Gospel Story Finder

My office in the Relief Society Building has a perfect view of the Salt Lake Temple. Every night, as regular as clockwork, the outdoor temple lights turn on at dusk. The temple is a steady, reassuring beacon just outside my window.
One night this past February, my office remained exceptionally dim as the sun went down. As I looked out the window, the temple was dark. The lights had not turned on. I felt suddenly somber. I couldn’t see the temple spires I had glimpsed every evening for years.
We, or people we love, may temporarily go dark. In the case of the Salt Lake Temple, the facilities manager, Brother Val White, got a call almost immediately. People had noticed. What was wrong with the temple lights? First, the staff went in person to every electrical panel in the temple and manually turned the lights back on. Then they replaced the batteries in the automatic power supply and tested them to find out what had failed.
It’s hard to get the lights back on by yourself. We need friends. We need each other. Just like the temple facilities staff, we can help each other by showing up in person, recharging our spiritual batteries, repairing what went wrong.

The last time I saw President Heber J. Grant was in the Church Administration Building when he was quite aged. President Grant had been driven to the Church Administration Building where the driver called for another brother to help him assist President Grant, one on each arm, to his office.
I was just entering the building as President Grant was coming toward the door. He said to the two brethren assisting him, “Isn’t that Brother Benson coming?”
They replied, “Yes.”
He said, “Come here. Come here, Brother Benson.”
I walked over to him, and President Grant said, “Did I ever tell you about the mean trick Brigham Young played on your great-grandfather?”
I said, “No, President. I didn’t know Brigham Young ever played a mean trick on anyone.”
He responded, “Oh, yes, he did. I’ll tell you about it.”
I could see that the two brethren were practically supporting all of President Grant’s weight, so I said, “I’ll come and visit you some time. I’d like to hear the story.”
He replied, “No, I’ll tell you right here. These brethren can hold me steady while I tell you.”
He said, “You know where Zion’s Bank is, on the corner of Main Street and South Temple Street?”
I said, “Yes.”
He continued, “Your great-grandfather built the finest home in Salt Lake City on that corner, with the exception of Brigham Young’s home (which, of course, was the Lion House which still stands). He had it all finished. It was a beautiful home—two stories with a porch at both levels on both sides of the house. It had a white picket fence around it with fruit trees and ornamental trees and with a little stream running through the yard. He was all ready to move his families in from their log cabins when President Young called him into the office one day. ‘Brother Benson,’ he said, ‘we would like you to go to Cache Valley in northern Utah and pioneer that area and preside over the Saints. We suggest you sell your home to Daniel H. Wells.’
“Now,” President Grant said, “Daniel H. Wells was Brigham Young’s counselor. Wasn’t that a mean trick? Come on, brethren, let’s go.”
In all the years that I had attended the Benson Family reunions I had never heard that story. So I had it verified by the Church Historical Department, and they assured me that the facts were as President Grant related them. They told me they had an old photograph of the old home.
Since that time, I have been most grateful for the so-called “mean trick” of President Young, because were it not for that, the Bensons would not have their roots in Cache Valley.

“It’s important to remember we just didn’t start out cold,” David Sackett said. “Sixty-five miles is a lot of bicycling for one day. We worked for months getting in shape.” The training program required each Explorer to cycle 300 to 325 miles a month for the three months prior to the trip. Each participant had to ride at least four days a week. In addition, once each month the trainees pumped the pedals through a 75-mile practice run.
Squeezing in training around a summer job might seem like a burden, but Steve Fowler managed it well. “Kevin Jolley (the post president) and I would get up early, around 6:00 A.M., and go out on his paper route. When the route was done, we’d just keep on going. I had a late night job, so I could go home and rest before work. When it got hard practicing so much, I’d think that if I didn’t push myself, I’d run out of energy during the trip, or maybe I wouldn’t get to go. That made me work harder.”
Training sessions on bike maintenance (including instructions about which parts to carry in a seat or handlebar pack), safety and first aid (a first-aid kit was attached to each bike), and physical care during periods of strenuous exercise were also conducted throughout the summer. A local bicycle shop provided training and parts. The owner kept his shop open late for classes and worked with each boy individually. He wasn’t LDS, but he seemed eager to talk with the group members about their Church-related activities.
Andy Carlstrom described the orange T-shirts the group bought with funds raised for the trip: “We had them silk-screened with the name of our ward, post, and a map of our route on them. The color made us more visible to traffic and worked as a safety factor in our favor, and the shirts also identified the post as a group,” he said.
Nine post members made the trip, along with Herbert C. “Chuck” Carlstrom, post advisor, and Chet Harmer, a post committee man. They were joined at the third stop by the Young Men’s president, Dale Van Horn, and his wife, Beryl. In the “Sag Wagon,” as the supply van was nicknamed, rode Hank and Olga Machado and their two children, Mike and Andrea. Hank is another member of the post committee. Scott Mortensen, a recently returned missionary, accompanied them. Janine Van Horn joined the group in another truck along the route.
Brother Carlstrom, in his daily journal, narrates the contentment he reveled in one evening: “We made camp. Some of us wanted to sleep on the beach, but after a while we were forced to higher ground by the unusually high tide. … The day’s end caught most of us watching the beauty of the coast as wild fowl flew … before us. As the sun sank … , it filled the sky with all shades of reds and oranges, with slight traces of pink. … It was replaced by the moon, almost full, as it came over the mountains in back of us, painting the ocean’s surface with flickering light. It was soon joined by other heavenly bodies and God’s handiwork was displayed before us. We had just received our compensation for an afternoon of hard, uphill riding, and we all were thankful.”
Danny shared similar sentiments. “Being able to see nature and many of the things the Lord has created on the earth strengthened my testimony of the plan of salvation and the creation of the world. I never realized how much there was to see.” Bob Nelson said he felt the most impressive part of the trip was following the road along Pismo Beach. On the left mountains jutted up into the sky. On the right hundreds of feet below, ocean waves hurled themselves into the rocky shoreline, jetting streams of water high in the air. At the tops of hills, the view continued for 15 or 20 miles.
The trip’s itinerary, along with the distance covered each day, included: Monterey (70 miles), Kirk Creek south of Big Sur (65 miles), San Simeon State Beach (40 miles), Pismo Beach (51 miles), Gaviota State Beach (65 miles), McGrath State Beach (65 miles), Santa Monica (55 miles), and Anaheim (46 miles). The route from San Jose to Anaheim was part of a 1,000-mile Bicentennial bikeway that stretches from Oregon to Mexico. Many of the stops retraced—only backwards—the route taken by the founders of San Francisco, led by Juan Bautista de Anza from Mexico.
The journey offered glimpses into the past, reflecting the colonizing efforts of Spanish, Russian, and Mexican explorers. Forts, lighthouses, missions, and old mining and lumbering areas were passed on the road. The route also showcased the modern agricultural bustle of northern California.
The cyclists divided themselves into sub-groups of two or three. “It was the buddy system used all the time in Scouting,” Andy explained. “Each person is responsible for the others with him. That way no one gets lost or left alone.” Kevin noted that those who were fast or slow were paired together.
Brother Harmer said he felt the Lord had protected the group. “It’s interesting that we went about 6,500 man-miles with only one slight tumble as an accident,” he noted. Others chimed in their agreement, noting that all the flat tires occurred on level ground instead of on steep downhill grades, and most of them at the end of the day, just as the group pulled into camp.
Still, there were a few difficult moments along the way. One morning during the first part of the trip, the cyclists were enshrouded in a damp fog. They had to stop and dig deep in their gear to find jackets. One night they reached the scheduled campground and found it closed. A friendly ranger let them camp a mile away on the beach at a picnic ground.
Later, anticipating an easy trip on flat land, the riders were buffeted by strong headwinds, which slowed their progress almost as much as an uphill grade. Another time they battled two large hills, one 15 miles long and rising 1,500 feet, in temperatures that exceeded 100 degrees F. at 10:00 A.M. What was worse, the road veered inland, away from the cooling effect of the coastal waters.
“We learned to appreciate the ocean more after that,” Mike Powell said. “When we got back to the beach that night, just about everyone went swimming to cool off.”
The rough spots were worth enduring, though. “There’s not one person who went on the trip, including the leaders, with whom I don’t have something in common now,” Danny said.
The final Saturday, having put the bikes on the train the day before, the weary travelers boarded to return home. There was plenty of room to stretch out and relax, and soon they were snoozers, not bikers.
Somehow, though, when the train finally halted in San Jose and they had to remount their cycles for another seven-mile jaunt to the chapel, they seemed almost eager to be riding once again. Soon they would be home recuperating, sharing a slice of their saga with their families.

Let me provide another example of disconnecting gradually and physically from things as they really are. Today a person can enter into a virtual world, such as Second Life, and assume a new identity. An individual can create an avatar, or a cyberspace persona, that conforms to his or her own appearance and behavior. Or a person can concoct a counterfeit identity that does not correlate in any way to things as they really are. However closely the assumed new identity approximates the individual, such behavior is the essence of things as they really are not. Earlier I defined the fidelity of a simulation or model. I now emphasize the importance of personal fidelity—the correspondence between an actual person and an assumed, cyberspace identity. Please note the lack of personal fidelity in the following episode as reported in the Wall Street Journal:

Ric Hoogestraat is “a burly [53-year-old] man with a long gray ponytail, thick sideburns and a salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache. … [Ric spends] six hours a night and often 14 hours at a stretch on weekends as Dutch Hoorenbeek, his six-foot-nine, muscular … cyber-self. The character looks like a younger, physically enhanced version of [Ric]. …

“… [He] sits at his computer with the blinds drawn. … While his wife, Sue, watches television in the living room, Mr. Hoogestraat chats online with what appears on the screen to be a tall, slim redhead.

“He’s never met the woman outside of the computer world of Second Life, a well-chronicled digital fantasyland. … He’s never so much as spoken to her on the telephone. But their relationship has taken on curiously real dimensions. They own two dogs, pay a mortgage together and spend hours [in their cyberspace world] shopping at the mall and taking long motorcycle rides. … Their bond is so strong that three months ago, Mr. Hoogestraat asked Janet Spielman, the 38-year-old Canadian woman who controls the redhead, to become his virtual wife.

“The woman he’s legally wed to is not amused. ‘It’s really devastating,’ says Sue Hoogestraat, … who has been married to Mr. Hoogestraat for seven months.”5

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to the leeward islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.

This concern explains why, when I was about 10 years old and attending primary school, my parents made a decision. In Germany you start a higher-education path at a young age. My parents decided not to allow me to go into higher education because they had seen many young people leave the Church while attending these schools at that time. They said, “You can go anywhere, but not to the Gymnasium [university-track school], because we don’t want to lose you to the world!”
That decision meant that I received a basic education and later a vocational education; for me, that meant a degree in business. This limited many of my professional possibilities. I completed my training when I was 18 years old and was called to serve as a missionary in Munich, Germany. I loved being a missionary.
When I finished my mission, I found myself without a lot of career options. I had finished my education. Two years after my mission, I married my wife, Christiane, and there was no chance for me to gain a university education. There was a moment when I felt sad about my parents’ decision because I felt so limited.
Then a thought came to me: “Whatever my parents did, they did to protect me. They did it out of love, and it will not be a disadvantage for me.” Even though at times it seemed to be a disadvantage in a worldly sense, I could now understand that it would never be a real disadvantage. I decided to make a career in the insurance business, and I later became an executive in the company where I worked.
One challenge for me was that I had always wanted to be a teacher, and you cannot be a teacher in Germany without a university education. However, I eventually did become a teacher—a religion teacher. I became a teacher for the Church Educational System. And in a manner of speaking, that is what I am now—a teacher. So I gained a testimony that it is worthwhile to listen to your parents, to follow their counsel, and to trust that they love you, pray for you, and know what is best for you. The desire to stay active in the Church was so strong on my part and the desire to protect me was so strong on my parents’ part that everything did come together for my good.

Jane’s mother was a wonderful gardener. She could grow beautiful flowers even in a patch of rocky soil. “No matter how tired I get, working in the garden or just looking at a meadow of Maine wildflowers always perks me up,” she had once told Jane.
After Mama got sick, Jane picked flowers for her each day, filling her bedroom with forget-me-nots, daisies, lady’s slippers, and wildflowers of all the colors of the rainbow.
But then autumn came, and there were no more flowers.
“The frost killed the last flowers,” Jane whispered one day as she brought a handful of bright orange and red maple leaves to cheer her mother.
Mama took her hand. “When spring comes, Jane, remember to look at the flowers for me.”
Jane thought that the long Maine winter would never end. The house seemed so cold without Mama. Little Rose and Isaac had been sent away to Aunt Ellen’s. Father was grave and silent.
One day her father said, “Aunt Ellen has found a cousin of your mother’s who can come and keep house for us this spring. If she does, then Rose and Isaac can come home.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Cousin Kate.”
Cousin Kate didn’t look much older than a girl. She was plump and wore her dark red hair in braids piled on top of her head. Rose and Isaac came home. They missed Mama, and so did Jane. But Cousin Kate cuddled Rose and Isaac and made them laugh. Even Papa smiled a little at her funny ways. But Jane still could not laugh.
Finally the beauty of spring touched the world. Mama’s daffodils came up; then the forsythia bushes burst out in bright yellow. There were new leaf buds on the trees. One night Jane caught the sweet scent of lilacs from the bush under her window.
But Jane only wanted to scream and yell at the flowers. How could they be here when Mama was gone?
One morning Kate said, “Jane, we must set about spring cleaning.”
Kate and Jane began a whirlwind of turning over mattresses and shaking out rugs. After the whole house had been cleaned, Kate said, “We haven’t touched your mother’s dresses. Come and help me go through them.”
Reluctantly Jane followed Cousin Kate into her parents’ room. Mama’s dresses still hung in the closet.
“We’ll put some of these dresses aside for you, Jane. Then you’ll have something of hers to wear when you’re grown.”
Kate began to sort through Mama’s dresses. Jane sat on the floor, holding a familiar red wool dress her mother had worn often to church. She felt the tears run down her cheeks and turned toward the window so that Kate wouldn’t see them.
Outside, Papa was just visible near the barn, and Rose and Isaac were playing near the garden. Kate had worked hard in the garden, and it was blooming with the promise of all kinds of flowers and vegetables.
Jane looked down at the dress in her hands. She didn’t want to give it—or any of them—away. They would help her remember Mama during the long, cold winters when there were no flowers. Suddenly she had an idea. “Remember to look at the flowers,” Mama had said. Jane turned to her cousin and said softly, “Kate, could I have one of my mother’s dresses now, before I’m grown?”
Kate stopped and looked at Jane. “These dresses bring her back, do they?”
Jane nodded. “I want to make something to remember her by. I could make a quilt, but I’m not very good at quilting.”
“Did your mama teach you how to make rugs? She made some beautiful ones herself, with appliqué and embroidery.”
“Oh yes! Mama did teach me! I remember she said that if you knew how to make a rug, you could make any house into a home.”
“Well, let’s see,” said Kate, nodding her head. “The red dress you have there would be perfect. Here’s a black wool one too.” She smiled at Jane.
She understands how I feel, thought Jane.
The rug would be made from wool, so it would last. Jane began to plan its design—it must have lots of flowers!
Jane worked on the rug each summer evening. It was big—almost four feet wide and six feet long—perfect for in front of a fireplace or in the kitchen.
She filled the center of the rug with pictures of everything around her that summer: trees, their old cow, birds sitting on their nests in the apple orchard, her father riding his horse to town. She even put in their house, with its two large windows downstairs, four windows upstairs, and two big chimneys. She embroidered a beautiful starflower, and a dozen lovely hearts. In the very center she copied her mother’s favorite vase filled with a bright bouquet.
“You don’t have any more room in the center,” Kate laughed one evening. “Now what will you do for the borders?”
“Vines and more flowers,” Jane said.
“That’s quite a project for an eleven-year-old,” her father observed. “I don’t recall ever seeing anything like it in the whole of Maine.”
“Oh, Papa!”
“Well, in Wiscasset, anyway. It’s sure to win a prize at the Harvest Fair,” he said.
“Jane has put a lot of love and memories into the rug, and it shows,” Cousin Kate agreed.
Jane cut out over one hundred flowers to appliqué around the border. She used her mother’s brightest clothes. She embroidered curving leaves, vines, and flowers trailing up and down the sides of the rug. Each night when she went to bed, she had to shake her hand because her fingers were so tired and sore from holding the needle. But each morning she looked around her more eagerly, wanting to capture the beauty her mother had taught her to see.
Finally it was done. Cousin Kate helped her press it with a warm iron the night before the Harvest Fair.
They took the wagon to the center of Wiscasset to the big churchyard. Quilts and rugs and samplers of all kinds were already displayed.
Jane hesitated.
“Come,” said Cousin Kate, taking her arm. “Let’s enter it.”
“What have we here?” Mrs. Kingsbury asked.
“A rug made by Jane Gove, age eleven,” said Kate proudly, while Jane stood shyly to one side.
In the morning sunlight the bright cloth and the colored threads shone and sparkled on the black wool.
“Why it’s almost like being in a garden! You’re Mary Gove’s oldest, aren’t you? Your mother would be proud!” Mrs. Kingsbury exclaimed.
As they walked around the churchyard, looking at jams and jellies and animals and pumpkins, it was almost like being a family again. Cousin Kate couldn’t ever take Mama’s place, but Jane was glad that she had come to live with them. It was good to see Isaac and Rose laughing again. And Papa seemed to walk with a lighter step. But we haven’t forgotten Mama. She is still in our hearts.
After supper, the winners were announced. After seeing the display of needlework, Jane didn’t really think her rug would win. But suddenly she heard her name!
“For the 1845 Wiscasset Harvest Fair, first prize for needlework, the winner is Miss Jane Gove. This young lady is only eleven years old, but she has created one of the most extraordinary pieces of needlework our judges have ever seen!”
Although Jane grew up and made other rugs for her own family, she always kept this special rug. It stayed in her family for a long time, and finally someone decided that it should be seen by other people as well. It is now recognized as a masterpiece of American folk art and is displayed in the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County, California.
As long as she lived, Jane kept the joyful memory of her mother in her heart. And she never forgot to smile each spring when the flowers came back to the gardens and meadows.

A 6th generation member of the Church, I am very grateful to have been born into a family with a rich heritage of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Our greatest example of prayer, scripture study, faith and obedience was our grandmother, Emma Makaopiopio Kalama, who prayed in fluent Hawaiian, morning and night or whenever needed which was numerous. Grandma was widowed at 38 years of age, left with a family of five children. A single mom, raised in the Church, she knew that her greatest strength and resource was a loving Heavenly Father to whom she prayed fervently for guidance and direction. Grandma trusted and believed in Him, and the Lord answered her prayers. It was from Grandma Emma that I learned I must pray always, a principle which has and continues to make an eternal impact on my life.

Fortunately, our loving Father continued to direct an orderly evacuation amid severe devastation. Long-distance travel was dangerous. There were continuing aftershocks. Public transportation was shut down. Water and electrical supplies were interrupted, and it was nearly impossible to buy gas or food. Sister Tateoka and I understood very well that we were the only ones able to reach two elders in a mountainous area and two other elders over the mountain on the other side of the island. Freeways were closed, so this last trip would require a five- or six-hour drive one-way north up the mountain on back roads, another two to three hours over the mountains and down to Tsuruoka, and four more hours back to safety.
We left early on the morning of March 16 and arrived at Elder Ohsugi’s and Elder Yuasa’s apartment around 5:00 p.m. To pick up the last two elders, we needed to travel back south, over a mountain summit, and down to the city of Tsuruoka. With less than half a tank of gas, we knew that we could not turn back. As we began traveling to pick up the last two elders, snow began to fall. Soon, we found ourselves in a blinding snowstorm, traveling at less than 15 miles (24 km) per hour. I could not see the lines on the highway.
At 7:30 p.m., as we finally reached the summit, we were stopped by the police. An officer informed me that an avalanche had blocked the road and closed the mountain pass. He told me that we could go no farther; we had to turn around and take an alternate route to the other side of the island around the avalanche. Without enough gas to go around the avalanche, it appeared we had no way to reach Elder Lay and Elder Ruefenacht in Tsuruoka.
Dejectedly, we turned back as directed by the police. I asked the elders in the van to call every member of the Yamagata Ward to see if we could find someone who could give us some gasoline. We stopped and prayed earnestly, drawing upon all of the power of heaven we could. We prayed for another miracle and again turned to the Lord.
The missionaries called every active member. But no one had gasoline. Gas stations had run out of supplies and were closed. Then the elders were impressed to call an less-active friend, Brother Tsuchihashi. Our Heavenly Father had once again directed our path. Brother Tsuchihashi could give us 20 liters (5 gallons) of gas. But to meet this good brother, we had to travel another hour north, the opposite direction of where we wanted to go. The quantity of gas would be helpful but not sufficient to allow us to travel around the avalanche.
Having faith, we traveled north, still not knowing how we would pick up the other two elders. We made it to Shinjo City, where we received the 20 liters of gas. Soon thereafter, I received a call from President Yoshida, my counselor, who by now was very worried that we had not yet returned. He asked where we were, and when I told him Shinjo, he was shocked that we were so far out of our way. It was beyond his ability to reach us and help us return.
Then he looked on his map, and in a broken voice stammered, “There is a little-known mountain pass that will take you from Shinjo to the elders in Tsuruoka.” The Lord had prepared a way for us to be precisely where we needed to be to drive around the avalanche. The gasoline we were given was exactly the amount necessary to make the trip safely around the avalanche to pick up the elders.

Throughout his life, Heber J. Grant recognized the Lord as the source of his strength. Called to be an Apostle when he was only twenty-five years old, he was plagued for four agonizing months with doubts about his worthiness and preparation for the calling. But during a missionary journey on the Navajo Indian reservation in Arizona, the young Apostle had an unforgettable experience that silenced his doubts forever.
He later recounted that as he was riding alone on horseback, “I seemed to see, and I seemed to hear, what to me is one of the most real things in all my life. I seemed to see a Council in Heaven. I seemed to hear the words that were spoken. I listened to the discussion with a great deal of interest. … In this Council the Savior was present, my father was there, and the Prophet Joseph Smith was there.” Young Heber listened as the council discussed the vacancies that needed to be filled in the Quorum of the Twelve. “It was given to me,” he said, “that the Prophet Joseph Smith and my father mentioned me and requested that I be called to that position. I sat there and wept for joy. It was given to me that I had done nothing to entitle me to that exalted position, except that I had lived a clean, sweet life. It was given to me that … the Prophet Joseph and my father desired me to have that position, and it was because of their faithful labors that I was called, and not because of anything I had done of myself or any great thing that I had accomplished. It was also given to me that that was all these men, the Prophet and my father, could do for me; from that day it depended upon me and upon me alone as to whether I made a success of my life or a failure. …
“From that day I have never been bothered, night or day, with the idea that I was not worthy to stand as an Apostle, and I have not been worried since the last words uttered by Joseph F. Smith to me [Elder Grant succeeded Joseph F. Smith as President of the Church]: ‘The Lord bless you, my boy, the Lord bless you; you have got a great responsibility. Always remember this is the Lord’s work and not man’s. The Lord is greater than any man. He knows whom He wants to lead His Church, and never makes any mistakes. The Lord bless you.’” (In Conference Report, April 1941, pages 4–5.)

I underwent an operation on September 24, 2018, and had many people by my side taking care of me. A few days after the operation and being discharged, while at home, I felt a lot of fever inside me. I visited the clinic again, and after several tests, they found that during the surgery to remove the colon tumor, they had left a small hole causing the fever. I developed sepsis because no hole was supposed to remain after the operation. I had to stay in the clinic for one more week.
On the third day of being hospitalized, I felt extremely sad. I prayed to Heavenly Father and asked many questions. After finishing my prayer and shedding many tears, there was a knock on the door of my room, and to my surprise, it was the two missionaries who were attending my ward at that time. Seeing me crying, they prayed with and encouraged me. I told them about the prayer I had made and how the Lord had sent these two messengers to me.
Thanks to my Heavenly Father, I overcame the sepsis and moved on to the next stage, which, although difficult, was a true miracle. I had to undergo chemotherapy, and when I received the first treatment, I suffered another health setback. A port was inserted to administer the chemotherapy, and the doctor who placed it put it in too high, causing me to have four embolisms and two pulmonary infarctions. My oncologist couldn’t explain how I had survived the embolisms and infarctions. I told her that I believed God was keeping me alive because I still had important work to do for Him.

Recently I attended the blessing of our newest granddaughter. It was a holy sight to me as my husband and our sons, along with many other loved ones, encircled this little infant. She was so elegant all dressed in white—and it didn’t hurt a bit that she was named after her two grandmothers! But the thing that touched me most was the blessing given by her father, our son Zach. He blessed little Annabel Elaine that she would understand her identity as a daughter of God, that she would follow the examples of her mother, grandmothers, and sister, and that she would find great joy as she lived a virtuous life and prepared to make and keep sacred temple covenants. In that sacred moment, I prayed that every young woman might be encircled, strengthened, and protected by righteous priesthood power, not only at the time of birth and blessing but throughout life.

I couldn’t concentrate. The city library buzzed like a beehive under attack. In my irritation, I momentarily forgot just why I was studying here rather than taking advantage of the mature silence and concentration of the university library. Then my reason walked by.
She was the assistant librarian and was easily the most beautiful girl ever to walk the earth. Her name tag told me she was Miss Burton, but that was all I knew about her. She was the motive that had driven me here for the last three nights just hoping for a chance to learn her first name. So far she hadn’t even said, “Sh-h-h, you’re in the library,” much less “hello.”
But I kept coming back, hoping that this night would be better than the last. With zero enthusiasm, I turned to my books, but it was impossible to study. I pushed American History to the side, folded my arms, and gazed at Miss Burton busily working at her desk. Occasionally she would cast a furtive glance in my direction. When she did, I would grin broadly and wink at her. She’d quickly duck her head to hide her blushing cheeks, but at least she knew I existed.
I admired her beauty and grace, but I was equally impressed by her modesty. Instead of wearing faded denim jeans and a sleazy blouse, so typical of my friends, Miss Burton was wearing a dress. One that actually came down to her knees! Her make-up was not heavy; in fact, unless you looked closely, you couldn’t even tell that she wore it. Her long hair adorned her head and shoulders like a veil. Her clothes, her actions, her very appearance declared that she was a lady!
It was weird that I should be so attracted to her. I could have passed for her exact opposite. My hair and beard were both shoulder length; I wore an old pair of faded jeans, an embroidered denim vest, and worn out sandals; I looked like the king of rebellion—she was the epitome of virtue and conformity.
I had chosen my way of life; she had chosen hers. Our differences stood as an impregnable barrier between us. To penetrate that barrier, I knew I would have to cut my hair and conform to society. No, I would not put on a suit and tie again, not even for her!
The pencil snapped in my hand. Why was I so upset over a prudish librarian? Because something in her eyes, in her smile, in her very essence affected me deeply; in spite of myself, I felt I was beginning to care about Miss Burton, and I still didn’t even know her first name!
I wondered if she could ever adopt my life-style. As she stood replacing books on a nearby shelf, I tried to imagine her with kinky, frizzed hair, but it was futile. The Mona Lisa would adjust to that more readily than Miss Burton!
She finished replacing the books and turned to walk toward the desk. Her eyes caught mine; slowly, a smile crept to her lips. As she walked by me, I pushed back my chair and unfolded all 193 centimeters of me. I stood at attention, tipped a make-believe hat and whispered loudly, “How do you do, Madam!” It was a whisper, but my voice rasped loudly enough to echo through the library, causing her face to turn a glowing crimson. A ripple of laughter flowed through the library and I sat down with a wide grin on my face.
Shortly after Miss Burton had returned to her desk and the color in her cheeks had returned to normal, a freckle-faced girl, probably about 13 years old, approached her. The girl obviously had not asked the usual “where do I find” question, because Miss Burton looked deep into her eyes and placed her slender hand over the girl’s chubby one. I caught the word rebellion as they spoke with each other.
Quietly, I moved to a table closer to the desk; I was interested in what Miss Burton had to say on the subject. Holding an open magazine as a guise, I leaned back in the plastic chair as far as I dared. I strained my ears to catch every word.
The girl spoke: “I need books on rebellion so I’ll know how to act when I go to 9th grade next year.”
I started to laugh, but Miss Burton’s serious tone told me that she did not think it was funny.
“And you think you’ll stand out in the crowd if you don’t rebel, is that right?”
“Sure! Everybody rebels! Like my sister: she’s at a demonstration tonight at the university because the president won’t make it legal to smoke marijuana on campus. And my brother, Mom and Dad are always yelling at him to cut his hair, and he won’t do it even though it’s almost as long as his.” I could feel her pointing at my direction.
She continued: “My dad is on a strike, and Mom’s always away fighting for women’s rights. That’s rebelling, too, isn’t it?”
Lines of concern wrinkled Miss Burton’s smooth forehead. She seemed deep in thought. At length she spoke:
“When we rebel, we’re being selfish. We want things done our way, and if others object, we rebel. It’s like throwing a temper tantrum. We refuse to listen to the other side of the argument because it might prove that we are wrong.
“It takes courage to do what’s right, especially when it’s easier to do what’s wrong. Remember this: cowards rebel; brave men and women obey the laws and do what they know is right. When something is wrong, though, they have the courage to speak out against the wrong doing.” I was incensed! I felt personally attacked by the girl I was beginning to care for. With effort, though. I managed to control my emotions. Maybe she hadn’t said what I thought. I’d keep listening, and maybe she would clarify or retract her statement that cowards rebel.
The little girl was puzzled. “But were George Washington and Thomas Jefferson cowards? They rebelled against England didn’t they?”
“No honey they weren’t cowards, and they didn’t rebel against England. You see, Great Britain was being unfair to the new colonists in America. She taxed them heavily, but then she wouldn’t give them a voice in government. Had she been fair to them, there never would have been a Revolutionary War.”
This is madness! I tried to stand up. I had forgotten I was leaning back and fell crashing to the floor—pulling my books down with me. Before I realized what had happened, Miss Burton and half of the library’s occupants were surrounding me.
“Are—are you hurt?” she stammered, quickly surveying the disaster area.
“No, just a little shocked,” I muttered.
As I untangled my legs from the wreckage, Miss Burton ushered the crowd away. Much to my surprise, she remained.
“Did I say something that surprised you?” she asked.
“You sure did!” I blurted, a little too brusquely. I quickly scanned her face to see if I’d offended her. More gently, I added, “Miss Burton, you’ve got some strange ideas about rebellion!”
She nodded. Her silence urged me on.
“I don’t understand how you can say that rebels are cowards! And then you say that the forefathers of the United States didn’t rebel against England! You—a librarian!” I consciously restrained myself from saying any more.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you …” Her voice trailed off. Walking toward us was a quaint-looking man who could have been a twin to the tall, thin character in a story by Washington Irving (an American author).
“It’s the head librarian!” she whispered. She mouthed the word later, squeezed my arm, and quickly returned to her duties at the main desk.
Sitting down again was a painful experience, but the thought of talking to Miss Burton after the library closed served as a local anesthetic to my bruises. I mulled her words over in my mind: “Cowards rebel; brave men and women obey laws …”
She’s wrong! I argued. Just like all the others. It takes courage to be different and to rebel against the traditions of society! A coward wouldn’t dare to have “long hair” and storm administration buildings! It takes fortitude to stand up for what you believe in!
An unbeckoned thought crept into my mind and whispered, “But, Dan, what do you believe in?”
“Freedom!” I retorted.
Again it whispered, “Freedom from rules, obligations, and ties that bind?”
I fell silent. I was unable to answer these queries from within. I knew that I had not displayed courage by rebelling; rather, I had taken the easy way out. Home and religion had been too restricting. I wanted to have fun, my way, with no obligations or responsibilities.
I remembered how upset Dad had been. Mom cried. I hated myself for hurting them, but still their disappointment was easier to bear than the scoffs from my friends. I grew further and further from my family. I acted like I didn’t care, but it really had hurt me, deep inside.
“Cowards rebel! Could she be right?” I asked aloud. I smiled and breathed deeply. I felt as though a heavy yoke were being lifted off my weary shoulders. For the first time in years I felt really free.
I sensed the presence of someone near and turned around. Miss Burton smiled radiantly.
“It sounds like you’ve been having an interesting conversation with yourself,” she said.
“I have, but I’d rather have one with you!”
“Could I give you a ride home?” I asked.
“I live just a few blocks from here, so I usually walk.” Pause. “But if you would like to walk me home … ”
I responsed instantly to her cue, and soon we were outside enjoying the crisp autumn twilight. We walked in silence for a minute or so.
“Miss Burton,” I said at length, “do you have a first name?”
She laughed, “Why yes, I believe I do. Before I started to work at the library, people used to call me Rebecca.”
“Becky Burton!” I said. “That’s cute!”
“Rebecca—not Becky.” We fell silent. Then, as if to pick up the strands of conversation again, she added, “Rebecca was the wife of Isaac in the Bible. Remember?”
I nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Dan,” I replied.
“Daniel was a biblical name, too.” she offered. “Have you ever read the Bible?”
“Parts of it a long time ago,” I had not really planned to discuss the Bible tonight.
“You know, Dan, if the library were to catch on fire, I think I’d rescue that book before all the others!” Her eyes were shining. Religion must be an important part of her life.
Sensing that I didn’t share her enthusiasm, she stammered, a little embarrassed, “I—I guess I really shouldn’t be talking about the Bible right now.” Then, almost childlike, she asked, “Are you a Christian?”
“Am I a Christian, Rebecca?” I asked, as I came back to the present. “Let’s say I used to be.” She sensed my need for silence.
We walked along the dark, tree-lined street; only the crunching sound of autumn leaves under our feet interrupted the silence. I felt so alone in the cold, dark world. More than anything else, I wanted Rebecca’s friendship. She seemed so sure of herself, so at peace with herself. I wanted to draw from her strength, to learn from her wisdom. I looked down at my feet, afraid of her warm eyes.
“Rebecca,” I whispered softly. “What is it that makes you so special?”
I could have guessed that she would say it was her belief in Diety; she impressed me as a deeply religious girl. I wondered, though, which religion was to receive the credit for making her so sensitive, tender, and caring.
I pressed further, “What is your religion, Rebecca? Are you Catholic, Protestant, or something else?”
Her lips held just a hint of a smile. “I guess I fall into the ‘something else’ category, Dan. I’m searching for truth wherever I can find it. I discover it in some unusual places. But I can’t help but wonder one thing. Is there one religion that contains all of the truth?”
Her question pricked me deeply. Her eyes were searching mine, imploring. I looked away—my past blazed before me. Silently, I bowed my head and prayed. I hadn’t done that in years! After a long moment, I returned her gaze.
“Rebecca,” I slowly began, “what do you know about the Mormon church?”

One of the temples currently under construction is in Manaus, Brazil. Many years ago I read of a group of over a hundred members who left Manaus, located in the heart of the Amazon rain forest, to travel to what was then the closest temple, located in São Paulo, Brazil—nearly 2,500 miles (4,000 km) from Manaus. Those faithful Saints journeyed by boat for four days on the Amazon River and its tributaries. After completing this journey by water, they boarded buses for another three days of travel—over bumpy roads, with very little to eat, and with nowhere comfortable to sleep. After seven days and nights, they arrived at the temple in São Paulo, where ordinances eternal in nature were performed. Of course their return journey was just as difficult. However, they had received the ordinances and blessings of the temple, and although their purses were empty, they themselves were filled with the spirit of the temple and with gratitude for the blessings they had received.2 Now, many years later, our members in Manaus are rejoicing as they watch their own temple take shape on the banks of the Rio Negro. Temples bring joy to our faithful members wherever they are built.

The faith of the Korean Saints grew constantly but was often tested. Brother Chun Nak Seo, who after his baptism joined the army to fulfill his military duty, recalled some trying times: “During the three years of military service, my faith and testimony were tested. One day the company commander was drunk and brought a lot of liquor and pressed it on the company members. Because my colleagues knew that I was LDS, they always emptied the cup for me. But on that evening, the drunken commander was watching me carefully and commanded me to drink from the cup. I said that I didn’t drink alcohol, but he ordered me to do so. But I disobeyed again. He took out his pistol and aimed at me and ordered me to drink. Everyone was holding his breath and watching. I once again clearly said, ‘I do not drink alcohol, sir.’ I felt that moment was very long. He finally said, ‘I give up’ and put down the pistol. Everyone sighed with relief and came back to the barracks. The next morning, the company commander came to me and apologized for what he had done the previous night. Later he used to come to me to get advice on personal matters.”6
Brother Chun served as a full-time missionary in Korea and later as a bishop of the Alameda Ward in Maryland, USA.

Two years ago, in beautiful Heber Valley just east of Salt Lake City, a loving mother and devoted father returned to that personal haven called home to discover that their three eldest sons lay dead. The night was bitter cold, and the fierce wind swept the falling snow, which covered the chimney, releasing deadly carbon monoxide fumes throughout the house.
The joint funeral service for the Keller boys was one of the most touching experiences of my life. The residents of the community had placed aside their daily tasks, children were excused from school, and all thronged to the chapel to express their deep feelings of condolence. So long as time and memory endure, I shall remember the scene of three shiny caskets, followed by grief-stricken parents and grandparents making their way to the front of the building.
The first speaker was the wrestling coach of the local high school. He paid tribute to Louis, the oldest boy. With an emotion-filled voice, and choking back the tears, he told how Louis was not necessarily the most gifted wrestler on the team, but added, “No one tried harder. What he lacked in athletic skill he made up with a determined heart.”
Then a youth leader spoke of Travis. He told how Travis had excelled in Scouting, in Aaronic Priesthood work, and was such a sterling example to his friends.
Finally, a distinguished appearing and obviously competent elementary school teacher told of Jason, the youngest of the three. She described him as quiet, even shy. Then, without embarrassment, she told how Jason had, in the scrawled penmanship of a boy, sent to her the sweetest and most welcome letter she had ever received. Its message was brief—just three words: “I love you.” She could barely complete her talk, so deep-felt were her emotions.
Through the tears and the sorrow of that special day, I observed eternal lessons that had been taught by those boys whose lives were honored and whose mortal missions concluded.
A coach expressed the determination to look beyond athletic prowess and into the heart of each boy. A youth leader made a solemn vow that every boy and girl would have the benefit which the program of the Church provided. An elementary school teacher looked at the small children, classmates of Jason. She said nothing, but her eyes revealed the determination of her soul. The message was unmistakably clear: “I will love each child. Each boy, each girl will be guided in the search for truth, in the development of talent, and be introduced to the wonderful world of service.”
And the audience, including Elders Marvin J. Ashton and Thomas S. Monson, will never again be the same. All will strive toward that perfection spoken of by the Master. Our inspiration? The lives of the boys who now rest from care and sorrow, and the fortitude of parents who trust in the Lord with all their hearts, who lean not to their own understanding, and who in all their ways acknowledge Him, knowing that He will direct their paths. (See Prov. 3:5–6.)
Let me share with you a portion of a letter sent to me by the noble mother of these three sons. It was written soon after their passing.
“We do have days and nights that right now seem so overwhelming. The change in our home life has been so drastic. With almost half our family gone now, the cooking, washing, and even shopping are different. We miss the noise and clutter, the teasing and playing together. Such are gone. Sunday is so quiet. We miss seeing the sacrament blessed and passed by our sons. Sunday was truly our family together day. We ponder the thought: no missions, no weddings, no grandchildren. We would not ask for their return, but we could not say we would ever have willingly given them up. We have returned to our Church duties and our family responsibilities. Our desire is to so live that the Keller family will be a forever family.”

Lisa loved to dance. Twice a week she went to Mrs. Joulé’s ballet school for lessons. But no matter how she worked, Lisa felt she would never be as good as Susan or Jody, the class leaders. The proof was in the mirrors that covered one whole wall of the huge ballet practice room.
Oh, those knees! thought Lisa as she stared at her reflection. Why do they have to stick out when everyone else’s are straight? Lisa worried because her toes didn’t point as gracefully or her legs kick as high as the rest of the girls’. She also believed that she was the only one who ever fell down while doing turns across the room. Lisa wanted to be in the first line, where all the best dancers were, instead of the second or third line. If she became good enough, Mrs. Joulé would move her up, but that seemed impossible.
One afternoon when Lisa reached into her bag for her pink ballet slippers, they weren’t there. She had left them at home. “Mrs. Joulé,” she called, “may I borrow a pair of slippers, size 3C?”
“Of course,” her teacher replied, and she brought in a big cardboard box full of slippers that she kept for such emergencies. Each pair was folded neatly and held together with a rubber band.
After sorting through a few pairs with Mrs. Joulé, Lisa found a nearly new pair of pink slippers that were held on with satin ribbons instead of strips of elastic as her own were. They were exactly her size! “How about these?” she asked.
“Fine,” Mrs. Joulé responded, adding, “I remember these shoes. They belonged to Eileen Webster, who’s with a big ballet company now. I’m proud to say she’s one of their best dancers.”
Lisa slipped the shoes on and tied the smooth satin ribbons around her ankles. How comfortable they were. In fact, Eileen Webster’s shoes felt wonderfully special. And so did Lisa. She daydreamed about being a great ballerina until someone shook her shoulder. “It’s time for class,” Susan said.
That afternoon Lisa danced better than usual. She did every step the very best that she could. She wanted to be another Eileen Webster, and the shoes were helping her. The mirrors reflected a new Lisa. Mrs. Joulé even called on her to demonstrate a particular step. For once, Susan and Jody were following her, and Lisa was careful not to make any mistakes.
After class Lisa went up to Mrs. Joulé and asked, “If I give you my old shoes, do you think I could keep this pair?”
“If you’d like,” replied Mrs. Joulé. “Do they feel all right?”
“They’re perfect!” said Lisa.
The next time she went to class, Lisa exchanged her own worn slippers for Eileen Webster’s almost new ones. As time passed, she started coming early so that she could practice before class. Sometimes she stayed later with Susan and Jody to work on different kinds of turns. And she was soon moved to the front line. She was also the first student to do two turns in place instead of just one.
“That was really good!” Susan said sincerely.
“Thanks,” said Lisa. She couldn’t tell Susan that it was the shoes that made her dance so well. That had to be a secret. There wasn’t another pair like them. They helped her leap higher, land more softly, arch her feet more gracefully, and twirl like a top.
As recital time drew near, Lisa’s class met more often to rehearse their dances. Lisa noticed that her shoes were showing signs of wear. The once-smooth leather looked wrinkled, and the soft pink color was not so pink anymore. The ribbons came unstitched and were resewed again and again. But because the shoes were so important to Lisa, Mrs. Joulé did not insist that she get new ones for the recital. “Clean them up the best you can,” she said.
Shortly before the show was to start on the first night, Lisa was practicing her solo when she felt the bare floor against her foot. The sole of one of her shoes had torn, leaving a big hole! She had to find Mrs. Joulé.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Joulé. “It’s a good thing I brought the box of extra shoes. You certainly can’t wear these. Not only do they look terrible, but this torn one is dangerous. Lisa, these shoes are worn-out.”
“Mrs. Joulé,” cried Lisa, her eyes wide with panic, “I have to wear them! Oh, please try to fix them. I’ll never be able to dance without them!”
Lisa’s stomach felt queasy. Without those slippers, I’ll dance like the old Lisa. I’ll make mistakes and embarrass everybody. She shivered at the thoughts going through her head.
“All right, Lisa,” said Mrs. Joulé. “I’ll see what can be done. Now go get dressed. I’ll bring your shoes to you.”
Lisa went to the dressing room. Nervously she touched her hair that was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Where, she wondered, is Mrs. Joulé? She did several fast turns to see if her hair would stay in place. It was fine. What’s keeping Mrs. Joulé? Her classmates were chatting and helping each other with their costumes and makeup. Lisa slipped into her white tutu and checked the hall for her teacher.
“Relax, Lisa,” said Susan. “She’ll be here.”
A few minutes before show time Mrs. Joulé hurried down the corridor. “Here are your shoes, Lisa,” she said breathlessly. “Now hurry! You girls are on first.”
Lisa put the slippers on quickly. “Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave her teacher a hug. “Everything will be fine now.”
Lisa hurried into line between Susan and Jody, and one by one they danced out onto the brightly lit stage as the audience clapped.
The whole show went smoothly. Lisa’s class received extra applause for some of the harder steps they did. When they danced the “Waltz of the Flowers,” the audience oohed and aahed at the fluffy white costumes with the colorful, flowing scarves, and they applauded loudly after each girl’s solo. Lisa had never danced better. She knew her family was proud of her!
When it was all over, Lisa and her parents went to say good night to Mrs. Joulé.
“Thank you again for fixing my shoes,” said Lisa. “I couldn’t have done it without them.”
“But you did,” said Mrs. Joulé as she held up Eileen Webster’s tattered shoes. “I couldn’t tell you before because you were so sure it was the shoes that made you dance well. Now you see it wasn’t the shoes at all. It was your own hard work, and you made me very proud tonight.”
Lisa stared at Eileen Webster’s worn-out shoes.
Mrs. Joulé continued. “You may keep her shoes if you like, but please, from now on, wear your own. I sewed ribbons on them for you.”
Lisa pulled the ballet slippers out of her bag and saw her initials printed on the inside of each one. They’re the very ones I exchanged for those of a ballet star! she marveled to herself.
“Did you hear that?” she said to her mother as they walked to the car. “It wasn’t the shoes. It was me all the time, and I didn’t even know it! Just wait until tomorrow night. I’ll do even better!” And she waltzed all the way across the parking lot.

I remember the New Era so well during my high school years. I had some important decisions to make back then and needed all the spiritual guidance I could grasp hold of. I remember well when I was struggling with one decision and thought I had done everything there was to do as far as faith and prayer were concerned. One night as I was reading the New Era, I came across some quotes from our latter-day prophets, and one stood out on the page. It said, “Maybe you should try fasting.” I fasted and things became clear. Thanks, New Era, for being there through many of my growing pains. Life here is not over with yet, and I know there will be more growing pains. Sure hope the New Era will be there to help relieve some of the hurt.
Connie MedlockLubbock, Texas

An older sister in the ward had a tumor in her stomach and needed help every day because she could not move from her bed. Finally, she asked if just I would come, not another priesthood holder or any other person, because she was very sick and was going to die. She felt comfortable having her bishop help her.
One day I had an operation on my heart, and I was unable to visit her for a short time. When I went back to see her, she said, “Bishop, how can you come help me if you’ve just had an operation?”
I told her, “My calling is to serve others.”
Her death was coming soon and her body was starting to waste away. It was hard to see her that way, but she was not afraid to die. She loved God and knew the plan of salvation. “I know that God has a wonderful plan for me,” she said.
When she passed away, I reflected on the experiences I had with her and how good my calling as bishop is. I am grateful to serve others, love others, and help them. I love the gospel.

A little story given by one of your missionary sons in Italy a few weeks ago brought this clearly into focus for me.

He recounted that one morning a poor little crippled boy in ragged clothes and badly worn shoes came to a busy street corner and went from person to person, begging for a few lira without success. A man observing the boy from a distance finally went over and picked up this little lad, held him tightly and loved him, and then went forth and cared for him with his means without any judgment.

This sight would have touched any heart and helps us see the power of love that our Father in Heaven would have us understand in our lives. Jesus, the beloved Son of God, reemphasized this new dimension to bless the world when He said, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another.” (John 13:34.)

As in the case of the man who picked up the little crippled boy, there are no reproachments or judgments—just love and help.