving others with love (see Mosiah 2:17; Gal. 5:13).

Perhaps my growing realization about a more productive learning relationship with Heavenly Father is what made me so impressed with President Marion G. Romney’s biography written by F. Burton Howard. President Romney, who served as a counselor to President Spencer W. Kimball, is a wonderful example of someone who asks faithful questions. I particularly want to share an account of how President Romney responded when his wife, Ida, suffered a stroke in early 1967. She lay in the hospital for weeks, giving no sign that she recognized President Romney when he visited.

During this period, following priesthood blessings, fasting, prayer, and, nevertheless, a continued worsening of Ida’s condition, President Romney’s response was one of great reticence to counsel the Lord. If his will was to take her, President Romney did not want to pray for something else. And yet he had said on numerous occasions about his wife, “She is the best part of me. I could never carry on alone” (F. Burton Howard, Marion G. Romney, His Life and Faith [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988], p. 140).

He searched the scriptures and fasted to develop his faith and learn how to demonstrate it to the Lord. He didn’t directly ask the Lord to heal his wife, though this was never far from his heart. Rather, he worried whether he had the right to ask for this blessing. He observed that the Lord hadn’t healed President McKay, who was very ill. “He hasn’t healed others who are in as great a need as I,” he said. “Who am I to ask for a blessing? Why should the Lord answer my prayers?”

He struggled with this internal conflict for some time, continuing to read, to pray, and to fast. One evening, shortly after returning from a visit to Ida in the hospital, where he had found her unchanged, he went to the Book of Mormon and began to read. He read in the book of Helaman about the prophet Nephi, who had been falsely condemned as he sought to teach the people. A particular passage in this account touched his heart more than he had ever felt before. The scripture read:
Blessed art thou, Nephi, for those things which thou hast done; for I have beheld how thou hast with unwearyingness declared the word, which I have given unto thee, unto this people. And thou hast not feared them, and hast not sought thine own life, but hast sought my will, and to keep my commandments.
And now, because thou hast done this with such unwearyingness, behold, I will bless thee forever; and I will make thee mighty in word and in deed, in faith and in works; yea, even that all things shall be done unto thee according to thy word, for thou shalt not ask that which is contrary to my will. [Helaman 10:4–5]
President Romney felt personal confirmation that the Lord accepted him. He
knew that by refusing to ask a special favor without first ascertaining the will of the Lord, he had unknowingly demonstrated the quality of his faith. . . .
With awe, [President Romney] fell to his knees. The scripture was the direct answer to many prayers. More than anything else he wanted to know the Lord’s will for Ida. He was willing to let her go; or, if need be, he would care for her in whatever condition the Lord wanted her to be in. As he concluded his prayer with the phrase “Thy will be done,” he seemed to feel or hear a voice which said, “It is not contrary to my will that Ida be healed.” [Howard, Romney, pp. 141–142]
Quickly he put on his coat and tie and went to the hospital. Arriving there at 3:00 a.m., he entered her room and placed his hands upon her head. She didn’t move or give any sign of recognition. He then invoked the power of the priesthood and pronounced a simple blessing upon her, uttering the
incredible promise that she would recover her health and mental powers and yet perform a great mission upon the earth.
Even though he did not doubt, [President Romney] was astonished to see Ida’s eyes open as he concluded the blessing. He sat down on the bed and listened to her frail voice ask, “For goodness’ sakes, Marion, what are you doing here?” In total surprise he responded, “Ida, how are you?” With a flash of humor which showed that she was not totally unaware of her circumstances, Ida Romney replied, “Compared to what, Marion? Compared to what?” [p. 142]
Thereafter, Ida recovered fully and miraculously.

One hot summer day our family decided that the best way to enjoy the afternoon would be to go to the mountains. Long on our list of things to do together was a trip to a nearby cave. After we had gotten our hiking gear together, a lunch was packed.
We set out on our journey with anticipation and soon found ourselves in the refreshing coolness of the mountains. At the cave we were greeted by a park ranger, who became our guide. He told us that originally there were three caves, discovered separately, but that now the caves were joined together by man-made passageways. We noticed that there were many levels of interesting rock formations, some of which remained unexplored. Pointing to a slight opening at the side of the trail, the ranger commented that there were two unpenetrated caverns below the path on which we stood. He said, “We hope to explore both of these some day, but as yet we haven’t found a satisfactory way to get in and out of those lower caves.”
Ducking our heads to avoid contact with sharp-edged rocks, we walked along a narrow, slippery path with the unknown leading off in every direction. In order to keep our balance, it was often necessary for us to grip an iron pipe attached to the cave wall alongside the trail.
I had fallen to the end of the group to take some pictures with my camera, when suddenly the electric lights in the cave went out. Whether this was part of a demonstration to a group ahead of us or an unexpected power failure, I don’t know. Far ahead of me our guide raised his voice and it echoed back along the narrow passage. “Be calm, everyone; I’m sure the lights will come on momentarily. Everybody please stay on the trail and hold onto the railing.” His flashlight made only a tiny spark of yellow in the distance.
I had a strong mental image of the many jagged holes and side passages breaking off and down from the place where we stood. A person could get lost in one of these and never be seen again, I worried. To relax, I leaned against the slanted wall of rock. Feeling along the wall with my fingers, I found the iron railing. With the park ranger ahead and by holding onto the railing, we should be able to get out of here, I decided, even if the power isn’t restored.
An excited murmur of voices rose from the group ahead of me, but it soon subsided. We all seemed to sense that as long as we stayed on the trail and followed the advice of the guide, who had been over the path before, there would be no danger. There was no fear because we could hear his voice and feel the railing firmly fixed to the rocky wall of the cave.
After a few minutes the lights came on and we were able to continue our tour and view the wondrous beauty of the cave. But what would have happened if someone had abandoned the trail or let go of the railing? What if anyone had tried to get out by himself by feeling his way along the cave floor in the dark? What chance would any of us have had of getting out without the railing or without the ranger?
There have been many other exciting and memorable family outings, and each one has taught lessons of love, understanding, and cooperation. But on that long-ago day when I held tightly to a damp iron railing in a dark cave, I learned a lesson in faith that I have never forgotten.

That evening at supper Beth was quiet.
“Is anything wrong, Beth?” her mother asked.
“How far away is Easter?”
“About four weeks,” her mother replied. “Why?”
“I’m going to make an Easter egg,” Beth said slowly.
“We always color eggs, Beth,” her mother said, puzzled. “Don’t you think this is a bit early to start?”
“No, because I want to make a fancy egg—like Gram has in her collection.”
A look of understanding spread across Mother’s face. “Were you helping Gram get her eggs ready for the library display this week?”
Beth nodded. “And do you know what? I found out that Gramps was the Phantom all along. Did you know that, Mom?”
“Did I ever! I remember all the eggs we used to eat. It’s a wonder I didn’t sprout feathers when I was growing up!” Mother smiled at the memory. “I never let on to Gramps that I knew though. It would have spoiled his fun. He got such a kick out of surprising Gram.”
“She’s really sad because this is going to be the first Easter in almost fifty years that she won’t be getting a Phantom egg,” Beth said. “I thought that if I could make her one, she might feel a little better. I know it wouldn’t be the same as one from the Phantom, but I’d like to try.”
Beth’s father, who had been listening quietly, smiled at his daughter. “I think that’s a great idea, Beth. It would remind Gram that she is still loved even though Gramps isn’t here anymore. If I can do anything to help, let me know.”
After school the next day Beth bicycled over to the library. She found several books to take home on the art of egg decorating. When she finished her homework and the dishes, she sat down to study the books before bedtime. As Mother gave her a kiss good night, Beth said, “Mom, some of those eggs that Gramps made took a lot of time and work. Why didn’t he make some to sell?”
“He only made them for Gram because he loved her, and he knew how much she liked decorated eggs. Have you decided what kind you’re going to make?”
“Not yet. But I’ve got the choice narrowed down. I’ll decide in the morning.” Beth yawned and snuggled down under the covers.
By Saturday Beth was eager to start her project. She had decided to try her hand at two different types of decorations. One involved an onion-skin dye. After the egg had been dyed, a design would be scratched onto its surface. The other type was a “sugar” egg. This required some diamond dust and floral cake decorations as well as glue, ribbons, and a special sugar frosting. Both types required starting with clean, whole, empty eggshells.
A few hours later Beth looked ruefully into a bowl of shell-less eggs. The yellow yolks seemed to be winking at her. She had only a few whole shells to show for her efforts.
She looked up when Mother came into the kitchen. “Mom, can I fix breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Mother put an arm around Beth’s shoulders and hugged her sympathetically. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll be happy to eat all the eggs we need to. If I never clucked before, I doubt that I will now.”
“Thanks, Mom. You’re super. This isn’t as easy as I thought.”
The weeks sped by. Beth practiced her egg craft every spare moment. The family ate omelets, angel food cake, souffles, custards, meringue pies, and anything else they could think of that used lots of eggs. Decorated eggshells lined every available space.
The day before Easter came quickly. Beth’s mother had rummaged through the attic and found a beautiful little basket that was the perfect size for one egg. Beth had lined it with soft Easter grass.
After supper Beth carefully positioned her prize egg in the basket. Pastel flowers shone softly through its glistening spun-sugar coating.
“Beth, that’s lovely,” her mother said.
“You’ve done a great job, honey,” her father agreed. “You should be proud of yourself. We are. I’m sure Gram will be very happy.”
“Thank you.” Beth smiled. “It did turn out nice, didn’t it? I’m glad I decided to do this kind instead of the onion-skin type. I like this kind better.”
“I like the smell better too.” Her dad wrinkled his nose in mock disgust at the remembered smell of boiling onion skins.
“Oh, Dad!” Beth laughed. “I can’t wait to see Gram’s face.”
Early the next morning they drove to Gram’s house and parked out of sight down the street. Beth cautiously crept up to the front door, put the basket on the steps, rang the bell, and scurried behind a huge lilac bush.
The front door opened slowly. Beth’s grandmother stepped out and peered around uncertainly. Shaking her head, she turned to go back inside. Suddenly she glanced down and froze as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
Beth held her breath as Gram sat down on the step and placed the basket on her lap. She stared and stared at it. Beth could see tears on her grandmother’s cheeks. Gram lifted her head and called out, “If you’re out there, my new Phantom, how can I thank you? You’ve made me very happy. I’m going to call my granddaughter to tell her about your kindness. She’ll be delighted.”
As soon as Gram closed the door, Beth scooted back to the car. “Quick!” she told her parents. “We’ve got to get home. Gram is going to call me to tell me about the egg.”
The phone was ringing as Beth raced through the front door. Although Beth was winded from her run, her grandmother was too excited to notice it over the phone.
Easter dinner conversation revolved around the new Phantom egg which Gram had brought to show off. All the aunts, uncles, and cousins were impressed, and Beth glowed inwardly when Gram said, “Tomorrow I’m taking this egg right down to the library and have it put in the case with my other Phantom eggs. I’m going to make a nice card explaining what happened and how much this egg means to me. Somehow I’m sure that Gramps is pleased too.”