Gospel Story Finder

Perhaps not coincidentally, Father Damien arrived at Kalaupapa in the same year the Napelas did. This Belgian priest would eventually gain international fame because of his demonstration of faith and attitude of selfless service on the island, best captured by his own words: “Suppose the disease does get my body, God will give me another one on resurrection day.”9 From the day of his arrival in 1873 until his death at age 49, his concern was for all the patients, regardless of race or religion. However, the core of his heart seemed to belong to the orphaned children, whom he often led in singing.

Soon after their arrival at the settlement, Jonathan Napela and Father Damien became acquainted. Both had come to Kalaupapa to serve, and both contracted Hansen’s disease as a result of their charity. Damien was 27 years younger than Napela, and the cultural background of each was very different, yet both were firmly committed to their religious orientations. Though ecclesiastical leaders of different faiths, they became dear friends. In fact, one of their contemporaries who lived at Kalaupapa wrote, “After Father Damien arrived in the Leper Settlement, . . . Mr. J. Napela . . . and Father Damien were the best of friends.”11 What makes this relationship particularly unusual is the fact that at this time heated rivalries existed between faiths as they vied for island converts.12 Yet at Kalaupapa, there seems to have developed a different kind of spiritual terrain nourished by the relationship between these two great men and their commitment to improve the decadent moral conditions they encountered upon their arrival at the settlement.

A short time ago, early on a Saturday morning, I went to the airport to bid farewell to Elders Gibson and Cornet. Brother Jackson also came to the airport that day to see Elder Gibson. Just before Elder Gibson was ready to board the plane, Brother Jackson shook hands with him, his eyes moist, and said, “Remember the day I told you to leave and never come back?” Elder Gibson quietly said, “Yes.” Brother Jackson said, “Thank God you came back.”

As my mother told me when I complained of how hard something was, “Oh, Hal, of course it’s hard. It’s supposed to be. Life is a test.”
She could say that calmly, even with a smile, because she knew two things. Regardless of the struggle, what would matter most would be to arrive at home to be with her Heavenly Father. And she knew she could do it through faith in her Savior.
She felt that He was close to her. In the days she knew she was about to die, she talked with me about the Savior as she lay in her bedroom. There was a door to another room near her bed. She smiled and looked at the door when she spoke calmly of seeing Him soon. I still remember looking at the door and imagining the room behind it.
She is now in the spirit world. She was able to keep her eyes on the prize she wanted despite years of physical and personal trial.
Looking back, I now see how that gift of charity—the pure love of Christ—strengthened, guided, sustained, and changed my mother in the struggle on her way home.

For Kelvin Gwala, the opportunity to serve on the Durban South Africa Temple committee was a blessing that initially came with concern.
As a resident of Umlazi, South Africa, Brother Gwala had a roundtrip drive of about sixty kilometers each time he traveled to Berea for committee meetings, which were held for almost a year with increasing frequency. If it wasn’t a temple committee meeting, he needed to attend on a Sunday, he traveled to practice with one of the temple dedication choirs. He made additional midweek trips to attend stake training meetings since he also serves as the Durban Stake clerk.
About the same time, he was asked to serve on the committee, the price of petrol began to rise dramatically, and food prices increased. Each time he needed to drive to Berea for a meeting, he would sit and wonder where he was going to get money for fuel. But, he says, somehow, someway, he would end up in Berea, the small amount of fuel he had in his car lasting longer than he thought it would.
“At first,” he says, “I felt like it was putting a strain on my budget. But at the end of the month, we would be fine. To my amazement, the Lord saw us through.”
Those first worries about his tight budget, Brother Gwala now believes, were just negative thoughts that could have stopped him from serving. Instead, he made a faithful effort and experienced what he calls “my own miracle.”
As he reflected on his experiences, he came to an important conclusion: “The Lord just wants us to start,” he says. “No matter how difficult a situation might look, if you start, then the Lord does meet you halfway. For me, those were the blessings. You were living on a tight budget, then you pay your fast offering and your tithing, but the Lord saw us through, and the family managed well. The Lord did bless us and continues to bless us.”

Bri-i-ing! went the alarm clock, breaking into the stillness of the dark room. Brad groaned and, pulling his pillow over his head to shut out the noise, burrowed deeper under the covers of his nice warm bed. It was much too early to get up. The sun wasn’t even up yet.
Suddenly Brad sat up. Today was going to be an important day for his big brother, Andy. He was going to the Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Provo, Utah.
What a wonderful time this was for the family! Just last night everyone had gathered in the living room, and Dad had given Andy a father’s blessing. Brad was glad that Dad honored his priesthood. Many times he had laid his hands on Brad’s head and asked Heavenly Father to guide him or to protect him or to bless him with health. Last night he had blessed Andy with those same great blessings for his mission.
Brad dressed in his Sunday clothes and hurried downstairs. The rest of the family was already in the brightly lit, cozy kitchen. Dad was making pancakes, and Andy was looking tall and a little awkward in his new dark blue suit. When Dad saw Brad, he shut off the stove, and the family knelt around the table for prayer. As they seated themselves, Brad felt sad for a moment because this would be the last meal they would all have together for a long time.
Andy reached over and ruffled Brad’s hair. “C’mon, Brad, smile. I don’t want to remember you all full of frowns. Shall I help you smile like Dad does?”
Just thinking about Dad’s way to get smiles brought grins to the entire family. Dad would turn a frowning child upside down and hold him by his ankles if he wouldn’t smile. When he was little, Brad would frown, suppressing a giggle, just to get Dad to turn him upside down.
“I’m much too big for that anymore,” said Brad.
“You’re certainly growing fast, all right,” Dad remarked. “By the time Andy gets home, you’ll probably be able to turn me upside down. You’d better hurry and finish your breakfast now, though. The bishop and Brother Terry will be here soon, and Grandma and Grandpa are on their way.”
A moment later the doorbell rang, and Bishop Maxwell and Brother Terry, their home teacher, were at the door, stomping the snow off their feet. As Brad started to close the door behind them, he saw another car pull into the driveway—and another one pulled in right behind that one. “It’s Grandma and Grandpa!” shouted Brad as he ran to greet them.
Between hugs and introductions, the group entered the house. President Cox, the stake president, was in the third car. He had come to set Andy apart for his mission.
President Cox began by talking to us about Andy’s mission and about how important it was to support him with prayers and letters. Then he laid his hands on Andy’s head and set Andy—no, Elder Andrew Spencer Brown—apart as a missionary to the New Zealand Christchurch Mission. Andy was now an official fulltime missionary!
The bishop, Brother Terry, and President Cox all shock hands with Andy and clapped him on the back. Then they had to leave to go to work.
Looking at the clock, Dad urged everyone to hurry: “Andy has to be at the MTC by 8:30.”
Finally everything and everybody was jammed into the car, and off they went. Andy looked back over his shoulder until the house was long out of sight.
As Dad pulled into the parking lot of the long, low brick Mission Training Center, the Provo Temple up the street shone in the early morning light. Mom and Dad had gone with Andy to the temple the week before. Andy had come home different somehow, a little more serious and more determined to be the best missionary he could be.
Entering the large lounge area of the MTC, they were met by a smiling brother who directed them to put Andy’s luggage in a room that had the appearance of a baggage terminal. Suitcases and garment bags were everywhere. What a large group of missionaries must be arriving!
Andy’s name was checked off a list, and they were directed to a room filled with young men and women, mothers, fathers, and other family members and friends. Most missionaries seemed to be in the middle of a group, hugging someone. Brad thought he’d never seen so many hugs in his life. He’d settle for a handshake!
A tall distinguished brother entered the room and asked everyone to be seated. He introduced himself as President Bishop, the president of the MTC, and told them a little about the MTC and missionary life.
Brad had thought that while Andy was on his mission, his brother would only knock on doors and teach discussions all day. But President Bishop explained that letter writing, journal writing, laundry, and exercise were part of the program too. A large gym at the MTC provided a place for exercise for the missionaries while they were there. They needed to keep in good shape for the hours of missionary work.
President Bishop talked to the missionaries about living within their budgets. And he hoped that all of them had learned to cook and to mend and wash their clothes. Brad knew that Andy had learned to cook—a little, anyway. The night that he’d baked a casserole with tomatoes, cabbage, and macaroni, Brad had managed to wangle an invitation to a friend’s house. But Andy did make pretty good omelets and hamburgers.
Andy had also learned how to mend his clothes and to sort, wash, and dry them. Mother had been giving them all lessons in housekeeping since they were little. She said that they didn’t have time to learn those things in the mission field.
After President Bishop finished his talk, they saw a film about the MTC. When the film was over, the missionaries were to say good-bye to their families and friends; then they were to leave through a door at the front of the room. Andy shook Brad’s hand and told him to take good care of things while he was gone. Brad blinked rapidly as he watched Andy walk up the aisle. It would be eighteen long months before he would see him again!
Forgetting that he was too big for hugging and stuff, Brad ran down the aisle and threw his arms around his brother. “Be the best missionary ever, Andy—at least till it’s my turn.”
“I’ll do my best, Brad. Don’t grow too much while I’m away. I want to be able to recognize you when I get back.” Turning, Andy quickly walked to the door, gave a last wave, and was gone.

“Shucks, Wendy! I’m not doing anything to your silly flower. I’m just talking to it.”
“Well stop it, Peter!” Wendy warned.
Peter liked to talk to Wendy’s flower. One day Mother told him that flowers were happiest when people talked to them. So whenever Wendy was at school Peter talked and sang to the flower on her dresser.
Wendy’s teacher had given everyone in her class a little package of seeds and a jar of dirt. Wendy planted the seeds and after a long time, green shoots pushed up through the dirt and grew and grew until the leaves of a tiny plant popped open. Now there was also a little yellow flower on the end of the longest stem. Wendy was happy about her flower and protected it fiercely from anyone who came near.
“There’s no need to scold, Wendy,” Mother said. “You know that Peter won’t hurt your flower. Flowers grow better when they receive attention. Look how much it has grown already! Soon you’ll have to move the flower outside so it can have more room for its roots to spread out.”
The next morning Peter went back to Wendy’s room. He walked over to Wendy’s dresser and spoke softly, “Hello, Flower. Are you really too big for your jar? Do you want to move outside?” The flower didn’t answer, so Peter pretended that he was the flower answering: “Yes, Peter, I do need some more room so my roots can stretch out.”
Peter carefully picked up the jar. He carried it in both hands through the house and out into the backyard.
Then he sat down on the step to think. Wendy will be happy when she sees that I moved her flower, Peter thought. But where will I put it?
He looked for a place all over the yard—by the fence, by the swings, by the picnic table, even by the garbage cans. Then in the corner of the yard he spied a small pile of sand where he played with his bulldozer and dump trucks.
“There’s just the right place for you, Flower!” he said happily, as he headed for the sandpile.
While Peter was scooping out a hole in the sand, he found a little green car that had been lost. “There you are,” he said to his toy. “I guess I buried you and then I forgot to dig you up again.”
When Peter thought the hole was deep enough, he sat down beside the jar and tried to pull the flower out. But the roots were tangled up in the dirt, so Peter had to pry them out with his fingers. Some of the root hairs broke off. He put the flower in the hole and filled in sand around it.
Just as he went to fill the jar with water for the flower, it started to rain. With all this rain, I guess the flower doesn’t need any more water, Peter thought, and he went back into the house to wait for Wendy.
Wendy always watered her flower as soon as she came home from school. That was one job her mother never had to remind her to do. But when Wendy walked into her room after school that day, the flower was gone!
“MOTHER! My flower is gone!” Wendy cried as she ran into the kitchen.
“Now, Wendy, where would your flower go? Nobody has been here all day except Peter and me,” Mother said.
Just then Wendy turned around and saw Peter holding the empty jar in his hand. “Where is my flower? I told you not to touch it!” she declared angrily.
“Come and see,” he said excitedly. Mother and Wendy followed Peter outside.
He led them to the sandpile and proudly pointed to the little hump of sand where he had planted the flower. “See, Wendy, I moved your flower out here so it could have more room,” he said.
They all stood there, looking at it, but something was wrong. All the leaves were folded together and the head of the flower was drooping down to the ground.
Suddenly Peter was worried. He knelt down on the sand and tried to fix the flower so it would stand up straight. But it just kept flopping over again. His big eyes were filled with tears as he looked helplessly at Wendy and Mother. Then Wendy began to realize how much the flower really meant to her little brother. He feels even worse than I do, she decided and went over and knelt down beside him.
“Peter,” she comforted, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt the flower. You were only trying to help. Tomorrow we can get some more seeds and plant some flowers that we can take care of together.”

Never feed the foxes! What does that mean? Breaking commandments is like feeding foxes. In England where we live, my wife and I had heard that foxes were right in town. We wanted to see a fox. A neighbor told us that if we left food for the foxes we probably would see one. Our butcher gave us some bones. Each night we would place some bones out in the backyard. Soon a fox came to eat. Then a few more. Now we have at least five foxes racing through our flower garden, digging up the lawn, and leaving a shamble every night, sort of like a furry Jurassic Park. What started out as a curiosity is now a problem, and sin is much the same. An indiscretion can begin a process that can make a mess of a whole life. Remember, if you don’t start feeding the foxes, they will never tear up your yard. If you avoid making the seemingly small and harmless mistakes, your life will be free of many larger problems later on. Be courageous by living straight. Create happy memories for yourselves and those around you.

I enjoy playing football and have always dreamed of playing on a team. This past season I worked hard and earned a first-string spot on both offense and defense on my fourth-grade team. We had a great team and an undefeated season. We were going to the championship playoffs! After a week of getting ready for the playoffs, my coach announced after the last practice that the first game would be on Sunday. I knew immediately that I would not play. I told my coach, and he asked my mom if I couldn’t play since it was an important game. My mom explained our beliefs about the Sabbath day but said she would leave the choice up to me. I told my coach again that I would not play. My team won the game without me, so I was able to play in the championship game on Saturday, which we won! It felt great to win the championship, but it felt even better to keep the Sabbath day holy.

I faced such a moment while in the Navy. We were in boot camp with a company of men who constantly bragged in the foulest language about the evil things they had done. One day a friend and I were sitting on our bunks when the door suddenly burst open and in came one of the roughest sailors. He started to call our Savior dirty, derogatory names. My friend looked at me and said, “Dan, we’re not going to take that, are we?” I thought about it for a minute, and finally said, “I guess not.” So I stepped out in front of the man as he came down through the rows of beds, and I told him that I loved the Savior and that he couldn’t say those things about him. Now it was his turn to think it over for a minute, but in the end he apologized. I’d like to think, for his sake, that it wasn’t just because I happened to be the camp boxing champion.

The October dawn was frosty as I helped load our belongings into the covered wagon. The weight I carried in my ten-year-old heart was heavier than the bundles of clothes and food under which I struggled. It just isn’t fair, I thought. I don’t want to leave our home and my friends and travel three hundred miles to an unknown place.
It was 1877, and our home near St. George, Utah Territory, was already one of the farthest away from Salt Lake City.
My mother called. “Mary Agnes, please make sure everything is cleared from the back porch before we leave.”
As I made my way around the house, I thought back to the day six months ago when my father had returned from the dedication of the St. George Temple. Mother and I had stayed home because my baby brother was very ill. One look at Father told me that something serious had happened.
Mother spoke first. “William, what is the matter?”
My strong father took her in his arms with tears streaming down his face. “We must leave our beautiful home.” He could say no more.
Leave? How could we leave? After years of saving and doing without, we had finally been able to buy 260 acres of farmland and build a comfortable brick home where the ten of us could live. We had many horses, cattle, and other farm animals. We lived near my grandmother and my cousins. I was able to attend the school in town. Who would ask us to sacrifice all this?
Later, I heard my parents discussing what was happening. Families were needed to extend Church settlements and influence farther south. Brigham Young had called my father to move with his family. He counseled my father to sell all that we had so that we would not be tempted to return to Utah. We were needed in Arizona.
Arizona. A place where there was very little water. Where there were great distances with nothing to see. Men had been called there by the prophet last year. Many had returned to Utah because they could not endure the hardships. Father said no greater sacrifice could be asked of him.
Mother’s voice brought me back to the present. “It is hard to leave, is it not, Mary Agnes? Do you know the real reason we are moving?”
I shook my head.
“We are going to Arizona because the prophet gave that call to us. Remember what I told you about when I was your age and my family lived in Nauvoo? After the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, there were contentions with nonmember neighbors. The Brethren told us to leave our homes and move west. There our lives would be spared, and we could worship as we pleased in peace.
“Terrible as it was to leave our home, there was nothing else to do unless we turned away from God, the Brethren, and the Church. We made the long, hard journey to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. We sacrificed again when we followed President Young’s direction to leave there and settle here.
“Now we have been asked to go to Arizona. We do not have to go to the unsettled desert. No one is forcing us. We are not fleeing for our lives. We could make excuses to not go. This time the struggle to obey comes from within.”
Mother hugged me to her as she continued. “In the Doctrine and Covenants, the Lord said that when we receive a commandment ‘whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.’*
“Our prophet has spoken to us. I know he speaks for God. Your father and I decided long ago that we would follow the counsel of the prophet, no matter what the sacrifice.”
The Spirit warmed me as I listened to Mother’s testimony. I gained strength to face the uncertainties ahead.
As I climbed in the loaded wagon, I took one last look at our home, then turned to face the trail to Arizona. I realized that I, too, had a testimony of God’s representative on earth. Like my parents, I would follow the prophet, even to the last frontier.

It was the most exciting thing to happen that fall or any fall. “I just have to go, Mama,” Kate insisted. But Mama said no.
“Please, Mama. I’ve wanted to be a magician all my life, well, anyway, ever since I read that magic book Papa brought me.”
“I know, Kate,” Mama said. “I’m truly sorry and I wish it were possible, but Papa has to go into town to see the lawyer about the pastureland, and I have an appointment with the doctor. That leaves only you to stay with Sarah.”
Mama put her hand gently on her daughter’s head. “You know she can’t go outside until she’s better. You heard what the doctor said about keeping her from chilling.”
I heard him all right, Kate thought. It’s just that I hoped I could find a way to see the magic show.
Sarah coughed upstairs in the loft where she lay on a straw bed covered with warm quilts and a comforter. “Mama,” she called.
Mama said, “You go, will you please, Kate, and see what she wants? Papa’s waiting for me in the wagon.”
Kate went slowly up the ladder to the loft. She looked out the window and saw the wagon pulling away, raising a cloud of dust behind it. She felt her eyes sting when she thought of the magic show and all the excitement in town.
She could just see the bright red wagon with its bells and silver trim pulled by prancing white horses. There would probably be a silver awning over the driver, who would be the magician himself. He would be wearing a tall hat with gold tassels, very tight pants, and black shiny boots. And his long, expressive hands would be able to fool everyone who came to watch. Everyone except maybe Kate. She knew from reading her book how some of the tricks were done.
“What is it?” she asked Sarah impatiently.
“I …” Sarah began. Then suddenly she turned her face to the wall, but not before Kate saw the quick tears come into her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Kate apologized. She sat on the bed and took Sarah’s hot hands into hers. “I didn’t mean to be cross. Now what can I get for you? A piece of cloud? A chunk of the barn roof?”
“Kate,” Sarah said, trying to match her sister’s smile, “all I want is a drink of water.”
“I guess I can manage that,” Kate said. She went down the ladder and out to the well. As she brought the sloshing bucket up, Kate thought she heard someone behind her. She turned and was startled to see an elderly man standing there.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the stranger said. He had a long gray beard and wore a huge floppy hat that let long wisps of hair fly out behind. “I just wondered if you could spare some water for me and my horse over there.”
Kate turned to look where he was pointing. A tired horse and an old wagon stood at the edge of the clearing.
“He’s come up lame,” the man said.
“Here,” said Kate, “you can get a drink from this bucket and your horse can drink from the trough. Then we’ll take him into the barn where I can look at his hoof. I’m pretty good with horses.”
The old man unhitched the old horse and let it drink before leading it to a stall. Kate brought some medicine and bandages. Gently she talked to the horse while applying some ointment. Then she expertly wrapped the leg with white strips of cotton cloth. “He’ll be all right now,” she announced, “but you better let him rest a little while.”
“You’ve done a good job,” he said. “Never saw a horse doctor do better. I’ll just settle down here for a bit and keep him company.”
Kate left the old man in the barn and hurried into the house with the bucket. She explained the delay to Sarah and told her all about the man and the horse. Then she went down to fix dinner. While she was boiling potatoes, she imagined the silken scarves that the magician would draw out of his sleeves, the top hat with the rabbit suddenly appearing under it, the doves that would fly out of his coat and swoop around the tent.
She took a tray up to Sarah and then went to the barn and invited the old man up to the house for something to eat.
“I’d be grateful,” he said. “And look how much better my horse is.”
Kate led the way to the house. Later, when the old man had finished his meal, he patted the front of his vest and said, “That was a fine meal. I would like to pay you for it and also for treating my horse.”
“Oh, I don’t want pay,” Kate told him. “Mama says that we should do whatever we can to help people, and it will come back to us in some way. So don’t you worry about it.”
“There is something I can do if you’d like. I’m on my way to the next town to give a magic show. I’d never have made it without your help.”
“You mean you’re a—”
“I’m a magician, yes. How would you like to ride into town with me and see a free show?”
Kate thought for just one wonderful moment about riding into town high up on the wagon seat with the magician, waving and smiling at the crowd. But then she explained to him about Sarah.
“Ah, then,” he said, “I’ll just put on a show for you right here!”
He folded down the sides of the wagon and opened up the ends to display a stage full of interesting and exciting things—flags, bells, horns, metal tables with “invisible” tops, silk scarves, hats, balls, and balloons.
“Wait until I get back before you start,” Kate said, running to the house. She climbed the ladder and pulled and tugged Sarah’s bed over to the window. “Look out,” she said, “and watch the magic show. The man with the lame horse I told you about is the magician who was on his way to town!”
After she was sure Sarah was comfortable, Kate hurried back outside and onto the porch steps where she sat hugging her knees.
The magician had changed. He no longer looked like a tired old man. He was dressed in a red velvet jacket, a white top hat, and very tight breeches that tucked into shiny black boots. His hands were thin and dexterous, and he used them in ways that even Kate could not follow. He made things appear and disappear and fly and walk and multiply and divide and waver and float until her head was spinning.
And then, too soon, the show was over. The magician bowed, folded up the sides of his wagon, and went into the barn to change. When he came out leading his horse, the magician looked just the same as he did when Kate first saw him. “My horse is hardly limping now,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You’ve more than thanked me,” Kate answered. “I’ll remember your wonderful magic show all my life. I’m going to be a magician some day too.”
“If you really want to be one, you will, young lady,” the magician said encouragingly. And then, handing her a carved wooden box with a tiny gold clasp on the lid, he said, “Here, this will be your first magic prop.”
Inside was layer upon layer of beautiful silk scarves. They were in shades of palest pink to fiery red to deep purple.
“From me and my horse,” he said. “Take them and learn to use them. I know you can do it.”
“Oh, I will,” Kate promised. “And thank you ever so much.”
As the magician drove off down the road toward town, Kate thought of the excited people who would watch the show. Some were probably already sitting in the tent waiting for the famous magician. But she and Sarah had seen his show already!
Her feet hardly touching the rungs, Kate flew up the ladder to show the box of scarves to Sarah.

When I was in junior high school, I would get out of bed on cold winter mornings and head for the heat vent to get warm. The family cat would always beat me there, so I would gently shoo her away and sit down. Soon my mother would tell me it was time to leave for school. I would look out at the icicles on the house and dread going out into the cold, let alone beginning another day of school.

As I kissed my mother good-bye and went out the door, I would look at my comfortable spot in front of the heat vent and find that the cat had repossessed it. How I envied that cat! If that weren’t enough, she would look up at me with heavy eyelids and an expression as if to laugh at me and say, “Have fun in school, Glenn. I’m sure glad I’m not a human!” I hated it when she did that!

However, an interesting thing would happen as the day went on. I would come home after experiencing the joys and sorrows of the school day and see that lazy cat still curled up in front of the vent, and I would smile and say to her, “I’m sure glad I’m not a cat.”

I had an experience when I was in the southern states that helped me to realize what I think the Lord meant. I received a letter from a good brother from down in Phoenix. He was quite an elderly man. He said that his grandfather was one of the first converts in the state of Mississippi back in 1840. He said, “Since that time my father and his descendants have given over 100 years worth of missionary service to the Church.” There were then 15 in the mission field, and we had three of them in our mission.
I told that story in a missionary meeting after I was appointed Presiding Bishop in 1940—just 100 years after the grandfather joined the Church. His grandson happened to be in that meeting and I didn’t know it. He came up to me after and said, “Brother Richards, it is now 165 years of service.” When you get to adding 10 or 15 years at a time, it doesn’t take long to add another 100 years.
This was my thought: If that missionary who waded through the swamps of Mississippi back in 1840, when they traveled without purse or scrip and many of them contracted malaria fever, had only brought that one man into the Church, he might not have thought that he had done much. But in 100 years there was 165 years of missionary service from that one man and his descendants, without counting all the converts he had made and all the converts they had made. How can you “lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal” (Matt. 6:20) in any better manner than by performing a service like that?

You come home from school and ask your mom what’s for dinner. She tells you it’s soup and bread, and she asks you to hang up your jacket. You’re about to go out with some friends when she reminds you that you need to practice the bodhran for a while.
Have you stepped into a parallel universe? Is this some kind of weird dream? What in the world is a bodhran?
It’s all part of daily life for the Bigney brothers of Woodland Hills, Utah, because their family’s Celtic music group is a priority, and the boys have to practice.
Alex, Sam, and Simeon Bigney, ages 18, 16, and 14, respectively, make up the group Kirkmount, and though their music isn’t exactly the stuff you hear on the radio, it definitely appeals to a lot of people.
“Our music is interesting because it spans a generation gap,” says Alex. “Old people like to listen to it, but kids our age come out and think it’s really cool, too.”
Part of what makes it “cool” is that the three boys do all the music themselves. Alex plays the harp and the bones (and yes, the “bones” are exactly what they sound like they are); Sam plays the fiddle; and Simeon plays the cello and the aforementioned bodhran (pronounced “bow-run”), which is a sort of Gaelic drum.
Whatever happened to the piano, or the guitar, or even the clarinet?
“We’re not aware of any other group anywhere that has this particular arrangement of instruments,” Alex says. “But they’re all very traditional Celtic instruments.”
“Celtic,” by the way, is pronounced with a “K” sound at the beginning, and it refers primarily to the region of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Bagpipes are a Celtic instrument you may have heard before, and Enya is a popular Celtic musician.
Aside from the choice of instruments, Kirkmount differs even from other Celtic groups because of their music—they write most of it themselves.
“It’s not extremely common for groups to write their own music,” says Sam, who does most of the writing for Kirkmount. “Some people will write a tune or two, but not a lot.”
Sam’s first tune was called “Late Summer Aire.” He first got a taste of fame when he and his brothers attended a fiddle camp—yes, a fiddle camp—in northern California, and the whole camp wound up playing his song. After that, the boys were hooked.
What brought them to a fiddle camp in the first place? That’s where the family ties come in. The boys’ grandfather used to invite them frequently to go to a Scottish fiddling camp with him, but they always declined.
“But one year, our grandparents were going to Ukraine on a mission. We weren’t going to see them for a while, so we decided we’d better go to the camp,” says Alex. “We went and really enjoyed the music, and that’s how we got started.”
The boys’ parents, Alex and Marilyn, began hiring professional musicians to come do workshops at the Bigney home. About 20 or so have been through, and many of them have done shows with the Bigneys afterwards, the money going to help pay for expenses. (The income from Kirkmount’s two CDs helps cover costs, too.)
It’s really a family affair. Sister Bigney says her husband “knows how to critique. He critiques the boys, and he listens, and he knows enough about Celtic music to help them. He has an exceptional ear.”
What about Mom? She supports. “I took them to their lessons for quite a few years,” she says. “I’m a great expert—on paper. I’m a great appreciator of music.”
Eventually, even the boys’ younger sisters, Miriam and Falcon, will get in on the act, as they are learning to play the viola and guitar.
“It would be really great to have a whole family thing,” Sam says. “It’s not something many people do as a family.”
How strong are the family ties with the Bigneys? Well, they practice about two hours a day together on the average, but sometimes it’s as much as eight hours. And they don’t really get tired of each other.
“We have our small quarrels,” Sam says, “but I think even the music helps us to solve those and come to an understanding of each other. I think music can touch people in ways that words can’t.”
The name Kirkmount is the name of the small village in Nova Scotia where their grandfather grew up. (Their great-great-grandfather, Simeon Bigney, was one of the first members of the Church there.) The covers of their CDs are collages of old family photos. Their ancestors were Celtic and played many of the same tunes that the Bigneys play now.
“We’re carrying on a tradition,” Alex says.
And Sister Bigney adds, “It’s important for people to find out what their traditions are, and music is one of those important things that helps you understand how your ancestors felt, what they did for entertainment, all the emotions they had. Music is a language.”
Alex says, “This music helps us get closer to our grandparents. They come to many of the shows, whenever they can, and they’ve supported us all through our musical experience.”
This family is tied together so much that Sam and his grandfather are even home teaching companions.
Obviously, the group has a strong interest in genealogy and family bonds. Sam explains that one of the highlights of his musical career so far has been playing his fiddle at the graves of some of his ancestors in Nova Scotia.
Furthermore, the group’s travels have taken them to Boston, where their father lived as a youth. Simeon (whose name is pronounced like “Simon”) says seeing where his dad went to church “was a good experience,” as was spending so much quality time with his brothers.
The Bigneys’ music doesn’t have any lyrics, so it’s difficult to express any kind of particular message in a song. But their music is expressive in its own way, creating moods and feelings pretty well. The music makes you feel like you’ve been taken back in time, and taken to Ireland. And since the gospel should be part of everything we do, the Bigneys manage to tie it all together.
“We don’t say onstage ‘Yes, we’re LDS,’ but I think people know,” Alex says. “Since we come from Utah, there have been people who come up and say, ‘Are you Mormon?’”
Sam adds, “We try to set a good example for people. The music helps us realize that God gives us talents, and we hope we can use them to our best abilities and share them with other people.” The Bigneys feel they must rely on the Lord when they perform.
“As we’re playing the music, we really become aware of whether the Spirit is with us or not,” Alex says. “If we don’t have the right spirit with us, we know we don’t play as well.” As a result, the group always has a prayer before they perform.
“You have to realize where the talents are coming from,” Alex says.
But it’s not all play and no work for Kirkmount. The boys practice every day, and while they enjoy all the regular teenage boy stuff—basketball, hiking, reading, and what-not—sometimes the music has to take them away from those things. They’ve sometimes missed ward basketball games and Boy Scout campouts because they had performances.
“But our Young Men and Young Women groups are pretty supportive,” says Sam. “They’ve come to our shows before.”
And so in the end, it’s all worth it. The stronger love for their immediate family, the more powerful connection to their grandfather and distant ancestors, the satisfaction they get from using the talents God has given them to uplift others—all that makes everything worthwhile. “The music helps me to know who I am,” says Sam, “and to express myself in a way that words can’t. We want to help, not only ourselves, but other people gain a testimony as well. Music can touch hearts.”

It was a routine she knew well. She would get up a little before 6:00 A.M. to catch the 6:30 bus, which would take her to school. School would last nine hours. But when the bell rang, dismissing classes, it would seem like her day was just beginning. She would leave class and head to the library for three more hours studying the day’s lessons. At 8:00 P.M., she would hop on the bus and ride 40 minutes to her home, where she would shower, eat, catch up on the world’s latest happenings from the newspaper, read from the scriptures, and then go to sleep. The next day Liu Kwan Ling, who also uses the English name Angel, would do it all over again.
Free time wasn’t one of the luxuries in Angel’s life then, and it certainly isn’t now.
Even Angel admits it was a grueling schedule. She will also admit it was worth it. Last year Angel graduated from the Taipei First Girls’ High School and is now in her first year at National Taiwan University, rated the top college in this island country near mainland China.
Having survived the rigors of high school, Angel is probably busier now that she has graduated. Her college schedule, compared to her daily high school routine, really isn’t that much different. In fact, it’s about identical. It’s just that the college courses she is taking are a little more demanding. Yet Angel knows how she has been able to juggle all the things in her busy schedule.
“I can increase my spirituality by reading the scriptures and praying,” she says. “I think without doing that and by not going to my Sunday meetings I would become easily discouraged and depressed about school and life. But if I go to sacrament meeting and listen to the talks, it seems that my life is always more positive and happy. I think the most important thing in my life is my spirituality.”
It was a tough two years on Angel as she both prepared for college and tried to remain active in the Peitou Ward of the Taipei East Stake, where she is her ward’s sacrament meeting pianist.
The bulk of her time was spent studying English, math, Chinese, physics, chemistry, biology, physical education, music, and housekeeping (cooking and sewing).
And that is what is so amazing about Angel. She graduated near the top of her high school class, yet she doubts she could have done it had she not had the gospel’s guiding influence in her life. “The Church was especially helpful to me during my senior year of high school. I noticed a lot of my schoolmates were easily depressed because of school,” she says. “But I knew if I did my best, Heavenly Father would help me. Usually, my grades were better than I expected.”
Today, college life keeps Angel busy as she studies to become a doctor. As Angel returns home from a full day, she still takes time to read from the scriptures. When she closes her scriptures, it’s 10:30 P.M. Angel’s day is over—finally. She can close her eyes knowing she is doing well in school, and, more importantly, she is finding time to include the gospel in her busy life. In less than eight hours, her day will begin all over again. Angel will undoubtedly enjoy a very sound sleep.

Last month I attended a fast and testimony meeting in a freshman ward at BYU. In bearing her testimony, a young woman said that she had come to BYU because her parents had forced her. She said that she was angry that her brother had gone on a mission because she knew she needed him far more than did the people in Thailand. She had listened to the testimonies of others in her ward at the beginning of the year with a degree of disdain. She had asked herself, “How do they know what they say they do? Why are they always so cheerful?” She, by contrast, did not know. She said she had slept through early morning seminary, and she didn’t even want to know. Then, because of her BYU religion class, she started to read the Book of Mormon. She concluded her testimony by indicating that her feelings had changed. She said that she knew it was possible to have faith and hope because she now had it.

All during that winter of 1846 in those frontier establishments, forges roared and anvils rang with the making of wagons. My own grandfather, barely out of his teens, became an expert blacksmith and wagon builder. No vocation was more useful in those days than that of the ability to shape iron. He would later build his own wagon and with his young wife and baby and his brother-in-law set off for the West. Somewhere on that long journey, his wife sickened and died and his brother-in-law died on the same day. He buried them both, tearfully said good-bye, tenderly picked up his child, and marched on to the valley of the Great Salt Lake.

As the years go by, I continue to reflect on the Sabbath days of my youth and young adulthood. I still remember the first day I passed the sacrament as a deacon and the little glass cups I passed to the members of our ward. A few years ago a Church building in my hometown was remodeled. A compartment in the pulpit had been sealed. When it was opened, there were some of these little glass cups that had remained hidden for years. One of them was presented to me as a memento.

As a mission president I emphasized to the missionaries the necessity of developing faith, determination, and courage. How successful I was is illustrated in the case of Elder Smith. Sister Richards and I met Elder Smith six years after he was released from his mission, and he told us the following story. He was seeking employment in a stock brokerage firm in Salt Lake and, after being interviewed in Salt Lake, was sent to the company’s headquarters in San Francisco. In San Francisco there were two persons interviewing him, a young man and an older man with a big cigar in his mouth. The older man, who seemed to be the one with the authority, told Elder Smith he understood that he had been on a mission for his church. Elder Smith said he had. The man then asked, “What kind of a missionary were you?”
Elder Smith answered, “The best missionary in the mission.”
The man was so startled by this forthright answer he almost dropped his cigar. He said, “If you were the best missionary in the mission, you’re hired right now.” Elder Smith had learned to apply the principles of faith, courage, and determination in his life.

Several years ago was assigned to go to Germany to take care of some important Church business. As I looked forward to that assignment, I worried a great deal. I knew there would be some very important interviews and that I do not speak German. I knew that most of those with whom I would conduct the Church business did not speak English. I felt helpless. After taking care of some work in English for about two weeks, I was finally on the plane to Germany. As I sat there pondering and praying, the voice of the Lord came into my mind, and gave me some instructions. You know, the Lord doesn’t speak in either English or German, and he can speak pure intelligence into our minds without passage of time. The message was something like this: “What are you worried about? There is another language, the language of the Spirit. Those brethren will know that language. You know the language. There will be no problem.” I was greatly comforted. And I had a great experience on that occasion.