Gospel Story Finder

When I was a little girl, comic books were treasured items. When we went on a family vacation my mother allowed us each to buy a new comic book to take along. I always chose either an Archie and Veronica or an Uncle Scrooge. Although Uncle Scrooge (Donald Duck’s rich uncle) was the prototypical tightwad, I loved the frames that showed him diving into his coins. Does anyone here remember the artist’s rendition?

At least once—and usually on the last page, he would go into a room that was essentially an indoor swimming pool, but instead of water, the pool was filled with his money. With an expression of absolute delight and happiness Uncle Scrooge would bounce on the end of the diving board and then dive into the money, swimming around in it—loving the absolute abundance of it all! That’s the way I feel about my blessings. There are so many we all revel in. Abundance with a capital “A.” Remember that in God’s world there is enough and more for everyone. Ultimately we can each inherit all that the Father has. Interesting math, isn’t it? That we each get everything that He has.

When Nora woke up to the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the rocky road, her ear was aching. At first she tried to keep her mind off the pain by watching for falling stars. But the ache worsened, and Nora twisted and turned under the heavy quilts, forgetting the stars.
“Hold still, Nora! You’re kicking me,” muttered her brother, Emery. “Scoot over. You’re taking all the room.” Nora moved closer to her side of the wagon. It had been fun to spend a week with her cousins in Panguitch. But tonight, with her ear throbbing, Nora wished that she were home in Enterprise.
Trying to protect her ear from the cold air, Nora pulled the covers over her head. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t hold still.
“Your knee’s in my back, Nora,” Emery said, yanking at the covers. “What’s the matter?”
“I have an earache,” said Nora, holding her hand over her ear. “It’s been hurting for a long time. How soon will we be home?”
“Not for hours,” Emery said, sitting up and looking around. “We’re just now to the big stand of cottonwoods. Do you want me to call Papa?”
“No,” said Nora, trying not to cry. “If we stop, it’ll just take longer to get home. If only the wagon didn’t jolt so!”
Emery lay back down. Nora’s whole body stiffened in an effort to be still. The horses plodded on. The wagon jostled and bumped along. With every joggle, the pain got worse. It seemed to Nora that they had been traveling forever. Not wanting to wake Emery again, she gritted her teeth until finally the tears came.
Burying her head deeper under the covers to muffle the sound, Nora clenched her fists, and tried to cry quietly. She managed for a time. Then the wagon started up a rough hill. The wagon bobbled and shook until Nora thought her head would explode. She could no longer control the sobs.
Alarmed, Emery sat up. “Papa! Mama! You’d better see about Nora. She’s in a bad way.”
Papa stopped the horses. He climbed down from the wagon seat. With Mama following, he came around to where Nora was huddled against the side of the wagon.
“Land sakes!” Mama said. “She’s burning up with fever.”
Papa lifted Nora from the wagon. “There, little girl,” he said holding her head against his shoulder. “What’s the trouble?”
“Oh, Papa,” cried Nora, “I’ve had an earache for the longest time! The jolting wagon hurts it so.”
“There, now.” Papa patted her heaving shoulders. “You’ll be all right. We’ll give you a blessing and ask Heavenly Father to make you well. Mama, you hold her while I get the consecrated oil.”
Mama took Nora and sat on a big boulder surrounded by chaparral and sagebrush barely visible in the dim moonlight. Papa found the oil and put a drop on Nora’s head.
Nora was sobbing so hard that she didn’t hear the words of the blessing until Papa got to “in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Papa lifted her from Mama’s lap. She rested her head against his chest. He put his big, gentle hand over her ear and rubbed it ever so tenderly. Nora felt the pain go out of her head and ear.
“There, child, You’ll be all right,” Papa said.
Nora relaxed, exhausted from pain. Her tired eyes closed. Papa put her back into her warm place in the wagon. Mama rearranged the heavy quilts around her. It felt so good to have the hurt all gone.
The wagon seat squeaked as Mama and Papa settled onto it. Nora felt the wagon lurch, and heard the clop of hooves scattering loose rocks. Her mind felt fuzzy with sleepiness. The next thing she knew, Papa was lifting her into her own bed.

When I came home from my mission, I wondered if I would be capable of attending university. Because of my learning disability, I hadn’t planned on it when I was younger.
But since Heavenly Father had helped me during my mission, I had confidence that I could attend university and be successful. I went to school and not only became better at reading and writing but also began learning two other languages and wrote a novel. I am now pursuing a PhD in literature and history—something I never would have imagined for myself.

In school we earn a “100% ticket” when we get 100 percent on our morning schoolwork. The tickets go into a treasure chest. At the end of the month you get a treat if one of your tickets is drawn from the chest. One day I found a 100% ticket on the floor. I gave it to the teacher, and she asked me to try to find the owner. I asked around the class, but nobody claimed it. The teacher said I could have the ticket because I did the right thing by bringing it to her instead of putting it in the chest when I hadn’t earned it. I felt good inside for doing the right thing.

To explain how this university blesses lives, I would like to begin my remarks by sharing a story about a young boy who grew up in the boundless, large, flat, and unforested grassland, known as steppes, in Mongolia.

On the far eastern edge of Mongolia, in a vast steppe where the horizon seems to stretch endlessly, a little boy grew up. In that wide-open land, when he was just seven years old, he began attending a school located 13 miles from his home. With no means of transportation other than his horse, he was required to ride to school through fierce snowstorms and bitter cold temperatures, sometimes reaching ?22°F and taking more than two hours to arrive.

Once at school, he lived in the school dorms, away from family, until the weekend, when he would ride home again. This continued for four years, until he was forced to leave school to help his parents herd livestock.

During summer breaks from school, the children from nearby families would come home, and joyful moments were shared with play and laughter—but these times always seemed far too short. When autumn arrived and school resumed, the neighboring children would return to the town to continue their education. Silence once again would settle in, and the boy would realize the endless loneliness of life in the middle of the boundless steppe. With no other choice, he learned to adapt to a nomadic life.

With no friends except sheep and horses, he spent his days with the herd, enduring wind and storms and protecting the herd from wolves. Yet, like other children, he imagined himself attending school, laughing and playing with many friends. For that dream, he offered prayers to a Higher Power—God.

He entered school shortly after Mongolia transitioned to a democratic society. Under the new government’s policy, the Cyrillic alphabet, which had been used for 50 years, was abolished, and the traditional Mongolian script was revived and taught to all children. However, soon after he left school, the policy changed again, reverting to Cyrillic. As a result, he suddenly found himself illiterate. It felt as if the door to his dream of returning to school had slammed shut before him.

Rather than giving in to despair, he decided to teach himself the Cyrillic alphabet. After long days of hard labor, by the dim light of a candle, he copied letters from newspapers, and during the day, while herding sheep, he practiced writing letters in the air. In this way, he continued to educate himself. Seven years after leaving school, at the age of eighteen, the boy passed the entrance exam for high school and reopened the door to his dream.

God promised in Joshua 1:5: “…I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.” [1] Just as the Lord led Moses and the Israelites through the wilderness; He likewise guided the boy and blessed him far beyond anything he could have imagined.

After graduating from high school and moving to Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, to attend college, he met missionaries, accepted the good news of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and at church, found his closest friend—his eternal companion. That little boy who grew up in the endless steppe now stands before you. My life is a clear testimony of how deeply Heavenly Father loves His children and how He blesses and guides us.

After learning about BYU–Hawaii and the IWORK program, my growing passion for education motivated me to set a new goal—to pursue higher education abroad in a safe and supportive environment. As a newly married couple and a young parent, meeting the university’s requirements and becoming financially prepared required sacrifice, patience, and faith. The preparation process took five years before I was admitted.

Obtaining an American visa tested our faith even further. By then, our family had grown to four, and we were denied at our first interview. With limited resources but renewed trust in the Lord, we paid the visa fee again and reapplied. One week before orientation, our visa was finally approved—a tender reminder that God’s timing is always perfect, even when the path feels uncertain.

The journey to BYU–Hawaii was not straight or easy, but it was guided. Looking back, I see the hand of the Lord shaping us through every delay, rejection, and sacrifice, strengthening our faith and preparing us for the blessings that lay ahead.

Long, long ago in the far northern wilderness before white men arrived and built cities and roads, there lived Little Squirrel, a Chippewa Indian boy.
One night as Little Squirrel was sleeping in his deerskin wigwam, the roar of a mountain lion awakened him. He sat up on his blanket bed and peered through the wigwam opening into the moonlit forest.
In the darkness all around him, in the caves and in the thickets, lived the wild forest creatures. Little Squirrel’s eyes penetrated the darkness for their shapes. His ears listened for their sounds. The Chippewas thought of wild ones as people—four-footed forest people. Some of them were enemies, but most were friends. Often one would live in a wigwam, sharing the family’s food and shelter.
Little Squirrel knew the forest people well. He knew their names and secrets. He had learned to speak their language. One of them had even lived with his family for awhile.
Six summers past, his father had found a black mother bear dead in her den, a tiny cub crawling over her. Because a Chippewa would never leave an animal to starve, his father had brought the bear cub home and put it by his little son, who was nestled in a linden cradle. “For you, Little Squirrel,” he had said.
As Little Squirrel grew, he romped and wrestled with the cub. His first steps were taken by her side as his fat fingers clutched her thick black fur. He loved the bear. He called her Bear Sister.
Together they gobbled up berries that grew in tangled thickets. Side by side they searched for honey hidden deep in bee tree holes.
But one day without warning, the bear vanished. She ambled off into the pine trees and did not return. Little Squirrel cried when she first went away. He missed their fun together. He missed his furry sister snuggled on his blanket bed during the cold northern nights.
His mother had told him Bear Sister had gone into the forest to find her own bear people.
But Little Squirrel had never ceased looking for her. As he looked into the forest, he listened for any sound from her.
Suddenly he saw something—a shadow moving through the pines. His black eyes sparked with excitement. It might be Bear Sister, he thought, and his heart was filled with hope.
Trembling like an aspen in the first warm rush of summer, he stepped out of the wigwam. The shadow moved before him, but he only heard its sound. Almost without thinking, he slipped through the trees, following the footfalls that crunched down the leaves. His thoughts were with Bear Sister.
Indian boys were encouraged to go for midnight walks in the wilderness. Watching the ways of the forest people was their school. They learned how the beaver people trim trees and build dams. They listened to the owls chirring to their owlets—they listened to the owls’ secrets so they too could be wise. Little Squirrel moved ahead swiftly, silently, following the sounds of the shadow.
Suddenly in a shaft of moonlight the shadow turned into an elk. His heart cried out. It wasn’t Bear Sister after all. Little Squirrel sighed and sat down on a log as the elk sauntered off.
An owl hooted from the pine boughs above. Little Squirrel’s eyes searched until he found the owl. Then he scanned the trail of stars scattered over the deep dark of the sky above. He was once again absorbed in the wonders of the wilderness.
The pines began to whisper and the owls began to scold him. “Go back to your wigwam,” they seemed to be saying.
I must go, he decided as he stood up and began his walk back to the village. His thoughts were of the wigwam, warm and safe.
Halfway around a rocky ledge overgrown with thickets, he suddenly stopped. What was that sound off there in the depths of the thicket? he wondered. He stood as still as a tree trunk. Again he heard it. His heart began to beat like the wings of a giant bird. It sounded like the grunt of a bear. In the black shadows of the night, he watched and waited. Then in the distance he saw a dark form emerge from behind the rocks. It was a bear!
The moonlight dusted the bear’s fur, but Little Squirrel was too far away to be sure of the color. If it were Bear Sister, would she remember him?
Instinctively he began to sing a song—softly, sweetly, so this bear and all others might know of his love for them. Because of his Bear Sister, he could never harm nor kill one of their people. This was the way of the Chippewas, and this was the message of his song.
Little Squirrel sang of how his father had found a bear cub in the forest many moons ago. He sang of hunting berries and of searching out bee trees; he sang of a bear and a boy together on a blanket bed.
As Little Squirrel sang, the bear moved its head back and forth, growling softly. The boy knew the bear understood the song. He knew the bear understood how he felt in his heart, for the Indians and forest people knew each other well. But Little Squirrel could not be sure if this were really his own Bear Sister.
Then a young bear cub appeared from the rocky den, and the heart of Little Squirrel almost burst within him as it beat a steady rhythm to his soft bear song. And suddenly it didn’t matter even if this were not Bear Sister, for all bears were his friends!
The she-bear grunted to her cub, an owl chirred to its owlet, and the wind began to whisper to the treetops.
By the time Little Squirrel reached his deerskin home, all the forest people had heard of the little Chippewa Indian and his love for the forest people.

During the summer of 2001, I had the opportunity to serve as a young performing missionary in Nauvoo, Illinois. That summer I learned that when you devote your time to the Lord, you can have amazing experiences.
Every day the young missionaries performed in the “Nauvoo Adventure”—a musical depicting the pioneers’ life from Quincy, Illinois, through their journey west. After performances people would often tell me, “It looked like you were really crying up there. You should go into acting as a career.”
I never really knew how to respond to this statement. I was crying—but I definitely wasn’t acting. When you reenact the martyrdom of Joseph Smith once and sometimes twice a day, six days a week for over three months, something happens to you.
I remember the first time I cried on stage. There I was on the ground, at the foot of a coffin made to look like Joseph Smith’s, and my body started to shake. I was no longer acting the part of a missionary. I was a missionary. I loved this man, Joseph Smith, with whom I had never talked.
Day by day I became less ashamed of my tears. Toward the end of the summer, I no longer wanted to hide under a bushel, or under my bed. I wanted everyone to know the peace I felt, to know the peace that comes from having the Holy Ghost confirm the gospel is true.
I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. He still is. I felt his humble spirit pervade Nauvoo and know that he could have only done what he did by a power larger than what mortal man can muster. I know the Book of Mormon is true. I know Jesus Christ is the Savior of all mankind.

Just about three months ago, one little girl resolved within herself to establish a special place where only goodness and kindness were permitted--her own little Zion. While visiting our children's grandparents' home, I observed our youngest daughter, Sophia, spend most of the morning in a small playhouse situated under the stairs. When she finally finished arranging everything just the way she wanted it, she came upstairs and began writing something on bright orange paper. After inquiring, I learned that this paper and, more importantly, its message, represented the finishing touch to the playhouse. Before entering the small opening under the stairs and posting the orange paper, little Sophie posed for a picture. When I finally examined the paper, I was amazed at what I saw. Would you like to know what it said?
Rules:
In the simplest, yet most profound way, a six-year old girl established behavioral guidelines that would lead to peaceful and profitable interaction--her own little Zion.

Illustrative of this is a story still carried in the family lore of Brigham Young’s descendants but, so far as I know, never recorded. It says that in a meeting the Prophet rebuked Brigham Young from his head to his feet for something he had done, or something he was supposed to have done but hadn’t—the detail is unclear. And it may well have been that the Prophet was deliberately putting Brigham Young to a test. When he had finished the rebuke, everyone in the room waited for the response. Brigham Young rose to his feet. He was a strong man. He could have responded: “Now, look, haven’t you read that you’re not supposed to rebuke in public, but only in private?” Or, “Brother Joseph, doesn’t it say something in the revelations about persuasion, and long-­suffering, and gentleness and meekness?” Or, “You’re dead wrong. It’s not so.” But he said none of the above. In a voice everyone could tell was sincere, he said simply, “Joseph, what do you want me to do?” And the story says that the Prophet burst into tears, came down from the stand, threw his arms around Brigham, and said, in effect, “Brother Brigham, you passed.”

I assumed our new ward in the East of England was a regular ward of the Church. It is full of good people, striving to do their best, ready to bring a casserole over when someone is sick, or lift boxes for an hour when a family needs moving. But at the same time, very busy with their lives.
So, when our family of seven unexpectedly had to move houses within the ward boundaries, I decided to do it all by myself. A few people offered to help, but I was sure that their offering was simply out of a sense of obligation, and I dislike inconveniencing people.
The moving day had nearly arrived. The moving van was booked, boxes packed, and two days off work arranged. The day before the move was a Sunday, so we thought attending sacrament meeting would be a respite before undertaking the arduous task of moving all our household belongings. The chapel was full that beautiful winter’s morning. A single row of chairs could not accommodate our entire family, so our eldest child, 14-year-old Preston, sat two rows in front of us on an aisle seat.
A few minutes into a talk by our high councillor, Preston slumped over and fell into the aisle and laid there for a few moments before the onset of a full-body seizure. The scene that followed was traumatic for all in attendance. The ensuing days and weeks in hospital, while Preston was intubated, was a time of great uncertainty.
But there was one special thing—the love and service offered by our ward members. The entire ward was mobilised to a degree I never would have imagined was possible. Sisters of the ward tended our children, not for hours but for days, to allow Preston’s mother and me to be by his side. Meals were provided; children were taken to and from school, and a kind sister with five children of her own drove five hours to pick up my mother from the airport.
And if that was not enough, other members worked until 1 a.m. to move our entire household and then clean the old home spotlessly. These and other labours of love were performed while my wife and I were far away at the regional medical facility with our son.
The hours spent in service to our family were incalculable and remarkably synchronised. How the bishopric and Relief Society presidency organised help was astounding. It took the notion of ward coordination to an entirely new level.
The spiritual encouragement of the loving bishop of the Huntingdon Ward, and the wisdom offered by the caring stake president of the Northampton Stake, were significant.
When all hope seemed lost, our children’s seminary teacher was called upon to provide a priesthood blessing of healing in an intensive care unit. That blessing appeared to shake the hospital’s foundation and replaced despair by faith in the hearts of Preston’s parents.
We learned many lessons from that harrowing experience. But chief among them is that, given the opportunity, members of the Church can marshal and serve with awe-inspiring intensity. There is no obligation, and no one waits for thanks. Members of the Church are disciples of Christ and invariably respond to the challenge, whether providing a casserole or moving an entire household.
In the end, it turns out we do belong to a regular ward of the Church. And we thank Heavenly Father every day for that fact.

Jacob latched the gate on the new fence. “Stay, Annie,” he said. “You get this whole big yard. Have fun!”
Jacob had only been in the house long enough to take three bites out of his sandwich when he heard Annie scratching at the door and barking to get into the house. “How did she get out?” he wondered.
He grabbed Annie by her collar and led her back through the open gate. Maybe he hadn’t latched it right before. He pulled the gate shut and carefully pulled the latch into place. “Stay, Annie,” he said again.
“Woof,” Annie said, watching him. Jacob turned to go back into the house, but he looked over his shoulder just in time to see Annie pushing the latch up with her nose and marching through the gate.
“Annie!” Jacob was partly impressed and partly annoyed. “You have to stay in the back.” He took Annie back through the gate. Maybe the dog didn’t remember all the things Jacob’s family had done to make her happy out here. “See, here is your doghouse,” he said. “And here are some of your favorite toys.” Annie picked up her bone and lay down to chew it. “Your water dish and everything you need are right here. I’ll come play with you after I finish my lunch.” But he hadn’t even gotten to the kitchen before he heard Annie barking at the door again.
That night at dinner, Jacob told the story to his family. “So after I put a big bolt through the hole to keep the latch from lifting, I thought for sure that Annie would stay. But she figured out how to pull the bolt out with her teeth. Then she opened the latch and out she came.”
“That dog is too smart for her own good,” Dad remarked.
“So what did you do?” Jacob’s brother Tim asked.
“I put a nut on the bolt,” Jacob said smugly. “Now she can’t pull it out. She’s smart but not as smart as I am.”
The doorbell rang. Jacob jumped up to answer it. He was expecting his friend Ryan to come over, but it wasn’t Ryan at the door. It was a man in uniform with Annie.
“Is this your dog?” the animal-control officer asked. Annie wriggled past Jacob into the house.
Jacob nodded.
Jacob’s mom came up behind him. “Uh-oh,” she said. “We thought Annie was locked in the backyard.”
“She was at large,” the officer said.
“At large?” Jacob asked, puzzled.
“That means loose and uncontrolled,” the officer explained. “We’ve talked to your parents about this before. Your dog has to be secured. That’s the law.”
Jacob remembered that his parents had built the fence because Annie had been in trouble before. She had dashed out of the house when the door had opened and run off down the street.
“She doesn’t mean to be bad,” Jacob said.
“No, but she depends on us who know the rules,” the officer said. “She’s not safe when she’s loose, and neither are the children in the neighborhood. You’ll have to pay the fine.” He handed a ticket to Mom. She wasn’t smiling.
“We’ll figure out how she got out and fix it,” Mom said.
As the officer was leaving, Ryan rode up on his bike. “What’s up?” he asked. “Who got arrested?”
“Ha, ha,” Jacob said. “Actually, Annie did.”
The boys went around to the backyard. Mom and Dad were already there. Dad pointed to an Annie-sized hole under the fence. A pile of dirt on the other side told the story.
Everybody pitched in. Dad and Tim buried big rocks in the most obvious digging spots. Then Jacob and Ryan took logs from the woodpile and laid them along the bottom of the fence where Annie might try to dig. By the time they were finished, it was getting dark.
For two days Annie stayed in the backyard. Jacob was sure the problem was solved. But on Friday, their neighbor Mr. Kopiak called to say that Annie had climbed the woodpile and leaped into his yard over the fence. “She’s OK,” he said, “but I’m surprised she didn’t break a leg.”
“You need to trust me on this,” Jacob said to Annie as he walked her home. “You just don’t realize what’s out there. You could get hurt! You have to stay, Annie.”
That afternoon, Ryan called to invite Jacob to go swimming. “We can bike over to Pizza Village on the way back,” Ryan said.
It was a fun idea, but Jacob knew it would be hard to get permission. The pool was out of his biking territory. Still, Ryan had never invited him to go for pizza before. Jacob felt it was important to their friendship that he say yes. Surely Mom would understand.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Son,” Mom said when he asked her.
“It’s not that far!” Jacob said. He felt angry and frustrated. “Ryan rides his bike all over the place and he’s OK. What could happen?” Jacob was trying not to lose his cool, but he heard his voice getting louder with every syllable. “These rules are stupid!”
Mom looked him right in the eye. “Jacob, you’ll have to trust me. You don’t know what’s out there.”
Jacob felt tingles across the back of his neck. That was the same thing he had said to Annie that very day!
Jacob went to his room to think. He thought about what the animal-control officer had said. He remembered what his dad had said about Annie being so smart. He thought about how much he loved Annie and all the work the family had done to make her safe. He thought about rules, and how much his parents loved him and wanted him to be safe. He thought about the Holy Ghost helping Mom know what to say—the same words he’d told Annie.
After a while, Jacob called Ryan. “I can’t go,” he said. “But if you come over, we can make brownies. Mom says she’ll order pizza to be delivered.”
Ryan happily agreed.

Enough is enough, and the mailman was feeling a little bit sorry for himself as he wiped away the water that had cascaded onto his face from his plastic-covered hat and delivered one of the last letters of the day. The return address on the envelope was 50 East North Temple, Salt Lake City, Utah 84150.
The leaders of the Van Nuys California Stake who received the letter read it a second time and looked quizzically at one another.
“What’s a Heritage Arts Festival?” one of them asked.
“I don’t know,” another answered, looking out a rain-streaked window and sighing. “Let’s read the letter again.”
The letter wasn’t much help. It made it quite clear that the young people of the stake were to hold a Heritage Arts Festival, but it simply didn’t explain what one was. And so, with only a title to go on, they forgot all about the rain and started exercising their ingenuity.
They decided that whatever else the festival turned out to be, it should be something that “shows our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.” They met with the youth and adult leaders of the various wards in the stake and came up with a full calendar for an April afternoon and evening. The festival was to include craft and food booths emphasizing Mormon pioneer heritage, facilities for family picnics, and a creative arts contest. The theme would be “From Then Till Now—1830–1975,” and the evening would end with a program in which each ward in the stake would represent one time period from then till now. And in a rather bold move, considering the weather, they decided to locate the booths out-of-doors.
A few months later, on the morning of the festival, the wards of the stake were busy practicing their skits and working on their booths. Inside the stake center a young man in blue jeans and a Civil War coat wandered by toward the stage where Abraham Lincoln was being fitted for his tall black cardboard hat. The great emancipator was wearing a cast, having recently broken his leg, and would have to lead his people through the Civil War in that condition.
It was a bright, sunny day in the San Fernando Valley, without a hint of smog. The weatherman had predicted rain; the young people and their leaders had prayed for good weather. The weatherman was a good meteorologist, but he was simply out of his league.
At about 4:00 in the afternoon the crowds started arriving. They wandered from booth to booth, enjoying the displays and the free samples at the food booths. Some of them ate picnics on the lawn, where tables and chairs had been provided for them.
As the crowds milled around the booths, a distinguished looking group of men in dark hats and coats appeared carrying a bucket, an easel, and some pictures. One of the men upended the bucket and mounted it while another set up the easel. Soon the crowd was being treated to an authentic 19th century street meeting—authentic, that is, except for the bullhorn that the preacher used. The meeting started with four of the missionaries singing “Sweet Is the Work” in beautiful harmony, followed by a gospel sermon and another hymn. Wags from the local wards provided some unsolicited heckling, but the elders handled it in fine form, turning the barbs back on their assailants. Then a man from the Spanish Branch wandered by and shouted, “Puras mentiras!” (It’s all a lie!) in a voice of pious conviction.
“What this good brother says is true—whatever it was he said!” the missionary exclaimed, pointing his cane for emphasis. Another street meeting was held every quarter hour or so, with a different stake or full-time missionary preaching each time.
At the booth of the Spanish Branch a lady demonstrated how to make delicate bread-dough roses. An onlooker asked a question, and the lady spread her hands and replied, “I’m no expert”; then she smiled as a teenager arrived. “Here’s the expert,” she said, and the girl took over the demonstration. In front of the candle-dipping display a young fellow watched the laborious process and shook his head.
“They didn’t really have to go through all that just to make a candle, did they?” he said.
A knot of people gathered in front of the Candy Kitchen, inhaling the aroma and happily licking chocolate-smeared fingers. A young lady took her first look at a real chunk of homemade lye soap and asked, “Is that cheese?” A father barely put his son down at the arm-wrestling area and then smiled a little doubtfully, rubbing his hand. “Wait till next year,” his son smiled.
As 7:00 P.M. approached, more and more of the youths turned the booths over to their adult leaders and went inside to get costumed for the evening’s performance.
In the Junior Sunday School room a ward warmed up for its presentation. Some girls with beauty spots on their cheeks and fiery red lipstick on their lips, wearing fringed flapper dresses, frilly garters, voluminous strings of beads, and head-hugging hats, chewed gum furiously and kicked their way through a deadpan Charleston. Young men in striped vests, black bow ties, and cardboard skimmers practiced a little soft-shoe. One of them pistoned his hat on and off, keeping pace with his eyebrows and looking like a one-man chorus line. A long-lashed brunette gave several experimental flounces with her feathered boa, rolling her eyes in the top half of a glamourous pout. A blonde in black net stockings stood knock-kneed, squinting into a tiny mirror as she applied her makeup. The pianist bounced up and down on the stool in time to the music, and a young man knocked out the rhythm with the back of his knuckles on the top of the upright piano.
In the men’s room, costumes were going on. A young man in a white T-shirt with the arms rolled up scowled into the mirror, seeking just the right air of bored insolence. Then he combed his hair carefully back into a classic ducktail. When he was ready, he looked exactly like a refugee from the 50s trapped somehow in the wrong decade.
All 350 cast members eventually gathered in the chapel to await the beginning of the program. The flappers and bobby soxers mingled with Civil War belles, barbershop quartets and fine ladies from the 90s, Confederate and Union soldiers with lipstick wounds, rock fans, victims of the Depression, soldiers from both world wars, carefully gowned and hatted ladies carrying placards demanding the vote for women, rough-clad pioneers, and a sea of others. The chapel looked like a passenger lounge in a time machine terminal.
Near the door a woman with a bag full of fruit pointed a half-peeled banana at her gowned and rouged daughter. “Eat it! You’ve got to eat something or you’ll get sick.” The girl looked heavenward in a voiceless sermon on the woes of raising Mom, but she ate it while her mother smiled proudly at her.
There were some last-minute instructions and a prayer. An electric wave of preshow jitters filled the room as the crowd sounds drifted in and the hour drew near.
To start the show, the flags of each ward, which had been designed by the young people, were brought in to the flourishes of a trumpet fanfare and set up in their places.
Johnny Whitaker, popular young Mormon entertainer, emceed the show. After the invocation and a few words of introduction, he swang into a rousing rendition of “I Believe in Music,” and on the second verse the 350 young people came streaming down the aisles, singing along with him. “I believe in music. I believe in love!” They sang to a packed house, easily more than 1,000 spectators, many of them standing around the edges of the hall and at the back. There was standing room only and then only behind somebody else. After their grand entry the cast filed into a room where they awaited their turn to perform.
“Reach back, America, into the dim, far-off pages of beginnings—to the beginnings of our Mormon heritage where all the things that touched others touched us,” Johnny began; and “From Then Till Now” became a reality.
The stake Young Adults presented the first period, the early days of the Church when the Prophet Joseph was alive, depicting a trial scene in which he was found innocent of the charges but warned not to preach his doctrine any more.
The Sherman Oaks Second Ward handled the pioneer era, showing a camp scene from the trek across the plains and throwing in a rousing old-time square dance, complete with a professional caller who donated his services.
The Civil War era was interpreted by the Panorama City Ward, complete with Abraham Lincoln, Civil War songs, and both armies.
The San Fernando Ward recreated the gay 90s, featuring the beautiful songs of the period, bicycles built for two, barbershop quartets, and boundless optimism.
The Van Nuys Ward brought to life the first two decades of the 20th century, including a war, boogie woogie, automobiles, and suffragettes.
The Sylmar Ward recreated a rousing, roaring 20s with authentic song and dance numbers, raccoon coats, flappers, the Charleston, jazz, and no tomorrow.
The Spanish Branch recalled the dismal 30s in their skit, featuring songs and dances of the period that showed optimism in times of adversity.
The Van Nuys Third Ward interpreted the 40s with a war, a Statue of Liberty wheeled in on a dolly, and songs, dances, and people of the period.
The Sherman Oaks Ward zeroed in on the 50s with an American Bandstand presentation, singing songs such as “Mr. Sandman” and “Rockin’ Robin.” There was also a personal visit from “Elvis.”
The Sepulveda Ward presented the 60s, complete with rock concerts, the Beatles, and protests.
Everything went smoothly from the audience’s point of view. Scenery changes seemed to happen by magic, and the show flowed as if it had been rehearsed a hundred times, although there had been only one full-stake rehearsal. But back stage between skits was a different story as the exiting cast, scenery, and props from one ward met the next ward coming on stage. Then covered wagons warred with Confederate soldiers, and the Statute of Liberty was buffeted by hordes of pretty girls with parasols. It was a mammoth stampede in which each decade seemed bent on trampling another, but somehow everything always untangled itself in time for the curtain.
When it came time for the 1970s, the cast members in their various costumes all took their places at the front of the hall to form a 350-voice choir. They had practiced their songs on Sunday evenings for several weeks, and there was a fine, gentle spirit as they sang songs of love and peace.
Just before the closing prayer, two children walked into the spotlight and sang “I Am a Child of God,” the choir joining in on the last verse. It was an appropriate ending to a performance full of love and understanding and hope.
In retrospect, the festival provided not only entertainment and fun, but some wonderful memories and a lot of learning. For example, preparation of the displays and the program required the youth to do some serious research. The young people who prepared the genealogy booth studied the principles of genealogy and made a trip to the local Genealogical Society branch library.
Others learned how to make soap, candles, and other essentials the same way pioneers did, not to mention many contemporary craft skills. Some high school history teachers may also be surprised at the knowledge of U.S. history their LDS students have picked up by researching a time period for their skits.
The festival was also a wonderful missionary for the many nonmember and inactive young people who took part. For example, a band that was composed of both member and nonmember youths not only got everyone in the group excited about the Church, but made them decide to keep the group together after the festival.
A number of nonmember adults took part also, doing everything from teaching dance steps to sewing costumes. One non-Mormon hair dresser volunteered to style the hair of all the girls in her ward in the style of the period they represented.
The adult leaders in each ward rolled up their sleeves and worked hard right alongside the youth. Typical was one good sister who attended the dress rehearsal the night before the performance, did some energetic dance steps to illustrate a bit of last-minute choreography, sang her heart out, and then went to the hospital that night and had her baby.
The separate parts of the production were not actually brought together until the last few days before the festival, and there was a lot of pressure and hurry for those in charge. One sister was so caught up that she drove her daughter to school one morning and was parked in front of the school before realizing that she had forgotten the daughter.
But in spite of this one bit of absentmindedness, the young people of the Van Nuys Stake know very well that they are not forgotten, nor will they forget this experience. No one told them in advance what a Heritage Arts Festival was, but no one had any doubts afterwards. It was not only a good way to bring in some sunshine in place of rain, but it was also a great way to serve and grow and learn to love one another. Above all it was a way to “show our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.”

Another memory from my boyhood was learning how to work. We had a big yard because my dad wanted to teach us how to work in it. So we all had assignments—mowing the lawn, weeding the vegetable and flower gardens, trimming the hedges, and so forth. My favorite job was working in our strawberry patch, because I’d eat the strawberries almost as fast as I picked them!
One job I had was mowing the lawn with our old push mower. My dad wouldn’t make me do it when I didn’t want to, but he would warn me, “It’s your job, and if you don’t do it today, the grass will only be longer tomorrow, and it’ll be harder to push the mower.” I remember procrastinating three or four days past the time when I should have mowed the lawn. Trying to push that mower through the long grass was really hard. I learned never to put off what you’re supposed to do, because it just gets harder the longer you wait. One of the happiest days of my youth was when my dad finally bought a power lawn mower!

His next childhood memory was that he was now living with his widowed mother in Nauvoo. Mary Fielding Smith was very involved in Relief Society. She and her sister collected money from other members of the Society—typically two pennies. The pennies were used to purchase glass for the Nauvoo Temple.

Joseph F. described that one day while his mother was sleeping, he passed by a desk in the home and a drawer was open. Inside the drawer, he saw a lot of pennies. He had never seen so much money in his life, and his conclusion was that he wanted to put those pennies in his pocket, at least some of them. He liked to hear the sound of money jingling in his pocket, and perhaps you like that, too. He played with the money for awhile, then forgot about it. However, he did keep the pennies in his pocket.

He went outside to play. One of the members of the Church passed by and saw this young boy and heard the sound of money. He went over to Joseph F. Smith and demanded to see the contents of his pockets. Joseph F., a six-year-old, brought out the contents of his pockets. He had fistfuls of money. At this point, the man wanted to know his name. He also wanted to know who his parents were. Without warning, the man grabbed him by the collar and took him through the streets of Nauvoo shouting, “Come see a thief!”

The man received much notice for his actions before going to the home of Mary Fielding Smith. When she answered the door, he explained to her that he had caught a thief. Mary was puzzled. Her son was a good boy. She wanted to know how this man had the right to accuse him of being a thief. When Joseph emptied the contents of his pockets, he was crying. His mother wanted to know if he had taken the money intending to steal it. When Joseph indicated that he had not taken the pennies to steal them, Mary told the accuser to leave her home. She embraced her son, but not the man who was the accuser.

Some years ago my husband and I arose early in the morning wanting to arrive on the grounds of the Jordan River Temple well before the crowd that would gather for the occasion of laying the cornerstone for the magnificent edifice. Our plan was ill timed. The crowd was already there when we arrived. Due to the contour of the land, I was not only stretching to see over the heads of those in front of me, but we were on the low side of the slope in front of the temple and I couldn’t see what was going on. Heber, being considerably taller, tried to ease my disappointment by reporting to me the observations from his vantage point. “The choir is assembling,” he reported. “The General Authorities are taking their places. The TV cameras are in place.” This only added to my frustration as I faced the backs of those in front who were seeing this historic event that I was missing.

After reaching and stretching without success to catch even a glimpse of the drama, I decided to settle down, hoping to just feel the spirit of the occasion. It was when I relaxed that I changed my perspective and was attracted by an activity at the far northeast side of the temple just beyond the corner. This became the focal point of my interest. There I observed two men dressed in dark pants, white shirts and ties. They each had a shovel. They were busily engaged around a wheelbarrow. I saw them empty sacks of concrete, pour in water, and mix the contents in the wheelbarrow. In time, after hearing the choir and the impressive messages given by the presiding authorities, Heber reported to me that the cameras were now moving from center stage to the location for the placement of the cornerstone.

I watched. At that moment the men who mixed the mortar pushed the wheelbarrow to the front of the building and then quickly disappeared behind the scenes. The cornerstone was carefully anchored in place with the mortar prepared for this important event. On the news that evening I saw what the cameras saw. But they did not see what I had seen.

Now, years later, I never drive by the Jordan River Temple, especially after dark with the bright lights shining like beacons of refuge to a darkening world, without thinking of the men who mixed the mortar—those whose quiet, unsung labors played a major role in the placement of the cornerstone for the house of the Lord in a building that will stand against all of the storms of life.

After experiencing four miscarriages over the span of six years, I became familiar with an unpleasant phenomenon. Many times, others tried to offer comforting comments, but the comments stung more than they helped. An encouragement to “look on the bright side” made my sorrow feel invalidated. A suggestion to “just relax” made me feel at fault. And so on.
The comments stung when I heard them, and if I let them, I soon found them festering—stinging again and again as they echoed in my memory. I let the comments add to the weight of my burden.
But as time went on, I discovered, in the words of the hymn, where I could “turn for peace.”1 I decided, with the help of the Savior, to listen to people’s intentions instead of their words, to extend more mercy and forgiveness. While their comments stung initially, I ultimately knew that people meant well. I knew they were simply trying to “mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9).
I turned to the Lord and spent time giving words to their unspoken intentions. Their intentions said:
“I’m sad that you’re sad, and I want to make you happy.”
“I care about you and wish I could make this go away.”
“I want to help, but I don’t know how.”
Sometimes I would even repeat these phrases in my mind when someone shared a comment that, while given with a good intention, caused me some pain.
With that change of perspective, I found myself feeling only love for people when they attempted to comfort me. With the Savior’s help, I was able to hear their love louder than their language. He helped me filter the imperfections from their comments, leaving only their love to sink in. And I found myself even feeling happy that they had not experienced miscarriage themselves.
Listening to their intentions made me feel deeper love for others. The results felt liberating, like a secret “life hack” unknown to anyone else. At its core, listening to intentions rather than taking offense is a form of forgiveness, and it is made possible by the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ. I discovered that I didn’t need everyone to understand my pain perfectly in order for me to accept their love. I stopped placing unrealistic expectations on other people’s comments as the source “to make me whole.”2
Ultimately, the only person who truly has power to offer lasting peace and understand perfectly is the Savior. “Who, who can understand? He, only One.”3 The Savior offers peace “not as the world giveth” (John 14:27). His peace transcends the limits of worldly peace. When I relied on Him to understand and sought His help in extending mercy to others, only then did I feel “the quiet hand to calm my anguish.”4

Several years ago, a couple who was about to marry came to me. They asked for my advice regarding children. I reminded them of the commandment they would receive when they were sealed, and I counseled them that they could keep this commandment in counsel with the Lord. I reminded them that it is a commandment like tithing, Sabbath observance, or other commandments. Once a covenant is made, the question is not whether to keep it but how to keep it in a way that is pleasing to and approved by the Lord.
I watched as they started their marriage. He had a year left of undergraduate studies, and she had another year in a master’s program. They felt directed to have their family immediately—despite the schooling and uncertainty over future jobs. It was not easy or convenient to have a child so soon. He had to search for a job, they had to move, and she had to finish her degree. They faced stress and sacrifice. He had to rush home each day and watch the baby while she completed her thesis and practical training. She studied and wrote between nursing and changing diapers.
The Lord has blessed and prospered them. While many others lost jobs in the economic turndown of 2008, he was retained and promoted. Because they lived frugally, they are out of debt except for a mortgage, and they have since been able to completely pay for a master’s program with no debt. All the while, they have continued to learn the valuable lessons that can come only with parenthood. Bearing children is neither easy nor convenient, but it is a commandment that helps us realize the real blessings of mortality.

One day, I had to travel by bus to another city to follow up with a client. Because my finances were tight, I hoped that my client would agree to pay me an advance.
On the way to catch the bus, I decided to go see some quorum members and encourage them to visit their families. Some had forgotten but committed to do so. Others committed to finish their visits that very week.
I was so excited by their commitments that I decided to visit and encourage other quorum members. Before I knew it, it was past noon. So, instead of leaving town, I decided to go to my office to review the client’s case.
To my surprise, when I arrived at my office, my client was standing outside with another person. I explained to my client that I was about to review his case and would have a report for him the next day. He said he had come to introduce me to a new client. After his friend and I had talked, we agreed on a fee for me to help him solve his legal matter. Then, suddenly, my client offered to pay me an advance.
For me, that was a miracle. Heavenly Father knew I was trying to be faithful to Him. He also knew my needs. He has blessed me in many ways over the years, but this time His blessing came financially. He fulfilled His word in the scriptures to those who serve Him: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).

I remember a fine minister, visiting Salt Lake City from South Africa, who came to my office inquiring:
“What is the basis for your doctrine of baptism for the dead?”
“Is baptism essential?” I asked.
“Yes,” he responded.
“Do you believe God is just?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“Then what of those who died without baptism?” I inquired, and he indicated that he had often wondered about that. I asked whether he had overlooked Paul’s teaching: “Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? why are they then baptized for the dead?” (1 Cor. 15:29.) The minister looked at me and quietly said: “Thank you for explaining that doctrine.” I was glad he had been enlightened but sad that he and so many others had failed to see before. Yes, our Father in Heaven loves all of his children and has provided a way for every one of them to return to him.

Relief Society should be organized, aligned, and mobilized to strengthen families and help our homes to be sacred sanctuaries from the world. I learned this years ago when I was newly married. My parents, who had been my neighbors, announced that they would be moving to another part of the world. I had relied on my mother’s nurturing, wise, and encouraging example. Now she was going to be gone for a long time. This was before e-mail, fax machines, cell phones, and Web cameras, and mail delivery was notoriously slow. One day before she left, I sat weeping with her and asked, “Who will be my mother?” Mother thought carefully, and with the Spirit and power of revelation which comes to women of this kind, she said to me, “If I never come back, if you never see me again, if I’m never able to teach you another thing, you tie yourself to Relief Society. Relief Society will be your mother.”

Mother knew that if I was sick, the sisters would take care of me, and when I had my babies, they would help me. But my mother’s greatest hope was that the sisters in Relief Society would be powerful, spiritual leaders for me. I began from that time to learn abundantly from women of stature and faith.

Three different women held the calling of Relief Society president in my wards during the years my parents were away. Alta Chamberlain invited me to teach time management and home organization to the other sisters, perhaps because she saw that I needed to improve those skills. Jeanne Horne encouraged me to complete my first serious personal study of the Book of Mormon. Norma Healey gave me my first assignments at the cannery and taught me much about service. These wonderful women understood the purpose of Relief Society.