Gospel Story Finder

While the pioneers were crossing the plains, a small six-year-old boy wandered away from his handcart company during a storm and was lost. When the storm subsided, Robert and Ann Parker realized their boy was missing and began searching. For two days, an organized search was unsuccessful. The decision was taken that the company must move on because of the approaching winter.
A pioneer journal records:
“Ann Parker pinned a bright [red] shawl about the thin shoulders of her husband and sent him back alone on the trail to search again for their child. If he found him dead he was to wrap him in the shawl; if alive, the shawl would be a flag to signal her. Ann and her children took up their load and struggled on with the company, while Robert retraced the miles of … trail, calling, and searching and praying for his helpless little son.”
One suspects that he did not just casually look behind a few trees or leisurely walk along the trail, but that he vigorously investigated every thicket, every clump of trees and gully or wash.
“At last he reached a … trading station where he learned that his child had been found and cared for by a woodsman and his wife. [The boy] had been ill from exposure and fright. [But] God had heard the prayers of his people.
“Out on the trail each night Ann and her children kept watch and, when, on the third night the rays of the setting sun caught the glimmer of a bright red shawl [above her husband’s head], the brave little mother sank in a pitiful heap in the sand. … [She] slept for the first time in six … days.”*

Many years ago Elder Widtsoe told the story of his mother, Anna Karine Gaarden Widtsoe, who, one hundred years ago was caught up in the “gospel net.” Elder Widtsoe’s prologue is as follows:
“This is the story of a woman, a seeker after truth, who, tossed by the waves of mysterious fate, was caught by the Gospel net, and carried into a far country, where, through the possession of eternal truth, though amidst much adversity, she and her family found unbounded happiness.” (In the Gospel Net, Independence, Mo: Zion’s Printing and Publishing Co., 1941, Prologue.)
The beautiful story concerning his mother, who came from an obscure island off Norway, has been repeated thousands of times in the lives of the Latter-day Saints. These experiences are the foundation of the faith of every member of the Church. As I make reference to some of the influences that have drawn us into the gospel net, I hope that every Latter-day Saint will reflect on the spiritual power which has brought us to the gospel.
Elder Widtsoe’s mother responded to the words of a humble shoemaker who had placed some tracts in her child’s shoes. Speaking to her with some hesitation as she was leaving his shop, he said, “You may be surprised to hear me say that I can give you something of more value than soles for your child’s shoes.”
She responded, “What can you, a shoemaker, give me better than soles for my son’s shoes?”
He answered, “If you will but listen, I can teach you the Lord’s true plan of salvation for His children. I can teach you how to find happiness in this life and to prepare for eternal joy in the life to come. I can tell you whence you came, why you are upon the earth, and where you will go after death. I can teach you as you have never known it before, the love of God for his children on earth.” (In the Gospel Net, pp. 54–55.)
The deep and powerful influence which has reached out across time and space, often into far and hidden corners of the earth, has the effect to snatch people from their normal life patterns and bring them to Zion.
Since the Church was organized in 1830, the gospel net has encircled and drawn together many millions of people who, either through their own personal experience, or through receiving the teachings of their parents and grandparents, have found the way to eternal life.
This means that for those who receive the message, the confusion of ages about how to come to Christ has ended. The answers are at hand to the great questions, such as:
What is the meaning of human life on earth?
Is there revelation from heaven?
Where are the Apostles and prophets?
What about those who never heard of Christ?
Which of the many churches is authorized by God?
Who has authority to administer the gospel?
How can I know what God wants me to do?
There is only one way these questions could ever be answered. God would have to tell us. To do so he has called a latter-day prophet. He has sent heavenly messengers to confer the true priesthood and authority. He has revealed the Book of Mormon to support the witness of the Bible that Jesus is Christ. He has reestablished the ordinances and restored the everlasting covenant. The sure way to eternal life is again in place.
My own membership in the Church is in response to this powerful influence. My own grandparents in Switzerland were also led by the Spirit in the midst of ridicule and persecution to find the path by which they could rear their children with the sure knowledge of divine truth.
My mother’s grandparents were among the first in England to respond to the teachings of Heber C. Kimball and Willard Richards in 1837.
They vibrated to the thrilling news that the kingdom of God had been brought back to the earth.
The human soul, to be spiritually alive, requires a vision, a yearning, a longing, a desire. The spirit of America reaches out to that longing: the great vision of liberty, the spirit of freedom, the land of opportunity and hope.
Sister Bangerter and I recently stood at the feet of the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor with President and Sister McGregor of Caldwell, New Jersey. They pointed out Ellis Island as the entry point into this land for hundreds of thousands of immigrants, including my grandparents and also Elder Widtsoe and his mother. We read again the inspiring words of Emma Lazarus announcing the beacon to wandering souls. Referring to the ancient statue on the Greek island of Rhodes, she speaks of “The New Colossus”:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land:
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome: her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your stored pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost, to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
Then President McGregor coupled this feeling to the words of Lehi:
“Wherefore, this land is consecrated unto him whom he shall bring. And if it so be that they shall serve him according to the commandments which he hath given, it shall be a land of liberty unto them; wherefore, they shall never be brought down into captivity; … but unto the righteous it shall be blessed forever.” (2 Ne. 1:7.)
The yearning of ancient Israel was to Jerusalem. During their captivity, the soul of the people was expressed in the 137th Psalm:
“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. …
“For they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
“How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?
“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
“If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.” (Ps. 137:1, 3–6.)
All of us should reflect on what we have joined and what power has captured our faith. Hundreds of thousands living today have in their own lifetime personally found the pearl of great price. They are the grandparents of the future whose names will be blessed by their posterity.
For forty-five years I have had close association with the land of Brazil. Many tens of thousands have joined the Church in that country. I had great joy yesterday in hearing of the call of Elder Helio da Rocha Camargo, our companion and fellow member of the Church. Brother Camargo and his wife were stalwart, faithful people before they joined the Church. They had been brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Brother Camargo was a graduate of the military academy of Brazil. Later, still a young man, he became a Methodist minister. He told me something of his experience with the “gospel net.” One evening two young men called at his home. He said that the first thing he noticed was the huge feet of one of the young men. He looked upward from the feet until he found the face of the tallest North American he had ever met. He was not at first impressed with the beauty of either the feet or the face. However, he invited the young men in, and in the process of their presentation they left him a copy of the Book of Mormon.
On a subsequent visit they inquired if he had read the book. He explained that he had read considerable, making notes of the things with which he did not agree. The elder then suggested that it was not in keeping with a book of scripture to read it to see what was wrong with it, but that it should be read as Moroni says, “with a sincere heart” and “real intent,” having “faith in Christ” and desiring to know the truth of the book. (See Moro. 10:4.)
Brother Camargo said he found it necessary to read the book again. In the process the Spirit witnessed to him that it was the true word of God, and he joined the Church with his family. He sometimes refers to the scripture in Isa. 52:7 which says, “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet [those huge missionary feet] of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; … that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!” The truth he has found has brought similar beauty to the feet of three of his sons as they have served as missionaries. All of his children were married in the temple covenant, and he and his wife have great joy and rejoicing in their posterity. One of his sons is present at this conference today as a stake president.
President J. Reuben Clark, Jr., captured the spirit of this drawing power in his memorable address in 1947 “to them of the last wagon”—our pioneers who endured the hardships of their great journey:
“They had,” he said, “their testimony burning always like an eternal fire on a holy altar, that the restored gospel was true. …
“When in the evening the last wagon creaked slowly into its place in the circle corral, and the Brethren came to inquire how the day had gone with the mother, then joy leaped in their hearts, for had not the Brethren remembered them? New hope was born, weariness fled, fresh will to do was enkindled; gratitude to God was poured out for their knowledge of the truth, for their testimony that God lived, that Jesus was the Christ, that Joseph was a prophet, … and that for the righteous a crown of glory awaited that should be theirs during the eternities of the life to come.”
He states that at the conclusion of their journey, “[they] all sank to their knees in the joy of their souls, thanking God that at last they were in Zion. ‘Zion, Zion, lovely Zion, beautiful Zion, Zion, City of our God.’” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1947, pp. 157–58.)
What a thrill of joy must have moved Andrew as he said to Peter, “We have found the Messias.” (John 1:41.) Along with countless thousands, it has “come to pass that the righteous shall be gathered out from among all nations, and shall come to Zion, singing with songs of everlasting joy.” (D&C 45:71.)
May we lift our souls this beautiful Easter morning with the assurance that through the mystic call of the restored gospel we have come to the threshold of Zion and the gateway to eternal life. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

One reader wrote about the difficulty—and necessity—of getting involved in more of the process: “One cold December night, I came to realize that until I believed the Lord and received his counsel through priesthood blessings and the scriptures, I could not progress. My emotional and spiritual health, as well as my eternal progression, hinged on this. I had to trust my Heavenly Father!

“How does a person learn to believe spiritual things that are so different from earthly experiences? After many hours of prayer and tears, I found the answer in Alma 32:27: ‘If ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words.’

“When I read those words, I burst into tears. I did have a desire, and as I let it work in me, as the scripture promised, I found a place for a portion of his words. On my knees, I felt the Lord ‘take [my] stony heart’ and give me a ‘heart of flesh’ (Ezek. 11:19). In the months that followed, I could feel a change in me.”

He shared his experiences with the Saints, taught Tahitian classes, and prepared to return to Polynesia. In 1850 he set out with a new companion, James S. Brown, and the promise that his own family and other missionary families would soon follow. They did follow, and despite growing problems with the French government in the islands, the missionaries and their families served until 1852, when they were forced to return to America.

My father had come for a visit, and I stayed home from work to talk with him. After breakfast, we spoke only briefly before he tired and went to sleep on the small sofa. It was quiet except for the sounds of his breathing, and I found myself filled with thoughts and feelings that surprised me with their intensity.
I could easily recognize the signs of his advanced age. What was left of his hair was gray. His face, wrinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth, still had the look of character and sensitivity I had often seen as his son. Then, because of a cold, he also looked tired. My father’s hands are larger than should be the case for one of moderate build. His fingers are wide and strong. One little finger is permanently bent because of a farming accident. As a small child I had spent many sacrament meetings rubbing this finger thinking it would feel better.
I sat for several minutes looking at him and reflecting about our life together. I wondered how much longer he would live. He had been very lonely since Mother died three years earlier. And, though sad for me, maybe he would be happier to go soon. I felt very protective as I watched him, much like a parent feels toward a sleeping child who requires concern because he is vulnerable. I leaned back in my chair and fell deep into the memories of long ago.
I was never told by anyone to be like my father. It just seemed natural to follow his footsteps in the snow, or to be interested in music as he was, or to compare myself with him in many other ways. One way I compared myself to him was in his work habits. He was a very hard worker. He began early and worked late on our family farm, which required him to milk cows and irrigate before breakfast. He then put in a full day’s work like other people before milking and tending the irrigation water at night. It was hard to keep up with him, but my brothers and I often tried. Once started he could keep going steadily without resting. At least he did not rest often enough for me.
I am his youngest son, so I was given increased responsibilities as I grew older and was gradually expected to do a “man’s work.” Sometimes when I was extra tired and reluctant to get my own chores done, I would finally arrive only to find he had done them for me. I was glad but ashamed.
Sometime around my 17th birthday, I had achieved my full growth with the usual bulges and ripples in the right places. Dad and I were alone together on the farm since my older brothers were married or at college. One day we were stacking bales of alfalfa hay. I was placing them from the truck on a long conveyer that carried them to where Dad was placing them in the right position on the haystack. The sound of the small motor drowned out any possibility of talk, so, lost in my own thoughts, I worked rapidly to finish the job. I was startled when Dad yelled. I looked up to see that I was sending bales of hay up to him faster than he could place them. After waving for me to stop, he sat down to rest. Dad pulled out a red bandana handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. At that moment I realized I was no longer a small child following my father’s footsteps in the snow. My father was more tired than I was.
I had never before realized that this was natural since I was 17 and he was 55. I was instead a bit shocked by the recognition that he was no longer going to be the person I compared myself to in order to see if I was doing all right. Truthfully, I felt a bit anxious as if I were suddenly without a leader and were on my own. As I sat looking at him, a wave of emotion passed through me. I could not understand all of it, but I knew something significant was taking place. He suddenly looked a bit older to me and more tired than I had been willing to notice.
As we began to work again, and I more slowly, my father seemed a bit less than he used to be. I felt a little disappointed and even resentful. Some fate had robbed me of a security I had as a child, but I gained an understanding that has been a wonderful part of my life. I understood that more than an unattainable example of manhood, my father was just a man. He was a mortal like me, and what he did I could someday do too. Knowing this was far better than trying to be like someone and never succeeding. My father became to me a real person who had feelings and ideas, strengths and weaknesses, hopes and dreams.
My disappointment was brief, and I began to view him differently, even feeling protective of him. As the days followed, I became more responsible in doing my chores and tried in many ways to be more helpful to him. I began to tell him more things about myself, and we became closer. Though he was by nature a reserved and quiet man, we became more openly affectionate with each other. We are not equals. I am better in some areas because of an advanced education he gave me. He is wiser because of his experience.
As I returned from these thoughts of my youth, I was impressed that my father had in this way taught me about being a father. Working by his side, I came to know him well, and I could become like him. But, I wondered, what about my sons? They do not work with me every day. How are they learning about being fathers? Do they even think it is important to learn? Caught up in a whirl of sports, school, friends, and play they do not often see far into the future. Yet the years since I was 17 have seemed to pass like fleeting moments. Someday my sons will, like me now, consider fatherhood the most important of all they do.
It is a mistake to think that a boy will learn about fatherhood later after having children. It is usually too late then if a boy has not learned successfully, and his sons and daughters will receive the brunt of his inadequacies. It is much wiser to think that men are better fathers when they have learned about it when they are sons.
Most of us know that fathers should teach their sons, but most sons are not aware that they could and should learn about being fathers. As a result, boys often do not ask the very questions or participate in special experiences that could teach them. Boys may want their fathers to watch them play ball or teach them how to fish, but they forget to ask their dads how to be a good father. Sons could ask their fathers about many different aspects of family life. Some of these are listed as follows:
Financial Planning. In order to survive, fathers and mothers have had to prepare and make financial plans. Ask your parents how they organize their finances, who pays for which bills, what their biggest problems are, and what they wish they would have done differently.
Child Discipline. Ask your father about the reasons for family rules. Ask what your father learned about child discipline from his parents.
Organizing Family Activities. Successful vacations, family prayer, family home evenings, even chores, require organizational skills. You can ask your father or mother what he or she has learned about making them succeed.
What Your Parents Have Learned as Parents. Being a parent has helped, even forced, parents to learn about themselves. Ask about their experiences as parents and what they have learned since having children. Find out about what they have done that was successful and what they would do over again.
What Your Parents Think and Feel about You. Ask your parents about their feelings toward you. Note their ideas and ask about reasons for their thoughts. Each parent will have his or her individual ideas.
Teaching the Gospel. Ask your father and mother how they teach the gospel. Find out why they do what they do. Inquire about their successes and failures.
I decided not to wait for my sons to ask me to teach them because it seems too important to neglect. In their preparation for fatherhood I would like my sons to know the importance of showing genuine respect for girls and of showing courtesy and consideration in all their dating. They can begin doing this by showing regard for their mother and their sisters. I want them to develop good work habits which will enable them to provide for their family. Each of my sons has work to do and is rewarded for doing it. I believe they need to control their tempers and develop patience, which will be needed with their children. I try to set an example of this. I want them to be creative teachers of the gospel, so I assign them to teach in family home evenings. We read and discuss the scriptures and tell gospel stories to each other. I am trying to prepare them for missions.
I want them to spend time with their children, so I try to spend time with them. I ask what they plan to be like when they are fathers, and we talk about it. Even with all of this, I wish they would ask more questions about being a father.
Still they seem more interested in what they are doing right now, and I do not object too much about that because I have been their age. I would like them to ask me about fatherhood so I could tell them what I believe. Someday they will look at me when I am old and remember the time when they surpassed me. They will know me as I am, just a man, and we will be friends. Then, learning, they will recognize that just as my father continues to teach me, I will also prepare them for what is to come. I am living just a few moments ahead, and my age calls to them as if to say, “Come this way my sons.” I want them to hear, and I want to see them succeed.

Our friend Bette shared an experience she had at church when she was 10 years old. She said: “Our teacher was sharing a lesson about temple marriage. She specifically asked me, ‘Bette, your parents weren’t married in the temple, were they?’ [My teacher and the rest of the class] knew the answer.” The teacher’s lesson followed, and Bette imagined the worst. Bette said, “I had many tearful nights. When I had heart problems two years later and thought I was going to die, I panicked, thinking I would be alone forever.”

I will be forever grateful to my mother, who taught me the importance of the temple. For years, she prepared us for the temple by having pictures of many beautiful temples hanging in our home. We also had family home evening lessons about temples. All of this was in anticipation of the long-promised visit to the temple after reaching the age of 12.
The words of the song my mother sang, often at the breakfast table before family prayers, still ring in my ears.
I love to see the temple.
I’m going there someday
To feel the Holy Spirit,
To listen and to pray.
For the temple is a house of God,
A place of love and beauty.
I’ll prepare myself while I am young;
This is my sacred duty.
(Children’s Songbook, 95)
For each of us five children, Mother’s present for our 12th birthday was a trip to the temple. The closest temple—Johannesburg—was a long trip, a 16-hour, nonstop drive, and it cost a lot of money. It meant leaving at 4:00 A.M. and arriving after 8:00 P.M.—tired, hot, and sticky.
Yet my mother always made sure money for the temple trip was first in the budget, along with tithing. Each year, we made the journey to the temple to do work for the dead. By sacrificing so much, my mother helped me understand the beauty of the temple and the importance of the work done there.
When I think of my mother, beaming proudly, as she presented her two children, my sister and me, to the temple president and showed him our recommends, I am reminded of Hannah bringing Samuel to Eli in the temple and dedicating her son to the Lord. Although I didn’t fully understand the importance of the temple at first, each successive temple trip left an indelible impression on me. My love for the temple grew each year as my mother sacrificed so much for our experiences there. To see her children in the temple, dressed in white and doing the Lord’s work, meant more to my mother than anything she could have bought with the money she saved.

One of the Twelve recently shared a story that illustrates this principle. As a priest in high school, he was hanging out with his friends. After they got something to eat, they were driving around when someone suggested they should go to a certain movie. The problem was he knew it was a movie he shouldn’t see. Although he immediately felt pressure and anxiety about the situation, he had planned for this. This was a page straight out of his priesthood playbook.

Taking a deep breath and summoning his courage, he announced, “I’m not interested in that movie. Just drop me off at my house,” which they did. A simple play leading to a victory! Years later, one of the friends with him that night described how this example proved to be a great strength for him to courageously face similar circumstances in his own life.

Many faithful Latter-day Saints have been warned by the Spirit when they were faced with injury or possible death. Among these was President Wilford Woodruff, who said:
“When I got back to Winter Quarters from the pioneer journey [1847], President [Brigham Young] said to me, ‘Brother Woodruff, I want you to take your wife and children and go to Boston and stay there until you can gather every Saint of God in New England and Canada and send them up to Zion.’
“I did as he told me. It took me two years to gather up everybody, and I brought up the rear with a company (there were about one hundred of them). We arrived at Pittsburgh one day at sundown. We did not want to stay there, so I went to the first steamboat that was going to leave. I saw the captain and engaged passage for us on that steamer. I had only just done so when the spirit said to me, and that, too, very strongly, ‘Don’t go aboard that steamer, nor your company.’ Of course, I went and spoke to the captain, and told him I had made up my mind to wait.
“Well, that ship started, and had only got five miles down the river when it took fire, and three hundred persons were burned to death or drowned. If I had not obeyed that spirit, and had gone on that steamer with the rest of the company, you can see what the result would have been.”

A while back, my good friend G. Marion Hinckley from Utah County, my fellow trail rider, came to the office with two grandsons who were brothers, one having served an honorable mission in Japan and the other in Scotland. Brother Hinckley said, “Let me share with you a wonderful experience which came to these grandsons of mine.” His buttons were almost bursting with pride.

In faraway Japan, a commercial street photographer stopped one of the brothers, having taken a picture of him holding a small child. He offered the print for sale to the missionary and his companion. They explained that they were on a tight budget, that they were missionaries, and they directed the photographer’s attention to their nameplates. They didn’t purchase the picture.

Some months later, the brother serving in Scotland was asking two missionaries why they had arrived late for a zone meeting, when they told this story: A most persistent street photographer had attempted to sell them a picture of a missionary in Japan holding a small child. They had no interest in the picture, but to avoid arriving even later at their zone meeting, they purchased it.

“A likely story,” responded Elder Lamb, whereupon they handed him the picture. He could not believe his eyes. It was a photograph of his own brother in faraway Japan.

That day in my office they presented to my view the two pictures, and with their grandfather beaming his approval they declared, “The Lord surely is mindful of his servants the missionaries.”

As they departed my office, I thought, Yes, the Lord is mindful of his missionaries—and their fathers, their mothers, their grandparents, and all who sacrifice for their support, that precious souls may be taught and provided His gospel.

When I was nine years old, we lived in Fillmore, Utah. One rainy day, my mom, my two sisters, and I left for Kanab, Utah, to help my great-granny. We were on a winding road where you can’t see what is coming toward you until it is right there. The rain started pouring so hard that it was even harder to see. We had to keep driving because there were no places to pull over. I asked Mom if I should say a prayer. She said yes, so I did. I asked Heavenly Father to let the rain slow down until we got across Bear Valley. After a few seconds, the rain came down only very lightly and almost stopped. When we turned onto Highway 89, the rain picked up again, but we could see. We felt good about continuing our trip.
This year, we moved to Price, Utah. It started raining really hard while we were trying to load the moving truck. I went into my empty bedroom and asked Heavenly Father to let the rain quit until we were finished. It did quit, and we even had some sun. I told my parents what I had done, and Mom cried and hugged me because she remembered about Bear Valley, too. It didn’t rain again until we left Fillmore with all our things loaded.
I have a strong testimony of the power of prayer. I know that Heavenly Father listens to children. I will be a deacon soon, and I know I will need to use prayer constantly to help me fulfill my duties. And I know that He will be there and will listen to me.Kass Esplin, age 11Price, Utah

In late 1987, after a bloodless military coup, the new Fijian government declared it illegal for public transport to operate on Sunday. This posed little problem for people who belong to the country’s dominant Christian religion—there is a church in every village. But many Latter-day Saints live far from their branch or ward headquarters.
Vilisi and Fai Ucunibaravi and their six children decided that they would walk the twelve kilometers from their home to the Nausori chapel each Sunday. “Some people would laugh at us, and they wouldn’t stop to give us rides,” says Sister Ucunibaravi. “But that was all right. Our hearts were there before we left home.”

“Robert! What do you mean, you want to use your mission fund on computer equipment? You made some commitments to us, to the bishop, and to your twin sister before she …” His voice trailed off. “I loved Rachel too, son. I miss her too. But don’t you think she would have wanted you to go on your mission regardless of what happened to her?”
I just shook my head. Dad was still going on. “It was nine months ago, son. Maybe she would have wanted us all to bury our grief by now and get on with our lives.”
“I agree with you,” I mumbled. “I want to get on with my life. So why can’t I just use my mission fund on some nice computer equipment? It’s not as if Rachel is around to demand I act like nothing has changed.”
I stomped up the stairs, slammed my bedroom door, threw myself into my desk chair, and stared into the blank computer screen. Another argument. A bad one.
After hyperventilating for a while, I pushed the “on” button and powered up. The thought occurred to me that I seemed to relate better to my computer than I did to humans.
Do you want to work on your AI program as usual, sir?
I “Yessed” the option, and my Artificial Intelligence program, which we had been perfecting for the last year, appeared.
We? I mean I’m working on it alone now. My sister Rachel and I developed it, but she …
I began to fiddle with the program. I have to admit, Rachel was even better than me when it came to computer programming. She could break into any of my personal files, and she’d often leave me a scripture or some word of encouragement that would pop up on my screen. She could even do this from her hospital bed during those last days; she had her portable laptop (plugged into my computer by modem) with her every minute.
I pulled my mind back.
Anyway, her Artificial Intelligence conversational programs were the best I’d ever seen. It worked like this. A question or statement appears on the screen, and anyone can type in an answer. Then—and this is the tricky part—the computer program recognizes a word or a phrase from the human’s answer, and automatically responds with a prewritten answer, as if it were another human. If the person writing the program knows the person well enough, it would seem as if a normal conversation is taking place between the human and the computer. Of course, the machine side of the conversation had all been preprogrammed.
The first question appeared:
I am fine. How are you?
I reply: “I am just great.” The computer recognizes “great” from my answer and gives its prewritten response:
You are great. That is nice. Why do you feel great?
But I decide to tell the truth and type in “I lied. I’ve been feeling rotten for the last nine months.”
The program replies mechanically:
You are feeling rotten? I am sorry to hear that.
At this point, I began to get carried away. I had the overpowering urge to spill my innermost thoughts to somebody or something—even this stupid computer. So I started typing and I couldn’t stop.
“I am feeling rotten because I miss my twin sister.” I could feel tears running down my cheeks, hitting my hands, then rolling on to the keys. “She never complained. She was always joking with me, telling me how she could read me like a book, telling me how she wanted me to promise her that I’d still go on my mission when I turned 19. And I did promise her, just to make her feel better. Then she used to joke that she’d come back to haunt me if I didn’t leave on my mission. She always had that sly grin, that ridiculous wink, even when the pain was the worst.
“But how can I keep that promise to her? How can I go on a mission and ‘proclaim the gospel’ when I feel so bitter inside?”
My computer clock buzzed. It was midnight, exactly nine months from the day of her death. For that matter, it was nine months from when I was supposed to send my mission papers in.
Suddenly my computer screen went blank, and my hard drive began to buzz oddly. This isn’t supposed to happen. Oh no, I thought. I had been neglecting to do a backup system.
Suddenly I heard the synthesized system sing, “Boy, you’re in big trouble and your hard drive’s gonna be rubble unless you repent on the double!” It was then the terrible message appeared in large red letters over my screen:
DO NOT ATTEMPT A RECOVERY! THIS IS A TIME BOMB! YOUR FILES HAVE JUST BEEN HOPELESSLY SCRAMBLED.
My hands froze over the keys. A time bomb! One of the most awful forms of computer viruses. I tried to remember all I could about this monstrous file-invading practical joke.
A time bomb is an invasion program keyed into a computer’s clock or calendar. It can be put into the system anytime in the past—weeks, even months. It can be set to scramble files, or do anything, when the clock reaches a certain time or date. You can’t get your files unscrambled unless you do exactly what it tells you.
Another message appeared:
And don’t even think about unplugging and using your backup. That’s rigged to scramble also.
It must be a bluff, I thought. I mean, how could anyone get into my backup files? Only if they had all my security codes. But how did someone get into my system in the first place? Nobody could plant a time bomb in my system unless they had all my codes. And there’s only one person who had them, and she’s …
A cold, dull feeling began spreading from the pit of my stomach to my trembling hands, still frozen over the keyboard. And another message began to materialize on my monitor:
Robbie? Don’t be mad. It’s me.—Rachel.
I felt my hands drop to my sides, and I began to breathe funny.
I know you may be a bit surprised, but it’s all perfectly logical, really. I programmed this time bomb to go off nine months after you were supposed to send in your mission papers. I had to do it this way because I knew I’d be gone by then. If you were nicely off on your mission, your computer would have been safely turned off, and the time bomb would have canceled itself out.
But you haven’t left yet, have you, Robbie? I knew if you stayed home, you’d still be fooling around on this stupid machine all day. So because the computer is turned on and you’re not on your mission the time bomb has been activated, and you and I are going to have a little talk.
Okay, listen up. If you do everything I say, this program will unscramble your files. If not, our two-year project goes to byte heaven. Okay? Type your answer here now. And it better be the right answer.
I typed in “OK.” I didn’t have much choice. I was pretty dazed. It was like, well, a voice from the dust.
Her program recognized the correct response, so instead of deleting my files, it responded.
Good boy. I don’t have much time, so let’s get down to business. Remember, back at the hospital you promised me you’d go on your mission? Now, you know I can read you like a book! You kept averting your eyes and looking guilty. So I knew I’d have to arrange a way to do what the Book of Mormonprophets did. I call it my 2 Nephi 33:13 program. [2 Ne. 33:13]
Anyway, Robbie, you didn’t go on your mission like you promised. So now’s your chance to explain yourself. Multiple choice. Pick one.
I, Robbie, didn’t go on my mission because (a) I had some unforeseen difficulties (such as a weird disease or something); (b) I have some sort of worthiness problem; (c) I am bitter about my sister’s death.
This was starting to get ridiculous. How would her program know if I were to make up some sort of fictitious disease and choose “A.” Still, I had only lied to her once and she seemed to have picked up on that with no problem. No sense taking any chances. I might as well come clean and tell the truth. I chose “C” and pressed “Enter.”
Aha! I thought so! You’re still bitter because I had to die?
I started typing in my replies as if I were talking to a real, live person.
“I’m bitter because you had to suffer, and I’m bitter because you died.”
Robbie, remember what we used to do when either of us had a problem we couldn’t figure out? We used to get together and have a mini-scripture chase to find the answers. Well, let’s try that again.
How can I have a scripture chase with someone who’s … who’s dead? I wondered.
Here’s how it works. I’ll give you the scriptures to look up and you type them into the computer. The program will recognize them, and soon you’ll have your precious files unscrambled.
Suddenly the computer started listing scriptures I had to copy. I grabbed a set of scriptures and tried to keep up.
D&C 122:7; D&C 122:9; Rom. 8:28; Abr. 3:25; Mosiah 3:19; Mosiah 23:21.
How long was I typing those scriptures back into the computer? Three hours? Five hours? And then I had to answer questions about each verse. It was like some late-night, unending seminary lesson.
Just when I thought I would collapse and fall asleep, precious files or no precious files, the program declared:
Good job! Break time! Have a ten-minute rest.
I sunk back in my chair. I looked out the window, into the cloudless night. All those stars. I noticed I was beginning to feel different. It seemed like my jaw muscles had been clamped together for months, and I had just remembered how to relax them. Was I just getting my second wind, or were those scriptures getting through to me?
Then I noticed I had been using Rachel’s scriptures, the set she used in the hospital. There was a single piece of notepaper stuffed between the leaves, in shaky handwriting:
“Thank you for comforting me these last months. When the pain gets the worst, and I just want to die and get it over with, the nurses and my parents try to comfort me, to make me braver. But they can’t say, ‘I know what you’re going through’ because, of course, they don’t. But you can, because you’re going through worse than me. You just put on that smile and wink at me. You look so funny when you wink, I just have to laugh and then I feel better. You know, I think no one can really understand anyone that is in pain unless they have suffered the same pain themselves.”
The signature ran off the page, unintelligible.
The sound synthesizer played a few trumpet calls, and I shook myself out of my thoughts. I was once more poised at the keyboard, ready to resume what seemed to be her never-ending scripture chase. But instead, the screen declared:
Now, after studying all those scriptures, you should know everything there is to know about why some people have to suffer and die. Yes or no?
I sighed and checked “No.” I had failed. I still didn’t completely understand.
Aha! Gotcha! Of course you don’t understand all the answers to all the questions mankind has been asking for ages. Nice to see you’re finally being honest about it, though.
But at least I got you studying the scriptures again. Keep studying them prayerfully. The answers are all in there. And even if you don’t completely understand everything, come on, admit it. As you read the scriptures again, didn’t you start to feel a little of the peace we always used to feel after a good scripture read?
Or maybe a lot, I thought.
Yes, Robbie, I had to suffer and die—just like a lot of other people. Like the others in my cancer ward, like the handcart pioneers, like Joseph Smith. I prayed, like you, because I wanted to know what was going on, but I didn’t get an answer. But at least I got a feeling of peace, like Heavenly Father was there with me, telling me it was necessary.
You must be reading this sometime after my death, so I guess by now I know all the answers. I wish I could really come back and explain everything to you, but I suppose it’s not my place to tell you. But I can tell you this. I am surrounded by great and good spirits, spirits that want their families who are still on the earth to hear the gospel. I never had the opportunity to go on a mission in earth life, but here, who knows? But I have done my job on earth and will do my job where I am now.
It’s time for you to do yours.
I looked at my hands, as they now rested on the keyboard. My tears had dried, and I realized the alarm clock was ringing. It was dawn. I let it ring. I had to type very slowly because my hands were still trembling.
“Yes, Solemn Twin Promise.”
The program recognized my response, and the printer activated itself, typing out a letter.
“Dear Bishop. I want to meet with you and talk about my mission. Can we get together this Sunday after church?”
Why don’t you sign this handy note and send it off tomorrow?
“Robbie.” My mother was calling from down the hall. “Your alarm clock’s ringing. Wake up and turn it off!”
I pulled the paper out of the printer, signed it, and addressed it to the bishop.
I knew you’d make me proud of you, Robbie! Now you can have our—your—files back, and it’s time for me to go. But when you return in two years or so, turn the computer back on. You never know what other surprise messages I’ve planted in it.
“I can hardly wait,” I replied.
The screen went blank again, and I could hear the drives at work as the time bomb program told them how to unscramble the AI project files. But just before the monitor returned to normal, the family picture file activated, and I caught a half-second glimpse of a picture of Rachel grinning.
And winking.

Everybody loves Peanuts, according to Joyce Ensign, Logan, Utah. So she invited guests to a Peanuts party with Snoopy cards instructing each guest to bring his own security blanket and to come representing his favorite character from this famous cartoon series. The place was decorated with Peanuts posters, stuffed toys, and bowls of peanuts, of course. People sat on the security blankets and had a sing-along with music from “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.” Reading aloud from Peanuts wit and wisdom, and munching on frosted grahams and gigantic lollipops topped off the party.

I’m going to share an experience I had with President Kimball to help you understand what a choice human being he is, besides a powerful prophet, and perhaps base the rest of my remarks on this incident. I stood alone in the basement of the Church Office Building about two years ago, waiting for an elevator. It was very early on a Monday morning, well before the influx of office workers. As the elevator lowered into place, suddenly two Church security officers appeared from out of somewhere and held back the opening doors. Now, nobody does that for me, so I looked around just in time to see President Kimball and his personal secretary, Brother Haycock, entering the area. They moved quickly into the secured area, and I quickly moved out of the way. Well, as President Kimball turned and faced the front of the elevator, he saw me standing out there waiting for the next one. And he said to me very graciously, “Good morning.” And I said, “Good morning, President Kimball.” And he said, “Aren’t you going to get on?” And I said, “Well—” and hesitated for a few moments—“I didn’t think I was supposed to under the circumstances.” And then he said, “Aren’t you going up?” And I said, “Yes.” And he said, “Well, tell me, how do you intend to get there?” And then he said, “Come along.” So I got on! At the prophet’s invitation I was happy to ride up with him.

Just three months after James Boyd Martino joined the Church in 1968, a friend invited him to meet with a minister of another faith. The minister bombarded him with questions, only a few of which he could answer.
Although the experience shook him, 17-year-old James didn’t let the minister deter him—or his commitment to the Church. Rather, he says, “my testimony then was like a prescription medicine that has to be shaken to be effective. The experience motivated me to study the gospel and grow in my faith.”
Elder Martino, recently called as a member of the Second Quorum of the Seventy, says that studying the gospel has blessed him ever since that time.

In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents, Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, who had joined the Church in their native Scotland, left their home in Rutherglen, Scotland, and journeyed to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849. One of their 11 children, Margaret, would become my great-grandmother.
While the family was in St. Louis working to earn enough money to complete their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera swept through the area, leaving death and heartache in its wake. The Miller family was hard hit. In the space of two weeks, four of the family members succumbed. The first, on June 22, 1849, was 18-year-old William. Five days later Mary McGowan Miller, my great-great-grandmother and the mother of the family, died. Two days afterward, 15-year-old Archibald passed away, and five days after his death, my great-great-grandfather, Charles Stewart Miller, father of the family, succumbed. The children who survived were left orphans, including my great-grandmother Margaret, who was 13 years old at the time.
Because of so many deaths in the area, there were no caskets available, at any price, in which to bury the deceased family members. The older surviving boys dismantled the family’s oxen pens in order to make caskets for the family members who had passed away.
Little is recorded of the heartache and struggles of the nine remaining Miller children as they continued to work and save for that journey their parents and brothers would never make. We know that they left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.
Others of my ancestors faced similar hardships. Through it all, however, their testimonies remained steadfast and firm. From all of them I received a legacy of total dedication to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Because of these faithful souls, I stand before you today.

My great-great-grandmother Hannah Maria Eagles Harris was one of the first to listen to Wilford Woodruff. She informed her husband, Robert Harris Jr., that she had heard the word of God and that she intended to be baptized. Robert was not pleased to hear his wife’s report. He told her he would accompany her to the next sermon given by the Mormon missionary, and he would straighten him out.
Sitting near the front of the assembly, with a firm resolve to not be swayed, and perhaps to heckle the visiting preacher, Robert was immediately touched by the Spirit, just as his wife had been. He knew the message of the Restoration was true, and he and his wife were baptized.
Their story of faith and devotion is similar to thousands of others: when they heard the gospel message, they knew it was true!

When Omer and his parents moved from Tijuana to Monterrey, they left behind family, friends, and a home they knew and loved. It was hard, but it was also exciting for Omer. One thing that wasn’t so exciting, however, was leaving behind a conveniently located temple in San Diego. Now a trip to the temple involves considerable travel.

“I really miss the temple,” says Omer. “Here you usually get only one chance a year to go to the Mexico City Temple. In Tijuana we would cross the border and go to San Diego on the first Saturday every month. The feeling in our family was always a little bit different, a little special on those days. The people in the temple always seemed glad to see us there. I know that it will be the same when the temple is here.”

At age 16, she stayed one last time with her favorite relatives. She planned to meet her family at the train station the next morning, ride to Liverpool, England, and board a ship for America.
But she overslept.
“I did not know what to do,” she said. “My father, brothers, and sister were on that train and leaving me behind. Oh, it was terrible!”
She arrived in Liverpool late that night, wandered the streets, and asked strangers to help her find her family. At last, around 1:00 a.m., she peered through the window of a house and saw familiar faces. “I tell you, I was happy,” she said. “It made my father sick, for he thought he would never see me again.”
After five weeks at sea and a train ride to Iowa, she and her family set out across the plains. Members of the Martin Handcart Company “would sit around the campfire and sing and were as happy as larks,” Margaret said, “till the snow caught us.”
Then there was little singing. Instead, Margaret watched as friends, overcome by cold, hunger, or illness, slumped over dead. “All we had to eat was four ounces of flour a day,” she said. Soon “the snow was so deep we could not go any further.” Both her brothers died before reaching Salt Lake, and her father died the day after he reached Salt Lake.
Although Margaret lost family and friends, she didn’t lose hope. She married and lived happily. Later she received an interesting birthday gift from her family: an airplane ride. They wanted to say that she had traveled by every mode of transportation, including train, boat, handcart, wagon, automobile, and airplane.