Gospel Story Finder

“Let’s grab the gear. It’s fishing time!” Dad said.
Hayden grinned as he looked around. Everything was bright and buzzing. They had the whole lake to themselves!
Following Dad, Hayden walked behind the car and lifted the big fishing tackle box out of the trunk. It was heavy, but he didn’t mind. He’d carry one twice this heavy if it meant fishing with Dad.
Fishing poles rattled together as Dad pulled them out. “Looks like Dan fell asleep,” he said. “Will you wake him up?”
Hayden held back a sigh. “Uh, sure.”
He’d almost forgotten that his little brother, Dan, had come too. Dan was always running around and talking loudly. He’d scare all the fish away!
He looked in the open window. “Dan, time to wake up.”
But Dan was still fast asleep.
Hayden paused. With any luck, Dan might sleep right through the whole trip.
Hayden quietly hauled the tackle box to Dad’s fishing spot on the shore.
“Here’s the bait, worms and all!”
Dad took the tackle box from him. “Great, thanks.” Then Dad looked up. “Where’s your brother?”
Hayden glanced at the car. All of a sudden he wondered how he would feel if he woke up alone in a new place. Not good, Hayden decided. In fact, he’d probably feel pretty scared. And Dan was only five.
“Just a second, Dad. I’ll be right back.” But when he looked in the car, Dan was gone!
Hayden couldn’t hear the buzzing insects anymore. Everything seemed to go quiet.
“Dan’s not here!” Hayden yelled.
Dad hurried over and quickly checked the car.
“He’s probably just looking for us,” Dad said. “It’s only been a minute. He won’t be far.”
Hayden tried to stay calm, but his stomach was turning somersaults. “Can I say a prayer?”
“I think that’s a very good idea.”
Hayden thanked Heavenly Father for his little brother and asked that they would find Dan right away so that he wouldn’t feel afraid.
When Hayden finished, his heart stopped feeling so tight.
Dad put a hand on Hayden’s shoulder. “What if you were Dan? Where would you go?”
Hayden noticed the door on the other side of the car was open. Dan probably hadn’t seen them on the shore. Hayden pointed to a trail nearby. “I’d probably start walking that way,” he said.
They hurried along the trail.
Every second felt slow and heavy. As he walked, Hayden kept saying prayers in his heart. After a few steps, they came around a bend in the trail and saw Dan up ahead.
“Dan!” Hayden shouted.
Dan spun around and smiled. “Hey, where did you guys go?”
Time sped up again. Hayden raced to Dan and hugged him tight.
“I’m so glad we found you,” Hayden said. He said a quick prayer of thanks in his heart.
Dan just grinned. “Where are the fish?”
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Hayden said. His feet were itching to run to the lake. “Let’s see who can catch the first fish. I’ll help you bait your hook.”

Thirteenth President of the Church
Missionary work was difficult in England in the 1920s. Thus, when Elder Ezra Taft Benson and his companion received an invitation to speak in a sacrament meeting including both members and nonmembers, they fasted and prayed. “The hall was filled,” President Benson later recalled. “My companion had planned to talk on the first principles, and I had studied hard in preparation for a talk on the Apostasy. There was a wonderful spirit in the meeting. … When I sat down, I realized that I had not mentioned the Apostasy. I had talked about the Prophet Joseph Smith and had borne my witness of his divine mission and of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.” After the meeting, several people came to the missionaries and said, “Tonight we received a witness that Mormonism is true. We are now ready to consider baptism.” President Benson said, “It was while I was on my first mission that I discovered the constant need for dependence on the Lord” (“Our Commission to Take the Gospel to All the World,” Ensign, May 1984, 44).

Heidi carefully pulled open the little door marked December twelfth on the Weihnachten calendar and looked at the tiny painting of beautifully wrapped presents.
Only fourteen more days until Weihnachten, she thought. I wish time would hurry. She looked down at the doors on the Weihnachten calendar marked December twenty-fifth and wished hard.
“Heidi!” Frau Schroeder called, “Come. There is work to be done for the advents kranz ceremony tonight.”
Heidi smiled. Not everyone made such a ritual of the lighting of the advents kranz candles as her mama and vati did. Almost everyone in Germany had an advents kranz and lighted the candles, one each week until all four were lighted by Weihnachten, but not everyone had a ceremony.
“Heidi!” Frau Schroeder called again.
“Ja, Mama.” Heidi answered, “I’m coming.”
Hurriedly she put on her apron and began to help with the baking.
“Mama,” she asked, “am I old enough to light one of the candles yet?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Every year Wolfgang or Gunther or Helga has lighted the last two candles, and never me, I don’t like being the youngest! Please, Mama, could I this year?”
“It is very special to light the advents kranz candles in this house. It is an honor you must earn,” Mama said.
“I know, but what must I do?”
“When you find that out, you will be old enough.”
What a strange answer, Heidi thought. But there was no more time for questions. There was much work to be done.
That night the entire family, including Oma and Opa Schroeder and Oma Schmidt, gathered in the living room. The beautiful pine bough kranz hung from the ceiling by four red satin ribbons that came together in a bow at the top. Between each ribbon stood a tall thin white candle.
Opa Schroeder lighted the first candle last week after he read the Bible story of Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem. Carefully he relighted the candle, and then Vati began this week’s ceremony.
Heidi listened as he told of how the baby Jesus was born in a stable. She knew the story by heart, but whenever Vati told it, the story seemed new and even more beautiful. Vati loved the story, and everyone who heard him could feel that love.
When he finished, Vati lighted the second candle and then they all ate cookies and little cakes and sang Weihnachten songs until it was time to go to bed.
All during the next week Heidi thought about what Mama had said. She wondered how she could earn the honor of lighting one of the last two candles. But there was not much time to wonder, for there was more baking and much work to be done for the holidays.
Next Sunday was the day that everyone had to participate in the advents kranz ceremony by doing something on the program. Heidi was going to sing her favorite Weihnachten carol, “Silent Night.” She practiced all week and memorized the words, thinking hard about the meaning so she could interpret the right feeling.
With so much to do, the time went fast and Sunday night was there before Heidi had time to think about who would be chosen to light the third candle. And besides, she was scared. Because she was the youngest, she would be first on the program.
Heidi was nervous as she waited for Opa to relight his candle and then for Vati to relight his. Vati started the program and called on Heidi.
Her knees seemed to shake and her hands were wet with perspiration, but she stood up straight next to Mama, who played the piano, and began to sing. “Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright …” Suddenly the fear left her as she forgot about her audience. She remembered only the story of Jesus’ birth, and from her heart she sang her feelings.
The song ended and Heidi felt warm and wonderful inside. But suddenly she noticed a deep silence in the room. What did I do wrong? she wondered.
“That was beautiful!” Vati whispered. “I’ve heard that carol sung many times. But you, Heidi, did more than sing it. You felt and loved it. Thank you.”
There was a pause. Vati looked at Opa and Opa nodded. Then Vati spoke again. “I don’t think we need to go further to find the one who should light the third candle. I think it is agreed that this year Heidi has the true spirit of Weihnachten.”
Vati lifted Heidi up and carefully she lighted the candle. But it wasn’t as she thought it would be. Singing the song had been the important thing, not lighting the candle. She sat back down in her seat and listened to the others present their parts on the program. Occasionally her eyes peeked at the candles on the advents kranz.
The true spirit of Weihnachten, she thought, is not Sankt Nikolaus, or the Weihnachten calendar, or putting my shoes out for treats, or presents, or even the advents kranz, but a baby in a stable on a silent holy night.

One time President and Sister Harold B. Lee were in our home. Sister Lee put a handful of pennies on a table before our young son. She had him slide the shiny ones to one side and said, “These are your tithing; these belong to the Lord. The others are yours to keep.” He thoughtfully looked from one pile to the other and then said, “Don’t you have any more dirty ones?” That was when the real teaching moment began!

Elder Bangerter of the Seventy spoke about how small and simple things can make a big difference in our lives. His family goes camping each year. They hold a devotional and ask their children and grandchildren to share a message about Jesus Christ. This year, the grandchildren wrote the topics of their messages on stones. Then they buried the stones. This reminded them that following Christ creates a foundation for a happy life.

I recall a simple incident that occurred in our family years ago. My husband and I were away from home, and our oldest son was babysitting the other children. We received a call from a concerned neighbor alerting us that a firetruck was at our house. We raced home and found that our 10-year-old son had been playing in the backyard next to a six-acre field of tall, dry grass. He was trying to see if he could start a fire with sparks.

Obviously, he did! By the time we arrived, the small fire had been extinguished by the fire department, the firemen had lectured our son, and the neighbors were beginning to disperse. Our son was embarrassed, frightened, tearful, and knew he was surely in trouble.

We all went into the house. Our son was so afraid that, even though the situation was serious, all we could do was wrap our arms around this sweet boy and reassure him of our love and our relief that he wasn’t hurt.

Chita’s Christmas Tree
When Chita and Papa go to look for a Christmas tree, Mama packs them peanut butter sandwiches. But they get hot, sugary waffles from the waffle man and give the sandwiches to Henry, their horse (he loves them!). Chita finds the perfect tree, and Papa carves her name on the trunk. Will Santa Claus find it and bring it Christmas Eve? Chita worries about it as she helps Mama bake.

Clara Holbrook from Filmore, Utah, served as a missionary in London from 1899 to 1901. Letters written home while serving there shed light on the use of Number 36:
“At 8 o’clock every Thursday night we hold meetings in the hall at 36. On Sunday morning we meet in some Park and Sunday afternoon at 2.30 and 6.30 at Clerkenwell [Town] Hall.”
She also paints an interesting picture of street meetings held at the time:
“At my first street meeting I wanted to laugh. It seemed so funny for two or three of us to stop right in the middle of a little side street; to sing, pray and speak to the few open-mouthed passers by who stood listening a few minutes then passed on only to be replaced by others. Some listen intently from the beginning to the close of the meeting which lasts about an hour. At both meetings we had a fair audience, respectful and good listeners. The noise of the street is so great at times, the speaker can scarcely be heard.”
Then in one letter home, she writes:
“Sometimes I feel very far away from those I love …but then comes the consoling thought that I am called of God to carry the glorious light of the gospel to souls that are in comparative darkness. My heart is full of gratitude for the testimony I have to the truthfulness of the gospel. I could sing with all my heart ‘I’ll praise the Lord while I am young, and in my early days Devote the music of my tongue to my Redeemer’s praise.’”
Her experiences in London had revealed to her the extent of her blessings and of her testimony. Number 36 was clearly not just a home to the London Conference, but also a training ground for the young missionaries who served there in the 1890s.

There is an example that expresses my meaning well. Some years ago a young lady missionary shared with me some of the circumstances of her call. Her humble father, a farmer, had willingly sacrificed much for the Lord and his kingdom. He was already sustaining two sons on missions when he talked with his daughter one day about her unexpressed desires to be a missionary and explained to her how the Lord had helped him to prepare to help her. He had gone to the fields to talk with the Lord, to tell him that he had no more material possessions to sell or sacrifice or to use as collateral for borrowing. He needed to know how he could help his daughter go on a mission. The Lord, he said, told him to plant onions. He thought he had misunderstood. Onions would not likely grow in this climate, others were not growing onions, he had no experience growing onions. After wrestling with the Lord for a time, he was again told to plant onions. So he borrowed money, purchased seeds, planted and nurtured and prayed. The elements were tempered, the onion crop prospered. He sold the crop, paid his debts to the bank and the government and the Lord, and put the remainder in an account under her name—enough to supply her wants on a mission.
I will not forget the story or the moment or the tears in her eyes or the sound of her voice or the feeling in me as she said, “Brother Hanks, I don’t have any trouble believing in a loving Heavenly Father who knows my needs and will help me according to his wisdom if I am humble enough. I have a father just like that.”

Finally, let me share with you one more experience among the Saints of the Pacific that remains deeply and spiritually rooted in my soul. Some years ago I was a young counselor to a bishop in a new ward in American Samoa. We had 99 members, consisting of subsistence farmers, cannery workers, government employees, and their families. When the First Presidency announced in 1977 that a temple was going to be constructed in Samoa, there was joy and thanksgiving expressed by all of us. Going to the temple from American Samoa at that time required traveling either to Hawaii or New Zealand. This was a costly journey that was beyond the reach of many faithful Church members.

During this period of time members were encouraged to donate to a building fund to assist in the construction of temples. In this spirit, our bishopric asked the ward members to prayerfully consider what they could give. A date was set for families to gather to offer their donations. Later, as these donations were opened in private, our bishopric was humbled and touched by the faith and generosity of our wonderful ward members.

Knowing each family and their circumstances, I felt a deep and abiding sense of awe, respect, and humility. These were, in every way, modern-day widow’s mites given freely from their “want,” with a joy in the promised blessing of the construction of a holy temple of the Lord in Samoa. These families had consecrated all that they could to the Lord, with the faith that they would not be left wanting. Their gift manifested their widow’s hearts. All who gave did so willingly and joyfully because the widow’s heart within them could see with the eye of faith the great crowning blessings in store for their families and for all of the people of Samoa and American Samoa for generations to come. I know that their consecrated offerings, their widow’s mites, were known and accepted by the Lord.

President Thomas S. Monson told a story about a man from the east who was traveling by bus to San Francisco. In Salt Lake City a Primary girl got on the bus and sat next to the man. As they started talking, he asked her if she was a Mormon. She answered yes. He asked her what Mormons believe. It was a big question for such a young girl. What would you have said? Imagine the look on the man’s face as she recited and explained the Articles of Faith. He couldn’t believe it!

After she got off the bus, the man thought about her courage and knowledge. As soon as he arrived in San Francisco, he looked in the telephone directory for the Church’s phone number, then called the local mission president and asked questions about the Church. The mission president sent missionaries to see him, and later the man’s entire family was baptized—all because a Primary girl knew and understood the Articles of Faith and had the courage to share them. (See Ensign, April 1994, pages 67–68.)

When Nickie and James go for a walk, I always want to go too. But they say, “You can’t keep up. You walk too slow.”
So I get sad, and Mom says, “Take him along.”
But by the time I get to the mailbox, they’re already climbing the tree. When I get to the tree, they’re throwing rocks in the creek. And when I get to the creek, they’re halfway up the hill. I guess they’re right—I walk too slow.
When Mom asks who wants to take our dog, Boris, for a walk, I say, “Me! Me!” She looks worried but hands me the leash. Then Boris drags me down the stairs, and I slip on the grass, and I stub my toes on the rocks. I guess I walk too slow.
When Daddy says, “Who wants to walk to the post office with me?” I grab his hand. But Daddy’s legs are long, and I have to take three steps every time he takes one. Daddy goes for a walk, but I go for a run. I guess I walk too slow.
But when I walk with Grandpa, he takes small steps like mine. We have time to look for rocks, watch bugs, and touch the bark and moss on trees. And when I walk with Grandpa, we talk about things. I like to walk with Grandpa. He walks too slow—just like me!

One such opportunity came unexpectedly. My companion and I were once “trapped” in a room surrounded by ministers from another church who were trying to discredit our teachings. We refused to contend with them and silently prayed for a way to escape. Then, a seminary lesson came to mind. I asked them, “How would you describe the taste of salt to someone who has never tasted it?” Some tried but could not do so, until one finally said, “It’s simple—just taste it!” I then held up my copy of the Book of Mormon and asked, “Has any of you read this book?” No one raised their hand or responded in the affirmative. Only silence ensued. That gave us the opportunity to bear our testimonies and invite them to read it for themselves. The encounter ended peacefully, and word of it spread in the community, opening doors that had previously been closed to us.

My wife, Jacqui, and I were called to serve in Africa in 2016. Before coming, I asked for advice from Elder Carl B. Cook who had just completed his assignment as the Africa Southeast Area President. He said something very wise that I have since found to be absolutely true: “You think that you will teach the Saints, but actually they will teach you.”
You have taught us how to forgive. In countries such as South Africa and Rwanda, brutal past experiences could have forever filled future generations with hate and bitterness. Yet time and time again, we have witnessed extraordinary examples of converts who are living the Lord’s teachings that we are to “forgive all men”,1 even those who “hate you . . . despitefully use you, and persecute you”.2
You have taught us the essence of ministering. And how caring for each other in a time of need is an integral part of the African culture. I recall being in a leadership meeting in Gaborone, Botswana where the new higher and holier form of home teaching was being introduced and would be called ministering. Afterwards I was talking with a brother who said with a puzzled look, “This should be easy for us, as ministering is what we already naturally do in Africa.”
You have taught us of true riches. Some of you live in prosperous circumstances yet remain humble and serve faithfully. Others we have met might be judged by the world to be poor. Yet as I think of many cherished and sacred memories visiting members in their homes and places of worship, I feel like Paul in describing this latter group “as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things.”3
You have taught us about the connection between happiness and giving of ourselves. The following quote from Elder Dunstan G. Chadambuka, whilst serving as president of the Botswana/Namibia Mission, captures this connection:
“I have had multiple opportunities to visit members and investigators in our mission, along with senior missionary couples. One observation I have made from visiting these homes, and also my experience from being a local and having a deeper understanding of the cultures and ways of living of our people is [this]: their circumstances may appear to be dire in terms of basic temporal possessions, but I have never seen a happier people who are thankful and content with what the Lord has blessed them with. Even in their supposed poverty they are willing to share the little they have.
“I have witnessed (foreign) senior couples especially, break down in tears [out of sympathy for the dire temporal circumstances of some of our members] and I am often left wondering why they feel so much pity for these brave, happy and content people . . . in fact, a person with a million dollars in his pocket could not be happier.”4
You have taught us about pure testimony. On our first Sunday in Africa, we attended a sacrament meeting in the Protea Glen ward in the Soweto Stake. Every talk we heard from the pulpit that day was Christ-centered and included pure testimony of the Saviour and His atoning sacrifice. We have found this to be the case over and over in sacrament meetings throughout Africa. As with the Nephites, it can be said of you; “we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ . . . that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”5
You have taught us unity. We feel strength in diversity, and we feel true unity as brothers and sisters of many backgrounds and races serving side by side in the Lord’s kingdom. The Book of Mormon clearly teaches that “all are alike unto God.”6
The first doctrine taught by the missionaries is that we are all children of a Heavenly Father which quite simply means we are literally brothers and sisters in the family of God. The Apostle Paul described what happens as we embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ by saying: “Therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.”7 And so it is that Sister Palmer and I have never felt like strangers or foreigners while amongst the Saints, even though we are from foreign lands. We know new converts of different nationalities and races feel the same acceptance and sense of belonging as we worship together and minister to one another in love.
You have taught us about JOY. We shall never forget the overwhelming joy of the Saints at the Kinshasa and Durban temple dedications. The pure joy of those who gathered in Harare and Nairobi to hear from our newly sustained prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, along with Sister Wendy Nelson and Elder Jeffrey R. and Sister Patricia Holland. The joy of over 7,000 Saints in Johannesburg who heard Elder Holland proclaim that “the answer to every problem in Africa can be found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.” And in smaller settings, the joy we feel from new converts and from those going to the temple for the very first time as they bind themselves to Christ in sacred covenants. President Nelson gave a landmark talk in 2016 titled “Joy and Spiritual Survival.” In that talk he made a statement that pierced my soul as I pondered the challenging circumstances so many members find themselves facing in Africa. “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.
When the focus . . . is on . . . Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives.”8

Now the second story, if I might delve back into a personal experience of my own as a child. I was baptized at the age of eight; and shortly after my baptism and my confirmation I started taking piano lessons. It was at the early part of the Depression, and shortly after I had completed my first year of lessons the Depression had its full impact on our family and we could not afford the lessons any longer. But that didn’t stop my activity in music, and I continued to practice. Like many of you who have taken first-year piano lessons and studied such an illustrious author of children’s books as John Thompson, I continued my work. Over at school they provided violin lessons free, and since the price was right I started taking violin lessons. After about six months or a year the teacher needed a violist in a student string quartet, and since I had a longer arm than the next fellow, I was transformed into a viola player—not a very good one, but there I was on the viola.
At home I started to do what many of us do who learn a little at the keyboard—I started to improvise. My hands wandered over the keys. Who hasn’t sat down at the family piano and struck a chord or made up a tune? It is a very common experience.
But I was persistent with the improvising idea, and finally after a month or two had improvised a little piece of music. I was elated with this and, in fact, took the trouble to write it down. I didn’t know that you could go to the music store and buy music manuscript paper with lines already printed that you could write your own notes on. So I took a ruler and barred my own five-line staffs. The lines weren’t very parallel and the result was pretty amateurish. It took a long time for me to figure out whether, in a given place in the music, it was a quarter note or a half note, whether it was G or F#, whether it was in 4/4 or 3/4 time, and whether I was playing in the key of C or G. But during the long laborious process, I finally arrived at notating this first “Opus 1, No. 1.”
I called my mother to the piano and I said, “Mother, I have composed a piece!” And what mother wouldn’t be happy at that announcement? She patted me on the head and said, “Well, how nice. Why don’t you play it for your teacher at school?” Well, my classroom teacher at school didn’t know very much about music, so she said, “Why don’t you play it for the class?” All of a sudden I became very famous in the third grade as a composer of a piano piece which I entitled “Brownie’s Ponies,” which shows my level of maturity at that time.
As a result of the recognition that had come from my third-grade class I decided, “Well, I’ll write another piece.” So I improvised for a few days or a week and took the trouble to notate the second piece. Then one after another of these things rolled off over a period of four years, until I had collected about ten of them. At age 12, I had ten pieces that I had written down, all for the piano.
Then it was that I made a startling discovery. I still hadn’t taken any more piano lessons, but I had worked on the violin and viola and continued to practice my piano to the degree one can as a 12-year-old without a teacher. I went back over my old piano books, and I made this horrifying discovery—that my “Opus 1, No. 1” wasn’t really mine after all, but it was page 25 of John Thompson’s children’s piano book, We’re in the Navy. I had subconsciously absorbed this page and thought it to be my own when I started to improvise. I went into the same patterns that my fingers had already been trained to follow. And without recognizing this relationship, I had assumed that this was my own work.
This is a horrifying discovery to a 12-year-old. It would be disturbing for anyone, but it was particularly devastating to me at that time. I thought my career as a composer was going to end in fraud. Did I dare reveal to anybody that I was a fake? I could have copied the piece directly from the page of John Thompson. Instead, it had taken me three months to write it down. I could have gone back to page 25 and copied it out in half a day! However, I did transpose it. There was one thing unique in my version—I changed it to a different key. But even that isn’t very difficult. So I went back and thought, “Where did the other nine pieces come from?”
So for the next hour or so I went through all the pieces I could possibly find. I found that “No. 2” had a little snatch of “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” in it, and “No. 3” had a little bit from somewhere else. As I got a little further along I found there was a snatch here, a touch there, and a fragment there, but I couldn’t find that any of the other nine were actually lifted totally from another source as “No. 1” was.
Rather than going back and blurting out my confession to my class, I started to think, “Well, what does it really mean to be original after all? Certainly ‘Opus 1, No. 1’ isn’t original and a lot of the others don’t seem to be too original. How do you become original as a composer?” After all, there are only 12 notes in a scale, and there must be a hundred million pieces that have been written in the last thousand years. If you actually made a computer analysis of the pieces that have been written you would find just about every possible combination has been used! How, then, do you become creative as a composer with the same 12 notes that everyone else is using?
I’m not sure that I have the answer to that question, but I would like to suggest that a similar question exists for us all in any of a thousand other fields. How does my contribution to the world mean anything or have any uniqueness? As I said, I don’t have the answer to that, but I would like to give just one thought which may approach a solution.
It seems to me that part of the genius of our creation is the fact that each one of us is different from the next one—that the Lord didn’t make two leaves exactly the same way, or two of anything. Even identical twins really have some significant differences in them. Each of us is a little universe all of our own. And after the stamp of our particular creation was made, the unique cast was discarded. Of course, we all have a pancreas, big toenails, eyelashes—but even here the stamp is different for each one. One of the tasks of this life is to find that difference and to express it—meaningfully. If we do that, then in some way our contribution to the world, to the Church, to the community, to our families, and to everyone else, is unique and original.
Our contribution may have some superficial similarities or even some significant similarities to the contributions of others. Much of our daily work is similar to the next person’s. Our food is similar; we all wear apparel that is similar to the next person’s; we drive similar kinds of cars; we live in similar kinds of homes. But may I suggest that because each of us is significantly different that that difference has meaning, and that meaning can be translated into some kind of service that is meaningful to those around us. Herein lies an element of creativity and originality that is meaningful.

It was one of the first warm days of early spring. The windows of our church were open for the first time that year, and bright, warm sunlight spilled in long rays into the chapel. A small, spring wind came through the windows carrying the fragrances of unseen blossoms. My grandparents and several aunts and uncles were sitting proudly with my parents. I was sitting on the front row of the chapel with the deacons. It was my first time passing the sacrament.
The sacrament hymn ended.
The bishop nodded to us, and in a single motion we stood and walked to the table. The white cloth was removed and carefully folded, and then the prayer was spoken. I felt the importance of the words and the ordinance as I never had before. With my relatives and what seemed like the entire congregation watching me, I tried to move with as much reverence and dignity as I could. I felt a strong feeling of pride to be able to pass the sacrament. It was a great honor. When the meeting was over, nearly everyone in my ward congratulated me.
Several months passed, and in that time, along with the other members of my quorum, I began to forget, a little, the honor of holding the priesthood and of passing the sacrament. We began not to remember what the ordinance stood for. It became a chore. Something we had to do. A job we were given because no one else wanted to do it.
This attitude began to affect the way we performed the ordinance. They were small differences. We were sometimes late for sacrament meeting. Occasionally we didn’t dress as appropriately as we should have. And we talked during the meeting, not loudly and not during the sacrament service, but enough that it was noticed. They were small things, but they took away from the sacredness of the ordinance we were charged with.
The bishop asked our adviser to talk to us about it. Every Sunday morning for weeks he tried to explain to us the importance of what we were doing, of the priesthood of God, and of the ordinance of the sacrament. He told us of the sons of Aaron, of Gethsemane, and Calvary. He was an older man, and we could tell he felt strongly about the things he was telling us. We would straighten up a little. Then a few Sundays would pass, and we would slip back again.
One Sunday after our priesthood class had ended, our adviser stopped us.
“You don’t have to worry about the sacrament today,” he said. “It’s been taken care of.”
We were surprised and curious, but we were also glad to get out of the job, even if it was just for one day. We came into the meeting late as usual, during the hymn, and sat on a middle row. Sitting on the deacons bench with our adviser were the high priests of our ward. They were the oldest and most respected men in our ward. Two of them had been bishops, one a stake president. All held or had held positions of honor and leadership. The hymn ended. They rose, and the prayer was said.
By their bearing and by their reverence it was easy to see they felt great respect and honor for what they were doing. It was no menial task for them. They were all dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and ties. But it was more than the way they were dressed or even the way they carried themselves in performing the ordinance. The congregation was silent. The sacrament became something deeply felt and sacred. There was something deeper, something much more significant. There was a spirit to it. A feeling deeper than words.
The windows in the chapel were open that Sunday. It was late fall, and the fragrance of fall came in through the windows. I could see patches of a blue sky. Leaves were falling from the trees. I was humbled. Passing the sacrament wasn’t a job no one else wanted. It was a job I had been given as a sacred trust. It was the greatest of honors.

The Grossman family has a great love for missionary work. In September 1993, Gunar’s mother was walking home from shopping when a pair of missionaries said hello to her. After she stopped and talked with them, they asked if they could come to her home to share their message when her husband and children were there. She said yes!
After a few visits, the family knew that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was true. They also knew that the Church would help them to be a stronger, better, and happier family. On November 7, 1993, Mother, Father, Gunar, his older sister, Gerit, and his older brother, Gert, were baptized members of the Church. When three-year-old Germar turns eight, he will be baptized too.

Seventeen-year-old Kim Sherwood of Victor, New York, is delighted to be among those gathered in the study shelter as they get the day under way by singing “Oh, How Lovely Was the Morning.” Equally enthused are her three teenage sisters, Kris, Kari, and Koni, 14, 13, and 12, respectively, and virtually every other member of the cast of more than 500 from 22 states, Mexico, and Canada.
“I’m so excited. I’d rather be here right now than any other place,” Kim says. “I’m looking forward to meeting new friends, having new experiences, telling people about the Book of Mormon, and strengthening my testimony.”
In addition to the Salute-to-Rochester scene, Kim Sherwood is assigned to the “Yearning Scene” and the “Flag Scene.” She’s delighted. Everyone has an assigned companion, and she and Holly Phippen, of Roanoke, Virginia, immediately hit it off and become fast friends.
A writer interviewing Kim asks her if she would like a major role in the pageant instead of being assigned to “crowd scenes.”
“Sure,” she says, “that would be great, but there just aren’t that many female characters in the Book of Mormon.”
“Have you ever thought about the possibility of playing the role of Mary in Nephi’s vision of the Nativity Scene?” she is asked.
“That would be wonderful,” she responds. “Any of the girls here would be honored, but that’s not up to me. There are hundreds of young girls here for the pageant, and I think the Lord and the pageant director might have something to say about who gets that role.”
Three days into rehearsal, assistant director Virginia Schmidt reminds Dr. Sederholm that he has yet to choose someone to play the role of Mary. Mary has no dialogue. No movement. She simply sits and holds the baby Jesus in the Nativity Scene.
“But the role is among the more significant in the pageant,” Sister Schmidt says. “Mary is the mother of the Savior. She must have dignity. She must be pleasant looking. She must have a particular spirit about her. We look for someone with that special look and that special spirit.”
Sister Schmidt and Dr. Sederholm review the older girls in the cast. All are worthy candidates, they agree, but then their eyes fall on a brown-haired 17-year-old from Victor.
“That’s Mary!” the directors agree, and moments later a thrilled Kim Sherwood is excitedly telling her parents about the special honor that has come her way.
“How do I feel? It’s hard to describe. It’s so exciting, so flattering, and yet so challenging. I consider it a privilege and a blessing to be chosen, and I just hope that I can portray it the way the Lord wants me to. I pray that I can touch people in some small way.”
Night after night the show goes on. Aaron Moore fights his perpetual losing battle with Ammon, Kim Sherwood maintains a regal presence in the Nativity Scene, and thousands receive the message of the Book of Mormon and the restored gospel.
Finally, it’s Saturday night of the second week—time for the final performance. The same enthusiasm that has prevailed for two weeks is still there, but somehow it’s different. Everyone realizes that after this one, it’s all over. That’s it.
The show goes on. Once again the audience is impressed by the dazzling lights, the sound, the music, the story. Many are moved by the message. As the final scene fades, the “house lights” go on, and the crowd begins working its way to the parking lots. But “back stage”—back in the trees on the hill—no one is in a hurry to leave. There are hugs and handshakes, tears of joy at having had the experience, and tears of sorrow at the knowledge that it’s over. The cast assembles and sings the inevitable “God Be with You Till We Meet Again,” and the tears flow even more freely. Kim Sherwood and Holly Phippen, friends forever, say good-bye, as do countless others who have formed similar lasting bonds of friendship.

Elizabeth was always first. She was the first of four children to be born. She was the first one up in the morning, picking the warmest spot by the big stove to get dressed in and warm her cold toes. She was the first one to dinner, the first one to church. She was even the first one to bed—so she could choose the best spot in the middle of the big feather mattress. And when the old cat at the farm had kittens, Elizabeth got first pick.
Anna was only a year younger than Elizabeth, but she wasn’t nearly so quick. When Elizabeth was first to the swing or the river, Anna sometimes stayed behind and rocked little Thomas, or peeled potatoes for Mother, or darned Father’s socks. Anna liked to do quiet things. She even liked to wait for the youngest sister, Sarah, when she tagged along.
After the Mormon missionaries taught her family the gospel, Elizabeth was the first one baptized—even before Father and Mother. The elders smiled at her eagerness.
When Father gathered the family together and told them that they were going to Zion, Elizabeth was the first to cry and to refuse to leave her friends. But when the time came to board the big ship, Elizabeth was the first one up the wide gangplank. She was the first person to get sick on the ship, and the first to get well. She was the first to walk the slippery, lopsided decks and the first to make friends with the grinning sailors. They gave her treats and sang songs for her.
After the ship docked, Elizabeth was the first one to run down the long plank and step onto land, the first one to dance on American soil. Mother and Anna were last. In fact, Anna went back to the ship three times to help Father carry all the family’s belongings off.
When it was time to load the wagon for the journey west, Elizabeth was the first to find a place for her own things: the sweater that her grandmother had knitted, her best blue bonnet, and her wooden doll, Belinda. There wasn’t room for everything the family wanted to take; but Elizabeth had settled her things in the wagon first, so she wasn’t worried.
Elizabeth was the first to give names to the oxen. They were tall, long-boned beasts with beautiful horns. Elizabeth named them Peter and Paul. Anna thought Buttercup might be a good name for the honey-colored one who was so gentle. But Elizabeth had already named them.
The trip was a long one. They crossed rivers and climbed mountains. Elizabeth was always first. She walked ahead of the wagon, never behind in the dust. She found good-natured men on horseback who didn’t mind letting a little girl ride across the swollen streams with them. She found the best spot beside the campfires. She found the best buffalo chips because she was first and picked the old, dry ones, which were easier to gather.
Elizabeth loved the journey. She loved the new things to see each day. She loved the nights when the children played games and the grown-ups danced and sang songs. She loved being first.
As they drew near to the valley, Elizabeth became so excited that she couldn’t hold still. Everyone knew how she felt. And everyone knew who would be the very first to set foot in the valley. Elizabeth was always first.
Early one morning on the last week of the journey, Anna slipped on the wagon tongue. She hit her head and cut her arm and twisted her ankle. She behaved very bravely for a girl of seven. Mother made up a bed in the crowded back of the wagon and laid her there. It was hot and bumpy, but Anna didn’t complain. Elizabeth did though. She didn’t like doing Anna’s work. She didn’t like hauling water or scouring the pans. She wasn’t very good at stirring the soup or feeding the baby. And she wasn’t nearly so patient with little Sarah, who constantly wanted something. Elizabeth was cross and tired. For the first time in her life she didn’t have enough energy to worry about being first. All she could think about was curling up under her mother’s soft quilt and falling asleep.
When they reached Pratt’s Pass, Elizabeth wanted to scamper ahead to be the first to stand on the ledge and look down over layer after layer of purple-blue mountains to the wide valley below. But little Thomas woke up and needed to be fed, and Sarah tugged at her skirts and whined to be taken. By the time Elizabeth reached the ledge, half the company had already seen the valley. Elizabeth hadn’t been first.
Elizabeth felt sorry for herself. Now there were only two days left of the journey. Father had bound Anna’s foot, but she couldn’t walk without help. Anna sat and peeked out from the wagon. Elizabeth scowled and worked and watched while someone else was always first!
The morning of the last day was beautiful. Elizabeth was the first one up, the first one to get water, the first one to bathe and get dressed. She fed the baby as fast as she could and helped with breakfast. She tied Sarah’s laces and told her that if they came undone, it was just too bad. Elizabeth had to be quick. Today was the day. Today they would reach the Salt Lake Valley. Today Elizabeth had to be first!
When the wagons began to creak down the last long descent, Elizabeth climbed into the wagon and crawled back to where her favorite things were. She wanted to wear her pretty blue bonnet when she entered the valley. As she crawled, she heard a strange sound. She stopped. The sound was Anna crying!
Elizabeth froze. She had seldom heard Anna cry. Anna was always calm, always content. Now she was crying as if her heart would break. Elizabeth’s stomach felt sick. She could feel the fast thump of her heartbeat. She crawled over to the bed. "Anna, what is it?"
Anna looked up and blinked wide, wet eyes at Elizabeth. A tear ran down her nose and dropped from the very tip.
"I can’t see anything from in here," Anna sobbed. "I want to see the valley." New tears welled up in Anna’s blue eyes. "I want to wear the dress I’ve been saving and walk into the valley, Elizabeth, just like everyone else."
Something inside Elizabeth started to ache. "You shall, Anna. You shall!"
Anna stared at her. "How, Elizabeth?"
"You’ll see." Elizabeth had already turned and was searching through the neat piles of store goods.
The sun was high in the sky when the wagons pulled to a stop on the valley floor. A crowd had gathered to meet the newcomers. Some of the young people ran ahead and were waiting, dancing and clapping their hands with glee while the wagons pulled up to them. The men from the wagon train took off their hats and wiped their foreheads. The women shaded their eyes and gazed over the lovely valley—their new home at last.
"Where is Elizabeth?" someone shouted. "Wasn’t Elizabeth first?"
"Of course she was first!" another replied with a laugh.
"Then where is she?" cried one of the children.
People began to look. People began to call for Elizabeth.
"Here we are!"
Everyone turned to see.
Down the long line of wagons came the two sisters. Elizabeth wore the blue bonnet, Anna her red dress with lace at the collar. With one hand she held Grandfather’s cane. Her other hand rested on Elizabeth’s sturdy arm. Anna’s steps were slow and painful. But she was walking! With Elizabeth’s arm round her waist, she walked past the wagons and into the Salt Lake Valley. Just like all the others.
"Mother," Elizabeth cried. "I was the last one into the valley, the very last one. But I’m so happy! I never felt this happy when I was first."

A young lady named Amalia reported that her first reaction when she heard the Mormon missionaries were coming was not favorable. “Those tall boys?” she had asked contemptuously. But after listening to the message and reading the pamphlets, she and her mother both found the doctrine convincing. But they still lacked a spiritual witness. “We were waiting for a voice or something,” she says, “and it just didn’t come.” But when they went to their first meeting something very special happened.

“When we entered the chapel, the meeting stopped while everyone welcomed us. They received us with so much love that we were touched. They cried and embraced us as if they had known us forever. We were accustomed to images and silence when we went to church, so we were overwhelmed that day by the bare walls and the love. After that I prayed every day, but I still wasn’t sure I had a testimony. Then one day the missionaries challenged us to be baptized, and it suddenly seemed as if I had always known that the Church was true without remembering exactly when I had come to know it.

“Since my baptism my testimony has grown every day. I have had many prayers answered. Whenever I pray, I always hear the answer inside myself. Many of the things I pray about might seem small and unimportant to others, but to me they are important. I remember one evening I was so discouraged that I was crying. I needed help from the Lord in understanding a problem, and so I prayed, and the answer came: ‘Everything will be all right.’ Then I could see the answer to my problem so clearly that I wondered why it wasn’t obvious from the start. My mind was at rest, and I dried my eyes and slept peacefully that night.

“I still have a long way to go, but with faith I will continue to grow. I have to study and learn more every day. I have so much still to learn! I want to share the happiness I have found with everyone. I invited all my friends to my baptism. At school I told my religion class about the Church. That didn’t go over too well with the priest who taught the class, but I wanted to share the gospel with everyone. I help the full-time missionaries every chance I get. I love everybody. I want to bring happiness to as many as I can. I visit the sick. I make presents for the branch members. I teach the children how to help their mothers at home. The gospel has simply turned my life upside down. I’m not the same person I was, and I’m not the same person I’m going to be. I’m never going to stop trying to become better.”