Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago I had been assigned to tour a mission in another land. Before our first meeting with the missionaries, I asked the mission president if there were any particular problems I needed to attend to. He told me of one missionary who had made his mind up to go home early—he was very unhappy. “Could I help him?” I asked. The president wasn’t sure.
As I was shaking hands with the missionaries before the meeting, it wasn’t hard to tell which one wanted to leave. I told the president if he didn’t mind I’d like to speak to the young man after the meeting. As I watched him during the meeting, about all I could think of was the big piece of gum he had in his mouth. After the meeting this tall young missionary came up to the stand.
“Could we visit?” I asked.
His response was an inference that he couldn’t care less.
We went to the side of the chapel. We sat together as I gave him my very best speech on why missionaries should not go home early. He kept looking out the window, paying absolutely no attention to me.
Off and on we were in meetings together for two days. One time he even sat on the front row and read the newspaper as I talked. I was baffled and unnerved by him. By now it appeared to me that he should go home—and soon! I’d been praying for a way to reach him for two days, but to no avail.
The last night after our meeting I was visiting with some folks in the front of the chapel. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the elder. At that very moment I had a feeling about him enter my heart that I had not yet experienced. I excused myself, went over to him, took his hand, looked him in the eye, and said, “Elder, I’m glad I’ve become acquainted with you. I want you to know that I love you.”
Nothing more was said as we separated. As I started out the chapel door for our car, there he stood again. I took his hand again, put my arm around him, looked up in his eyes and said, “What I said to you before, I really mean. I love you; please keep in touch with me.”
Spirit communicates to spirit. It was then that his eyes filled with tears and this boy said simply, “Bishop Peterson, in all my life I can never remember being told ‘I love you.’”
Now I knew why he was confused, disturbed, insecure, and wanted to leave the mission field.

Peter really missed Grandpa. Mom and Dad had said that Grandpa wouldn’t be home until summer was over. Grandpa was in Kansas, helping people learn about the Church, and he was happy. Peter wanted Grandpa to be happy, but he also wanted to show Grandpa how much he’d grown and how he could ride his bike without the training wheels and how many new birds and little animals he’d found in the woods where he and Grandpa always walked together.
One afternoon a thick envelope addressed to Peter came in the mail. It was from Grandpa, and inside was a small packet and a short letter. Inside the packet were five large black-and-white striped seeds. Mom read the letter to Peter:
“Dear Peter,
Here is a mission surprise for you. Find a nice sunny place by the fence to plant the seeds. If you water them a little every day, you will grow something that we can share with our special friends.
Love,Grandpa”
Mom gave Peter a big, old spoon, and Peter dug five little holes in the soft, warm soil by the fence. He put one seed in each hole, then covered it with soil and patted it down with his hand.
Peter found a watering can in the shed and watered the ground every day, just as Grandpa had told him. But nothing happened. Peter told Mom, “I don’t think Grandpa’s seeds are going to grow.”
Mom smiled at him. “You have to be patient,” she said. “It will probably take at least another week before they push up out of the ground.”
“How many days are in a week?” Peter asked. “I want to see what the mission surprise is. Besides, the sooner the seeds grow, the sooner Grandpa will be home.”
“There are seven days in a week,” Mom told Peter. “Look. Every morning when you get up, cross off one day on this calendar. When you get to this one with the circle around it, you will know that a week has passed.”
So Peter watered the seeds and marked the calendar every day. And sure enough, on the day that was circled, five little green bumps were coming out of the ground!
Soon the bumps were little plants, and then they were big plants! Peter was astonished each time he watered them at how much they grew every day. Soon they were taller than he was, and he still didn’t know what they were or whom he and Grandpa were going to share them with.
One flower grew at the top of each tall plant. Peter had never seen such big flowers. They were even bigger than Mom’s dinner plates, and they followed the sun all day.
Before long summer was nearly over, and Peter was worried. The flowers had gotten so fat that they drooped over and no longer followed the sun. Would they die before Grandpa came home? How could he and Grandpa share dead flowers with their friends? And Peter still didn’t know who the special friends were.
Then one bright sunny afternoon, Grandpa came home. “I see you took good care of the sunflowers, Peter,” he said. “Let’s go cut them down and dry out the seeds. They’ll be a wonderful treat for our special friends this winter.”
Sunflower seeds! Now Peter understood—and he could guess who the special friends were too. All the little animals and the birds would be very happy to share Grandpa’s mission surprise.

Last year I had some friends who did not respect my standards. They told me that I was boring, that my standards didn’t let me be free or have fun. I pondered, prayed, and read the scriptures so that the Holy Ghost would be with me and give me more strength. I then decided to tell my friends that I had fun in another way—not smoking, not drinking alcohol. These standards give me a lot of freedom, more than they have, since they are tied to alcohol and tobacco. After telling them this, they understood me. But even so, I decided to change friends. I was alone for some time, but later on I did find some friends with standards like mine, and now I feel good. Heavenly Father is going to bless you if you do what is right.
Belén G., 15, Colonia, Uruguay

I told the sisters this experience: A young man and young woman who were going together were killed in a car accident, and when the father of the girl arrived at the scene, he saw these two lying dead and a whiskey bottle nearby. He was enraged, and he said, “I will kill the man who gave them that whiskey!” On returning home he opened his liquor cabinet, and he saw a note which read: “Father, I hope you will forgive us for taking your whiskey tonight.” You can imagine how he felt.

I remember on one occasion when I was a young boy, my dad sitting us down as a family and saying, “Kids, I got a job at Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. It’s a Church school, so I’m gonna need your help to stop swearing!”

Now, I don’t remember my dad cussing a lot, but he was a cowboy, and occasionally, when he was working with his horses or mules, they’d get the best of him, and he’d let a few choice words fly. Even though it was not a big issue to us, it was still important to him that he work on refining himself in that way. And he doesn’t have mules anymore, so that has helped.

Brothers and sisters, I bear my testimony that the Savior’s promise is true and that a humble prayer for peace in your heart will be honored. I felt it at the funeral of my wife of 61 years. I was surprised at the feeling of peace and almost joy. The people at the funeral must have wondered why I was smiling. It was because the Lord had answered my prayer for peace with an assurance from the Holy Ghost, which allowed me to envision the happy reunion ahead with her. The Lord gave me the peace and hope that He had promised His disciples.

Sandra
Photograph by Cindy Smith
Like many young women in Uganda, Sandra walks more than a mile to church, helps clean the meetinghouse on Fridays, and attends seminary on Saturdays. During the week, she rises before 5:00 a.m. to read schoolbooks, and then she walks to school, returning home after 6:00 p.m. She missed a year of school because of financial difficulties but faces her challenges with a positive attitude: “The gospel has really helped me to stay steadfast and immovable.”
Sandra is the only Church member in her home, but her parents support her Church service, such as helping when the ward cleaned the grounds of a local orphanage. Her family sees how the gospel has helped her be strong, even when facing unresolved problems. Reflecting on the source of that strength, Sandra says, “When I go to church, I feel like I am putting on the armor of God” (see Ephesians 6:11–17).
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).

While serving as a mission president in Ghana, Elder Robert C. Gay received an impression one day to stop and help a crying boy. Initially, he ignored that impression but later sent a Church member to find and bring the boy to him.
Elder Gay, sustained a member of the Presidency of the Seventy on March 31, 2018, learned that the boy sold dried fish for his caretaker. That day the boy had lost his earnings through a hole in his pocket.
“If he returned without the money, he would be called a liar, most likely beaten, and then cast out onto the street,” Elder Gay said. “We calmed his fear, replaced his loss, and took him home to his caretaker.”
As he explained in the October 2012 general conference, that experience taught Elder Gay two great truths: “First, I knew as never before that God is mindful of each of us and will never forsake us; and second, I knew that we must always hearken to the voice of the Spirit within us and go ‘straightway’ wherever it takes us, regardless of our fears or any inconvenience.”

Aric’s story, Toronto, Ontario
Aric (pictured top right) is a PhD student at the University of Toronto, working with heart tissue and regenerative medicine.
In describing his research, he explains, “Certain types of stem cells can turn into anything in your body. We can put stem cells in a petri dish and grow them into a heart cell. After two weeks, they’ll start beating themselves. We then use these to model different diseases and to test different drugs. My goal is to one day grow a heart in a laboratory setting like this.”
Aric had his own change of heart during his mission to Belo Horizonte, Brazil. “When I served a mission, I learned how to listen to and follow the Spirit. It helped me learn how to study, to learn how to apply myself.” He changed so much that he was concerned about coming home. “I didn’t really know how to act or what to do,” he admitted. “I had to relearn how to act in certain situations. Going to institute helped me.”
The social network at institute is important to Aric. “I’ve been able to befriend people who needed friends. I’ve been able to comfort people when they needed to be comforted. That’s important to me, to help other people, but then it’s also important for me to feel that from other people as well.”
He jokes about how long he has been going to institute, but he keeps going. “Every time that I go, I feel the Spirit that is present there. And it helps me be a better person, stay in good places, and do well in my work.”
Aric draws a comparison between his work and institute. “If we put a cell in a good environment, there are internal changes that happen in the cell that make it more receptive to those positive changes or those positive signals that we want to give it. Over time, the cell changes—it morphs into something better, something bigger than itself. For me, that’s something very, very special. If I put myself into the right environment, then I’m going to become more receptive to these spiritual aspects of life and less receptive to the negative influences that happen in the world.”
He concludes, “God is real. That’s something that I feel deep down inside myself. I haven’t always felt His love in my life. I’m starting to realize that that’s because of decisions that I’ve made. I realize that He’s there to help me, that He really wants me to be my best self.”

I was baptized with my parents when I was 16 years old. My younger brother, Kyung-Hwan, who was 14 years old, joined the Church through my uncle, Young Jik Lee, and invited us to his church. Each of the 10 members in our family belonged to a different church, so we were happy to find the truth and wanted to share that happiness we found in the gospel of Jesus Christ after we were baptized.
My father was the most excited among us to learn and share the truth. He used to wake up early in the morning to study the scriptures for over two hours every day. After work he went with the missionaries to visit our family, friends, and neighbors nearly every day. Seven months after we were baptized, 23 of my family and relatives became members of the Church. That was followed by the miracle of seeing 130 people baptized in the following year through my father’s member missionary work.
Family history was also important to him, and he completed eight generations of our ancestors. From that time on, the fruits of our family conversion, started by my 14-year-old brother, have increased in countless ways not only among the living but also among the dead. Building upon the work of my father and others, our family tree now spans to 32 generations, and we are now completing temple work for many branches. Today I am amazed and feel great joy linking our ancestors and our descendants.

Mercedes Panichi was baptized many years ago while living in Mons, Belgium. In 1982, she lost her husband to cancer and was raising an infant son. After receiving the missionary lessons, and after telling the missionaries that she could never be worthy of baptism, she wanted to become a member of the church. After much work toward repentance, she decided that Christ's atonement could work for her too.
When she found herself in the font, anxiety filled her face. Brother Renard pronounced the baptismal prayer and gently put Mercedes under the water. As her face broke the water on the way up, she greeted the world with a smile and wept for joy. "I am clean. I am clean," she said. Then she spontaneously bore testimony that Jesus is the Christ; that Joseph is a prophet and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has authority from God. It was the sweetest testimony I have ever heard.

At 6:30 the alarm goes off. You groan, fling back the covers before you can change your mind, listen for your companion stirring in the next bunk, and head for the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face. You’re still tired from the day before, and as you think about what lies ahead of you today, you stare at your mirrored reflection and ask, “Can I do this?”
Before you begin your daily gospel study, you wander out to the door, open it, check the weather, and glance at the woods that cover the nearby hill. Awake now, you remember the satisfaction of yesterday’s hard work, of discovering just how much you really are capable of, and you say to yourself, “Yeah, I can do this!”
Turning back you say good morning to Brother Smith … and Brother Heinrich … and Brother Ray … and …
If you hadn’t already seen the photos on this page—you’d have thought this was a standard story about life in the mission field. Right? Wrong. It’s about another group of remarkable young men who are simply called “the work crew.”
They don’t have a very glamorous name—“the work crew.” But it is descriptive. That wooded hill? It’s the Hill Cumorah. And the 22 young men of the work crew volunteer six weeks of their summer to set up stages, lights, and props for the annual Hill Cumorah Pageant, “America’s Witness for Christ.” During the seven performances they handle the lighting and special effects. Then, they take everything down again and restore the hill to its prepageant condition.
In the few short weeks before rehearsals and the actual pageant, the work crew puts together the large, seven-level outdoor stage, erects the light towers, sets up special effects machines, and strings thousands of feet of cable. By the time they are through, they have emptied nine large semitrailers of aluminum I-beams, fiberglass grating, pipes and tubing, lights, countless thousands of nuts and bolts, brackets and braces, connections and fittings of all descriptions.
A few of the crew members have been here before, but most are new. They’ve never read a blueprint before, never worked with I-beams. Training is on-the-job, and they hit the ground running. It’s learn as you go, and they learn a lot, especially about themselves.
“There’s a lot of potential that came out in us that we didn’t think we had,” says one. “Like getting the stages up,” another chimes in. “Sometimes you found yourself lifting something you didn’t think you could lift,” says a third. They tend to interrupt and finish each other’s sentences like brothers in a big family that has shared a lot.
Right now the whole crew is gathered at one end of the glorified barn that serves as their dormitory. They call it the “wind tunnel” because of the breeze that blows through when the doors are open at both ends. Actually, it only looks like a barn from the outside. Inside, it looks like an average teenage boy’s room multiplied by 22.
The crew not only rooms together and takes meals together, but they are divided into two-man companionships and call each other brother—Brother Shoesmith, Brother Sherwood, etc.
One obvious challenge is simply getting along together. They have different backgrounds, personalities, experience, abilities. If they all went to the same school, chances are they would not all end up as close friends. Yet, here they are, faced with an enormous task that requires great teamwork and cooperation. So differences have to be put aside.
“This is the best preparation for a mission. I’ve learned how to live with people,” comes a voice from the back of the crowd.
Still another crew member chimes in: “You feel the Spirit here because you’re working together with 21 other guys, building friendships. You learn each other’s weaknesses quickly, and you help each other become better people. That’s where the spiritual experience comes from—learning with other people.”
And depending on each other. Ask how much they depend on one another and the answer comes back in a literal chorus: “A lot!” The heavy work requires a team effort. But because the work is hard, and new to them, they rely on each other for emotional support, too. “Not everyone has a good day every day, and when someone has a bad day, everyone else has to try to help him through it.”
There is a lot riding on how well the crew does its work. The success of the pageant literally hinges on how they do their tasks.
The crew is divided into two teams—the light crew and the ground crew. Members of the light crew man the light towers, making sure that spotlights are correctly aimed at the right places. It gets a little lonely up on a tower in the dark, knowing that the success of a scene will depend on your doing just the right thing at just the right time. But it helps to know that your fellow crew members know just how you feel and that they are pulling for you. “We can all feel the joy of everyone else.”
For example, probably the key scene in the whole pageant is when an actor portraying the resurrected Christ is suddenly illuminated in the darkness above the stage and slowly descends. Having the spotlights in just the right place is crucial. As one of the tower crew tells it, “Towers seven and eight ‘pick up’ the Christ figure. And as a light tower person, I can feel their excitement.” Another finishes for him: “We all just heave a sigh of relief when they do a good job.”
“There’s nothing any of us wants more than for all of us to do a good job.”
When they do their job right, the performance goes well, and the audience doesn’t even notice they are there. But at least they get to watch the performances. Members of the ground team, on the other hand, spend much of their time under the stages. They scuttle from one special effects machine to another, trying not to crash into one of the I-beams or other supports that fill the low spaces beneath the sets. Timing is critical for them, too. They provide the flames during the Abinadi scene, the lightning arcs and fires and explosions of debris during the destruction scenes.
The space is limited, the hill is steep, and being in the right place at the right time demands concentration. In other words, it’s hard work—which leads to another discovery the work crew has made: “Hard work doesn’t kill you,” says Brother Malcarne with a grin. “In fact, the best thing about the whole experience is pride in your work.” He speaks from experience because, as the son of the technical director, he has spent several years on the work crew, both before and after his mission.
There’s that word again—mission. You can’t help but make the comparison. The crew members talk about it all the time themselves. Some already have mission calls; some are expecting them to arrive any day. Yet others come to the crew wondering about whether they can succeed on a mission.
“But,” Brother Malcarne points out, “afterwards they come away saying, ‘I’ve served for six weeks here, and worked very hard. I’ve done my own wash for the first time—I’ve got blue underwear now, but I did my own wash.’ And they say, ‘Maybe a mission isn’t going to be that difficult after all.’”
Maybe? After the six weeks at the hill, one crew member even exclaims enthusiastically, “We can fly!” So when another says, with quiet confidence, that his motto has become “I can do this,” you believe him. He can.

I was born in a small southern Mississippi town in 1950. My father was a career army officer. As a result, although not completely due to his career, I became the product of a broken home. It was not until my teens that I became aware of this. It was a traumatic period in my life.
My parents were strict, and I often was denied opportunities that many youth take for granted. One privilege I was allowed was to attend a local Baptist church where I gained an independence of thought and action. I felt I was somebody and had something to contribute to the world. I became a youth minister and had hopes of gaining a scholarship so I could attend a ministerial school. But the deteriorating conditions at home and diminishing faith in my religious beliefs changed that. I had increasing questions about life. I suppose at this point I simply felt sorry for myself.
At 17 I left home. All I took with me was the memory of ruined yesterdays and a fear of uncertain tomorrows. I left in anguish and bitterness. Later I joined the United States Air Force. The first place they sent me was to Vietnam. This was a startling contrast to the sheltered environment I had experienced as a child. Needless to say, rather than helping to find peace and remedy my doubts, the futility and endless agony of life there served only to create more questions and to reinforce my defeatist attitude. I began to doubt there was a God or that there was any dignity or purpose in life. Was life just the means to an uncertain end? Where and why did it all begin? I found myself wishing that I had never been born.
I left Vietnam physically well, but I was almost spiritually dead. However, something inside seemed to urge me to give God another chance, and I did in hopes that he would do the same for me.
Upon my arrival in Misawa, Japan, I went to a Baptist missionary, but he was unable to answer my questions. He encouraged me to rely on faith, but I could no longer live on the innocent faith I had as a young man. The reality I found in the world as an adult was simply too great. I had to find the answers and I had to find them now.
I was becoming desperate, so a friend asked me to accompany him to the Far East Conference of the Southern Baptist Convention in Shimoda, believing that these learned men would be able to answer my questions satisfactorily. Enroute to the convention, my friend made what he later determined was a great mistake. We stopped in Tokyo to see his friend, Bill Head, whom he had met in Thailand. Upon meeting Bill for the first time, I realized that he was different. Without him even saying a word I knew that he had something that I wanted. He radiated confidence, peace of mind, a love for life, and a love for people. He seemed to know who he was and where he was going. He had the answers I needed so desperately.
I asked him why he was unique. Bill replied, “I am a Mormon.” He gave me some pamphlets to read, and I took them with me to that convention in Shimoda. I read the material. At first the Joseph Smith account seemed ridiculous, preposterous, almost absurd. I wanted to believe that God spoke to men today. I wanted to believe that the heavens were not closed and that God was real. I wanted to believe that he lived and cared about his children and had not left us alone to drift aimlessly through life for some mysterious end. I also knew that if ever the world needed another witness of Jesus Christ it was now. But because it was so new and because it had been such a long time since God had manifested himself to the ancients, I was skeptical.
The next morning I attended a seminar at the convention. The seminar’s purpose was to discuss the anti-Christ ideologies. The first religion they attacked was not communism or some other godless ideology, but Mormonism. They had decided among themselves that Mormons worshiped Joseph Smith and ignored the fact that the formal name of the Mormon church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that name implied anything, it implied that Mormons were Christians of the highest degree, for they were the only people I had found who claimed the name of Jesus Christ. It wasn’t the Church of Joseph Smith, John the Baptist, Paul, Mary, John Wesley, or Martin Luther. It was the Church of Jesus Christ.
I felt the Mormons were being misunderstood so I attempted to defend them. Now I probably made somewhat of a fool of myself in the minds of those learned people, but in the process of this defense, a still, small voice said, “You’d better find out more so you can do better next time.”
I left the convention that day and returned to Tokyo. I found Bill and told him I wanted to learn more. He introduced me to a young couple, the Fredericks, who taught me the missionary discussions in two days. During that glorious two-day period the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in my mind fell together and I found myself and my true identity.
“I am a child of God!” I exclaimed to myself. “I began with him. There is purpose and dignity to life, and a great destiny beyond!” I began to realize for the first time that I didn’t have to doubt, worry, be confused, or tossed to and fro by every wind of doctrine because there is a prophet of God and twelve apostles on the earth today, just as there was anciently in the Church of Jesus Christ. I had found his Church!
Less than two weeks later, on August 12, 1970, I was baptized in Kunsan City, Korea. I know that the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we are sons and daughters of God.
Since my conversion I have been reunited with my family and ordained an elder in the Lord’s Church. I am currently serving as a missionary in the Idaho Pocatello Mission. Like Bill, now that I am converted, I am strengthening my brethren.

In that same revelation the Lord said concerning Oliver Cowdery some interesting and remarkable things:
“In me he shall have glory, and not of himself, whether in weakness or in strength, whether in bonds or free;
“And at all times, and in all places, he shall open his mouth and declare my gospel as with the voice of a trump, both day and night. And I will give unto him strength such as is not known among men.” (D&C 24:11–12.)
Oliver, with Joseph Smith, received the Aaronic Priesthood under the hands of John the Baptist, and subsequently the Melchizedek Priesthood under the hands of Peter, James, and John. He magnified that priesthood as a witness to the Book of Mormon, as a Counselor to the Prophet, as one to select the Twelve Apostles and to instruct them, as a missionary in moving the Church across the frontiers of the western territories, and as a teacher and speaker whose voice rang with great and persuasive power.
But he turned and began to look through the wrong end of the lens. He found fault. He complained. His calling shrank, he diminished his priesthood, he distanced himself from those in authority in the Church.
Gone was the voice of persuasion, gone was the power of the priesthood of God which he once held and magnified. For eleven years, he walked almost alone, without friends. He walked in poverty and in sickness.
Then in the fall of 1848, he and his family made their way to Council Bluffs and found themselves again among many of the Saints who at that time were moving to the West. At a conference held in Kanesville on the 24th of October, 1848, he stood and said:
“Friends and Brethren:
“My name is Cowdery—Oliver Cowdery. In the history of the Church I stood … in her councils. Not because I was better than other men was I called … to fill the purposes of God. He called me to a high and holy calling. I wrote with my own pen the entire Book of Mormon (save a few pages) as it fell from the lips of the Prophet Joseph Smith, and he translated it by the power and gift of God, by means of the Urim and Thummim, or as it is called by that book, ‘Holy Interpreter.’
“I beheld with my eyes and handled with my hands, the gold plates from which it was translated. … That book is true, Sidney Rigdon did not write it; Mr. Spaulding did not write it; I wrote it myself as it fell from the lips of the Prophet. …
“I was present with Joseph when an Holy Angel from Heaven came down and conferred upon us … the Aaronic Priesthood, and said to us, at the same time, that it should remain on earth while the earth stands. I was also present with Joseph when the Higher or Melchizedek Priesthood was conferred by the Holy Angels from on high. …
“Brethren, for a number of years, I have been separated from you. I now desire to come back. I wish to come humble and be one in your midst. I seek no station. I only wish to be identified with you. I am out of the Church, but I wish to become a member. I wish to come in at the door: I know the door, I have not come here to seek precedence. I come humbly and throw myself upon the decision of the body, knowing as I do, that its decisions are right.” (In Stanley R. Gunn, Oliver Cowdery: Second Elder and Scribe, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1962, pp. 203–4.)
He was accepted. He was baptized again. He longed to gather with the Saints in the valleys of the mountains, but he died March 3, 1850, without ever realizing that dream.
His is one of the most touching, pathetic stories in the history of this great work. So long as he magnified his calling, he was magnified. When he diminished that calling, he shrank to oblivion and poverty. He came back, but he never regained his previous stature. He never regained the incomparable promise given him by the Lord that, conditioned upon his faithfulness, he should have glory and be given “strength such as is not known among men.” (D&C 24:12.)

Marcy Chapman burst into the house. “We’re going to have our own orchestra!” she exclaimed.
Her older sister, Ann, looked up from her ironing. “Your own what? Marcy, what are you talking about?”
“Our own orchestra!” Marcy repeated. “It’s my teacher’s idea. A lot of the kids in my class take music lessons. If we’re good enough, we might even play for the PTA meeting!”
“What will you do?” her sister asked. “You don’t play an instrument.”
“No, but I could learn,” Marcy said. “Maybe Mama will let me buy one and take lessons.”
Ann shook her head. “Marcy, there’s no money for an instrument or lessons, and you know it. Don’t even ask Mama. It’ll make her sad to think that she can’t afford to buy things that the other children have.”
Marcy swallowed hard. What Ann said was true; there was no money for extras at the Chapman house, and a musical instrument and lessons were extras. Marcy went to her bedroom and changed her clothes. I have to be in the orchestra somehow, she thought. Maybe Grandma Hinkle has an old instrument stored in her trunk! She has all kinds of things in it. Anyway, it won’t hurt to ask.
Marcy hurried next door. Grandma Hinkle wasn’t really Marcy’s grandmother, but everyone in the neighborhood called her Grandma. She was friendly and nice and always had time to visit, especially with children.
“Come in, Marcy,” Grandma Hinkle invited. She held a large blue vase in her hand. “I’m just finishing up my latest creation. How do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Marcy said, admiring the fancy design. Grandma Hinkle’s pottery was famous all over the state.
Grandma Hinkle frowned. “Is something wrong, child? You don’t look very happy.”
After Marcy had explained about the orchestra her class was forming, she said, “But I don’t have an instrument, Grandma Hinkle. I was hoping that you might have one in your special trunk that I could use.”
Grandma Hinkle thought for a moment. “Let’s see. It seems that I did have a violin … No, my brother took it years ago so that his little girl could learn to play. My, I hadn’t thought about that violin in years.”
“Thanks anyway,” Marcy said, heading for the door.
“Don’t go, Marcy,” Grandma Hinkle said. “I don’t have an instrument, but I do have some milk and cookies!”
Marcy smiled. Grandma Hinkle made delicious cookies. “I was waiting for the cookies to cool before I frosted them,” said Grandma Hinkle. She set a bowl of icing on the table and handed Marcy a knife. “They’re cool enough now, so why don’t you start frosting them while I get the milk.”
As Marcy reached for the frosting, she accidentally touched her empty glass with the knife. It made a tinkling sound, almost like a small bell.
“Is someone at the door?” Grandma Hinkle asked.
Marcy laughed. “No, that was my glass. I accidentally hit it with my knife.” Marcy tapped her glass again, reproducing the pleasant sound.
“Isn’t that pretty!” Grandma Hinkle said while she poured a glass full of milk for Marcy and a half-glass for herself. “I wonder if I have a musical glass too.” She tapped her own glass lightly with a knife. “Yes, I do!”
“Yours sounds lower than mine.”
“Try yours again,” Grandma Hinkle suggested.
“It sounds different now!” Marcy cried. “It’s much lower. It’s even lower than yours.”
“That’s because the glass is full of milk,” Grandma Hinkle replied. “Drink some milk, and the tone will be higher.”
Marcy tried it. “Yes, it is higher!”
Grandma Hinkle nodded thoughtfully. “I recollect now that my brother played songs on glasses when we were growing up. He lined up eight glasses and filled each one just a little fuller than the one before it. He worked on them until he had them going right down the musical scale! It was like having a real instrument—except that he’d have to empty the water out at suppertime so that we could use them at the table!”
Marcy’s eyes got big. “You mean that he could actually play songs on the glasses?”
“Oh yes,” Grandma Hinkle replied. “Of course, some glasses sound prettier than others, and—” She stopped and grinned at Marcy. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Maybe I could use glasses for my orchestra instrument!” Marcy exclaimed. “Is that what you were thinking?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Grandma Hinkle replied with a chuckle. “Let me get some more glasses and water, and we’ll set to work.”
She put eight glasses in a row, and Marcy poured a little water into each one. It took a long time to get the scale exactly right, but they finally did it.
“To help you get started,” Grandma Hinkle suggested, “let’s give each glass a number, making the fullest one one, and so on. I’ll write some numbers down, and you play them.”
She took a piece of paper and wrote: “1, 1, 1-2-3. 3, 2-3, 4-5. 8-8-8-5-5-5-3-3-3-1-1-1. 5, 4-3, 2-1.”
“Try it, Marcy. Just look at the numbers to begin with.”
Marcy studied the numbers for a moment, then picked up the knife and began to strike the glasses lightly.
“Play it again, dear, a little faster, especially where there are hyphens.”
Marcy did, and her eyes lit up. “That’s ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’!”
“That’s right,” Grandma Hinkle said. “I’ll write out the numbers for some other songs too.”
“May I come over every day and practice?” Marcy asked.
“Yes, and I’ll put a tiny strip of adhesive tape at the correct water level of each glass. Then it won’t take so long to figure out the right amount of water each time.”
Marcy practiced especially hard for the next two weeks. Finally it was time to try out for her class orchestra.
“What are those glasses for?” one boy asked.
“You’ll see,” Marcy told him as she poured just the right amount of water into each glass.
“You certainly have the most unusual instrument we’ve seen so far, Marcy,” the teacher said. “I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”
Finally it was Marcy’s turn. Carefully she picked up the knife and began to strike the glasses lightly. Clear, sweet tones filled the air as she played “Over the River and Through the Woods.”
The class clapped when she had finished.
“Beautiful, Marcy,” the teacher said. “We’ll certainly find a place for your delightful instrument in our orchestra.”

I recall in my own ministry joining with members of the Holladay Seventh Ward in the spring of 1956 as we gathered on the hillside near Mount Olympus. Under the direction of our stake president, G. Carlos Smith, we broke ground for the construction of a new ward building. At the time the ward was created, we had a total of 373 members. As I recall, more than half of them were under the age of twelve. I served as second counselor to Bishop William Partridge. Under his leadership this little band of people proceeded immediately to build a three-phase ward building.
The ward was divided in 1958, and I was named bishop of the Holladay Twelfth Ward. In those days, local members paid 50 percent of the cost of constructing a building. One of the most important leadership experiences in my life came several weeks before the announced dedication of the building. Our ward of young families, who were struggling to make ends meet, needed to raise the final $30,000 required to pay our share of the cost. I fasted and prayed, asking for help from Heavenly Father to know what I should say to our ward members regarding this obligation. We already had pressed them very hard, and they had willingly contributed money and personal labor beyond anything I believed possible. But still we needed to raise the last $30,000.
As the brethren gathered for priesthood meeting, I was impressed to read to them the testimony my Grandfather Ballard bore to the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve on January 7, 1919, the day he was ordained an Apostle. I quote just a small portion of his testimony.
The Spirit of the Lord touched our hearts. Very little else was said because this small group of faithful people also knew in their own way that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and that He is our Savior and our Redeemer. We all knew that with greater faith in Him, we could reach our goal. During that same day, family after family came to my office with money, making personal sacrifices that were far beyond what I, the bishop, would ever have asked of them. By eight o’clock Sunday evening, the ward clerk had written receipts for a little more than $30,000.
Sacrifice truly brought forth the blessings of heaven to the members of our ward. Never have I lived among people who were more united, more caring, more concerned for one another than these ward members were when making their greatest sacrifice. In the midst of this effort, the sick of our ward were healed through priesthood blessings. The youth committed to live righteously. The young men set their goals to be fully worthy to serve missions, and most of them did; and the young women resolved to settle for nothing but a worthy temple marriage. Sisters of the Relief Society found great joy in rendering compassionate service to others, and home teaching and visiting teaching were completed every month in the spirit of joy and service. In the midst of our greatest sacrifice, our ward members became bonded together in the true spirit of the gospel of love and service.

I stormed into my house, eyes flooding with tears after yet another disappointing piano lesson. It was my fourth year taking piano, and I had barely improved past “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” My teacher had tried to find something positive to say about my horrific playing, but I only felt worse. My parents were paying money for piano lessons that I didn’t want and had no hope for.
I wanted my parents to let me quit. “Please,” I begged. “I’ll do anything. What will it take?”
After discussing it between themselves, they said, “If you learn 50 hymns, we will let you quit.”
I started practicing right away. I wanted to quit so badly I was willing to spend extra time on the piano. The first hymn, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” (Hymns, no. 19), took nearly a month to master. I was still intent on quitting, so I continued practicing.
An interesting thing happened: the hymns got easier to master. I felt happier throughout the week. I found myself humming hymns during the day and singing louder in sacrament meeting.
Eventually, I stopped keeping track of how many hymns I knew. As I became more skilled on the piano, I realized I could learn a new hymn almost perfectly in less than 30 minutes.
When I finally did add them all up, I had learned way over 50 hymns. And there was no way I was going to quit playing piano. I had become much more confident in my abilities to play and had felt the power of the hymns in my life.
Hymns are like scriptures; they speak truth. When I play the hymns, I feel like I am immersing myself in the scriptures. Learning how to play the hymns has been a kick start to building my testimony and learning truth. I find myself going through the words of different hymns to help me throughout my day. Playing piano has strengthened my testimony and has opened doors for me wherever I go.

I remember one difficult year during graduate school. You can imagine starting a family while in a PhD program and living on a shoestring budget. I broke a pair of glasses and decided that I couldn’t afford a new pair. So I went for about six months before I finally went to the optometrist and got a new prescription and a new pair of glasses. When I came out of his office, I literally stood on the sidewalk disoriented as I attempted to focus. And I said to myself, “Boy, I forgot that blades of grass can actually be discerned.” In six months my eyes had changed tremendously.

When we worship together on Sunday; go to the temple; attend classes here at BYU in the sciences, humanities, mathematics, arts, religion, and all other fields; attend general conference; and receive blessings and counsel from our friends, part of the purpose in these endeavors is to get a better prescription—that is, to try to get a better pair of glasses and eliminate the artificial color and blurring of our vision. Changing our glasses can affect the way we see the world.

When I was a student at BYU–Provo a number of years ago, we had an experience that was part of an education class. We were to go on a three-day camping trip west of the Utah Valley area, which is basically desert. The first day, we arrived at our destination. The second day, it started to snow – heavy snow. A decision was made that we would pack up and leave versus staying the second night and into the third day. I realize that to some of you, snow is very foreign.

We started back out, and this was in the days before there were a lot of four-wheel drive trucks or cell phones. We ran into difficulty in the deep snow. We became confused at a fork in the road and took a wrong road. Eventually, we were stuck in the snow. A few of us hiked out to the main highway and caught a ride to the nearest community. This was a small Utah community named Eureka. About the only thing that was open at that time of night was the local bar/café. They connected us with some help, so we could help the others come out. As the people who were going to help us were establishing our location, I described the area, turn-off, etc. They finally said that this was the “No Name Road,” and that it wasn’t usually scraped to clear the snow until spring.

I have thought about the name of that road many times in my life – “No Name Road.” Sometimes, we can be on this road not knowing where we are going or what path we are on. A vision of where you would like to go and expectations of what you need to do is paramount. A vision of the blessing and opportunity of learning is special. Searching, pondering, praying, studying, and seeking inspiration will help create your vision for learning. It is important that we establish the road and path to follow.

When I was a young boy growing up in South Africa, I was not a member of the Church. But I read the Bible and said my prayers often, like my parents had taught me to. Because of that, I always felt that the Lord was close to me. I especially liked reading stories about Jesus’s life. I tried to be honest, hardworking, trustworthy, and kind, like Jesus. That’s what the scriptures and Jesus’s example taught me.
From reading the Bible, I also learned what the Church was like when Jesus was alive. And it made me wonder why none of the churches I knew about looked like Jesus’s Church had. Why don’t they have prophets and apostles? I wondered. Why isn’t there revelation in our day?
One day when I was older, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on our door. “We have a message for you,” they said.
My mother, who was a very friendly person, said, “We’d like to hear it. Will you come back this evening?” When the missionaries came that evening, the room was full—my mother and father, my four siblings, and me. My parents had even invited our neighbors over to listen to the missionaries.
My family was amazed by what they taught. We were thrilled that Jesus’s Church had been restored. It was a church with prophets and apostles! Over time, the missionaries answered all the questions that I had from prayerfully reading the scriptures. Because my family and I were already familiar with the Bible, we were ready to hear the missionaries’ message. We were excited about the gospel. Our neighbors didn’t feel the same excitement.
What truly converted me to the gospel was the Book of Mormon. I read some verses from it. Then one day I decided to follow Moroni’s promise to “ask God … if these things are not true; and … he will manifest the truth of it unto you” (Moroni 10:4). So I said a prayer and started reading the very first verse in the Book of Mormon. When I read it, the Holy Ghost witnessed to me in a wonderful way that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God.
You’re never too young to start reading the scriptures and praying every day. Doing those things will help you know what is true. It will give you faith and the courage to make right decisions.
God doesn’t expect us to rely on anyone else’s testimony of the gospel. He will tell us Himself that the gospel and the Book of Mormon are true. If we are sincere and pray with faith, He will answer our prayers to know the truth.