Gospel Story Finder

The first time I really noticed his cane, or walking stick, as he liked to call it, was a summer morning when I was playing in my sandbox in the shade of our apple tree. Squatting in the sand, my chin on my bare knees, I busied myself smoothing out a road for my Tonka truck. Scraping back the sand along the edge of the sandbox, I suddenly found myself staring at a yellow, six-legged creature as big as my hand. The creature undulated back and forth, glistening as if wet, its tail curling over its head like a dragon’s. I had never seen a scorpion, but I knew intuitively that it wasn’t something to play with like a grasshopper or a daddy longlegs.
I ran into the house crying, “A bug, a bug! In my sandbox!” Mom was ironing and Grandpa was sitting in a chair. Mom set her iron down, and Grandpa began rocking himself forward, building up enough momentum to stand up. I led him out the backdoor and along the patio to the sandbox, pointed to the scorpion, then ran back inside. When Grandpa came back a few minutes later, I looked up at him and tugged at his pants.
“The bug. Where’s the bug?” I said.
He didn’t say anything, but instead lifted the walking stick he held in his long, brown hand and plunged it to the floor. I watched the rubber tip thud into the linoleum over and over, and in my mind I saw the scorpion crushed into dust. From that moment on, Grandfather’s walking stick became an extension of him, as much a part of him as an arm or a leg.
In the mornings, when Grandpa still lived with us, I helped him with his shoes. I would sit on his bedroom floor, struggle to pull his socks over his curled toes and ridged nails, then help him ease his feet, as twisted and unresponsive as roots, into his shoes. I would glance at the cane lying on the floor, within easy grasp of Grandpa’s hand. It had killed the scorpion. It was hard and thick and strong like an explorer’s staff, like the one that Little John had used to knock Robin Hood into the river when they first met. When I told my friends about Grandpa, I always told them about the walking stick, about how he had saved my life.

Recently some friends shared an interesting account that transpired years ago at the Air Force Academy. William “Bill” Crawford, known to the cadets in the squadron he served as Mr. Crawford the janitor, was barely recognized or acknowledged, and he did nothing to draw attention to himself or to promote himself with the students. He did his job exceedingly well, and apparently no one paid much attention to him or to his service to the academy and to future Air Force officers.

Mr. Crawford’s personal appearance was not particularly impressive, and he demonstrated with his gray hair, his wrinkled face, and his slightly shuffling gait nothing of greatness that was readily apparent to the students. He was polite but apparently shy. He typically did not speak to the young cadets unless they spoke first, which they rarely did. He just seemed, as reported by one of the cadets, to “[blend] into the woodwork.”

All of that changed in the fall of 1976 when one of the students was reading a book about World War II and the infantry campaign in Italy. Let me turn to the words of then student and later Air Force Colonel James Moschgat:
On Sept. 13, 1943, a Private William Crawford from Colorado, assigned to the 36th Infantry Division, had been involved in some bloody fighting on Hill 424 near Altavilla, Italy. . . .

. . . “In the face of intense and overwhelming hostile fire . . . with no regard for personal safety . . . on his own initiative, Private Crawford single-handedly attacked fortified enemy positions.” It continued, “For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life above and beyond the call of duty, the President of the United States . . .”

Cadet Moschgat said to his roommate, “You’re not going to believe this, but I think our janitor is a Medal of Honor winner.”

The following Monday morning, the cadets couldn’t wait to ask Bill, the janitor, about the story. As they met him, they showed him the page in question. He looked at it quietly for a time and then said, “Yep, that’s me.”

They then asked him why he had not ever told them about his experiences and his medal. He just humbly responded, “That was one day in my life and it happened a long time ago.”

The students had to leave for class, but, for them and for Mr. Crawford, things were never the same again. Quickly the word spread throughout the academy that they had a hero among them and that their janitor had won the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Let me return to Colonel Moschgat’s account:
Cadets who had once passed by Bill with hardly a glance, now greeted him with a smile and a respectful, “Good morning, Mr. Crawford.” Those who had before left a mess for the “janitor” to clean up started taking it upon themselves to put things in order. Most cadets routinely stopped to talk to Bill throughout the day, and we even began inviting him to our formal squadron functions. He’d show up dressed in a conservative dark suit and quietly talk to those who approached him, the only sign of his heroics being a simple blue, star-spangled lapel pin. Almost overnight, Bill went from being a simple fixture in our squadron to one of our teammates.

A few months ago, most of the youth in Salt Lake City’s Big Cottonwood Stake had never even heard of Urubamba, Peru. Now they’ll tell you it’s home to nearly 1,000 of their closest friends.
How did this unlikely friendship start? With one returned missionary named Van Evans. Brother Evans served his mission in Peru and now serves as a volunteer in an organization called the Humanitarian Foundation of the Andes. He told some of the youth and their leaders about the kinds of items that were needed in towns throughout the Andes. These items included basics like clothing, hygiene supplies, and building materials. After careful consideration, the youth decided to make Urubamba a part of their youth conference.
The original goal was to supply good Sunday clothes for each member of the LDS branch in Urubamba. Brekke Platt, a Laurel who served on the youth council, explained, “We didn’t want people to feel they couldn’t go to church because they didn’t have Sunday clothes.”
The young men and young women asked for donations from stake members. The results were overwhelming: more than 90 men’s suits were donated, as well as countless women’s dresses and children’s Sunday clothes.
By now the youth were getting excited about how great it felt to get things together for people who they knew would be thrilled to receive it, so they extended the scope of the project. They learned that hygiene supplies were desperately needed, so they got to work.
As part of their youth conference activity, the youth used donations from their stake to put together packets containing basic supplies like soap and toothpaste. Included in each packet was a written testimony and an expression of love.
Two young men jumped at the chance to complete their Eagle Scout requirements through service. The foundation was planning a trip to the Andes so it could build a medical post in Urubamba, but lots of preparatory work needed to be done at home first.
Scout John Tateoka gathered friends and family and coordinated a project of painting window frames, siding, and doors for the medical post. His fellow Scout, Adam Watts, contacted several construction suppliers for possible donations. In a short time, the necessary donations and work were complete, and supplies were shipped to Peru.
But the service didn’t stop there. The young people’s enthusiasm for the people in Urubamba was contagious, and soon donations of eyeglasses, sewing machines, seeds, and maternity supplies were pouring in.
So why is it that the people of this stake, who started out with a fairly small goal of providing some Sunday clothes, reached out so generously to people they had never even met?
According to Gary Brimley, a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, the answer is simple. “We’re all members of one church,” he says. “We care for everyone and work together as one unit.”

As a young man, I developed the idea that if I took care of the Lord’s business, he would take care of me. I’m not sure where I learned such an unsubstantiated idea, but it appealed to me, so I followed it faithfully for a number of years. It provided the comfortable insulation I wanted to shield me from the necessity of being cautious and careful. It allowed me to make excuses for minor business mishaps, problems at home, and even major catastrophes. “Surely the Lord is testing me,” I remarked when a business venture failed. “Satan is really after us,” I observed when contention threatened my family.

Because I felt the Lord would always take care of me, I felt no need to “study it out in [my] mind” (D&C 9:8) before asking God. I felt a quick little prayer would do. I often said, “Father, I’ve done my best to serve you, now I ask that you bless me in this endeavor.” I felt that if I magnified my Church calling, God wouldn’t let me lose my family—that if I put God first, I’d never want financially. I did not understand that by following such a procedure, I was yielding to the spirit of the temptation given to the Savior by Satan: “If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down: for it is written, He shall give his angels charge concerning thee: and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.” (Matt. 4:6.)

Finally, as more “tests” came my way, complete with frustration and disappointment, I began to examine my careless attitude. I began to study the scriptures and to prayerfully examine my responsibility for my affairs. The evidence overwhelmingly suggested that God wants us to work out our own plans and actions, always seeking his confirmation that our course is right. A relationship with God is not an alternative to personal effort. It is, rather, a guide along the stairway of growth and understanding, a stairway which we must climb through our own personal exertion. As I adopted this new approach, I ordered and took responsibility for my life.

Four days after arriving in the valley, Wilford had been riding alone several miles from camp when he saw twenty American Indians on a ridge ahead of him. In coming west, the Saints knew they would encounter Native peoples along the trail and in the Great Basin. Yet they had expected to find the Salt Lake Valley largely unoccupied. In reality, the Shoshones, the Utes, and a few other tribes often came to the valley to hunt and gather food.
Cautiously turning his horse around, Wilford started back to camp at a slow trot. One of the Indians galloped after him, and when only a hundred yards separated them, Wilford halted his horse, turned to face the rider, and tried to communicate with improvised sign language. The man was friendly, and Wilford learned that he was a Ute who wanted peace and commerce with the Saints. Since then, the Saints had made additional contact with Indians, including the Shoshones from the north.14

As a child, I was never taught to read the Bible. I went to church on Sundays, but I contributed nothing and felt nothing in return. I was disillusioned by my religion. I remember having serious arguments with my mother over a metal object called the Santísimo that my parents worshiped. They expected me to worship it as well. I could not. I searched for a better alternative, wanting to find God—wanting to know if He even existed. I thirsted to know Him and His words. But I could not seem to find what I sought.
There were moments when I felt close to quenching my thirst. When I held my first child, a daughter, in my arms for the first time, I had a feeling that God really did exist. Many years later, when her sister was born, I experienced the same feeling. Once I told my cousin that I felt in my heart I was somehow going to become a priest with real authority from God. She said that was impossible because I had a family to take care of.
Most of the time, however, an inexplicable tiredness weighed upon my soul. I was spiritually thirsty and could find no place to drink.
In April 1994 I was living in the city of Monterrey, México, earning a living as a taxi driver. One day it rained for hours, sending water cascading down the mountainsides. After driving around in the rain for hours, I found myself in a little town about eight kilometers from Monterrey. It was about 9:30 P.M., nearly time to go home. Suddenly I saw two young men on foot. They were wearing dark trousers and white shirts, and they were drenched from head to foot.
I opened the door of the taxi and called out, “Get in! I’m going to Monterrey.”
The taller one, who had a very fair complexion, replied, “We don’t have any money.”
“No charge,” I replied.
As I drove, we talked. They asked if they could share a message about Jesus Christ. I agreed and gave them my address.
When I got home, I woke my wife and told her about the two young men. “What a coincidence,” I said. “One is Mexican and the other American, and they are both named Elder.”
“Elder means missionary,” my wife answered, knowing just a little about the Church.
From deep within me, I felt something stir. These young men had left a feeling of exquisite wonder in my heart. I felt close to finding the water that would quench my thirst.
The missionaries came to our home, and I was happy to listen to them. Two weeks later, I was baptized. My wife was baptized four months later. Our oldest daughter had been receiving religious training at school. When she went to the LDS Church for the first time, she cried, “Papá, this is so much better than what I am learning at school!” She too was baptized.
In December 1995 we were sealed as a family in the México City México Temple for this life and for eternity. Now as a family we enjoy harmony, peace, and happiness. We know whom we worship. We know where we came from and where we are going. We love God’s holy word, especially the Book of Mormon, and we love His Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Through these gifts we have found that well of living water the Savior spoke of to the woman of Samaria: “Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life” (John 4:14).

I heard a story about a father who noticed his young daughter kneeling beside her bed, praying that Heavenly Father would protect little birds from entering a bird trap her brother had built and placed in the backyard. Later that day, the father grew concerned. He knew the trap was a good one. He had helped his son build it.
“I heard you praying this morning that Heavenly Father would protect the little birds from your brother’s trap,” he said to his daughter. “But sometimes sad things happen even when we pray that they won’t.”
She responded, “I just know he won’t catch any birds, Daddy.”
“I admire your faith, sweetheart,” the father said. “But if he does catch some birds, I hope that won’t hurt your faith.”
“He won’t, Daddy,” she said. “I know he won’t.”
The father asked, “How can you have such great faith?”
“Because after I said my prayers,” his daughter replied, “I went out back and kicked his bird trap all to pieces.”

In 1849, President Brigham Young called a small number of men to travel to various parts of the world to preach the gospel. A former Swedish sailor, John Forsgren, who had joined the Church in Massachusetts, USA, and traveled to the Salt Lake Valley, asked President Young to be sent to Sweden as a missionary. He was called to serve and arrived in Sweden in June 1850.
Elder Forsgren first visited his younger siblings in Gävle. His brother Peter was ill, and doctors said he was beyond help. Elder Forsgren explained the purpose of his mission to his siblings, then anointed and blessed Peter, who was restored to full health. On July 19, 1850, Elder Forsgren baptized his brother, who became the first convert in Sweden.
Elder Forsgren’s sister, Erika, had an interesting experience that prepared her and Peter to receive the gospel. A few months before her brother’s arrival, she was attending church, as was her custom. During the singing of a hymn, she saw a person stand before her and say, “On the fifth day of July a man will come to you with three books and all those that believe in the things written in those books shall be saved.” When her brother arrived with the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants, she believed his testimony without question.1
In 1850 Peter Forsgren, above, was baptized by his brother John.
Photograph courtesy of Susan Easton Black
Unfortunately, Elder Forsgren had to leave the country after just three months. Within a few years other missionaries were sent to Sweden. They found the people in Skönabäck, in the province of Skåne, receptive to the gospel. So many were converted that the first branch was organized there in 1853 with 36 members. One of the first leaders in Skåne was Carl Capson, called as the branch president in Lund. Around 100 members attended the first Church conference in Carl’s barn, which was held at night to avoid persecution.2

Ginjineir wiped at the tears on her chocolate brown face and gazed mournfully at the lifeless dingo pup in her lap. The arid Australian wind, breathing across the desert wasteland known as the Dead Heart of the great outback, ruffled its soft twilight gray fur.
She brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes, and lifted her face into the windy sun, hoping it would dry her tears and warm her aching heart. But new tears replaced the old and made little paths down her dusty cheeks, dripping off her chin and onto the pup’s swollen side.
A deadly funnel-web spider had bitten the small dog that very morning, and before Goodoonoo, Ginjineir’s father, could even prick the wound with his woomera (hunting spear) to remove the poison, the little dingo was dead.
An old woman in the small nomadic Arunta tribe of Aborigines, of which Ginjineir’s family were members, had given her the dog as a gift for helping her carry her dilly bag (mesh tote bag) in the previous day’s walkabout. To the old tribeswoman, bent and hobbled by years, Ginjineir’s offer to assist her was a kindness deserving of reward.
Goodoonoo squatted beside his daughter and scooped up a handful of earth. He let it sift slowly through his fingers. Then he spoke quietly, with understanding and reverence. “All things must die, my daughter.”
“But he was so little, Father,” sobbed Ginjineir.
“It was his time,” answered Goodoonoo.
“But why?” pleaded the young girl. “Life is too … precious.”
Goodoonoo smiled reassuringly. “Dingo spirits, like all others, live forever. Just bodies die.” He cocked his head toward the heavens. “Spirits go back into pura wilpanina (great hole in the sky).”
Ginjineir’s mother, Dieri, handed her a digging stick, used by the women of the clan to search for honey ants, grubs, and lizards. “Make a grave for dingo,” she said softly. “We must leave this place and find food before nightfall.”
Ginjineir looked off across the barren, windswept plain covered with sun and scattered tussocks of grass and mulga scrub, where only a few bottle trees dotted the dusty horizon. She was used to traveling.
Food was scarce in the desert. No sooner had her father built a wurley (temporary shelter thatched with porcupine grass or paperbark) than it was time for another walkabout that would continue until food was obtained and a waterhole discovered.
Ginjineir knew she must not waste time. She would have to go and carry her sadness with her. The other families were already gathering together their few possessions and making ready for the journey across the red sands. She brushed the wet from her eyes and started digging through the spinifex grass.
Some of the old men led the procession, with Nalul, the Arunta tribal leader, a few lengths ahead of the others. The rest of the old men followed behind to watch over the women and children straggling in the rearguard. The hunters marched along the flanks, trying to flush out and spear wallabies, lizards, emus, and bandicoots from the dry shrubs.
And though Ginjineir’s heart was heavy, she, too, had responsibilities. She walked with the women whose chore it was to carry the dilly bags. One woman carried a lighted piece of charcoal. If it happened to go out before they made their next encampment, one of the men would make a new fire with a piece of hard wood twirled in a piece of softer wood.
At length, Nalul paused. He had sighted a joey (baby kangaroo) a short way off, sniffing at a crack in the rocks. Some of the men laboriously widened the crack and a new waterhole was opened up. Among the workers was Ginjineir’s ten-year-old brother, Milingimbi. He had been trained at an early age, as were most Aborigine boys, to take an active part in tribal duties and affairs. And his skill with both spear and boomerang, not to mention a sharp eye for tracking, proved him of great worth in the hunt.
The older men started to arrange the new encampment, constructing a scattered group of windbreaks made from branches and bushes laid in a low semicircle against the prevailing wind. Inside the windbreaks there would be fires built, around which the families would gather.
At the same time, Goodoonoo, Milingimbi, and the other hunters prepared to look for food. They had failed to flush out any game in the brush along the way, so they had to seek it elsewhere. Ginjineir watched them as they smeared themselves with mud to keep their prey from picking up any scent. Her dark eyes followed them as they slipped into the bush, their bare feet gliding over dry leaves and pebbles in unbroken silence.
Ginjineir was still thinking about the dingo when two other children invited her to join them in a game of cats cradle, but Dieri had already asked her to assist with the threshing of grass grains. Keeping Ginjineir busy, her mother thought, will help keep her mind off the pup.
Ginjineir worked the grain under her feet. When the husks were off, she separated the seeds from the dirt by rocking them in a coolamon (deep boat-shaped dish hollowed from a single piece of wood). The grain would later be roasted by shaking it some more with live coals. Then the embers would be shaken out, the grain ground with flat stones, the flour mixed with water, and the final product put into the fire as patties for baking.
The sun had just slipped behind a huge hedge of steppe overgrowth when the hunters returned with a catch of two rock wallabies and spiny anteater. A ground oven had already been dug and lined with stones. Within it a small fire had burned down to embers. The meat would soon be placed inside, covered with a sheet of bark, and heaped over with earth.
After dinner the women collected kindling and lit the sleeping fires while the men danced—skip, shuffle, stomp—to the sound of clapping boomerangs and the drone of Goodoonoo’s long, haunting didgeridoo flute.
Goodoonoo squatted next to Ginjineir who sat folded up like a little dead spider, her gaze fixed numbly on the shadows that crept across the land. He placed a kangaroo-skin bag in her lap. It moved! Curious, Ginjineir opened it. Inside was a baby wombat. “It is for you, my daughter,” said Goodoonoo, smiling broadly. “I found it motherless. It needs someone to care for it. Someone like you.”
Ginjineir picked it up. It’s tiny round eyes shone up at her like little wet pebbles. It curled itself up in her hands.
“Life is precious,” Goodoonoo said softly.
Ginjineir could feel the little animal’s heartbeat. It felt just like the dingo’s had. Warm. Alive. She rubbed her cheek against the wombat’s baby-soft fur. “Yes,” she whispered. She had something to care for again—something of her own.
She nestled herself into her father’s arms and stared contentedly across the darkening plain. “Yes,” she said again, “life is precious.”

As a young boy I grew up in the Mormon colonies in Mexico. Our family lived in Colonia Dublan, Chihuahua, Mexico. We lived in a big two story brick house surrounded by all sorts of trees and flowers-my mother's family called the home Tanglewood. Tanglewood was a kid's dreamland. We had huge trees all around that were fun to climb, one of them even had a woodpecker living in the top. We had great games of hide and seek in the big yard-with all the trees, bushes, and structures, including an old barn, chicken coop, we even had our own outhouse! Most of these old structures were connected with tall adobe fences. What I remembered most was running around the big yard and spending time running through the big barn behind the home. Everyday we spent hours running around on the adobe walls connecting the barn and other storage buildings. As children we would jump from the barn to the walls, and race each other around the walls-seeing who could combine speed and balance! When I was six, someone started the barn on fire-fortunately the fire was stopped early and there was not a lot of damage. After the fire, I started to have nightmares, dreaming every night that the people who had started the fire in the barn were after me. They were chasing me around trying to catch me and I was sprinting on these narrow walls. It was terrible, I couldn't sleep at all. As young children my mother had taught us about prayer. She use to say that in her father's patriarchal blessing it stated that he had the faith of the brother of Jared-the power to move mountains, control the elements, and raise the dead. My brother and I use to say to each other, wow our grandpa must be strong if he can move a mountain! Many people remember times when the community needed rain and they would call on my grandfather to pray " even as he started to pray, the weather would change, and the rain would come. My mother told us numerous stories of my grandfather and others to help strengthen our testimony of prayer. As a six your old, these bad dreams were a big issue to me. My mother had told me to ask Heavenly Father to have good dreams and not bad ones, and I would be able to sleep without having bad dreams. I followed her council. To this day, I always pray to have good dreams and I always do. My testimony in prayer was never questioned after this point in my life. No matter what trials or help I have needed, I have always felt I could turn to the Lord.

The young men and young women of the Loomis First Ward, Loomis California Stake, noticed that several members of their ward were military veterans whose service had never been acknowledged. They decided to correct that. The priests and Laurels planned a special program on a day set aside to honor those who have served their countries. The day is known by several different names: Veterans Day, (US); Armed Forces Day (UK); Remembrance Day (Commonwealth nations); Armistice Day (other countries).
The Laurels and priests gathered photos and information from the veterans ahead of time and then put together books complete with photos, descriptions of military service, and letters of appreciation from the youth in the ward. Jennifer Beddes said, “The Veterans Day program opened my eyes to how much the veterans have given to us and how much they continue to support the community.”
During the program, the youth presented the veterans their books. Mikaela Kester, Laurel class president, said, “The event turned out even nicer than expected. It made me appreciate even more what these men have done, and I loved being able to show my gratitude through this program.”
Colin Fluckiger summed up the feelings of the young men and young women who participated: “It was a great time to honor the veterans from our ward and give them the respect and honor they deserved.”

But he discovered when he arrived at BYU as a freshman, that Hawaii is a rather small pond, and the large splashes he had made there became tiny ripples in the world of intercollegiate sports. At BYU he was a 4:18 miler competing with the likes of Paul Cummings who was under four minutes. It looked as if Henry Marsh had come as far as his talent would take him.

But then came one of those wonderful turning points that can only be recognized much later for what they are. Not knowing what else to do with him, the coaches stuck Henry into the steeplechase, where they had a slot to fill. When they announced their decision to him, it was hard to react one way or the other, because he didn’t even know what the steeplechase was. He listened, worked, and did his best, but he was still able to run only an undistinguished 9:25 that year.

At this point, Henry interrupted his steeple-chasing to fulfill a mission to Brazil. He grew spiritually in the mission field, and to his chagrin he grew physically as well.

“For about 12 months in the middle of my two-year mission I didn’t run a step. I put on 20 pounds, and I was pretty out of shape. But the last six months I started running and trying to incorporate running with missionary work. I went to an athletic club, and we taught the people as we ran with them.”

Nevertheless, the Henry Marsh who returned home in August of 1975 struck no terror in the hearts of the world’s other steeplechasers.

“When I came back from my mission, I wasn’t having much success in running. I quit the team in January. I thought it just wasn’t worth the time. But I couldn’t feel good about that decision because I had this nagging feeling that I hadn’t really reached my potential. I hadn’t really developed my talent to the fullest. Finally I realized that I couldn’t quit until I had given it my all.

“My philosophy of life is that you try to take advantage of all the opportunities that come, because if you don’t, they’re going to be gone. It’s very hard for me to sit back and watch things pass by. Every day that ticks off there are certain things that you have the potential to accomplish, and if you don’t that’s too bad.

“The thing in life that motivates me the most is the need to reach my full potential with the talents and capacities that God has given me. It was frustrating sometimes, but it was mostly a question of not being able to quit until I knew what my potential was.”

Henry’s reasons for going on a mission were tied in with this same concept. “The importance of a mission had been instilled in me since I was a child. I don’t think I would have felt fulfilled religiously if I had not taken advantage of the opportunity I had to go on a mission. It’s a lot the same type of need I have to reach my potential in running. Except that reaching my religious potential is even more important.”

The decision to stick with running was soon vindicated, because 1976 was pure magic. In one of the great Cinderella stories in the annals of sports, Henry exploded from a 9:25 weakling to an 8:23.99 star, top American, and tenth-place finisher in the Olympics, with the second fastest time ever by an American, missing the record by seven-tenths of a second. He literally came from nowhere to stun the American sports scene.

His goal for 1976 had been to run an 8:55 and qualify for the NCAA meet. At the beginning of the year it seemed like an ambitious goal indeed, but as the year progressed it began looking more and more possible. In an almost magical progression, his times dropped every week. Improvements that should have taken months, came in days. He not only qualified for the NCAA meet, but astounded everyone there by finishing a strong second with a time of 8:27, which qualified him for the Olympic trials.

Never except in his wildest dreams had Henry even thought about going to the Olympics, but now it was a possibility. Still, he felt his chances were only about 50–50. He would be competing with real names in the sport. He proved himself again, however, by finishing second in the trials. He was on his way to Montreal. At the Olympics he again surprised everyone by reaching the finals, the only American to do so, and the second youngest finalist in that event in the history of the games. His eventual tenth-place finish was a triumph for a 22-year-old in a sport where runners reach their peak at around age 30. And this 22-year-old had been an “also ran” to “also rans” less than a year earlier!

Seth lay in the dark, wondering what had awakened him. His ears strained to hear a noise, and his heart began to pound. There it was again! He jumped, then sighed with relief. It was the new telephone. They had bought it through a mail-order catalog. His dad and their neighbors, the Smiths, used the top strand of the barbed-wire fence that separated their ranches to string a telephone wire on. Then they used old rubber tires as fence connectors so that the lines wouldn’t short out. When the phone was first connected, Seth had listened to Mrs. Smith’s voice describing their new Appaloosa colt. He was so astonished that he couldn’t say a word.
All the neighbors had clamored to be part of the line. Everywhere the barbed-wire fences stretched, neighbor was soon connected to neighbor. Mrs. Bowers even put a switchboard in her house so that callers could be switched from one line to another. Now Seth’s family was even linked by the prairie line to Grandpa and Grandma.
Seth sat up in bed. Grandpa and Grandma! Had something happened to them? Who was calling in the wee hours of the morning? He pulled on his jeans and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
His father was still talking on the telephone. “I’m sure he’ll do it for you. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take him over later today.” He hung the earpiece on its hook, then turned slowly around. “What are you doing up?” he asked Seth in surprise. Dad looked awful.
“What’s happened?” Seth whispered.
His mother stood in the doorway, with baby Janet in her arms. She, too, waited for the answer.
“Grandpa’s had a heart attack,” Father said quietly. “They’re taking him to the hospital in Gillette.”
“Oh, no!” Mother cried. “Is it very bad?”
“He’ll be fine. He just needs rest. He’ll be in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Then he’ll be able to come home.”
Seth felt a little of the worry ease, but he still wished that he could see Grandpa or do something for him. Grandpa was like a best friend. He’d always been there when Seth needed someone to talk to.
“Until he gets strong again, he wants Seth to take care of the farm,” Father added.
“No,” Mother protested. “Seth’s too young to be in charge of a dairy farm.”
“Now, Grace,” Father reassured her, “Dad has already sold most of his cows, and Seth has helped him before. I think that he can do it for a short time. And when I get the roundup and haying finished, I’ll go over every day and give him a hand.”
“But some of those cows are about to calve,” Mother said. “What if something happens?”
Seth tried to think of a way to help persuade her. “I could call you,” he suggested. “The Smith’s have that Model T. Maybe Dad could borrow it in an emergency.” He stood straight and tall. “I want to do this for Grandpa and Grandma, Mom. Please let me.”
She looked lovingly at him. “I forgot about the telephone. Yes, you can go. They’ll need your help until Grandpa can be up and around again, and you’re not so far away, after all, if you can telephone.”
Seth hugged her. Then he ran back to his porch bedroom to pack his bag. He was going to Grandpa’s!
At Grandpa’s farm, Seth found himself faced with a bigger responsibility than he had ever imagined. He worked from before sunup each morning till the last of the milk was separated at night. Tired as he was, he still enjoyed turning the handle on the separator and watching the milk pour out into one bucket while the thick cream came out another spout. Oh how good that cream was on hot oatmeal!
Every night he called his parents just after supper. He felt very important as he cranked the handle around and around until Mrs. Bowers answered. “Good evening, Mrs. Bowers,” he greeted her formally. “Would you switch me to the King home, please?”
“Hello there, Seth,” she answered. “How’s your grandpa?”
He’d chat with her for a few moments while she switched him onto his parents’ line.
Everything was fine until Sweetie decided to be difficult. She’s the most contrary Guernsey cow ever born, Seth thought. Guernseys were known for their placid nature—but not Sweetie. She’d rather kick you than look at you. And now she was calving.
Seth went out to the barn and looked at her. He didn’t know much about it, but he could tell that she was in trouble. Carefully he walked into her stall, talking softly to soothe her. She whirled around and kicked at him. He jumped back, but her hoof grazed his shin.
“Ow!” he yelled and ducked back behind the stall. He rubbed the sore spot, then limped a little on his way back to the house. He cranked the handle on the phone and waited impatiently to talk to his mother. “Mom, Sweetie’s having trouble calving. Is Dad around?”
“Oh, Seth,” Mother said worriedly, “he’s out at roundup and won’t be back till tomorrow.” There was a pause, then she added resolutely, “You’ll just have to do the best you can.”
He felt so alone. “But I don’t know what to do.”
In the silence that followed, Mrs. Bowers spoke up. “Just do what you’ve seen your pa do and then pray!”
When Seth hung up the phone, he didn’t know if he should laugh because Mrs. Bowers had been listening in or cry because he couldn’t do what his dad had done. He was too small. And as for praying, he didn’t even know how. He’d never even been inside a church. He went outside and headed slowly toward the barn.
“Hello there!” a voice called out.
He whirled around and saw two men walking toward him. A tall man in a black coat asked, “Are your folks home?”
He shook his head, too miserable to say anything.
“What’s the matter, son?” the other man asked kindly.
Seth looked up and saw a face full of wrinkles, the kind you get from years of squinting in the sun. It was a face like Grandpa’s—weather-beaten and comfortable.
“Grandpa’s in the hospital, and Sweetie’s calf is turned and can’t be born. She won’t let me near her, and even if she did, I couldn’t help her. Mrs. Bowers said to pray, but I don’t know how. Do you?”
The man’s eyes began to twinkle as the whole sad story tumbled out. “Well,” he said, “first things first. I do know how to pray, and I’ll teach you, but for now let’s look at that cow.”
The man headed for the barn at a brisk walk while stripping off his coat. Taken by surprise, Seth ran along beside him, trying to keep up.
The man knew just what he was doing. When Sweetie lashed a hoof at him, he just chuckled. “Kinda bad tempered for a Guernsey, aren’t you?” He looped a rope on that hoof and tied it down, then patted her and began to work.
Seth couldn’t believe how easy it seemed. In just a short time a little calf lay at their feet, too weak yet to get up. He stared at the new little creature and wondered again at the miracle of birth. Would it live? The man handed him some clean straw. “Rub that calf down with this and dry her off. Then we’ll bring her around to her mama. As soon as she gets some warm milk inside her, she’ll be just fine.”
Seth worked carefully over the calf, then carried her to where Sweetie stood, still tethered, in the corner. The calf bumped her udder and, with tail swishing, drank the strengthening milk.
The man brushed his clothes off. “Do you have a pump I can wash off at?”
“Sure. By the back door,” Seth answered. “Say, thanks, mister. Sweetie is Grandpa’s best milker. That’s how she got her name—for her good cream. He’ll be pleased that she’s all right.”
“You’re welcome, son.” He clapped Seth on the back. “I’m a rancher myself.”
Seth looked up at him, puzzled. “Do you live around here?”
“No. My ranch is on a high desert plateau in Arizona.”
“What are you doing in Wyoming?”
“We’re missionaries of the Lord’s church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Oh, so that’s why you know how to pray.”
The man smiled and began to wash. After he washed and put his jacket on, he turned to the boy. “Now it’s time for that first lesson in prayer.” He bowed his head and addressed Heavenly Father. After he thanked Him for the new little heifer and the young boy who was caring for the farm, he asked for help for Seth and strength for his grandpa.
Seth listened in astonishment. It was so easy! Not much harder than talking to Mother on the prairie line. But did God really listen?
The men left then, promising to return the next day to help with the chores. When Seth reported the day’s events that night on the prairie line, he felt thankful. Then he went into his room, knelt by his bed, and tried to talk to Heavenly Father.
The next morning, he found that the missionaries had returned as promised. They helped him with the milking and other chores, and each day Seth prayed for his grandpa and for help to do the things he had to do. Before long Grandpa came home from the hospital and was feeling much better. Seth was happy to see him, and he told him all about the men who had helped him and taught him how to pray.
Grandpa listened carefully, then said, “I think it’s time you learned more about the Lord’s church.”
Soon after that, Seth and his family went to church with the missionaries, and Seth learned that Heavenly Father really was listening. He never forgot the lesson of the prairie line, the calf, and the two missionaries who had stopped to help. From then on, he knew he could pray whenever he needed help.

Let me take a few minutes to tell you about a beautiful young lady of whom we are all very proud. I will identify her as Diane because that is her real name. Diane was captain of the University of Utah’s first national women’s championship gymnastics team. In Miami, Florida, for the first-ever American professional tour, she over-rotated on a practice vault, landed on her neck, and damaged her spinal cord. Her slender, delicate body, which had endured hundreds of hours of demanding routines and the accompanying torturous training, was broken. The gal with the dazzling smile who was recognized as the heart of the team was now faced with the challenge of accepting sympathy as her reward or getting on with her life.
Early in her gymnastics career when someone asked her, “Aren’t you afraid of getting hurt?” she replied, “No, you take the glory and you take the knocks. I’ll just take whatever comes.”
Diane’s capacity to cope and get on with her life is best measured by her graduating from college two and one-half years after being paralyzed from the chest down. Wheelchair- bound, she seldom missed a class, was a good student, and was popular with classmates and instructors.
Just a few weeks ago Diane wheeled herself into a third-grade classroom in a Salt Lake area elementary school, swallowed hard, and faced the curious students as their nervous teacher. “I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” she says with conviction. “I can’t think of anything I’d want to do more.” “How about performing in the Olympics?” she was asked. “Yes,” she responds wistfully, “I wanted that a lot, too.”
How refreshing is her enduring attitude: “I always got around fairly well on campus in my wheelchair alone, but when I came to steep hills I made friends in a hurry.”
Diane has taken the knocks and the glory. She cares and she shares. She finds fun where others may not see it: “I’m genuinely happy and content with my life. I’m not bitter or angry. In a way I’m just as athletic as I ever was.”
With her superb attitude and self-discipline, and with the help of a loving family, friends, and students, she continues to “go for the gold.” Diane, thank you for teaching us what enduring is all about.

The second example also comes from my first mission. One December, which is one of the warmest months in Tonga, I was serving with a local companion. As Christmas time approached, we visited many member and nonmember families reminding them of the important role of Jesus in our lives and leaving our testimony of Him with them. One of these visits was to a grandmother who was tending to her young granddaughter while her husband and the girl’s parents were away. The grandmother was fairly old, but seemed to be doing fine, and really appreciated our visit.

A few days later, on Christmas Eve, we visited several more families and left blessings, testimonies, and messages about Jesus with them. As we left the last house and headed for home I said, “I feel we should visit one more family, any ideas?” My companion responded, “I’ve heard that the granddaughter we recently visited is quite ill and her grandmother is very tired from the constant worry and care. Why don’t we see if we can help them in some way?”

When we arrived, we found that the granddaughter, of about seven, was indeed very ill with a high fever. Her grandmother had been keeping a wet cloth on her forehead and fanning the air to keep her cool. She was exhausted and asked if we would give her granddaughter a blessing, which we did. As we finished, my companion said, “I can tell you are very tired and need some rest. Why don’t you go lie down and my companion and I will fan your granddaughter and keep a damp towel on her forehead.”

I have seldom seen more grateful eyes or felt deeper appreciation. She hesitated but my companion said, “You need the rest, so you don’t get sick also. Go and rest. Trust us and trust the Lord, for we are His servants.” After a brief pause, she went and laid down behind the curtain. I’m sure she was asleep as soon as she hit her mat.

We started fanning her granddaughter and cooling her forehead with a wet cloth. Her breathing was fitful, her eyes were closed, and her moans were distressing. One of us dipped the cloth in water, wrung it out, and held it on her forehead while the other fanned to help keep her cool. That doesn’t sound like much work, but the anxiety, the humid evening, the late hour, and the constant fanning and dipping of the cloth caused us to tire quickly. I wondered how the grandmother had done this for so long by herself.

At about 11 pm my companion said, “We’re both tired. To get through the night, why don’t we take turns? You sleep for one hour while I fan and rinse. Then I’ll wake you and you care for her for an hour, then you wake me, and so on.” “Fine,” I said. We used an old wind-up clock to tell time. I laid down while my companion fanned. In an hour he woke me, and I fanned with one hand and kept the cloth on her forehead with the other until 1 am. I then woke my companion who took his turn, then he woke me at 2 am. I woke him at 3 am and laid down knowing that 4 am would come very soon.

The next thing I remember was sunlight streaming into my eyes. I jumped up and asked, “What time is it?” “It’s 7 am.” “7! You were supposed to wake me at 4. Why didn’t you?” “Oh, you looked so tired, I decided to let you sleep. Merry Christmas.” As I looked at him and felt his joy, I sensed an aura of light around him and said to myself, “He is a great man. God loves him and so do I. I wish I were stronger and would spontaneously do more good things like he does.”

I thought of the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane, asking His disciples to watch and pray for Him as he commenced the greatest and most painful act of love and heartfelt helping ever known on earth. He returned and found them sleeping and asked them to please stay awake and watch and pray for Him. A little later He returned and found them sleeping again. Instead of getting upset He just looked at them with deep love and compassion and simply said, “...Sleep on.” [3] I felt great love for Him and for my companion.

The grandmother soon awoke and asked how we and her granddaughter were doing. We told her everything was about the same. We continued fanning her granddaughter while she fixed us a little breakfast. As we were eating, her granddaughter’s moaning ceased and before long her fever broke. She soon opened her eyes and started searching for her grandmother and said she wanted to get up and have some breakfast also. We had a heartfelt prayer together where we thanked God for all His blessings, including the recovery of this young granddaughter, and for our Savior Jesus Christ and all He has done and continues to do to help us in heartfelt ways. We departed feeling it was one of the best Christmases we had ever had. A few months later I was released from my mission, returned home, married, had a family, and became involved in a variety of activities, but never forgot this experience (and many others) of heartfelt helping.

Two years later, at 16, Jim joined my seminary class. He soon started dropping by my home after school, along with several other of my students. They would come for a swim, a haircut, advice, conversation, and, of course, food. I tried to serve up what each of them needed. In group dynamics, Jim was still the quiet one. He had graduated to making short statements, but they were usually succinct one-liners. He wasted no words. He was, however, a comfortable, undemanding kid to have around; and he was well liked by everyone. I came to know him better by observation than by communication.
San Diego is a Navy city, and many of the families in our ward were in the Navy. Jim’s dad was transferred to Okinawa later that year. Jim struggled with the idea of a move so far away but decided to move overseas with his family.
Jim didn’t write very much, though I wrote to him. One day, however, the mail brought a beautiful cloisonne bracelet for me. There was no card, just a return address: Jim’s. His parents also wrote to us occasionally, so I knew what Jim was up to. I twice received job recommendation requests, so I knew he was working as a lifeguard at the base pool.
During the next year, I was surprised one day to find Jim standing on my doorstep. He had flown military standby, along with his sister, to visit friends on the mainland. Most of his friends were in school or were working so he spent quite a bit of time at my house—usually by playing quietly with my boys, building Lego structures. He seemed to feel comfortable in my home.
We talked about Okinawa and his experiences there. Again, he would simply answer my questions. I asked of future plans, and he said he wasn’t sure what he was going to do after high school graduation. After a few days, he flew back to Okinawa.
Jim popped up again after he graduated, on his way to Brigham Young University. He showed up a few times more as he traveled from Utah to California, and sometimes to the Far East. I came to expect his unannounced visits. However, I was surprised by the physical changes as he grew and matured into a handsome young man.
He grew up, coming and going through my door. After Jim’s 19th birthday and a year in Provo, he announced his intention to serve a mission. I was thrilled but a little surprised. He had never spoken of a testimony. His group of friends were split—some were going in the military, a few were planning on missions, and a few others struggled with worthiness problems.
Jim went back to Okinawa again, this time to receive a mission call. In a few month’s time he was on my doorstep again, on his way to the Missionary Training Center. We acknowledged how ironic it was for him to leave the Far East to come to the United States for a mission. During this visit, Jim began to talk. We talked about Japan, about his two dates, about his friends and their plans, and we discussed his recent trip to the Tokyo Temple to be endowed. We laughed, reminisced, and speculated about our future lives when he returned as an “R.M.”
Secretly, I worried about him. How was this quiet, private young man, who was just now conversing openly with me after a five-year friendship, going to survive on a mission? I couldn’t imagine him tracting, speaking in church, or teaching a discussion. Would he be an ever-silent companion? I hoped for understanding, sensitive, and gregarious companions for him. When the departure day arrived, I hugged and waved him off to the MTC with a prayer in my heart—for his growth and for his survival.
Jim’s letters were few and far between, but they were treasures. I finally got to know some of his thoughts. He began to share some of his feelings and his testimony with me. Missionary work was hard. He hoped he could “do the job.” He liked some companions and struggled with others. He was always full of faith. His letters proved the adage, “Still waters run deep.”
Fate and time brought a move for us and a relocation for Jim’s parents. We both moved to the state of Washington. His mother, when we communicated, helped fill in the gaps between Jim’s infrequent letters. She gave me news of transfers, of companions, of a new assignment: zone leader. I tried not to be surprised. I matched the depth of the well-written letters with the emergence of this “new” personality who trained elders and taught successful discussions.
When Jim returned from his mission, I was privileged to join his family at the airport to welcome him. As I drove to the airport, I reviewed our friendship and Jim’s growth and maturation. I speculated about his appearance and his demeanor.
He was the last person to emerge from the jetway, which caused extra anxiety for his waiting family. Finally, he appeared—taller than I remembered, and thinner. His naturally curly hair was darker and was cut so short that there was no curl. He wore the missionary uniform: dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, black “mailman” shoes. The suit was very worn and looked like it could stand on its own and still hold the shape of Jim’s body. He was bent a little from the weight of his carry-on luggage.
When he saw us, he smiled a little, then dropped his head as he walked the last few feet of the walkway. When he raised his head again, his eyes were red and he was weeping. He dropped his bags and embraced his mother in a tight hug and cried openly as he kissed her, then held her in his arms for a full minute more. He released her to repeat this exchange with his brother, sister, and his father.
It is a rare privilege to observe such an exchange of pure love among people. I thought, this is how it must be to return to our heavenly parents after completing our earthly missions. What a sweet experience to return, knowing you’ve served faithfully.
Jim then turned to me, and without hesitation, embraced me in a bear hug. As we parted, we both wiped tears from our eyes. And he said, “Thanks for being here.”
I spent another two hours with Jim that morning before we had to head in different directions. During that time, I watched him start a conversation with the man next to him while waiting for his luggage. Within 15 minutes, he had given the man a Book of Mormon and a pamphlet and had parted as a friend. I saw him spend a few private tender moments with his younger brother and sister as he sensed their need and focused on them individually. He gave half of his lunch to his little brother, when the ten-year-old complained of being hungry still.
Jim related a few mission experiences: of singing a duet in church with his companion, of a Sunday when he had 17 investigators at church on the same day, and of the mission farewell the night before. He had been amazed that so many of the missionaries had wanted to gather to say good-bye to him. Jim wept again as he expressed his concern for a companion who had recently lost his dad to a sudden, unexpected death. Here was compassion, love, humility, confidence, and power. Sitting before me, in his grayed shirt, wrinkled tie, and well-worn coat, was someone who had been seemingly magically transformed. His smile was the only trace of the shy, quiet boy who hesitated to pray in front of someone.
We send our young men and women out to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. We ask them to study, to work hard, to endure, and to serve. And in the end, these children return to us whole, ready to teach and inspire by their loving and humble example. And, having been touched by divine light, we are, none of us, the same again.

Emily told Mama, “My blanket’s name is Pinkie.” Emily got her blanket when she was a baby. Now she was old enough to know her colors, and she had given her blanket a name. Pinkie was fuzzy in some places and silky in others. Emily took Pinkie with her everywhere, except to church. That was because Mama said, “In Sunbeams you need your hands for other things.”
Pinkie had gone with Emily to Grandpa’s house for Thanksgiving. Now Emily’s family sat in the car heading home. At first Emily colored. Then she played I Spy. But now it was dark and the only sound was the hum of the engine.
Emily rubbed Pinkie’s silky edge against her nose. Rubbing her nose with Pinkie helped Emily think beautiful thoughts.
Daddy slowed down and pulled the car over to the side of the road.
“What’s going on?” Mama asked.
“There was a crash,” Daddy said. “We need to see if we can help.”
In the light from the headlights Emily saw a smashed car. She also saw a family huddling outside of it. There was a little girl. She wasn’t wearing a coat.
Emily knew that if she were that little girl she would be scared. She would be cold.
Emily handed Daddy her blanket. “Please give Pinkie to that girl.”
“Are you sure?” Daddy asked.
Emily nodded. She loved Pinkie, but that little girl needed beautiful thoughts right now.

I know a church school student who told me that in her dorm, she was basically the only student striving to keep the spirit of the Sabbath day. Maybe, by lack of understanding or faith in this commandment, the other roommates treated the Sabbath day like any other day of the week. Even though sometimes she had to seclude herself in the privacy of her bedroom to study the scriptures and pray, she was still very friendly with her roommates. She tried to be a good example of the light of the Savior, without judging or criticizing them but serving the best way she could. Some of her roommates responded well, others did not, but all of them respected her for being a friendly, good disciple of Jesus Christ.

I learned a great lesson about recognizing and following divine promptings when my daughter, Zoe, and I were leaving Wal-Mart one evening. It was a crowded parking lot, and we were parked way in the back. Just as we arrived at our car, something caught our eyes, as it was blowing by in the breeze. Upon closer examination, we discovered it was a twenty-dollar bill tumbling along the asphalt. I told my daughter it was her lucky day as she chased it down. Once we got in the car, we both had a strong feeling to take the money into the store. This seemed like a silly thought, so we were tempted to dismiss the idea. But after discussing it with Zoe, we decided to take the twenty-dollar bill to the service desk.

The service desk attendant told us to keep the money. She said it was a nice gesture, but she was certain we could not find the owner. She told us she could take our name and number, but that no one ever came to the desk asking for missing cash, so it would be unnecessary. Then she had us wait while she answered the phone.

A moment later, we noticed she had a shocked look on her face as she stared at us. She put the call on hold and explained, "You're never going to believe this. There is a woman on the phone, in tears, who lost her twenty-dollar bill somewhere at Wal-Mart. I can hear a baby crying in the background. She says she needs the money desperately because it's all she has for the rest of the month. She has been hoping and praying that someone turned it in."

We could have easily left that parking lot feeling thrilled to have found a twenty-dollar bill blowing by in the breeze. Instead we gained the far greater treasure of knowing that the Lord cares and watches over the little things we do. The guidance we received was an answer to this woman's prayer. We treasure this "Parable of the Twenty Dollar Bill." We learned that if we have a good thought, but we are unsure if it is a prompting, act on it anyway. As long as it is a good thing, how can we go wrong? Such unsolicited divine promptings may be God's way of helping us or someone else in need.

Ouch! Have you ever been caught by a jumping cactus? Cholla cactus segments “jump” off to stick to your clothes, skin, or whatever else they can get their spiny claws into.
The LDS youth of New Mexico know how difficult it is to detach themselves from a prickly cactus. They got some extra practice though, as they cleaned the temple site in preparation for the Albuquerque Temple groundbreaking. Armed with shovels, rakes, and gloves, youth from four stakes assembled on a hot Saturday morning to rid the property of sagebrush, garbage, and cholla, so the weeds could be mowed and the ground would be safe to walk on for those attending the groundbreaking.
“It was hard work, but it was totally worth it for the temple to come,” says Robyn Sampson, 15.
Before the temple plans were approved, the youth fasted and prayed for a solution to the problems the temple’s project manager faced when he presented the plans to city officials. Now they say they are fasting and praying for the temple builders. But the prayers and the cleanup are only part of the work the young people of Albuquerque are doing in preparation for the temple. They are also working to make certain their own lives are clean.
Despite the burrs on their socks and an occasional scare from a snake or lizard, the Albuquerque youth succeeded in clearing the future temple site of every spiny cactus and broken bottle in sight. It might seem strange, but the youth actually enjoyed pulling cactuses and loading trucks full of sagebrush.
“We’re just so happy we will have a temple here. We thought it would never happen,” says Rosalie Campbell, 12.
Amber Chee, 17, looks forward to doing baptisms for the dead and getting married in the Albuquerque Temple someday. “It was really fun coming here. I felt the Spirit,” she says.
Both Rosalie and Amber have been to the temple to do baptisms for the dead before, but opportunities for trips to out-of-state temples come only once a year for the Albuquerque youth. They have to travel for at least eight hours to get to a temple in Denver, Colorado, or Mesa, Arizona, so they can do baptisms for the dead.
“Temples were always a faraway thing,” says Neil Peterson. As 16-year-old Neil wipes his brow, he says he enjoys helping out with something so important, even if it’s hard work.
Michelle Williams, besides concentrating on the cactus plants, was also thinking about what it will mean to have a temple in her area and about why she was cleaning up the temple site. “It’s very symbolic,” she says. “You have to be clean yourself to go to the temple.”
Logan King just turned in his mission papers and is waiting for his call. He won’t be able to go to the Albuquerque Temple before his mission, but he realizes the importance of having a temple close by and being worthy to attend it. “We need to clean all the cactuses out of our lives before we can go to the temple,” he says.
Researching family history is another way the Albuquerque youth are preparing for the temple. Many of them are more excited about doing family history now since they will soon have a temple in their area. Albuquerque’s Family History Center missionaries, Sister Wilcox and Sister Hatfield, say the temple will really strengthen the youth. Sister Wilcox says with the large number of young people in the area, there’s a “big push for genealogy.”
Sarah Sego, 17, loves doing baptisms for the dead and can’t wait for the temple to be built so she can continue to do baptisms. “I know it’s the right thing to do, because all those people are waiting,” she says.
Sarah is also helping others to learn more about why she loves going to the temple so much. She tells her friends about the temple and even tactfully shared her testimony of temple work with her high school current events class.
Sarah is not alone in her missionary efforts. Many Church members are having more and more opportunities to explain the gospel to others because of the temple.
“I think the temple will make people notice us more,” says Lisa Willis, 14, who also says she’s been telling her friends all about the temple. “The best part [of building a temple] is having people ask about it.”
Albuquerque’s full-time missionaries were also at the cleanup working hard. They say members in the area feel the temple will bring many blessings to them and to all the people of Albuquerque.
“While tracting, we stopped by a house and a woman opened the door and said, ‘Hey, I heard you guys are building one of those temples.’ That allowed us to get in the door and talk to her about the Church,” says Elder Moyer, from California. Many of the missionaries had similar stories.
The temple will actually be built in a valley where it can still be seen from faraway. In fact, it’s the same valley the Mormon Battalion came through on its famous march from the Missouri River to California. Coincidentally, the number of youth at the cleanup was about the same as the number of men who were in the Mormon Battalion.
At the groundbreaking ceremony, many young people who had been at the cleanup also sang in the youth chorus. The strains of “High on the Mountain Top” and “Holy Temples on Mount Zion” rang out over the crowd of thousands which gathered to see the temple ground dedicated.
“We all joined together to celebrate our temple,” says Tyler Lindsey, 16. “I knew that it was right and the ground was holy. I don’t know if we sounded good, but the Spirit was there.”
The Spirit is there. The spirit of service, of missionary work, and of love can be felt strongly in Albuquerque. Whether pulling cactuses or doing baptisms for the dead, the youth of Albuquerque are carrying out the Lord’s work with His Spirit to help them. The youth don’t know all the ways the temple will continue to change their lives, but they are looking forward to that day in the year 2000 when they can visit the Lord’s house in their own city.