Gospel Story Finder

The New Era has confirmed my belief in ESP—Extra Spiritual Protection. Since I came on my mission, the New Era has ranked second only to the standard works. It seems like every issue is designed with one of my problems in mind. I felt it was merely a coincidence until I picked up your April issue. It was my birthday, and the mission president called to tell me my father had passed away. Needless to say, it was quite a blow, but my district leader had given us the April magazine, and as I picked it up, it fell open to the article “What Is the Purpose of Suffering?” You can’t realize the strength it gave me to continue my work. I have since learned that my father knew he wasn’t going to be alive when I returned, but he didn’t tell me because he wanted to see me go on my mission. I want to thank Kenneth H. Beesley for writing the article. Every month I become more convinced that the New Era articles are inspired. I hope they can offer other people as much strength as they have me. My only regret is that the magazine comes out only once a month.
Elder Robert Jefferson Busch, Jr.England Bristol Mission

My father and mother believed firmly in the principle of work, and they saw to it that their six boys had plenty to do.
Although I was the youngest in our family, I had my share of jobs around the house and yard. To make sure I wouldn’t run out of work and to help me develop a sense of responsibility, Father had some chicken coops and runs built in our back yard. He filled these with a flock of about fifty chickens, and my responsibility was to feed and water the chickens, keep the coops clean, and gather eggs.
In the summer I gathered lawn clippings and put them to dry on the roof of the chicken coop. When they were dry, I put them in bags. Then in the winter I emptied these clippings into pans, poured hot water over them, and fed them to the chickens.
By giving the chickens such good care, we had more than enough eggs to supply the needs of our family. Father told me I could have the extra eggs to sell and could use the money for my own needs.
I found the neighbors were glad to have good fresh eggs, and I soon established an egg route with regular customers. These customers became my good friends. This was the beginning of many happy associations that have lasted for years.
Although I was only a young boy when I started in the egg business, I felt pretty grown up having my own money to spend. I also earned some extra money by doing errands and odd jobs for people in the neighborhood, and Father paid me for helping on the ranch in the summer. So I began to save what seemed to me to be a lot of money.
My parents had taught me about tithing. They told me that tithing is giving to the Lord one penny out of every dime I earn, or one dime out of every dollar. They also taught me that tithing is a commandment of our Father in heaven, and paying tithing is a good way for us to show our love for Him and our appreciation for all the blessings He gives us.
At the end of the year I took my tithing in a big envelope filled with nickels, dimes, and small bills to the bishop for tithing settlement. I still have the tithing receipt (it was then called a Bishop’s Store House receipt) that was given to me when I was eight years old. It was for $7.50 and was dated December 31, 1908.
I am grateful that I had a father and mother who taught me as a young boy the joy of work and the importance of paying tithing. I am sure that many of the blessings I have enjoyed throughout my life have come to me because I have been obedient to the law of tithing.

1 Eight-year-old Lou had mixed feelings. She was excited about her family moving to Arizona, but a little twinge of worry gnawed at her. She knew that only essential items could be taken in their covered wagons.
Will Annabelle be considered essential? she wondered. Will there be room for her?
2 Annabelle was a beautiful china doll, a special birthday gift that still filled Lou with wonder whenever she took Annabelle down from her place on Mama’s bureau, where the doll was safely out of the reach of her little brothers.
3 Lou asked her father if there would be room for Annabelle in the covered wagon. He promised to find a special place for her.
4 As the covered wagon was loaded, Lou kept a careful watch. When everything else was put into it, Lou could not see a safe place left for her doll.
5 The night before the start of their journey, Lou and her brothers took their last baths in their old home. Very little was left in their house; everything had been either packed in the wagon or given away to friends.
6 That night the family slept in beds made up on top of boxes in the covered wagon.
7 The next morning as they were getting ready to leave, Papa showed Lou a little hammock hanging from one of the wagon bows. Annabelle was inside. Papa had found a place where Annabelle could ride up high, out of the reach of her brothers and safe from bumps and jolts.
8 All during the long weeks of travel, Annabelle left her hammock only when Lou held her. When they arrived in Arizona, Annabelle was still with them, a treasured friend for Lou.

Now let me show you two people in their lives from the past. Daniel Henry Arline was born in 1841 in northern Florida. He is Derek’s great-great-grandfather. One day in 1898 he heard the missionaries speak in the town square. He felt something inside. Although there was great persecution against the Church and against the missionaries as well, he took the missionaries to his home, fed them, and watched over them. He was then 57 years old, but he told his wife, “For the first time in my life I have heard the truth.” He and all his family were baptized. Though it was not easy to be a pioneer and a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the turn of the century in the southern United States, Daniel Arline remained true to the gospel and to his covenants. Part of who Derek is comes because of the goodness and righteousness of this man whom Derek has never met.

There are also other people you can follow to find happiness. When I was eleven years old, my Primary teacher was Sister Esther Geis. The boys in our class knew Sister Geis loved us because she made us behave. In those days, we had Primary on a weekday after school. Across the street from our ward was a big empty field. We boys liked to play marbles in that field, and sometimes we forgot when it was time for Primary. Sister Geis would walk across the street and get us. Once she told my father, “Your son should shape up.” My father talked to me, and I did start behaving better.

Dear brothers and sisters, this is very humbling, and I pray sincerely for the Spirit of the Lord to sustain me. Since being called as a General Authority last April, I have developed a greater love for the gospel of Jesus Christ and a much deeper appreciation and love for a great and wonderful wife who has stood by my side through every facet of married life. I am grateful for our five children who sustain us and live as they should, and thankful for parents who taught correct principles and set a marvelous pattern for us to follow. I have learned to love and appreciate good men and women who have influenced my life and stood by my side through many Church callings.
I am most thankful to a kind Father in Heaven for the privilege of serving in the Area Presidency of the South Pacific Islands under the leadership and direction of a great and spiritual leader, Elder Robert L. Simpson, and of being one with a counselor, companion, and friend, Elder Philip T. Sonntag. What a thrill it has been in the last month to participate in the dedication of a beautiful temple in faraway Australia, and to see thousands of wonderful Saints as they came from all corners of that great land and raised their voices in song and prayer and appreciation—true evidence that temples are being built in many countries across the face of the earth and that thousands of righteous men and women and children will visit them to be sealed together in family units for time and for all eternity.
We visited the Saints in New Zealand and felt the same sweet spirit. Our spirits were lifted and our testimonies strengthened. What a privilege to participate in the dedication of the first LDS chapel in Papua, New Guinea—where 450 wonderful native people sat with tear-filled eyes as President Robert L. Simpson dedicated their beautiful building. A handsome young New Guinean stood in that meeting with a Book of Mormon in one hand and a Bible in the other; he held them high above his head and bore a strong witness and testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ to his people. We thrilled after traveling sixty-five miles to a jungle village to witness the faith and testimony of our members there. They gave us gifts that had been handed down from generation to generation because we represented the gospel they love so much. And we gave a prayer and blessing on their village before we left. Tears filled our eyes as we saw President Kimball’s picture hanging in a building in far-off New Guinea.
We felt the spirit of missionary work as we literally watched the prophecies unfold that the gospel of Jesus Christ should be taken to every nation, kindred, tongue, and people. (See Mosiah 15:28.) I am grateful for the spirit of the gospel, the spirit of missionary work, and the spiritual leadership of great latter-day leaders. I support and sustain them with all my heart.

A more recent convert, Susan, loves the Church. Originally from South Sudan, her family fled hardships and was blessed to receive the missionaries in Uganda. As a refugee, she found peace and protection in the gospel. On Sundays she would bring her younger siblings to church, as well as up to 10 other children who are not Church members. After the unexpected death of a family member, she returned to South Sudan, where she waits for the Church to be established in her area. Both Susan and Sandra face challenges, but they rely on God and enjoy the fruits of living the gospel of Jesus Christ (see Alma 32:6–8, 43).

Cliff Johnson was born in 1921 and grew up during the depression. Although his family did not have much in the way of money, he was richly taught by his parents how to securely anchor his life.
During the early 1940's World War II was raging across Europe when Clifton Johnson, my father, joined the Army. Prior to leaving for boot camp he was given a blessing and was told others would have as their purpose the destruction of his ideals. Cliff was promised if he would be humble, courageous, and kept himself morally and spiritually clean that those who were inclined to ridicule and oppress him would be rebuked and many of them would come to look to him for leadership and advice.
At the train station his mother told him "Son, remember, praying will keep you from sinning and sinning will keep you from praying. Always remember to pray." The first night in the barracks, after the lights were turned out, Cliff knelt down by his bunk and began to say his nightly prayer. Immediately others in the room began to mock and ridicule him. The next night he had a decision to make. He could yield to the pressure and avoid mockery by just climbing into his bunk, or he could pray. He decided to pray. Eventually those who ridiculed him apologized and, realizing the battles they would soon face, asked him to say a pray for them too.

As a teenager, my independence and my privacy were very important to me. So our family rule that Mom and Dad always had to know where we were, who we were with, and when we’d be home, was annoying. Even though we all complained about it, we all abided by it.
It was early spring of my junior year in high school when my 13-year-old sister, Jenni, and I were heavily involved with our girls’ volleyball team. Our team was not the best nor the worst. We just played to have fun. One of the most exciting matches of the season, involving several teams, was to be held about 40 minutes from our home. It was a Friday night, and since I’d had my driver’s license for more than a year, Mom and Dad let me take the van with my little sister as my companion. Jenni and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but we had a great visit with each other on the way to the match. Being alone gave us the opportunity to really talk. The evening was as much fun as we had anticipated. After saying good-bye to friends old and new, Jenni and I left and headed for home.
Just 15 minutes into the ride on a fast moving freeway, we ran out of gas. It was a dark night, so we hoped we could coast to the next off-ramp. But the van came to a stop under an overpass nearly a mile away from the exit. Scared, we offered a prayer. “Heavenly Father,” we prayed, “please help us find a way to get home safely.”
As we ended our prayer, I remembered that in an emergency we are told to lift the car hood and put something white on the antenna, so we did. We knew it was just a matter of time before a police car would drive by and offer to help. Three times we were passed by police, even though we were flashing our lights and honking.
Discouragement nearly overcame us, and we decided it was time to pray again. Finishing the prayer with tears streaming down our faces, we talked about possible solutions. We could see the exit sign and decided to walk toward it, hoping to find a telephone. About a quarter of a mile away from the van, we heard a vehicle approaching us and slowing down. Could our prayers be answered? We turned around and saw two motorcycles coming toward us. At that moment we both felt very strongly that we should head back to the safety of the van. Back in the car, huddled together, we tried to comfort each other. Then, as the Spirit whispered peace to each of us, we looked out our window to see our mother and father coming to a stop on the other side of the freeway. Our relief and gratitude completely overcame us as we ran into the arms of our anxious parents. “How did you know?” we asked. Softly and clearly our parents answered that they knew where we were, who we were with, and when we were supposed to be home. Because we had always followed this rule, when we didn’t arrive home on time, they knew they had to come looking for us.
I was never annoyed by my parents’ strict rules again.

For some of the youth, the mere mention of the word genealogy used to conjure up images of endlessly searching through dusty manuscripts that led nowhere.

“I wasn’t too excited at first,” says Tyson Thacker, 15. The term family history seems more inviting, but still there are challenges.

“I just wondered how I would find names,” adds Tyson’s sister Miriam, a Laurel. “I knew a lot of work had already been done in our family.”

But with four young people in the program and lots of help from their mother, they had plenty of support. And support was needed when they didn’t find any names from February until July, despite lots of looking.

Things were getting pretty discouraging until one night when three of the Thacker youth and their mother ventured down to the library again.

“We were all looking on different films and would say to each other, ‘Go look here and go look over there,’” says Sister Thacker. “Everyone was running around getting names and checking them. We accomplished much more than one person could have done alone, and that was the night we finally found someone! It’s hard to describe how exciting that was. After that it seemed like everything opened up and we just kept finding names.”

Henry had dreamed restlessly during the night about the river, so when he awoke he was sure he could hear the roar of water as it dashed against a riverbank just outside the covered wagon. We’ll cross it today, he told himself, shivering. In all his twelve years he couldn’t remember when he had been more frightened. Quickly he pulled on his boots and scrambled onto the front seat of the wagon. Outside, his sister-in-law Mary Anne was cooking their breakfast gruel in a big iron pot over the campfire. His brother William was watering the cattle. Henry looked for the river but saw only the flat, barren plains they had traveled across for so many days. The sun was bright and the world looked cheerful. No river anywhere. Henry sighed with relief and jumped to the ground.
“Morning, Henry,” William greeted his brother pleasantly. “Get the team hitched. High time we were on the move.”
William was a captain of ten wagons including his own. In order to help him Henry had left his parents and younger brothers at Council Bluffs to travel with William and Mary Anne to the Salt Lake Valley. He drove William’s wagon while his brother rode their horse Clarice and helped the other wagons, always keeping an eye out for Indians.
“How far to the Platte River, William?” Henry held his breath while he waited for the answer. He remembered crossing another river after they left Nauvoo and how the waters had rushed against the wagon, pulling it downstream and almost overturning it. He was only eight at the time and his mother had held him close. Now when he thought about driving the wagon and team across a river by himself, a cold knot of fear tightened in his stomach.
“We’ll cross the Platte before nightfall, Henry. Tonight we’ll sleep on the far bank!” William said, smiling fondly at his younger brother. He touched Clarice lightly on the flank and moved down the line of wagons.
Henry hurriedly ate his breakfast and hitched the oxteam. But all through the long, hot day his fear of the river increased. In spite of his worry, Henry kept one eye on the team he was driving and the other on Leo, William’s steer that followed along with the other loose cattle. The company had twenty-four head, and one of Henry’s jobs was to see that Leo didn’t wander off. Henry and Leo had become good friends on the long journey west.
The afternoon sun was low in the sky when the caravan finally reached the river. Henry saw it as the wagon came up over a little rise. He stared at the dark, muddy water that wound like a long snake across the flat land. It doesn’t look too bad, he thought with relief. I’m sure I can drive the wagon across by myself.
William rode by on his horse. “Move the wagon up to the bank, Henry,” he directed. “We’re going to ford it here in the shallowest place.”
Farther downstream there was fast water swirling into eddies, and Henry was relieved that William had picked this place for crossing. When he reached the bank, Henry could see that the first wagons were already halfway across the river and that the animals had to swim only about twenty yards.
There were two wagons ahead of Henry now, and he had to be ready to go into the river. His hands tightened on the reins and he tried to start the animals forward, but his body wouldn’t move. He glanced down and found that his hands were trembling. William was beside the wagon, watching. “Henry, you’re pale as a ghost. You feel all right?”
“I … I’m fine, William, honest.” Henry tried again to start the team, but his body wouldn’t respond.
William swung down from his horse and leaped onto the wagon seat beside him. “You don’t look so good to me,” he said. “You ride Clarice, Henry, and I’ll drive the team across.” William took the reins from Henry’s trembling hands and flicked the oxen. “Haw!” he yelled, and the wagon lurched forward. Henry didn’t argue. He clambered over William’s feet and jumped to the ground, his face hot with shame but with relief flooding through his body.
“Mind you watch the cattle,” William called over his shoulder as the wagon rumbled into the river.
Henry mounted the horse and watched the procession of wagons fording the stream. He wished desperately that the river would swallow him up. How can I ever face William again? he wondered. What a baby I am!
The last wagon was in the water now and there had been no trouble at all. Only the loose cattle and a herdsman on horseback were left to cross.
Henry was in the water watching the line of wagons stretching out on the other side of the river when some of the cattle started to sink in the soggy banks. Panicking, they let out great bellows and began to run downstream. This frightened the cattle already partway across and they turned back, following the others down the river. Before anyone could stop them, all twenty-four animals were caught in the current and drifting into the deep, swirling white water.
Henry knew how important the cattle were in settling a new land. When he caught sight of Leo, swimming madly with the others, he could see how frightened the animal was. Without thinking, Henry nudged Clarice and drove her straight downriver. She balked and would have turned back, but Henry pressed her on. Icy water splashed over them as Clarice plunged into the deep water. Henry bent forward, grasped the mare’s slippery neck, and held on tightly as they swam toward the animals.
Now they were among the cattle, the whole herd swimming frantically, their eyes wild with fear. The current caught Henry and the horse. All the boy could do was hold fast and try to see through the foaming water.
As they came near Leo’s head, Henry reached for a horn. The steer jerked away in fright and Henry nearly plunged headlong into the water. Keeping his legs locked around the mare’s body, he struggled upright and clung to her, gasping for breath. Again they came near the steer and Henry grasped the horn firmly, this time hanging on. With his other hand he pulled on the reins, turning Clarice toward the far shore. She swam steadily against the current and Henry clung to Leo’s horn with all his strength.
Finally they reached quiet water, and when Henry looked back he saw that all the other animals were following. One by one, the animals left the eddy and swam after Henry, who had Leo firmly in tow.
When Clarice finally scrambled up the bank, Henry slid from her back and lay exhausted on the sand. The men were in the shallow water now, leading their animals to safety.
William and Mary Anne knelt beside Henry. “You gave us quite a scare,” William said. “Guess you’ll be a hero for a while around here.”
Henry looked up into his brother’s face and saw admiration and relief written plainly on his features. He smiled and said, “Next time, I’ll drive the wagon across if you don’t mind.”
William laughed and helped Henry to his feet. “Let’s move. If we hurry, we can make camp before sundown.”
Henry gratefully jumped onto the wagon and took the reins once again. They felt good in his hands as he guided the wagon toward the setting sun.

“My team was privileged to work in San Lorenzo, a little village with just a handful of members. About five women and their children came to our lessons every Tuesday and Thursday, and even though their numbers were few, we felt their eagerness to learn. We met for classes in a humble room made of four brick walls covered by a large blanket, part of the home of Carmen and her husband Antonio. It wasn’t long before we realized that Carmen’s family needed our help. Of the 14 children born into the family only six had lived more than a year.
“Little Socorro, the youngest daughter, did not run and laugh like most three-year-olds but would sit quietly in our laps or stand solemnly and watch the other children play. Carmen told us that the child would not eat and she was sick much of the time. We tried to teach Carmen as simply as possible some very basic rules of sanitation and nutrition so that she could improve her family’s health. Our lessons covered the importance of boiling water to purify it, washing hands before eating or preparing food, and eating foods every day from each of the basic food groups. For a long time we couldn’t tell if Carmen was really using what we taught her. Then one day during our third week in the village, we asked her to help us with a demonstration on baby food. As she picked up the fork to begin, she hesitated and said, ‘Wait, I haven’t washed my hands yet.’ Such a tiny incident, but we were thrilled to know that one small principle we had taught had actually taken root.
“On our last day Carmen fed five of us a delicious stew of beef and vegetables; we knew she could rarely afford to buy this kind of meat for her own family. We were overwhelmed by such a sacrifice and so grateful for the blessing of those four weeks in the village, for as teachers we had truly learned more than we had taught.”
Laurie JohnsonSalt Lake City, Utah

“When I was about nine years old, I remember Grandpa sitting in his big overstuffed chair. He allowed me to stand behind him and comb his beautiful hair. I would part it in the middle then comb it back in different ways. Sometimes I would part his hair on the side and try a new style, and I would comb it down over his face in the process. He was very patient and let me comb it until my arms were tired.”

Sisters have key roles in the Church, in family life, and as individuals that are essential in Heavenly Father’s plan. Many of these responsibilities do not provide economic compensation but do provide satisfaction and are eternally significant. Recently a delightful and very capable woman on a newspaper editorial board asked for a description of the role of women in the Church. It was explained that all of the leaders in our congregations are unpaid. She interrupted to say her interest had diminished significantly. She said, “I don’t believe women need any more unpaid jobs.”
We pointed out that the most important organization on earth is the family, where “fathers and mothers are … equal partners.”8 Neither one is financially compensated, but the blessings are beyond description. We of course told her about the Relief Society, Young Women, and Primary organizations that are guided by women presidents. We noted that from our earliest history both men and women pray, perform the music, give the sermons, and sing in the choir, even in sacrament meeting, our most sacred meeting.
The recent highly acclaimed book American Grace reported on women in many faiths. It noted that Latter-day Saint women are unique in being overwhelmingly satisfied with their role in Church leadership.9 Furthermore, Latter-day Saints as a whole, men and women, have the strongest attachment to their faith of any of the religions studied.10
Our women are not incredible because they have managed to avoid the difficulties of life—quite the opposite. They are incredible because of the way they face the trials of life. Despite the challenges and tests life has to offer—from marriage or lack of marriage, children’s choices, poor health, lack of opportunities, and many other problems—they remain remarkably strong and immovable and true to the faith. Our sisters throughout the Church consistently “succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees.”11
One Relief Society president who acknowledged this extraordinary service said, “Even when the sisters serve, they are thinking, ‘If only I could have done more!’” Though they are not perfect and all face individual struggles, their faith in a loving Father in Heaven and the assurance of the atoning sacrifice of the Savior permeates their lives.
During the last three years, the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve have sought guidance, inspiration, and revelation as we have counseled with priesthood and auxiliary leaders and worked on the new Church handbooks. In this process I have experienced feelings of overwhelming appreciation for the essential role that sisters, both married and single, have historically played and now play both in the family and in the Church.
All members of the Church of Jesus Christ are “to labor in his vineyard for the salvation of the souls of men.”12 “[The] work of salvation includes member missionary work, convert retention, activation of less-active members, temple and family history work, … teaching the gospel,”13 and caring for the poor and needy.14 This is administered primarily through the ward council.15
Specifically, it is intended in the new handbooks that bishops, sensitive to existing demands, will delegate more responsibilities. Members need to recognize that the bishop has been instructed to delegate. Members need to sustain and support him as he follows this counsel. This will allow the bishop to spend more time with the youth, young single adults, and his own family. He will delegate other important responsibilities to priesthood leaders, presidents of auxiliaries, and individual men and women. In the Church the role of women in the home is highly respected.16 When the mother receives a Church calling that requires significant time, the father will often be given a less-demanding calling in order to maintain balance in the lives of the family.
Several years ago I attended a stake conference in Tonga. Sunday morning the three front rows of the chapel were filled with men between 26 and 35 years of age. I assumed they were a men’s choir. But when the business of the conference was conducted, each of these men, 63 in total, stood up as their names were read and were sustained for ordination to the Melchizedek Priesthood. I was both pleased and stunned.
After the session I asked President Mateaki, the stake president, how this miracle had been accomplished. He told me that in a stake council meeting reactivation was being discussed. His stake Relief Society president, Sister Leinata Va’enuku, asked if it would be appropriate for her to say something. As she spoke, the Spirit confirmed to the president that what she was suggesting was true. She explained that there were large numbers of wonderful young men in their late 20s and 30s in their stake who had not served missions. She said many of them knew they had disappointed bishops and priesthood leaders who had strongly encouraged them to serve a mission, and they now felt like second-class members of the Church. She pointed out that these young men were beyond missionary age. She expressed her love and concern for them. She explained that all of the saving ordinances were still available to them and the focus should be on priesthood ordinations and the ordinances of the temple. She noted that while some of these young men were still single, the majority of them had married wonderful women—some active, some inactive, and some not members.
After thorough discussion in the stake council, it was decided that the men of the priesthood and the women of the Relief Society would reach out to rescue these men and their wives, while the bishops spent more of their time with the young men and young women in the wards. Those involved in the rescue focused primarily on preparing them for the priesthood, eternal marriage, and the saving ordinances of the temple. During the next two years, almost all of the 63 men who had been sustained to the Melchizedek Priesthood at the conference I attended were endowed in the temple and had their spouses sealed to them. This account is but one example of how critical our sisters are in the work of salvation in our wards and stakes and how they facilitate revelation, especially in family and Church councils.17
We recognize that there are enormous forces arrayed against women and families. Recent studies find there is deterioration in devotion to marriage, with a decrease in the number of adults being married.18 For some, marriage and family are becoming “a menu choice rather than the central organizing principle of our society.”19 Women are confronted with many options and need to prayerfully consider the choices they make and how those choices affect the family.
When I was in New Zealand last year, I read in an Auckland newspaper of women, not of our faith, struggling with these issues. One mother said she realized that in her case, her choice about whether to work or stay home was about a new carpet and a second car that she didn’t really need. Another woman, however, felt “the biggest enemy of a happy family life was not paid work—it was television.” She said that families are TV rich and family-time poor.20
These are very emotional, personal decisions, but there are two principles that we should always keep in mind. First, no woman should ever feel the need to apologize or feel that her contribution is less significant because she is devoting her primary efforts to raising and nurturing children. Nothing could be more significant in our Father in Heaven’s plan. Second, we should all be careful not to be judgmental or assume that sisters are less valiant if the decision is made to work outside the home. We rarely understand or fully appreciate people’s circumstances. Husbands and wives should prayerfully counsel together, understanding they are accountable to God for their decisions.
You devoted sisters who are single parents for whatever reason, our hearts reach out to you with appreciation. Prophets have made it clear “that many hands stand ready to help you. The Lord is not unmindful of you. Neither is His Church.”21 I would hope that Latter-day Saints would be at the forefront in creating an environment in the workplace that is more receptive and accommodating to both women and men in their responsibilities as parents.
You valiant and faithful single sisters, please know that we love and appreciate you, and we assure you that no eternal blessing will be withheld from you.
The remarkable pioneer woman Emily H. Woodmansee penned the text of the hymn “As Sisters in Zion.” She correctly asserts that the “errand of angels is given to women.”22 This has been described as “nothing less than to do the direct and immediate bidding of our Father in Heaven, and ‘this is a gift that … sisters … claim.’”23
Dear sisters, we love and admire you. We appreciate your service in the Lord’s kingdom. You are incredible! I express particular appreciation for the women in my life. I testify of the reality of the Atonement, the divinity of the Savior, and the Restoration of His Church, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

One reluctant young man who sang bass came to his first rehearsal because of pressure from his friends and parents. He said as he sat in his place, “I don’t know why I’m doing this” and “You are very lucky that I came.” Later in the session I was giving him some individual help (which is not uncommon for many members of the choir—these young people are not musical geniuses, they are just determined to do their best) and suggested that we simplify a section for him. But he said no. “Let’s sing it the way it was written. It’s more fun that way.”

We have not found it necessary, incidentally, to use music that is in the current pop styles. We have successfully ranged from hymns to anthems, to carols and to chorales. When the youth choir performs, other youth sometimes provide the accompaniments.

Our instrumental music program has also brought exciting results. We have young people studying violin, viola, cello, trumpet, French horn, and trombone. All of these have had the opportunity to play in Church functions—in performances ranging from solos to twelve-piece ensembles. We have also given some of our youth instrumentalists the opportunity to play accompaniment to certain choral numbers and occasionally, do preludes or postludes at meetings.

As a sidelight to our instrumental program, we’ve established a ward music scholarship fund. This fund, which was created and is maintained by member donations, is used to provide music lessons or instruments for students who are unable to afford them.

All of our efforts have been well rewarded. At the time of this writing, we have thirty-four young people ages 9 through 17 studying music. Another eleven have studied at least one year, but are presently not involved in the program.

There are two main reasons for our success: First, a view of the ward music chairman as an educator and organizer, not a performer (a nonmusician could be just as effective): and second, an emphasis on the fun and warmth and unity that arise from practicing and performing together. We’re able to learn, serve, associate, and have a great time all at once! That’s an unbeatable combination.

Ours is not a big ward. We have only thirty-six active youth ages twelve to eighteen. But the excitement of those involved in the program has spread, and of those thirty-six, only about six have never studied music. Being involved in the ward music program has become a prestigious thing to do among the youth. And, as one sister said after a youth performance.,“I could just see all the younger children sitting there clearly thinking, ‘Someday I’m going to be up there too.’”

It was an overcast morning in December 1973, but the weather did not reflect my mood. Standing on the deck of a cargo vessel with my parents and two younger siblings, I was in high spirits as we began to pull away from our small South Pacific island. The ship was the Uluilakeba, bound for Suva, the capital of the Fiji Islands.
For a 12-year-old boy from the outer island of Ono-i-Lau, a trip to the big city was no everyday experience. Along with my parents and two of my siblings, I had eagerly awaited this day. The five of us were traveling to Suva to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
At long last, after we had spent nearly two years planning and preparing, the day had finally come, and we stood aboard the Uluilakeba. Energy was thick in the air as we crowded on with the other passengers. Hope and excitement filled our hearts as we waited to depart on our journey.
The ship left the dock at approximately 8:00 a.m. on Monday, 10 December 1973. With all the emotions of that day, I hardly noticed the gusty winds and threatening clouds that loomed ahead. As the boat crawled into the open sea, however, the weather worsened. Soon forecasts came in of an approaching tropical storm. Despite the warnings, our captain was confident of a safe voyage. We continued onward, while around us the sea steadily grew fiercer and the rain fell harder. Before long all passengers were instructed to take shelter inside, while the crew navigated the rough waters.
The captain was a relative of my father, and he gave us his personal cabin to rest in while we endured the storm. There we huddled together as a family and waited. In spite of the now heavy rocking of the ship, after a few minutes, my brother and sister and I fell asleep.
After what seemed only an instant to me, we were awakened by my mother’s scream. Water was now coming in through a small porthole. Sitting up, I noticed that my father was not with us, and thinking he must have gone on deck, I left my mother and two siblings. Climbing up to the deck was quite difficult, although in my panic I did not realize why. I did not understand that the ship had taken too much water and was sinking. Just as I reached the deck, the Uluilakeba began to capsize, and I was plunged into angry waters.
My only instinct was for survival. Desperately I swam with all my strength to stay on top of the monstrous waves. Within a few minutes, I caught sight of an older man holding fast to two floating bags of coconuts. Managing to swim to him, I pleaded for a bag, and he mercifully gave me one. I took hold of the bag and clung to it for my life.
Minutes passed, and suddenly I spotted my mother. Seeing me as well, she swam over and we embraced. With words I will never forget, she told me to hold on to that bag no matter what, for it would save my life. Then, after kissing my cheek, she left me to search for my brother and sister. That was the last I ever saw of my mother.
As the storm continued to rage, I did not think about what had happened. I only fought to stay above the waves. Bobbing up and down in the sea, I could see many other people, but I could not find my family.
The hours stretched on like a terrible dream. Soon night fell, and we swam on in the darkness. After what seemed like forever, the sun rose again, and I held on through another day and another night. Finally, around 5:00 in the afternoon on Wednesday, a rescue boat discovered us.
More than two full days had passed. Of the approximately 120 passengers who had boarded the doomed ship, 35 were found alive in the water. We were taken to Suva and admitted to the hospital. There, I learned the details of what had happened. Less than four hours after leaving the dock, we had been struck by Cyclone Lottie, a short-lived Pacific storm. The Uluilakeba was never found. I also learned that of the five members of my family who had been aboard, I was the only survivor. My family’s plans to be baptized into the Church had sunk in the depths of the ocean.

It was the third time. Slowly, Doctor Gallagher straightened and shook his head. The four of us—myself, my parents, and my brother Jon—leaned forward expectantly.
“It’s not good,” he said bluntly, nodding toward Jon’s ankle. “Last year or the year before, I would have said to give it a few days of rest. But this is the third sprain on that same foot. This time it needs to be immobilized—for at least six weeks. Otherwise, you take the risk of being a cripple the rest of your life.”
Jon’s face went white. “You can’t do that!” he protested. “The day after tomorrow is our first regional soccer game! If I can’t play, we’ll lose! And if we lose this game, we can’t be in the finals.” His voice trailed off, and I saw the tears in his eyes.
Jon wasn’t being conceited in saying the team would lose without him. He was the goalkeeper for the Hayfield High School varsity soccer team, and he loved soccer more than anything else. I knew that if they won the regional game, there would be scouts waiting for them at the finals, and maybe they would consider him good enough for a scholarship; that was what Jon had always wanted. But if he couldn’t play, they wouldn’t even be able to see him.
When we left the doctor’s office, Jon was on crutches, wearing a plaster cast and an angry, hopeless expression. He sat in stony silence as we drove home.
Once inside the house, my father cleared his throat and put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Look,” he said quietly, “I know you generally don’t go for this sort of thing, but if you like, we could give you a blessing.”
Jon opened his mouth to speak. I opened mine, out of stunned surprise. Jon had never been particularly religious. He was the rebellious “middle child” of our family, given to ridiculing my parents’ conservative ways and our family’s faith in the gospel. But to my complete astonishment, he snapped his mouth shut and curtly nodded his head.
My father called the rest of the family together, and he and the oldest two boys, my twin brothers, put their hands on Jon’s head and gave him a blessing. I don’t remember much of that blessing, but I do remember the warm, sweet spirit that filled my heart when my father said that through Jon’s faith in the Lord, he would be healed.
When we arose, Jon shuffled away without a word. My youngest brother, Christopher, looked up at my mother and voiced the fear that was running through all of our minds. “He won’t be healed unless he has the faith to be, will he?” My mother shook her head in silence. I felt the tears come to my eyes and prayed that somehow the blessing would touch Jon, that he would feel the Spirit of the Lord and gather enough faith to be healed. He could lose so much without faith in God: not just the game and the scholarship, but perhaps his chances for eternal happiness as well.
All of us avoided mention of the subject until the morning of the game, when Jon said abruptly, “I’m going to see the sports trainer this afternoon. He can remove my cast so that it can be put back on if necessary.”
I turned to him, my heart racing. “Then you believe in what Dad said in the blessing?”
He returned my hopeful look with a level one of his own.
“Yeah, maybe I do,” he said shortly, and turned and went out the door.
The regional game began at eight o’clock, and long before then, I was hopping about with anxiety. Jon hadn’t even come home after school. He had gone straight to the trainer’s room and from there to the game. We sat shivering in the bleachers, waiting for the team to appear. Somehow I knew it was going to be all right, but still I didn’t know what to expect.
When they finally emerged, I could easily spot Jon’s dark blue goalie shirt amid the orange and white uniforms. And when I saw him, I grabbed my father’s arm in excitement and wonder.
“He’s jogging to the goal box!” I whispered. And I was even more awed when the game began. He played as though he’d never hurt his ankle, jumping and diving for the ball, kicking it back across the middle line into the other team’s territory, shouting instructions and encouraging the other players. Only once, when he ran out too early to intercept the ball, did a player manage to slip by him and score a goal. Anxiously, I waited for our team to score in return, and as the two hours passed, I sent up short, pleading prayers: “Oh, Heavenly Father, please let them win!” This was Jon’s game, his glory, and I wanted more than anything to have everyone else see and share in his triumph.
But they lost the game. When the final whistle shrilled, I sat, stunned, as the stands around us began to empty. I stared at the dark figure of my brother standing in the goal box. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, and in truth, I was afraid to see it. I didn’t understand. Why, after his miraculous healing, after our prayers had been answered, after Jon had finally found faith in God—why did He allow them to lose the game? I was fighting tears, praying that somehow I would understand and that Jon would, too.
But as he walked toward the short fence that outlined the field, I saw that he was smiling. When he caught sight of us, he sprinted the last few yards and threw his grimy, sweaty arms around the first person he could reach, which happened to be me. Then he vaulted the fence and hugged my parents and brothers.
My father stared at him in astonishment. “Well, I’m glad to see that you’re not too upset about the results of the game.”
Jon flashed him a mischievous grin that slowly became a softer, serious look.
“I’m not really disappointed,” he said slowly. “I wanted to play and I did, thanks to that blessing.”
“Thanks to your faith,” my father corrected gently.
“Yeah, I guess. I lost the battle, but I won the war, huh?” Jon replied, throwing an arm around my father’s shoulders.
Jon never won a soccer scholarship (although as a college freshman, he became the starting goalie for BYU’s Varsity Soccercats). But it didn’t really matter to him or to us.
“I lost the battle, but I won the war.” It was a long time before I began to understand that it doesn’t matter if you don’t win the game itself. What is really important is the struggle that no one sees, the struggle inside our hearts, the fight to find our real selves and the real God. And that’s really all that matters.

Jason lay by the hearth, doing his homework in the firelight. But he couldn’t concentrate. The image of Mr. Rayburn’s ranch kept coming back to him, and with it the sight of the beautiful little pony the rancher had for sale. Only eighteen dollars, that’s all it would cost! he thought. But it might as well be five hundred. Jason’s father had gone to fight in the Civil War, and had left his ten-year-old son as the man of the house.
More than anything he had ever wanted before, Jason wanted a pony. But how will I ever get eighteen dollars of my own? he asked himself. All the other boys rode to school on horses. But Jason had to be up before dawn to milk the cow, feed the chickens, and then walk the long distance to school. When he wasn’t at school, Jason was busy at home, helping his mother on their farm.
Jason’s mother listened sympathetically when he told her about Mr. Rayburn’s pony. But when the boy finished, she just looked at him with a sad kind of smile. “Oh, Jason,” she said, “the pony sounds wonderful. But I’m afraid we don’t have any money to spare. We’re having a hard time now and with a new baby coming …”
“I’d forgotten for a minute about the baby. I hope it’s a girl. I’d like to have a little sister,” said Jason with a smile. “And maybe if I work extra hard, there will be enough money for a cradle.”
His mother hugged him close. “With you here to help, we’ll do just fine, Jason,” she said.
Later that night Jason climbed the ladder up to the loft where he slept. But before sleep came he couldn’t help thinking about the pony.
The next morning on his way to school, Jason saw a notice in the window of the general store:
Boys needed afternoons or evenings at the planing mill—10¢ an hour.
Ten cents an hour is a lot of money, Jason thought. I hope I can get that job after school.
The hours seemed to drag by until school was over. When the bell rang, Jason raced to the mill, but his heart sank when he saw the long line of waiting boys. At last it was his turn to apply for a job.
“How old are you, boy?” asked the man.
“Ten years old, sir. But I’ll be eleven in March. And I’m a hard worker,” replied Jason.
“I don’t think you’re old enough for a job here, son. Why don’t you try us next year?”
Jason did not move. “Please, sir, now that my father is at war, I’m the only man in the house. And I’ll work hard.”
“Well, if your dad’s off fighting, I guess we can find a job for you,” the man said.
Jason could hardly wait to tell his mother about his new job. “I know you’ll make me proud of you,” she said. “And since you’re working on your own time between school and chores, son, you may keep the money you earn.”
Jason jumped up with delight and hugged her. His chores weren’t so hard that night. In his mind he could just see himself up on the back of that little pony. It won’t matter if I don’t have a saddle. I’ll still be able to ride like the other boys, and they won’t call me a sodbuster anymore, he thought.
Jason liked his work at the mill. But it became hard to study without falling asleep and even harder to get up in the mornings. As the weeks passed, Jason’s little pile of money grew. Each payday brought him closer to his goal. However, it was nearly time for the baby to be born and Jason knew that he would soon have to quit working at the mill because his mother would need more help at home. Every night when he went to bed he wondered how long he would be able to work.
The next payday Jason counted his savings. He had $19.10, and in his mind he could see the little pony in their barn. He was so busy thinking about the pony that he almost bumped into a buggy parked in their yard. He looked up and his heart leaped. It was Dr. Frank’s. The baby must have been born! He raced toward the house. Then his face fell. The cradle! Mother still didn’t have a cradle for the baby. But it really wasn’t his fault. Mother had said he could keep the money he earned. Still, he felt a twinge of selfishness. He opened the door slowly and peeked in. His grandmother was in the kitchen.
“Grandma, is it a boy or a girl?” he asked.
Grandmother smiled and put a finger to her lips, “Shh, your mother is asleep. Come and see your baby sister.”
Jason approached timidly. He had not been this close to a newborn baby before. She lay curled up in the laundry basket, wrapped in layers of blankets. “Oh, Grandma, she’s so tiny,” he whispered.
“Your mother has named her Jenny. She looks a little like you did when you were a baby,” said Grandma.
Jason bent down to look at the tiny fingers. They moved when he touched them and curled themselves around his larger finger. He frowned. He was the man of the house, and this little baby was partly his responsibility. How could he think of buying a pony when Jenny had no cradle?
“Grandma, I’m not very hungry. I have something important to do. Please tell Mother I’ll be back soon.”
Jason ran outside and didn’t stop till he came to the general store. Mr. Wright, the proprietor, also did woodworking as a hobby.
“Mr. Wright! My mother had a baby girl. How much would you charge to make me a cradle for her—one that rocks?”
“Well, since you’re a working man,” the storekeeper said with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll make a real nice one for you for nine dollars. I can have it ready by Friday.”
“That’d be fine,” said Jason. As he turned to leave, he spied some baby clothes inside a showcase. “How much is that pretty little gown?” he asked. “I want to get that for Jenny too.”
All the way home Jason whistled a jaunty tune. He was sure that the real man of the house couldn’t be any happier about the new baby than her big brother was.

My eyes begin to sting as I ride my bike through smoke drifting from the barbecue on the side of the street. I close them just long enough to hit a hole in the road, nearly knocking me from my seat. I again focus my attention forward in the glare of neon lights and the headlights of the oncoming traffic. Everything seems a little hazy on this hot, muggy December night in Bangkok.
Sister Jones and I park our bikes in front of an old gray apartment complex. As we head toward the stairs, I ask, “Who are we going to see?”
“Her name is Nóg,” Sister Jones answers. “She is a 12-year-old girl who was baptized last month.”
I remember hearing about Nóg. She had been referred to the missionaries by her mother, who was not interested in the Church, but thought her daughter might like Christianity. The missionaries had been hesitant to teach a 12-year-old, but as they began to tell her of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, her eyes never left their faces.
I had been touched by the image of this little girl, crouched behind her family’s flower stand on the side of a busy street, learning about the Savior. I wondered how a little girl could accept the gospel of Jesus Christ, which is so foreign to her Buddhist culture.
We knock on the pale green door and are invited in by Nóg’s mother. Removing our shoes, we enter the one-room apartment. Before we can ask where Nóg is, we hear a voice calling from the balcony. “Sisters, come quickly.”
We step onto the small balcony overlooking the busy street. Nóg grabs me by the hand, points to the sky, and asks, “Can you see them? Can you see the special stars?”
I look up and see a few holes in the clouds through which stars can be seen faintly. “Which ones?” I ask.
“The five baby ones, right over there. You can only see them on certain nights,” she answers.
I look again and see a cluster of five tiny stars through the pollution and lights of the city. I ask how she was able to see them twinkling so dimly.
Nóg answers simply, “I look for them every night, and tonight I found them.”
I look at Nóg, who is gazing intently at the night sky. Her face is peaceful; her countenance shines. They are simple, childlike words, yet I think how similar they are to those spoken by wise, learned men—the Wise Men of old. How long those Wise Men must have searched the heavens looking for the star. How excited they must have been to see it.
My thoughts turn back to Nóg, the 12-year-old flower girl who learned of Jesus Christ amidst the chaos of downtown Bangkok, above the smoke, lights, glitter, and pollution of the world. Nóg had looked for and recognized the words of Christ and eagerly followed, just as the Wise Men did. For as the scriptures say, they are they who “look forward unto the Messiah, and believe in him” (Jarom 1:11).
How could a little girl so readily accept the gospel of Jesus Christ, so foreign to her family and culture? My question is answered as I stand on a small fourth-floor balcony above the pollution and noise and, with Nóg, look to the heavens.

One very memorable day we were in the temple doing some work for the dead, and I was exhausted, because we had been there for the whole day. When I got up to leave, one of the temple workers asked me to do just one more, so I agreed and finally finished. When I got outside the most amazing thing happened, when I got to my husband, who was already outside waiting for me, fireworks started going off. We both stood there and watched with everyone else who said that they never had that happen. I took that as a sign to mean that our Heavenly Father and those waiting were very happy and pleased with the work we had just done.