Gospel Story Finder

As a mother of two young daughters, I have often made the excuse that I cannot participate in some of the things that I would like to because it is simply not my “season” to do so. One of those things was family history work.
Though I had participated in indexing as an enjoyable Sabbath activity in the past, I found myself making excuses that I had neither the time nor the knowledge to embrace my family history work at the time.
My heart changed early one morning a few months ago as I sat in the temple. As I reviewed the names of the deceased on the temple cards, praying that they would accept the temple ordinances performed for them, I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be nice if these were my own family members? I’d like to do the work for them.” The Spirit confirmed to me that if these were my desires, then the Lord would help me do my family history work, specifically on the Sabbath day. He could help me find the time and the knowledge to accomplish His purposes.
That Sunday, I went home and logged onto FamilySearch.org. Tears immediately flooded my eyes as I saw the names of my ancestors. My connection to them became stronger. What added to my love for them were the personal photographs and documents, recently added by my grandmother, making my family members come to life even more for me. I felt joy in involving my two-year-old, who learned to identify pictures of her great-grandfather and great-great-grandmother, calling them by name. I felt the way that President Russell M. Nelson, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, described: “The Sabbath provides a wonderful opportunity to strengthen family ties. After all, God wants each of us, as His children, to return to Him as endowed Saints, sealed in the temple as families, to our ancestors, and to our posterity” (“The Sabbath Is a Delight,” Liahona, May 2015, 130).
Since that initial experience, I have continued to participate in family history work on the Sabbath day. I have been blessed to do temple work for some of my deceased family members. A particular blessing has been learning about my relatives and gaining a closer relationship with my grandparents who are not members of our faith. It has strengthened my resolve to keep my covenants and endure to the end so that I may be a strong link in my eternal family.
Though there is still much work to be done, I am grateful to my Heavenly Father for increasing my capacity so that I can participate in His work, especially on His day. For me, the Sabbath is truly a delight.

In this condition I was called on a mission to teach the humble as well as the great of Uruguay, but to my amazement neither my appeal to gospel ordinances, nor my grave explanations of gospel laws, so long studied but not practiced in high school, had much effect. Not even my stunning explanations of sacred principles moved these dear people to conversion. I felt a failure, and my heart was very sick. And in this unsettled condition I found myself reading in Mosiah one day when the teachings of King Benjamin sank deep into my soul:
And moreover, I say unto you, that there shall be no other name nor any other way nor means whereby salvation can come unto the children of men, only in and through the name of Christ, the Lord Omnipotent.
For behold, he judgeth, and his judgment is just; and the infant perisheth not that dieth in its infancy; but men drink damnation to their own souls except they humble themselves and become as little children, and believe that salvation was, and is, and is to come, in and through the atoning blood of Christ, the Lord Omnipotent.
For the natural man is an enemy to God, and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever, unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man. [Mosiah 3:17–19]
For one so full of pride who hadn’t heard of developing a broken heart and a contrite spirit, these were hard teachings. Like Laman and Lemuel I stiffened my neck; nevertheless, I was touched by the prayer of King Benjamin’s people. Listen to their plea as recorded in Mosiah:
And they viewed themselves in their own carnal state, even less than the dust of the earth. And they all cried aloud with one voice, saying: O have mercy, and apply the atoning blood of Christ that we may receive forgiveness of our sins, and our hearts may be purified; for we believe in Jesus Christ, the son of God . . . . And it came to pass after they had spoken these words, the Spirit of the Lord came upon them, and they were filled with joy, having received a remission of their sins, and having peace of conscience. [Mosiah 4:2–3]
At that moment I greatly desired to share this peace which passeth understanding and to have my heart made right before the Lord. But I learned in the ensuing weeks that I wasn’t yet prepared to pay the price of conversion in terms of study, prayer, repentance, and personal discipline. Because of my spiritual weakness, I didn’t grasp the meaning of the change of heart which they experienced, for after they covenanted to live the royal law, the celestial law, we read that the Spirit regenerated their hearts:
And now, it came to pass that when King Benjamin had thus spoken to his people, he sent among them, desiring to know if they believed the words which he had spoken unto them.
And they all cried with one voice, saying: Yea, we believe all the words which thou hast spoken unto us; and also, we know of their surety and truth, because of the Spirit of the Lord Omnipotent, which has wrought a mighty change in us, or in our hearts, that we have no more disposition to do evil, but to do good continually. [Mosiah 5:1–2]
Think of that: “having no disposition to do evil but to do good continually.” I am persuaded, my brothers and sisters, that this is the heart of the matter. This is what we are questing for: to have our hearts changed through the baptism of fire and lose the propensity to sin. King Benjamin, this wise prophet, knew that his life and these teachings had borne sweet fruit:
Ye have spoken the words that I desired; and the covenant which ye have made is a righteous covenant.
And now, because of the covenant which ye have made ye shall be called the children of Christ, his sons, and his daughters; for behold, this day he hath spiritually begotten you; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name. [Mosiah 5:6–7]
Through adoption they had taken upon themselves the name of Christ and desired to live after the manner of Christ. This, I believe, is a living example of the Prophet’s teachings when he said, “We must have a change of heart to see the kingdom of God, and subscribe the articles of adoption to enter therein” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 328). Knowing that conversion was a process—sometimes slow, sometimes fast—and realizing the saints must endure to the end, King Benjamin gave them this last bit of counsel: “I would that ye should remember to retain the name written always in your hearts, that ye are not found on the left hand of God, but that ye hear and know the voice by which ye shall be called, and also, the name by which he shall call you” (Mosiah 5:12).
These teachings of King Benjamin are profound and significant, brothers and sisters. They define for us the gifts and powers of the Atonement, by which we may have our hearts renewed, have Christ’s name written thereon, and then lose the desire for sin. But isn’t that what we renew each Sunday when we partake of the sacrament and think in our minds and in our hearts these words: “That they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, O God, the Eternal Father, that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him, and keep his commandments which he has given them, that they may always have his Spirit to be with them”? Have we understood? Have we fully sought these gifts of the Atonement? Joseph Smith taught that to be made like the Father and the Son is to be saved, and to be unlike them is to be destroyed. I am persuaded that the assimilation process is centered primarily in experiencing this change of heart. That is really what makes possible the development of Christlike virtue.

All it took was a call to Gary’s Creek Missionary Baptist Church in Tennessee for Chris Collier to find the perfect Eagle Scout project.
Chris, a member of the Memphis First Ward, Memphis North Stake, says, a little nervously, “This is something that’s never been done before.” Gary’s Creek church asked him to document its cemetery—the oldest black cemetery in Shelby County.
Chris first needs to meet everyone involved and decide how much help he will need on the project. He drives to Gary’s Creek Cemetery on a road paved over the old stagecoach line. As soon as he steps out of the car, he has to swat at a mosquito. It’s the height of Tennessee heat in August, and it’s so humid you can practically drink the air. But that isn’t going to stop Chris.
There’s a group waiting for him at the gate to the cemetery. Mr. Lacy, who has many ancestors buried here, greets Chris. “This cemetery is a gold mine for genealogists,” Mr. Lacy tells Chris as he adjusts his wide-brimmed hat. “Think of all those people’s stories buried under the ground.” Mr. Lacy has uncovered the story of one of his ancestors buried here—Joseph H. Harris, better known as “Free Joe.” He wrote two books about Free Joe’s adventures and is turning them into a Hollywood screenplay.
Chris walks through the cemetery with his notebook and camera. The huge trees’ heavy branches droop in the heat, and thick emerald grass covers some of the grave markers completely. There are all types of people buried here, from tiny babies to Civil War veterans. Some of the markers are simple rusty spikes in the ground; others have hand-carved names in aged, chipped stones. Nobody can tell what they say, except for the caretaker, Mr. Brooks.
Mr. Brooks has been caretaker of Gary’s Creek Cemetery since 1939. He moves slowly around the cemetery with the help of his cane and quietly points out different grave markers to Chris. Mr. Brooks is the only one who knows the names on and locations of all the graves. His father was caretaker before him.
“I used to walk around the cemetery with my father while he helped me memorize the graves,” Mr. Brooks says. Many of the graves are unmarked, and the only documentation is in Mr. Brooks’s memory. If Mr. Brooks dies, the information dies with him. Chris isn’t going to let that happen.
Leslie Louthain, the director of the LDS family history center in the area, and her husband are also here to help. She gives Chris tips on how to put all the information in a database. He’ll give one copy to the Gary’s Creek church and send one to the Church’s Family History Library in Salt Lake City.
Sister Louthain thoughtfully examines a grave marker near the woods until she discovers there is more than family history in this cemetery.
“There are snakes in those trees!” she shrieks. Her husband laughs, and she heads for higher ground.
As Chris wraps up his first visit, he sighs. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. This one cemetery could be a lot of separate projects,” he says. But he isn’t afraid to plunge in anyway.
Chris doesn’t feel so overwhelmed when he comes back with a big group of teens to help him. The ladies from Gary’s Creek church provide lunch, and it isn’t as hot, because now it’s well into autumn.
Chris divides up the teens into groups to document the graves, with the help of Mr. Lacy and Mr. Brooks, of course. You can barely tell who belongs to which church because everyone is mixed together, trying to get all the information recorded.
As Chris wraps it all up, everyone is pleased. The members of Gary’s Creek church can rest easy, knowing the information in their vast cemetery has been preserved, and Chris’s group can be satisfied knowing they’ve helped preserve information for future family history work.
The cemetery seems a little more peaceful now, thanks to Chris, because the richness of its history won’t be lost. Who knows what stories might later be uncovered?
As Chris takes a reflective look around the cemetery, Mr. Lacy says, “Family history is going to be what brings religions and races together.” And in his little corner of Tennessee, Chris helped do just that.

I recently had a former ward member ask me for help in dealing with some personal issues. She had moved to a new ward and was not sure if she wanted to go to her new bishop for guidance. I shared with her what I have shared many times since being released, which was that while I was happy to assist, I no longer held the keys that a bishop holds and that those keys could be crucial to providing the support she needed. I suggested that she speak with her bishop. I visited with her two weeks later, and she said that she had met with her bishop and it was as if he already knew what her issues were and how to best help her. While the bishop is certainly fallible, the Lord inspires him, guides him, and blesses lives through his words.

I grew up on a small dairy farm. We milked a small herd of cows and we grew most of our own crops. My parents kept a large and well-tended garden and a small orchard adjacent to our home. So I am very familiar with the concept of harvest and it brings sweet memories to me. My mother adhered to the adage of gardening, “You eat what you can and what you can’t, you can!” In the late summer we began canning and freezing. We made freezer corn, we canned green beans and pickles. We bottled peaches and pears and other fruits. Later in the fall we picked apples and made them into apple sauce, pie filling, apple juice and apple cider. Tomatoes were canned and stored as salsa, juice or other sauces. Finally, our potatoes were dug up and bagged for the winter.

In addition to these activities, my parents stored a number of other food items. Of course the hard red wheat had its place in our basement storage room along with other staples such as flour and sugar. In a small shed adjacent to our home were extra freezers filled with frozen meats, jams and other items.

Try to visualize this with me. At the bottom of an old set of concrete steps in my parent’s home is their basement storage room. When you open the doors you are met with a rich earthy smell. Turning on the light reveals a relatively small space packed with shelves and at the end of canning season, these shelves are filled with jars and cans and boxes and tubs of the items I just described to you. If you were to walk into the outside shed you would see bags of potatoes on the floor, boxes filled with apples, tomatoes, fall squash and freezers filled with meat. Can you get a sense of the satisfaction, safety, self reliance and wealth this type of resource represents?. It makes me hungry just thinking about it.

This was our family food storage and it was used wisely. Once in place we didn’t just sit back and wait for a famine to strike before we began to use it. Items from these shelves adorned virtually every meal. My mother would pull from these stores items for side dishes, main dishes, garnishes and desserts

I watched her practice her considerable home economy skills as she used this resource to bless the life of our family and many others. On many occasions we would be about to sit down to dinner when company would arrive. They would be invited to join us. With a few quick trips to the basement, a meal that was intended for 6 would easily feed twice that. It was literally like witnessing the miracle of the loaves and the fishes first hand.

On more than a few occasions when Amber and I were newly married and our children were young. Our budget was stretched thin. As we left my parents home following a visit, we were almost always presented with a box or several boxes of food items from storage. My parents just seemed to know what we needed. We loved going home!

Then, a few weeks before Christmas 1989, Jaanus met 30-year-old Enn Lembit, who told Jaanus, “I have a new testimony about Christ and what prophets say nowadays. Come to my house to hear about this wonderful news.”
“Imagine that,” Jaanus thought, “a prophet speaking to people on earth today!” His spine tingled as he and his friends went to Enn Lembit’s apartment for a meeting.
At that first meeting, Enn Lembit explained, “My father-in-law, Valtteri Rötsä, was converted to the Mormon church in Finland. He returned to Estonia to his family with his pockets full of literature about the Mormon faith.” Enn’s eyes shone with enthusiasm as he explained the gospel message to Jaanus and others in that small room.
About an hour after the meeting had started, Brother Uusituba, a businessman from Finland, suggested they pray and ask God if this church were true.
Jaanus thought, “I feel really good in this home, and I like what he is saying.” When they prayed, he felt a warm glow and believed that the gospel was true. Jaanus took the news home to his mother, and together they attended the first sacrament meeting held in Estonia.
On 16 December 1989, Enn Lembit was the first convert baptized on Estonian soil. Jaanus and his mother were baptized on 6 January 1990.

My thoughts return again to a beautiful summer day in August 1964. The sun rose early on a day assured to be very hot but ideal for farm work. It was the time of year we harvested the straw and the hay, and I was working for a local farmer on the bench in Mapleton, Utah.
We had put in a very productive day, and since the afternoon was so hot, we decided to go to our favorite swimming hole up in the dry lands on the bench. An irrigation canal brought life to this part of the country, and in a clay embankment the water had washed away a small swimming hole, where, for generations, boys had found pleasure cooling off during the hot days of July and August.
On the east side of the hole was an embankment perhaps ten feet high. As I stood atop it that afternoon in 1964, a summer thunderhead was rolling slowly toward the bench, creating a rather ominous atmosphere.
I looked down into the water and a strange shiver came over me. Not pausing to wonder about it, I set my position and lunged forward in what was supposed to be a shallow dive, but for some uncanny reason, I turned in midair and arched straight down toward the small shelf of clay that lay underneath the water. At the time I could not see this shelf because the water was kind of muddy; but suddenly, with all the force of my body, I rammed into the bottom.
The impact, I later learned, was sufficient to fracture my neck and sever my spinal cord. The thoughts that flooded through my head were so many and so multiplied that I can’t recall now what they were, but I remember realizing that a person’s life really does pass before his eyes during the fleeting moments that seem to precede the end. I was filled with panic, shock, and confusion of a kind that cannot be described. Only those who have experienced such a moment of dreadful finality can really understand.
As the strong currents dragged me toward the bottom I suddenly realized that every sensation I had ever known now existed only in my memory. From the neck down, my body was totally paralyzed. It was as if a giant circuit breaker had been pulled, rendering my body helpless.
I had a growing awareness of the seriousness of my position. I was paralyzed, forced to the bottom, and unable to move a muscle to get to the surface. At this age we don’t live in fear of death or in fear of anything; we believe that youth is to be lived. But I encountered thoughts down there that awakened me from the impression that my life was indestructible at the early age of sixteen.
To try to struggle and have nothing happen, to try to swim—to move my arms and legs in a natural swimming movement—and to have no response, and to be cut off from any sensation from my body whatsoever were almost too much to bear. I knew I was within seconds of drowning.
As I tumbled helplessly with the current, my mind became clouded. A humming sound—a rushing in my ears—began to grow and grow and then fade slowly, and I helplessly resigned myself to the fact that death was very near. Suddenly I began to float to the surface! Vaguely I could see daylight and could feel a lifting sensation, as my friend who had been working with me that day pulled me from the water. The urge to take a breath while still underwater had been intense, and the feeling of relief as my bursting lungs drank in the air was overwhelming. Seven of my friends came down into the water, carried me up the bank carefully, and laid me down in the middle of the nearby dirt road.
I looked down at my body. Though it was still a part of me, I could not feel it. It was unreal. My body and soul had been stunned beyond belief, and through my excruciating emotions I hoped that this would all be over soon. Little did I know that in some respects, an endless nightmare had just begun.
The Mapleton ambulance, a blue Edsel, was not the best in the world. After I had been lifted into it, the engine wouldn’t start, and we had to be pushed down the road until it turned over. I had always hated the sound of sirens wailing the news of another’s misfortune. This siren announced my own tragedy and ushered me unwillingly into an experience that few ever encounter.
The corridors became darker as I was rolled to the older section of the hospital. I saw a sign over a doorway. It said “Intensive Care Unit,” and everywhere around me I could hear the sounds of the hospital: the gasping of an oxygen unit, the bleeps of pacemakers, people in crises, trying to survive.
The doctors took X rays and discovered that my spinal cord had been almost severed and my neck had been fractured between the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae. They didn’t tell me then that I would not walk again in this life. Their immediate concern was keeping me alive through the night. They transferred me to a specially designed frame for spinal injuries, applied some local anesthetic to two tiny areas on my skull, made two small indentations with a drill into the first layer of bone, and applied traction to the skull and neck area. This was to be my position for the next thirteen weeks. I was unable to make any movement other than to blink my eyes, and I could feel the pulling against my neck constantly. Never in my life have I felt more helpless or bewildered.

Example is one of the most effective ways to teach righteous principles. President Thomas S. Monson recalls: “My own father, a printer, worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.
“One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, ‘Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.’ Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying in his arms like a china doll his crippled uncle. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with such affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so he would have a fine view while I occupied the rear seat.
“The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho” (“Hallmarks of a Happy Home,” Ensign, November 1988, 71).

On March 18, 1833, God the Father and the Son also made a brief personal appearance to members of the School of the Prophets. Zebedee Coltrin left this testimony:

"At one of these meetings after the organization of the school, ... when we were all together, Joseph having given instructions, and while engaged in silent prayer, kneeling, with our hands uplifted each one praying in silence, no one whispered above his breath, a personage walked through the room from East to west, and Joseph asked if we saw him. I saw him and suppose the others did, and Joseph answered that is Jesus, the Son of God, our elder brother. Afterward Joseph told us to resume our former position in prayer, which we did. Another person came through; He was surrounded as with a flame of fire."

In the presence of this personage, Coltrin “experienced a sensation that it might destroy the tabernacle as it was of consuming fire of great brightness.” Joseph Smith identified this personage as “the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.” On another occasion, Coltrin stated that as the Father passed through the room, the “glory and brightness was so great . . . that had it continued much longer, I believe it would have consumed us.”

While I was teaching early-morning seminary in Eureka, California, USA, I asked my students to think of themselves 10 years in the future. Then I asked them to write a letter with their testimony of the gospel and whatever else they would like to share with the older versions of themselves. I told them I would mail the letters in 10 years.
Time passed and I never got around to mailing the letters. One day 25 years later, my daughter Heidi found the letters and asked about them. After I explained what I had planned, she looked for the addresses of my former students using social media tools.
After she mailed the letters, we received some great responses. One of my former seminary students wrote:
“I need your dad to know that he just now found those letters for a reason. My 18-year-old daughter has been struggling with her testimony and feeling that being a ‘perfect Latter-day Saint girl’ isn’t for her. She doesn’t share her feelings with us. It’s been hard.”
My former student, devastated by some things her daughter had recently written in a blog, added:
“I knew I had to talk to her about it. As usual, when we have these conversations, her face was stony and defiant, and she didn’t say anything. I handed her my letter and told her I wanted her to read it.
“I saw her reread the first paragraph several times. I had written that I didn’t know if I had a testimony, that being a perfect Latter-day Saint was a lot and maybe not for me.
“My daughter started to cry. I needed her to know that I truly understand her struggles. She would never have believed it without that letter! Some of her wall has come down, and I truly feel like the timing of this letter was a tender mercy. If I had received it 10 years ago, I might have thrown it away or lost it! Please thank your dad for having us write the letters and for misplacing them for all these years! Nothing is a coincidence.”
Our loving Heavenly Father watches over all His sheep, and in His marvelous timing, He can work tender mercies and miracles through each of us to bring those who have wandered back to the fold.

During her work on both the YWMIA general board and the correlation committees, Sister Funk came to know Sister Hortense H. Child, now her first counselor. Sister Child tells the story of the time she needed to give an important report on short notice. Before coming to the office that day she had forgotten to change from an old pair of gardening shoes. She just traded shoes with Ruth and carried on with her usual poise. But Ruth got even: she was asked in one meeting by the president of the Church to play the piano for an opening song, but she had forgotten her glasses. She just got up from her seat in the audience, and when she passed Sister Child, who was sitting on the aisle, she took off Hortense’s glasses as she swished by, put them on, and read the music without a flaw.

Elder Michael Hayes of the Walsall Ward spends time serving with the Walsall Society for the Blind and the Billion Graves Project. In sharing his thoughts about the blessing of service, Elder Hayes said, “Unfortunately, due to health challenges, I couldn’t serve a teaching mission. I remember sitting at home upset that I wouldn’t be able to serve the Lord. Then one day, the bishop spoke with me about a new mission opportunity. I will never forget the feeling I had when he told me that I could serve for two years as a service missionary. I didn’t know what a service mission was until he spoke about it, but what I did know is that I felt the Spirit so strongly, without hesitation I said, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I knew this is what I had to do. I am nervous, but I know that with the help of my Heavenly Father, I can do anything.”

On August 15, 1991, another important experience happened. Crystal; her sister, Dawn; her mother, Melodie; and her father were sealed together as an eternal family in the temple. They had traveled eleven hours by bus with twenty-nine other members of their South Royalton Ward to the Toronto Ontario Temple. Mother said, “The ward gave us so much support that it seems like a big family now.” Both girls remember seeing only individual reflections of themselves in the mirrors when they first entered the sealing room, but after they were sealed to their parents, they saw a reflection of their entire family going on forever. Later that night, Crystal had a dream that assured her that Heavenly Father loved her and would never leave her.

Alma taught that, for the righteous, the spirit world will be a paradise—“a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow” (Alma 40:12). I have often wondered how we can be in a place of rest and yet be busy and deeply involved in intense activity. It reminds me of an account that one of my colleagues shared with me. His aged mother-in-law, who had been widowed for decades, saw into the spirit world shortly before her passing. She told the family that she had seen departed family members, including her beloved husband.
“Well, doesn’t that make you want to go join them?” a daughter asked her.
She responded, “Oh, no. They were so busy. It made me tired watching them.”

That evening I also felt I was walking with my eternal companion, and as you know we did get married. But it wasn't easy. After we were engaged, we faced some very strong opposition from my family and also the fiery darts of doubt and fear. It is not hard to understand why. I knew I was supposed to go back to Harvard; but that meant moving to Boston, and Sue was really afraid of living in Boston. I knew a few people there, but Sue knew not a soul. She had never lived in a place bigger than Provo, and the prospect of living and working in the Boston area filled her with fear. I, too, had doubts if this was all going to work.
My family thought I was rushing things and not thinking straight about all that we would face. Sue had graduated from BYU, but I still had three years of undergraduate work left and probably more years of graduate school. I had only been home from my mission for a few months, and Sue and I had only known each other for a few weeks. We had no money, no place to live in Boston, and no jobs there.
It was a hard time. There are two scriptures—one from Doctrine and Covenants, section 78, and one from Hebrews, chapter 10—that capture our experience very well. I am going to read them together as though they were one. They have been a great inspiration to us ever since.
As I sat here this afternoon and thought about reading these scriptures to you, I received a very clear impression from the Lord that I should tell you that this passage I am going to read to you is for you. This is the word of the Lord for you.
Verily, verily, I say unto you, ye are little children, and ye have not as yet understood how great blessings the Father hath in his own hands and prepared for you;
And ye cannot bear all things now; nevertheless, be of good cheer, for I will lead you along. The kingdom is yours and the blessings thereof are yours, and the riches of eternity are yours.[38]
Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hath great recompence of reward.
For ye have need of patience, that, after ye have done the will of God, ye might receive the promise.[39]
Sue and I faced fiery darts, but our grip on the iron rod was firm and the shield of faith quenched the fear and the doubt. We knew what we felt. We had faith in Christ, and we moved forward. We were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple on June 14, 1971, and shortly thereafter set off for Boston. I told Sue that we would move back to the West in three years. Thirty-four years and seven children later I made good on my promise; we moved to Rexburg in 2005.

I will never forget hearing my baby’s heart beat for the very first time. It was a life-changing moment I can only describe as pure ecstasy. It was his heart I was hearing, but it was my heart that was exploding! Exploding with a feeling of love and joy like nothing I had ever experienced before! I walked—or better said, I floated out of the doctor’s office in a state of absolute euphoria, and I didn’t come down out of the clouds for days.

Like most new parents, I didn’t know it was even possible to feel that kind of love—a love so pure, so perfect, and so sacred. I was experiencing, as President Nelson has described, “what is sometimes called the Spirit of Elijah—a manifestation of the Holy Ghost bearing witness of the divine nature of the family.” [1] My heart was turned to my child, and his heart was turned to mine. Our hearts truly were “knit together in . . . love.” [2]

When Elder Dallin Ashley opened his mission call at his home in Fruit Heights, Utah, and read the words “Australia Melbourne Mission,” he immediately began thinking of the things he knew about Australia, which, admittedly, wasn’t much.
He thought about living in a different hemisphere. He thought of how it would be summer in Melbourne when it was winter in his Utah home. He even thought about kangaroos.
One thing he didn’t think about was a traffic jam in Provo, Utah.
Yet there is Elder Ashley on August 11 of last year, sitting in a car on 900 East with his mother and grandparents. This is how his mission is beginning—waiting behind a long line of cars all going to the same place: the Missionary Training Center.
Joining the masses
Each Wednesday, between 400 and 800 young men and women come to the Provo MTC to begin their missions and receive instruction about how to become effective missionaries. Most of those learning a language will be there for approximately eight weeks. For those like Elder Ashley who require no language instruction, their stays are between two and three weeks.
On this day, Elder Ashley is one of 488 missionaries entering the MTC.
Many of the 488 are milling around, waiting for the orientation session to begin. “I’m ready,” he says to his mom. “This is going to be great.”
Each week there are usually five or six orientations, depending on the number of missionaries scheduled to enter the MTC. The 12:30 orientation, the one Elder Ashley is attending, is the first of the day, with missionaries, along with family, spending their last moments together. By 3:30, the final orientation will have begun, and the lobby will be silent.
But now it’s a cacophony of noise and wall-to-wall people. Three things are a given in the lobby area of the MTC in the early afternoon on Wednesdays: lots of young men in dark suits, lots of picture-taking, and teary-eyed moms and dads—not necessarily in that order.
Elder Ashley is three for three in that department. His grandpa has already snapped a lot of photos, and Elder Ashley’s mom’s eyes are glistening. Dressed in his new suit and crisp, white shirt, Elder Ashley puts his arm around Mom for another picture, looking very much the part of a missionary.
Before long, Elder Ashley and his family walk into a large room where Homefront commercials are playing on several TV screens. The Church-produced spots about the importance of families make everybody feel good and seem to momentarily take their minds off what will happen in about 30 minutes. The room quickly fills up, with Elder Ashley seated on the fourth row. The meeting begins with the congregation singing “Called to Serve.” A sister missionary offers the opening prayer, and then Sister Kay Edman, wife of Missionary Training Center President W. Brent Edman, spends a few moments talking about what the missionaries can expect during their stay. She emphasizes that every minute of every day is accounted for and that the MTC is a great place to learn. “You’ll be amazed at how busy you’ll be in class. But you will get breaks in your day by going to lots of meetings,” she says with a smile.
The “lots of meetings” line is followed by lots of laughter.
She finishes by talking about service opportunities on the MTC campus, weekly devotionals with General Authorities, and trips to the nearby Provo Utah Temple to go along with the hours and hours of class time. Elder Ashley turns and smiles at his grandparents. So far so good.
President Edman then seconds much of what his wife has said. “Many of you have heard about the rigorous demands of the MTC, and many of you may be worried about that. Those are the very things that will be a blessing in your lives,” he says. “The MTC experience is a time of preparation. Blessings come while you’re here, but your experience will sometimes be very taxing.”
Elder Ashley thinks back to earlier in the day when he carried his two stuffed-full suitcases in from the car. His shoulders ache, and he doesn’t disagree with his mission president’s last statement.
Time to say good-bye
Once the meeting ends, missionaries are instructed to go out one door, while family members are escorted through another. Maybe everything else is new to Elder Ashley. This moment, however, he’s prepared for. He knows he’s going to leave his family for two years, and this is where it starts. After several hugs and a few more tears, Elder Ashley walks out the door. His mission is underway.
Even though he was set apart as a missionary the night before, he figures it became official when he signed in and received his name tag. “Elder Ashley,” he says, reading his badge. “Looks pretty good.”
As the new missionaries stand in a line, the “Hi, how are you?” salutation is replaced with “Where are you going, Elder?”
The answers—“Chicago; Osaka, Japan; and Lima, Peru”—are varied, which isn’t surprising. After all, this is the MTC.
Settling in
Elder Ashley sits down and fills out a personal information sheet and looks through a packet of papers that include his mailbox number, his branch president’s name, and his dorm assignment.
With that safely in hand, Elder Ashley follows one of the MTC’s many volunteer guides, who directs him down the hall to another room. There he notices the other missionaries have removed their suit jackets. He then spots two nurses standing in the middle of the room.
“Shots,” he says.
Actually, just one. A hepatitis-B booster. If it hurt, nobody could tell. Although his gritted-teeth smile suggests it probably did.
“Glad that’s over,” he adds while rebuttoning his shirt sleeve.
After he picks up his books and other materials from the bookstore, he heads to his dorm in the Rey L. Pratt building, room 337.
There to greet him is Elder Michael Harker from Magrath, Alberta, Canada. Elder Harker is already unpacking. Elder Ashley won’t meet his companion, Elder Michael Tanner, and another roommate, Elder Michael Stowell, until a couple of hours later. Fortunately, all four are known as “Elder” because with three Michaels, “Dallin” doesn’t quite fit.
Once he retrieves his luggage from the lobby area, he goes back to his dorm to unpack. Dinner is at five o’clock, and another orientation meeting with his branch president follows. Elder Ashley quickly learns that Sister Edman was right.
The first day of his mission is over. It was long and tiring but very rewarding. “I’m finally a missionary. It’s hard to believe,” he says.
So much happened that it’s difficult for him to remember everything. But there’s not much time to think about that. Lights must be out by 10:30, and Elder Ashley isn’t complaining.

Johanna trudged beside the wagon train lumbering westward along the dusty trail. “Why do I have to walk all the way?” she grumbled to herself. But she already knew the answer: The wagons were loaded with precious supplies to help the Saints begin a new life in the West. There was no room for riders.
The burlap sack tied to Johanna’s waist dragged on the ground, so she hitched it up. By nightfall she would have loaded the bag with buffalo chips and small sticks to make a warm fire on the cold prairie. The late summer sun shone warm on her back. It soothed her grumbles.
Johanna began to hum a little tune. The same tune echoed from behind her. It’s that Barney Biegland! Why does he always have to copy me! Johanna turned and stuck her tongue out at him. Crosser than ever, she stopped watching where she was stepping and tripped. Her knees and elbows smacked the ground hard, and she began to cry.
Barney bent to help her up.
“Leave me alone!” Johanna yelled, wrenching away.
“I was just trying to help.”
As Johanna picked herself up, she spotted an Indian sandal! Her eyes scanned the area, and she found its mate. She picked them up and fit them over her thin-soled shoes. They probably belonged to a member of a roving band of Indians, she decided. How soft they felt—like walking on air. She turned and looked at the dusty line of oxen and covered wagons as they plodded across the parched prairie. As she watched, the words Captain Rice had spoken ten days before in Council Bluffs, Iowa, came back to her:
“Twenty miles a day to reach Salt Lake by October conference, and that’s none too soon.” Johanna started walking again with her new-found sandals on.
As the sun sank below the horizon, the wagons formed a circle for the night. The younger men were assigned to herd the oxen, and Barney was one of them. The three cows in the company were milked, and the precious milk was distributed to the sick and to the young children. One cow belonged to Johanna’s family.
Johanna dumped her day’s fuel near the fire, where her mother already had the salt pork out. Johanna helped mix flour and water into dough for ashcakes. She patted the dough into thin cakes and laid them on the hot rocks around the fire. When they were baked, she picked the cakes off the rocks and brushed the ashes off. They tasted flat but were warm.
Johanna thought of the comfortable farmhouse her family had left in Denmark. Meals of roast duck, turkey, cheeses, pancakes, and potatoes had filled the family’s big table. Loaves of hot bread had decorated its center, and she could almost taste the warm butter and honey dripping off a big slice of bread—almost, but not quite. She felt sorry for herself as she munched the flavorless ashcake.
Still, Johanna was not sorry that the Latter-day Saint missionaries had taught her family the gospel. And she was not sorry that her parents had decided to join other Latter-day Saints in the valleys of the western mountains. It was an adventure to travel to a new home. But she did hate the dusty trail and the dull food. The thing she hated most, though, was the walking—over a thousand miles, one step at a time, day after day.
Soon it was time for the nightly song and prayer. Captain Rice gave the scripture: “And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way” [Ex. 13:21]. The Israelites at least had a cloud to lead them, Johanna thought. Exhausted, she sank into her bed in the back of the wagon.
Johanna was startled from a deep sleep by the piercing shouts of “Fire! Fire!” She quickly dressed and peeked out the back of the wagon. Smoke blackened the western horizon. “Leave the bedclothes. I’ll take care of them,” her mother said. “Help your father find the oxen and cow.”
The animals had grazed farther out on the plain than usual, and the men were having a hard time getting the fire-frightened animals back to the wagons.
Running to find her father, Johanna saw him in the distance, driving the oxen. As she ran toward him, he called, “Johanna, lead the oxen back to camp. I must look for the cow. She’s too valuable to lose.”
Johanna found a switch and touched it to the flanks of the oxen as she had done many times before. The smoke was becoming more pungent. When a waft of smoky wind passed over them, the frightened oxen stopped, and even though Johanna switched them harder, they wouldn’t move. Johanna looked around desperately for help. She could hear the crackling of fire now.
Barney came up behind Johanna, leading another team. “Pull the rope of the lead ox!” he called.
As she bent to pick up the rope, Johanna was pulled to the dusty earth. The lead ox had stepped on her skirt!
“Don’t move,” Barney commanded as he hurried over to her. “Watch the ox. When I get him to move, pull away.” Johanna waited anxiously while Barney calmed the ox and got it to step forward, off her skirt.
“Hurry,” Barney told her as he got the oxen to move toward camp and went back to his own team.
Soon Father was at Johanna’s side with the cow. His smile comforted her. As they reached the camp, they heard the call to prayer. In the prayer circle, Johanna slipped her hand into her mother’s.
The captain spoke. “There is no chance for the oxen to escape the fast-moving prairie fire. We must ask the Lord for guidance.”
As a fervent amen was said by all, the captain stood on a wagon tongue and pointed at the sky. “Brothers and Sisters, we have not come this far to be destroyed. That tiny cloud will be our deliverance.”
Johanna looked up into the smoke-blackened sky, and the small cloud began to grow in size. Even as the fire roared across the plain and its heat waves reached up to the clouds and distorted the horizon, the cloud became bigger and heavy with rain. Lightning, brighter than the flames of the fire, lit up the sky. The roar of the fire drummed in Johanna’s ears; the thunder answered back.
The single cloud suddenly became many clouds, all spilling rain onto the fire below. The earth hissed, and steam billowed upward. Johanna looked heavenward. The rain washed the tears and dust from her face.
Then, as quickly as the clouds had appeared, they disappeared. But the fire was out! Blue prairie sky surrounded the wagon train. A thankful group of pioneers knelt again in the circle of their wagons to thank their Father in Heaven.
Later that morning Johanna skipped ahead of the wagon train with the other children. She looked down at her muddy feet squishing in the wet prairie soil. I would ordinarily be grumbling about this, she thought. She smiled and started humming a tune.
Barney appeared at her side. “You sound cheerful,” he said.
“Thanks for helping me with the oxen,” Johanna said shyly.
She put the Indian sandals on again, and they felt even lighter than ever on her feet. Johanna, wondering if the Israelite children had had dirty feet like hers, was sure that they were as grateful for their cloud as she was for the one that Father in Heaven had sent today.

I recall being in a graduate class here a year or two ago taught by a visiting professor (I am grateful it was a visiting professor or I could not tell this story)—a capable, qualified, and inspiring teacher. Although the course title was something else, he was preoccupied with individual differences and spent the major share of the time emphasizing the significance of them to teachers.

We were assigned a term paper. That is usual, isn’t it? I thought that since this teacher recognized individual differences, here was my opportunity to write the kind of term paper that would help me best. I could write the paper that would help me discover what I know or what I need to know about this subject. Since we had to have an interview with the professor before we went ahead on our project, I made the proposal that I would like to survey the literature of the field and then write, in my own words, without reference to any other authors, without including any quotations, this subject according to me. Then I indicated to the professor that I did not care how carefully he edited it or how severe he was in his judgment. His appraisal would be the more helpful. Then I expressed myself as being willing to read references and cite any number of references in the bibliography, but not to list quotations.

(I say here, parenthetically, that I resent the necessity most often imposed upon students of racing to the library and looking through books, trying to find a place where somebody said something approximately in the direction you would speak, extracting the quotations, tying them together with a few meaningless connecting sentences, and then handing it in as a term paper. Hence my proposal to the professor.)

I remember he considered the proposal very carefully, and then he said, “You mean, no quotations?”

“Exactly.”

“You mean, spin it out of whole cloth?”

“I do.”

Then he pondered rather deliberately and said, “Oh, no. I don’t think we could let you do that.”

Before I left the office, I had been assigned one book and several articles from which I could quote.

Well, I am not critical of the use of expert opinion, but I think it is often misused. I think that in the course of always searching for someone else, in the course of always looking for what others have done and what others have thought and what others have felt, often we overlook what is in our hearts and never make the most important of all discoveries.

Later that year I felt I should go to the visitors’ center at the Washington D.C. Temple to see the Christmas lights. I had been to the visitors’ center to see the lights before but had never inquired about the Church or its beliefs.
As I strolled through the visitors’ center, looking at the many displays, I thought of my cousin and another friend who were planning to serve missions for this church. I had studied about many religions but never this one. I was a little curious.
In my head I asked, expecting no answer, “Why in the world would those two men, or anyone for that matter, give up two years to serve missions—and at their own expense?” Much to my surprise, I received a humbling response. The soft whispers of the Spirit pierced my heart as my eyes fell upon a replica of gold plates. I was drawn to them. As I looked at them, I felt a powerful feeling of love, safety, and comfort, and in my mind I heard the words, “These are important. Learn about them.”
Immediately, I found a missionary and asked her about the plates. She told me about Joseph Smith translating the Book of Mormon. She also suggested I meet with the missionaries, but I declined.
The next day I went to the library to read all I could about the plates and the Church. I bought a copy of the Book of Mormon from a used-book store and began reading. I also read about the Church, but I wanted to learn more, so I decided to attend a church meeting.
I knew if I studied and prayed, God would confirm to me that this is the right church. So that’s what I did. I watched and waited patiently. And sure enough, my prayers were answered. On March 25, 2001, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
This is the Church of Jesus Christ. There are many good churches with many good people, but The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the church of our Lord and Savior, and it is the church with which our Heavenly Father is well pleased (see D&C 1:30). Our Heavenly Father loves us, has a plan for us, and will guide us back to Him if we earnestly seek Him.