Gospel Story Finder

In April 1992 my family and I were living in Provo, Utah, where we had moved from Canada so I could complete a degree in engineering at Brigham Young University. My son Jase, who was 17, had become friends with a young woman named Krista.
On the Saturday evening of general conference weekend, Jase came into the living room and asked if he could borrow the car to take Krista out for a milk shake. I tossed him the keys, and he went into the kitchen to call her. I could hear one side of the conversation, which went like this:
“Hi, Krista, it’s me, Jase. I was wondering if you would like to go out for a milk shake.” Silence. “You mean after priesthood meeting? Well, OK, I’ll call you then. See ya.”
Jase hung up the phone and came back into the living room.
“So are you going out with her?” I asked.
“She said she would like to go,” he replied, “but she told me to call her back after I get home from the priesthood session.” With a dejected look on his face, he slunk off to his room.
Something hit me like a ton of bricks. I had grown up in southern Alberta, nearly 80 miles (130 km) from the stake center. No one had expected me or even my parents, who had leadership positions in our branch, to show up for conference sessions, let alone the priesthood session. Now someone was counting on it.
What would my response be to my son’s look of sadness as he went to his room? I knew that my decision would set a precedent for years to come.
I got up from my chair and called down the hall to Jase and my second son, a newly ordained deacon, “Change your clothes. We have 10 minutes to get to the priesthood session at the stake center.” I hurried to get ready, and when I came out of my bedroom, both boys were ready, and we headed for the car.
I don’t remember the talks very well, but I remember that we felt the Spirit. It felt good to be at the priesthood session with my sons. When we came home, Jase felt good about himself, which made me feel good. He called Krista, and they went to get milk shakes.
In the two decades that have passed since that day, the priesthood holders in our family have not missed a single priesthood session of general conference. Because a righteous young woman stood up for her beliefs, our family had the opportunity to change, and we continue to hear the words of latter-day prophets and feel the Spirit in the priesthood session of general conference.

A letter and an old ashtray came to the office of the Presiding Bishop. The letter reads: “Dear Sir, I stole the enclosed ashtray from your hotel in 1965. After these many years, I want to apologize to you and ask for your forgiveness for my wrongdoing. Sincerely, (signature)
“P.S. I have enclosed a check that attempts to reimburse you for the ashtray.”
The check was in the amount of $26.00, one dollar for each year he had kept the ashtray. I can imagine that during those twenty-six years, each time he tapped his cigarette on the rim of that tray he suffered a twinge of conscience. I do not know that the hotel ever missed the ashtray, but the man who took it missed his peace of mind for more than a quarter of a century and finally ended up paying far more for the stolen tray than it was worth. Yes, honesty is the best policy.

To demonstrate the kind of inner strength I am talking about, I would like to share the story of Susanna Stone Lloyd, who at the age of 26 left England in 1856 and traveled to Utah alone. The only member of her family to join the Church, Susanna was a member of the Willie handcart company. Like so many other pioneers, she endured life-threatening hunger, illness, and fatigue.
Upon arriving in the Salt Lake Valley, Susanna borrowed a mirror to make herself more presentable. Despite her best efforts, she recounts: “I shall never forget how I looked. Some of my old friends did not know me.” Having sold her own mirror to an Indian for a piece of buffalo meat, she had not spent much time looking at herself. Now she did not recognize her own image. She was a different person, both inside and out. Over the course of rocky ridges and extreme hardship came a deep conviction. Her faith had been tried, and her conversion was concrete. She had been refined in ways that the very best mirror could not reflect. Susanna had prayed for strength and found it—deep within her soul.
No matter our circumstances, who of us can afford to waste our life in front of the mirrors of self-pity and discouragement? Yes, as the Apostle Paul admonished, we all need to examine ourselves from time to time. We all need to repent, recognize our weaknesses, and more fully come unto Christ. Like Susanna, we may have to sell our looking glass in order to cross the plains of pain, sorrow, and discouragement. But as we do, we will discover God-given strengths that we may not have otherwise known.

Clarence E. Newry Jr. was the first Bahamian to be baptized a member of the Church. He joined the Church 19 years ago when he was a student living in Utah. Now he is head of the technical department in a government high school. Each morning before dawn, he makes three or more trips in his car, picking up most of the teenagers in the two branches and taking them to the meetinghouse for early-morning seminary. Then he waits until seminary is over and takes the students home before he leaves for work. If he didn’t provide transportation, most of the students couldn’t attend seminary.

When William Wood attended general conference on October 7, 1867 and heard his name read along with 99 other young brethren as missionaries to settle the Big Muddy Valley, he was astounded. He had some brief periods of remorse as he contemplated the labor which had gone into his business and the brand new home just occupied six weeks earlier. William regarded a call from the First Presidency the equivalent of a call from God. Once the call was officially confirmed and he was appropriately set apart, he hastened his preparations for the journey. He sold his butcher shop, his slaughter house, his fine brick home which had cost him $4,000, and within four weeks he was ready to proceed south into the unknown.

On their way through Utah valley, they encountered Brigham Young returning to Salt Lake. Brigham spoke, "What is your name and were are you going?" William Wood of Salt Lake City going to the Muddy," replied William. "You go and fill the mission and God will bless you." Brigham sat down and the line of carriages proceeded on. The occupants of each carriage smiled compromisingly at William's family as they passed, each one thankful in their hearts that their calling was not to the Muddy.

For four years William Wood and his family endured unbelievable hardship and privations. Hard work and faith had sustained them through the years. The spiritual and emotional strength gained through this service to the Lord became dominating factors in their character that helped them meet all adversities. This is best represented by Elizabeth's classic statement made while residing in a humble dug-out within sight of their former new home soon after they returned to Salt Lake City. As William wrote it, "While reflecting over the five year's experience, I asked my wife how she would like such a house as our old home now? Her noble answer was, 'I am glad you have filled your mission, and I would rather be in this dugout with your mission filled, than in that fine house with your mission unfilled'...."[10]

A short time before his death in 1916, William Wood bore this testimony. "I have lived to see several sons preach the gospel to the nations; also some of my grandsons. This is in fulfillment of my patriarchal blessing. Thus I lift up my voice in praise and thanksgiving to God for the testimony He has given me concerning the truth and divinity of this great latter-day work, that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God, and that this work is true, and my greatest desire is that all my children may live so that the Holy Spirit will dwell in their hearts, to give them a testimony that they may know for themselves that the work is true. My only object in writing the above is to impress all my family to maintain a strong determination, under all circumstances that fate may call them to meet in this life, to hold fast to the gospel of Jesus Christ, the faith of their parents."[11]

I had my eyes opened to “looking beyond what I could see” while serving as a mission president. A young elder arrived with apprehension in his eyes. As we met in an interview, he said dejectedly, “I want to go home.” I thought to myself, “Well, we can fix this.” I counseled him to work hard and to pray about it for a week and then call me. A week later, almost to the minute, he called. He still wanted to go home. I again counseled him to pray, to work hard, and to call me in a week. In our next interview, things had not changed. He insisted on going home.
I just wasn’t going to let that happen. I began teaching him about the sacred nature of his call. I encouraged him to “forget [himself] and go to work.” But no matter what formula I offered, his mind did not change. It finally occurred to me that I might not have the whole picture. It was then that I felt a prompting to ask him the question: “Elder, what is hard for you?” What he said pierced my heart: “President, I can’t read.”
The wise counsel which I thought was so important for him to hear was not at all relevant to his needs. What he needed most was for me to look beyond my hasty assessment and allow the Spirit to help me understand what was really on this elder’s mind. He needed me to see him correctly and offer a reason to hope. Instead, I acted like a giant demolition wrecking ball. This valiant elder did learn to read and became a very pure disciple of Jesus Christ. He opened my eyes to the Lord’s words: “For man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

Born in Ixelles, Belgium, 5 October 1935, Charles Didier recalls that his father, Andre, a Belgian Army officer, was captured at the beginning of World War II. After escaping, he stayed hidden and saw his family only during occasional surprise visits. Elder Didier looks back on a time after his own ninth birthday:
“Because the secret police were looking for him [his father], we were searched—and barely escaped. We went to where he was hiding in Antwerp Province, and from there to live with my great-grandmother in Flanders.” Then Belgium was liberated. “I vividly remember the soldiers trying to get away on bicycles, the airplanes coming, the shooting, and the Allied troops coming into the village.”
Like those around him, young Charles was educated in Catholic doctrine as a boy. He attended mass regularly, the only one in his family to do so.
In 1950, while the family was living in Namur, Belgium, and Charles was finishing junior high school, two Latter-day Saint missionaries from the United States knocked on their door. His mother, Gabrielle, let them in and listened. During Easter vacation of the following year, she was baptized in a little font in Brussels, but Charles missed the baptism. He was in Rome to see the Pope on a trip organized by the Catholic church.
Although Charles resisted invitations to attend the local branch, he did attend an English club taught by the missionaries, leaving before the evening’s youth activities started because he “didn’t want to be trapped.” But he was asked to take part in a branch play, and then his mother persuaded him to attend church with her on a Sunday. Soon his sister, Jacqueline, was baptized. When Charles left home to go to the university in Liège, he says, “I attended youth activities from time to time. I did some little things all the time but did not want to participate. I was very shy. I really did not want to be in front of people.”
Then missionary Elder Dewitt Paul challenged him, asking why he would not be baptized, since he was “doing everything a member does,” Elder Didier recalls.
“I said I didn’t see the necessity. I had a good life. I could attend and not have responsibilities. He said, ‘Let’s pray about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith. Then if you have a testimony, I think you’ll recognize that you need to be baptized.’
“And so we prayed about it. I got up from that prayer with a testimony—an answer to my prayers. It was nothing like a light, a voice—just a reassuring influence: ‘Go ahead and do it. There is wisdom. This is my commandment.’” In November 1957, Charles was baptized in a swimming pool in Brussels by Elder Paul.
Traveling between Liège and Namur, he continued his studies at the University of Liège, graduating in 1959 with a degree in economics. Then he entered the reserve officer training program of the Belgian Air Force, finishing his military service as a lieutenant and radar supervisor.
A short time later, stationed only a few kilometers from Liège, he had time to go out with a brown-eyed girl he had met in the Liège Branch, Lucie Lodomez. She had served as a missionary in France with his sister Jacqueline.
When his military service was completed, Lucie and Charles were married in Liège (they were sealed in the Swiss Temple in 1962) and moved into a tiny apartment there. Charles progressed through his job with a timber products importing company, and both he and Lucie grew through Church service. He received more and more responsibility in the Church, eventually becoming president of the 100-member branch in Liège.
But after five years of working in Liège, Charles was restless. He started investigating the possibilities of teaching or continuing his education. Then came “another answer to prayer.” He was asked to move to Frankfurt, Germany, to work as assistant to John E. Carr, director of temporal affairs for the Church in Europe.
The move lasted only nine months. He was asked to go back to Liège and take over the Church distribution center. Upon his return he was immediately called again as Liège Branch president.

Some time ago a couple came to my office with very heavy hearts. They had a priest-age son who was an Eagle Scout, a Duty to God Award winner, a good student who had been conscientious in school and on his part-time job. Then one night he just walked away from home and didn’t return. He had been gone for several weeks, and they were heartsick.
I asked them if they had pleaded with the Lord to know where their son was. They assured me they had. “Have you pleaded with all your strength?” “Yes, we have.” “Have you pleaded with every particle of your being?” “Well,” they said, “maybe not every particle.” I said, “You go home and pray again—this time with every particle of energy and strength of your being.” They said they would.
That afternoon the couple knelt down and pleaded with the Lord. At six o’clock the phone rang. It was their son, calling from Banff, Alberta, Canada. After talking to him for a few minutes and finding that he was safe and in no danger, they asked why he had called at that particular time. He replied, “The bishop this evening had the strongest impression to have me call home. He came over to my apartment and said he would not leave until I called home.”

From the day I was baptized until I graduated from high school, I was the only member of the Church in my school. My classmates would say, “You don’t smoke? You don’t drink? You aren’t a man; you’re a sissy!”
At the end of the school year when I was in 11th or 12th grade, some of my classmates brought alcohol to a party. They grabbed me, held me down, and tried to pour champagne in my mouth. They didn’t want to hurt me; they just wanted to make fun of me. Luckily, I was able to get away. I never regretted keeping the Word of Wisdom. Some of my classmates have since passed away, but I’m thankful to still be alive, healthy, and trying to serve the Lord.

But I was yet to learn how significantly personal general conference could be. Our stake received tickets for the general Relief Society meeting in September 2008 at the Conference Center. I was excited to mingle with the sisters in our stake, anticipated the inspiring music and talks, and was especially humbled to think that we would hear a message from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. I hung on every word, vigorously took notes, and committed to put into practice what we were charged to do. I felt this was a wonderful prelude to the general sessions to follow the next weekend.
Then my world shattered. While at work the following Thursday, I received a telephone call from my doctor informing me that the tests I had had the previous week indicated cancer.
The next days were a blur of doubts, fear, anxiety, sadness, despair, and agony. So many emotions churned inside me that sleep did not come and my tears flowed constantly. I had never felt so afraid.
When Saturday morning came, I intended to listen to conference while doing other tasks. Staying busy, I hoped, would help focus my mind away from my trial. But I found myself putting down the laundry and letting the dishes sit in the sink as I was drawn to the television. My heart almost skipped a beat as Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles began the first session with this statement: “We can’t predict all the struggles and storms in life, not even the ones just around the next corner, but as persons of faith and hope, we know beyond the shadow of any doubt that the gospel of Jesus Christ is true and the best is yet to come.”1
Surely, I thought, the next topic would be on moral cleanliness or the Sabbath day. But each succeeding message was also one of hope in times of trial!
Sunday was a peaceful day as our family united in prayer and fasting on my behalf. I continued to hear words of hope just as I had the previous day, with a powerful concluding message in the afternoon from Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “I testify that the Atonement of Jesus Christ covers all of the trials and hardships that any of us will encounter in this life,” he said. “At times when we may feel to say, ‘Hope you know, I had a hard time,’ we can be assured that He is there and we are safe in His loving arms.”2
Perhaps it was the fasting or the prayers or simply my humble emotional state, but from beginning to end, I felt this was my own personal general conference with an audience of one.
The following days, weeks, and months brought many challenges as I faced tests, surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments. I wish I could say that I never felt despair during those 12 months. I did. But during those times, I also felt sustained by the prayers and fasting of ward and family members, priesthood blessings given by my father, and the faith of my mother. I read the Book of Mormon completely during the first few months of treatments, knowing that comfort can come through the word of God.
But on the darkest days, I always went to my well-worn copy of the November 2008 Ensign and reread those words that came from a loving Father through inspired servants and directly to my fearful heart. I was amazed at a phrase I hadn’t remembered President Thomas S. Monson saying in his opening address: “Our Heavenly Father is mindful of each one of us and our needs. May we be filled with His Spirit as we partake of the proceedings of this, the 178th Semiannual General Conference.”3
I had gained a testimony of that truth. Heavenly Father was mindful of me that weekend in October. He knew of my need of hope in His love and hope in His plan for me. He spoke and I listened.
Note: Sister Singleton finished her cancer treatment in June 2009, and the cancer has not returned.

This brings me to the story of Jose Cruz. The fulltime missionaries in my ward found this agricultural worker from Huahaca, Mexico living with other workers from Mexico in a small apartment in Waipahu last fall. Separated from his wife and four children for over a year to earn additional income to defray the costs of an expensive C-section delivery of his youngest daughter, Jose wanted to find a Church to attend while in Hawaii. His roommates recommended a Pentecostal church nearby, but the missionaries soon appeared at his apartment before he had a chance to make a decision on a church to attend. When they explained to me that Jose was willing to hear the Gospel, but only spoke Spanish, I found a member in the ward who had served in a California Spanish speaking mission, (who was in Hawaii only for the summer while accompanying his wife on assignment as a traveling nurse) to assist the fulltime missionaries on their teaching visits. I later enlisted the help of my nephew (and BYU-Hawaii student) Micah Kamoe, who had just returned from his Mexico City mission to go on exchanges with the missionaries in their teaching appointments. When Jose attended sacrament meetings and Sunday school, there was always a Spanish speaking translator at his side. Another brother in the ward whose mother was Peruvian later came forward, and he regularly accompanied Jose to Sunday school lessons to provide translation assistance.

Because of his regular attendance, Jose was soon befriended by a couple in the ward, the husband of which was serving in Army. Both husband and wife had served missions in Concepcion, Chile, and their children grew to love Jose as the family fellowshipped him. Brother Cruz joined the Church in January, and much of the baptismal program was presented in Spanish specifically for his benefit. It wasn't long before this fellowshipping couple began to reach out to Jose's family in Mexico, and missionaries were sent to his wife Lucelia. His wife had dreamed that Jose had found Jesus Christ in Hawaii while seeking for a church, and was astounded when she shortly received a picture of her husband at the Laie Temple Visitor's Center before the Torvaldsen statue of the Christus. She then knew that her dream had been had come to pass. His wife and three children were taught the Gospel and baptized within two weeks of the first visit of the missionaries in February. Another son fulfilling military service in Mexico has not yet received the Gospel, but Brother Cruz is excited to share the Gospel with him.

Vito Monte, a returned missionary in our ward from Costa Rica, now provides translation services for Jose in sacrament meetings and Sunday school.

I do not think that this Spanish speaking capability in a small ward in Ewa Beach is unique in the Church, but I do believe the willingness of the Church members to reach out to an individual far away from home in such a linguistically miraculous manner exemplifies what the Savior means by salt of the earth. In their acts of individual charity these members had certainly not lost their savor. Those of you with foreign language capabilities can bless the lives of many in your earthly sojourn.

In 1816 the family moved again, this time to Palmyra, New York. Joseph’s father had gone ahead to find a place for them to live. When Lucy Mack Smith and the eight children went to join him, a man named Caleb Howard was hired to drive the wagon with their things. Ten-year-old Joseph had not fully recovered from his leg operation yet, making it painful for him to walk. Nevertheless, Mr. Howard made him walk miles at a time.

At Utica, New York, still many miles from Palmyra, Mr. Howard unloaded the Smith’s household goods and was about to leave with the wagon and horses. Joseph’s mother demanded that he leave them, then reloaded the wagon and drove the rest of the way herself.

Resting on the stone steps of the ancient ruins of Dzibilchaltún in Mexico, Sandra Hernández and Meily Tolosa quietly consider the scattered ruins of a city nearly 1,500 years old. The silence around them is almost as heavy as the humid tropical air. But the peaceful moment doesn’t last long.
The silence shatters as Samuel Hernández comes hooting and hollering out of the thick jungle, which grows right up to the edge of the small pyramid. His friends Jorge Tolosa and Wilbert Agosta follow right behind him.
“Oh, I thought I was going to die,” he laughs as he throws himself down onto the steps and tries to catch his breath. Picking their way through the jungle, Samuel and his friends had been making their way toward a partially overgrown structure when they startled a flock of hidden birds. The birds weren’t the only ones startled. “Oh, my heart,” Samuel says, laughing.
Samuel, Meily, and other youth from the Canek Ward, Mérida México Centro Stake, are spending the day exploring some of Mexico’s ancient ruins. Dzibilchaltún is just one of the thousands of crumbling settlements left throughout the Americas by ancient inhabitants.
The land from central Mexico to Honduras (also called Mesoamerica) has been home to many thriving civilizations. On this trip to Dzibilchaltún, the youth are grateful that ruins of some of their ancestors’ cities have been preserved so they can explore where their ancestors lived. “It’s interesting to learn what my ancestors did and what happened to them,” says Jorge, a deacon.
In the same way, these youth are thankful that the record of the family of Lehi has been preserved so they can learn from its teachings and experiences. “I’m grateful the Lord preserved the Book of Mormon for us to learn from,” Jorge says.
Many Nephite prophets, such as Nephi, Enos, and Mormon, prayed that the Lord would preserve their testimonies of Jesus Christ to help their descendants (see 2 Ne. 25:21; Enos 1:16–18; W of M 1:8).
As He promised, the Lord preserved their records and brought them to light again through the Prophet Joseph Smith. Now the Book of Mormon is bringing the descendants of Book of Mormon peoples—and other people from all around the world—to Jesus Christ.
“I’m so grateful for the Book of Mormon,” says Carmen Hernández, a Mia Maid who hopes to thank the Book of Mormon prophets someday. “When I meet them,” she says, “I will say, ‘Thank you for helping so many people find answers and come to Christ.’” (See 2 Ne. 33:11; Jacob 6:13; Ether 12:38.)

When his mission ended Barnard looked for work again. Not fish odors this time but pungent cow barn aromas became part of his new lot in life. He ventured into the New York countryside where farmers, he had heard, needed milkers for cows. “Can you milk?” they asked the English boy. “No,” he answered honestly, thereby losing the job. One time, desperate for work, he changed his answer to “I think I can” and was hired. But when he sat on the wrong side of the cow and could get no milk from it, the supervising lady accused him of lying. “I only said I thought I could,” he answered. She liked his forthrightness so taught him how to milk. He traded city-boy clothes for farm workers’ apparel. Mother, he knew, would cringe to see him dressed in dumpy work clothes and rough leather work boots.
Farm hours were long and the work hard. Barnard’s days started at 3:00 A.M. and ended after dark. But he earned some needed pocket money. And, more important, his body developed strength and endurance—strength he would need to avoid disaster later that year in Wyoming.
On June 20, 1856, the anchor of the Mormon charter ship Horizon had barely plopped into Boston Harbor when a small sailboat tied up next to her. Barnard, hoping to welcome his family to America, climbed aboard from the sailboat. Mother White spotted her son, started to rejoice, but gulped when she saw his clothes. Eighteen-year-old sister Elizabeth was shocked too and broke into tears: “My poor brother Barnard!” she sobbed. “What have they done to you?” No broadcloth suit. No silk hat. Common laborer’s pants and shirt. Ugly work boots. However, the reunion soon showed the Whites that their teenager had become a man during his 11 months in America, and they liked his maturity.
Soon, click-clattering train cars carried the Whites and other English Saints to the Mormon Trail outfitting point in Iowa City, Iowa. Here Barnard’s work clothes suited frontier life well, more so than his fastidious family’s foolish fashions. That first night in Iowa gave Barnard’s boots their first frontier test. According to sister Elizabeth, the Saints had to hike four miles from the train to the campground:
“We all started, about 500 of us, with our bedding. We had not gone far before it began to thunder and lightning and the rain poured. The roads became very muddy and slippery. It was late in the evening before we arrived at the camp. We all got very wet. The boys [including Barnard] got our tent up, so we were fixed for the night, although very wet.”
During the days that followed, most Saints busied themselves building handcarts. But not the Whites. Barnard felt a touch of social superiority when his mother clinked gold coins into agents’ hands to pay for a sturdy wagon and team. Barnard, the man of the family, became the White’s teamster and boss of four oxen, two cows, and one good wagon.
The Whites joined the John A. Hunt wagon train, a Mormon company of 50 wagons and 240 people. The train carried some baggage for the handcart companies. Like too many groups that year, they started late and gambled they could thread their way to Utah before winter storms struck. They left Iowa City on August 1 and reached Florence, Nebraska, by September 1. “The family had to walk,” Elizabeth said, “except when we went through water. We would travel from 15 to 20 miles per day.” Walking, they discovered, quickly wore out shoes and boots. If winter waited the Whites hoped to see Utah by early November. But winter came early that year.
Near Fort Laramie in Wyoming a buffalo herd stampeded the train’s cattle. Elizabeth said that Mrs. Walters, driving the team ahead of the White’s, “was knocked down and trampled by oxen. She never spoke but died in a few minutes, leaving a young baby. This affair cast a gloom over our camp. She was sewed in a blanket and buried.” (Barnard later married one of the Walters girls.)
On October 19th the Hunt wagons caught up with the Martin handcart pioneers in mid-Wyoming. “Many of them were quite worn out,” Barnard noted. That evening the Hunt, the Martin, and the Hodgett wagon train companies marshalled courage and crossed the frigid Platte River. Of the harrowing crossing Elizabeth recalled: “Our company camped on the east side and the handcart company passed over that night. All our able-bodied men turned out to help them carry women and children across the river. Some of our men went through the river 75 times.” By then Barnard’s leather boots probably had been soaked, frozen, and thawed many times.
That night many of the soaked river-crossers suffered severely from the cold. About seven inches of snow fell by morning. “Their suffering was intense that night,” Barnard said of the handcart Saints. “The next morning there were 13 dead bodies in camp.”
For a week the companies camped, waiting for the snow blanket to melt and icy winds to stop. The handcart people, tired and overexposed to snow and cold, sagged. “They would rather die than live,” Barnard observed. “They appeared to be like a lot of worn-out cattle and had no feeling for anything except to eat and die. I cannot find language to express the sufferings of those people, and God forbid that I should ever witness such scenes again.” The Hunt train shared its dwindling food with the handcart sufferers.
Snow buried plants and grasses. “Our cattle were drooping for want of food,” Barnard said, “and from this time on we had to cut down trees for them to browse upon and still they died off fast.” Sometimes stinging winds blew snows off the ground, exposing precious grass for the starving cattle. Sometimes Barnard chopped crusted willows to feed the White’s team. When cows died their tough meat was added to the travelers’ shrinking diets. At one point, Elizabeth said, her ration of flour was reduced to one tablespoon per day! Mixed with snow water it made a very thin gruel for hungry teenagers like Elizabeth and Barnard.
The companies decided that to survive they must keep moving. They started West again. On November 1 another snowstorm mixed with rain slowed them down. One night after dark, whoops and yells awoke the Whites and terrified the shivering campers. “Indians!” someone shouted. But, once awake, the camp discovered that their noisy invaders were a relief party from Utah, sent by President Brigham Young, with wagonloads of food. New shouts of happiness muffled across the night-covered, snow-covered plains. “They were loaded with all kinds of provisions,” Elizabeth said of the wagons, “flour, bread, butter, meat of all kinds, but frozen very hard. Everything was so good. The bread was like cake, so sweet and nice.” They had to cut everything with hatchets to cook or eat it. “Oh, how thankful we were that the Lord had answered our prayers and saved us from starvation,” she said. Baking fires burned through the night.
On November 5 the Hunt train reached the rundown log shelters at Devil’s Gate and could move no further. Snow stood eight to ten inches deep—to the tops of Barnard’s boots—and hemmed the travelers in. Hundreds set up camp there. The ground froze so hard Barnard could not pound tent pegs in, so he secured the tent edges with piles and chunks of heavy snow.
By then “three of our oxen and one cow had died,” Elizabeth said. “We had nothing to burn, only the sage brush from under the snow.” Some dilapidated cabins became firewood. Barnard, Elizabeth, and other youths tried to make the best of their dangerous situation at Devil’s Gate. One night, according to Elizabeth, “when we had made the campfires, the boys had cleared the snow away and several of us young folks were sitting around the fire singing.”
The rescuers, trying to outrace disaster, organized a survival push from Devil’s Gate to Utah. Carefully they loaded the very ill into Utah wagons and then recruited older girls, including Elizabeth, to ride along as nurses. Reluctantly she left her mother and family, and lonesomeness plagued her for weeks. Mostly she rode, but when the wagons ascended mountains she had to walk. At the foot of Big Mountain, a day away from Salt Lake City, snows stood so deep she had to put on men’s boots. Taller people walked in each other’s tracks, but Elizabeth was too short: “I had to make my own road up, frequently falling down as the snow was so deep and drifted.” When they reached the summit and could see Salt Lake Valley below, Elizabeth said, “the men took off their hats and we waved our handkerchiefs.” She reached the city safely on November 30, two weeks ahead of her family, and stayed with friends.
Meanwhile, back at Devil’s Gate, the Utah rescuers reorganized wagon and handcart companies. Many carts and half the wagons had to be parked for the winter. “Leave your stoves, boxes, and tools here,” the Whites were told; “only take along sufficient clothing and bedding to keep you warm.” For four days Barnard and others unloaded wagons and stored belongings in the old log buildings. Carefully he cached his mother’s china set, dated 1775, and her silver tea set. (Family records do not say if these treasures were ever recovered.) “We only saved one ox and one cow of our team,” Barnard said. “We were disabled and left our wagon and all our trunks and baggage.” The Whites then climbed into Brother J. H. Newman’s wagon to finish the trip. Some men were “volunteered” to winter at Devil’s Gate to guard the piles of baggage, but not Barnard.
Grouped into smaller wagon trains, the rescued travelers rolled slowly southwestward, farther into mountain country. Barnard lived on rations of one-fourth pound of flour per day and cattle that faltered. “We would knock them in the head and cut their throats and take the best meat,” he said. (What would his cultured teenage friends in London have thought if they had seen him then?)
The White’s group of wagons reached Fort Bridger in southwest Wyoming by December 4. There, Barnard said, “we were forced to camp as our teams were all dead.” For three days they waited and hungered. “I shall never forget the feelings of my mother,” he recalled. “She called us together and said she had never seen her dear children cry for bread before, but said the Lord would open the way and send us some provisions.” That night 14 relief wagons rolled into camp. “The wagons were loaded with flour,” Barnard said. “I will leave you to judge our feelings!” Baking fires roared through the night once again.
More rescue teams came and helped the wagon trains into Utah. Referring to his nightly camps Barnard said: “We would clear away the snow and pile some logs up and set them on fire. They would burn all night and helped to keep us from freezing.” Ascending Big Mountain he found snow drifted 20 feet deep in places. “We had to cut channels as much as ten feet deep,” he said. But what made this final part of the trip so difficult for the teenager was that “I had no shoes or boots on; my feet were in rags.”
On December 13 at 4 P.M. Barnard and his family stepped from Brother Newman’s wagon into the tithing yard in Salt Lake City. Barnard felt both pleased and humiliated—pleased to be safe and alive but humiliated to walk down the city’s streets dressed in ragged clothes and with flannel rags wrapped around his painful feet. No doubt he recalled then the fancy broadcloth suit and silk hat he donned 18 months before when leaving England for Zion. Utahns, he noticed, “wept like children to see our pale, emaciated, and careworn bodies, for we were quite worn out and had but little strength left.”
What had happened to Barnard’s work boots? They had succumbed to his appetite! While trapped by Wyoming snows Barnard had cut off strips from his worn-out boots and chewed the leather to ease the sharp hunger pains in his stomach—for as his biographer points out, “who can be hungrier than a 16-year-old trying to do the work of a man?”
In Utah Elizabeth married Bishop Isaac M. Stewart and bore 11 children. Barnard served in the Echo Canyon military campaign, settled in Paradise, Utah, and married Elizabeth Ann Walters. In time he became a prominent Ogden lumberman, farmer, rancher, and enterpriser, and a bishop and patriarch. Mother White lived for many years, residing with her children.

Each Christmas season Anna and Rose looked forward to the family tradition of driving to the “light house,” a farmhouse that was covered from top to bottom with Christmas lights. When it came into view, they would cry, “Drive slower!” “Turn around!” “Go back!” One drive past all the lights that blinked and winked and flashed and chased was never enough.
On the first day of December the girls were eager to see the light house again.
“Can we go to the light house tonight?” Anna asked.
“It’s a little too early,” Mom said.
“We’ll go there when it’s a bit closer to Christmas,” Dad said.
Rose and Anna decided to go to their room and practice saying “ooh!” and “aah!” They wanted to be ready when the time came.
Finally, it was time to see the lights. The girls eagerly climbed into the car with their parents. As Dad drove, Anna leaned forward and sang, “‘Jingle bells, jingle bells,’” in his right ear while Rose belted out, “‘Now bring us some figgy pudding,’” in Mom’s left ear.
“How about a little ‘Silent Night’?” Dad asked with a smile.
Looking down the street, Mom frowned and asked, “Are you sure you turned on the right road?”
“Of course,” Dad replied.
“But I can’t see any lights up ahead,” Anna said.
“It’s dark!” Rose cried.
“I wonder what could be wrong,” Mom said.
“Maybe they got tired of stringing up all those lights,” Dad said.
“I don’t think so,” Mom replied. “Just last week my friend Marsha said she saw Mr. and Mrs. Watt outside, and Mr. Watt was climbing up a ladder with some lights.”
“I wanted to say, ‘Ooh,’” Rose said disappointedly.
“And I wanted to say ‘Aah,’” Anna said.
“Maybe they forgot to turn them on or they had to go away tonight. We’ll come back tomorrow night,” Dad said.
When the family drove to the farmhouse the next night, it was still dark.
Mom frowned. “I don’t like this. I think there might be something wrong.”
“Maybe they went away for the holidays.” Rose sighed.
“Or maybe the light bill was too expensive,” Dad suggested.
Anna whispered, “What if they died?”
Mom smiled and said, “I don’t think so, dear.”
The next day Anna and Rose were sifting through the newspaper to find the comics. Suddenly Rose exclaimed, “Look!” She pointed to a picture of the light house.
“Let me see,” Dad said. Everyone gathered around him as he read, “‘Families will have to miss the much anticipated tradition of viewing the thousands of lights at the country home of Mr. and Mrs. Watt. Mr. Watt is recovering from surgery at a local hospital. Mrs. Watt said, “Christmas won’t be the same without all the folks driving by our place this year.”’”
Disappointed, Rose and Anna went to their room. But a while later they came rushing back with smiles on their faces.
“Remember when you and Dad helped build the school playground?” Anna asked Mom.
“And a bunch of other moms and dads helped?” Rose added.
With puzzled looks, Mom and Dad nodded their heads in agreement. Then, slowly, big smiles spread across their faces, too.
“Wouldn’t that be a wonderful surprise!” Mom declared. “I’ll call around and see if I can get us some help.”
On the long drive home from the hospital on Christmas Eve, Mrs. Watt sighed as she caught sight of several light displays.
“Next year will be different, dear. We’ll get the lights up for sure next Christmas,” Mr. Watt promised.
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Watt, “there’s a lot of traffic on our road tonight. Word must not have reached everyone that there are no lights this year.”
As their house came into view, Mrs. Watt gasped. Every window, every door, and even the garden gate were strung with colored lights. Birdhouses, doghouses, pine trees, big barns, little barns, toolsheds, and even the silo were aglow with lights. Nestled in the snow, from the mailbox to the garage, paper sacks filled with candles lighted the pathway home. And a giant Christmas card hung from the front door that read:
“Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
From your friends.”

I will always remember one time when I performed the sealing for an ancestor. She had lived a difficult life, including the death of her first husband, the death of a toddler, and bankruptcy. During the sealing, the veil was thin, and the joy she felt while receiving her covenants was palpable. The Spirit filled my heart and the hearts of everyone in the room. It drew me closer to my Savior and gave me a surer witness of Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and the eternal nature of families.

Every year, we gathered at my grandparents’ home to hold our family Christmas pageant. The movies of the first event make it pretty clear that I thought it was a great time. But 15 years later, Christmas traditions like ours were starting to look a little stale. At least that’s what I was thinking as I helped my little brother, David, himself a big man of five, into his Wise Man costume.
“I wish I could be a shepherd like you and Daddy, Stevie.”
“Maybe next year, Dave,” I told him, giving him a poke in his tummy, anticipating his laugh.
“Yeah, but this year I wanted to be with you, Stevie, ‘cause next year you might not be here anymore. You’ll be gone on your mission by then.”
“Come on, Davie. Us brothers always stick together. Besides, who ever said I was going anywhere?” The thought of giving up my life for two years didn’t thrill me.
I gathered up my shepherd’s robes, leaving Dave to sit anxiously in his maple rocker beside the fireplace, fingering the gold braid sewn loosely to his bathrobe, wondering about stars and kings and the manger and Grandma and Grandpa’s treats, I was sure. I called up the stairs to tell my mother I was going out to start the car. It was cold. I’d left my gloves upstairs.
I hoped the new little grandson in our family would like his role as the baby Jesus this year. He was the first one who didn’t have to draw his part from the earthenware pot. We used the same ceramic jug year after year for one of the Wise Men’s gifts, and also to pick our parts from. We did the choosing every Thanksgiving. They were just little folded pieces of paper—Mary, Joseph, Gabriel, Jesus. But some years, my last thought before sleep was of my part and who I would be.
There were some pretty strange pageants. The year that Mom was pregnant, she pulled out the slip of paper that said she had to be a Wise Man. My father drew out Mary. He said it ended up being the most moving Christmas pageant for him, even though most of us kids thought it was pretty funny. He said he had begun to understand what it meant to be Mary that year. And even at 14, I got pretty choked up when my pregnant mother appeared to give her gift to the baby Jesus. David was born that January.
It was only about five years ago that we tightened up on the rules and required girls to play girls, and boys to be boys. That was because my older brother’s girlfriend hadn’t felt ready to play Joseph in front of us all the year they were engaged. This year Michelle was the narrator, and my older brother, Greg, was Joseph.
The car windows were covered with frost. I started the engine, then hunted for the scraper.
“You forgot these.” My father’s voice startled me. “It’s a cold one tonight.” He gave me my gloves.
I wasn’t sure where Dad had been when I left the house, and now he seemed to appear from nowhere. He carried robes just like mine, for the jug had decreed us both to be shepherds tonight. With a look toward the house, Dad continued, “Everybody’s ready. Why don’t you drive up front and pick them up?” Turning away, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll meet you down at the mailboxes. Nobody’s had time to check the mail all day, and you know how your mother is about mail.”
I thought to tell him we could just as easily pick up the mail from the car but said nothing. He walked down the road, his shepherd’s robes dragging in the snow a little his steps uneven, his head tilted skyward. Looking at the stars, I guessed. He stopped turned to me and called, “Get going, son. Don’t want to be late.”
I pulled the van up to the front steps, and David came bounding out of the house. Jennifer and my mother followed more sedately. Jenny was to be one of the heavenly hosts this time, but she was having trouble looking very heavenly right now.
“What’s the matter, angel?” I asked, as she plopped into the seat.
“I just hope we don’t run into anyone we know. Do you have a full tank of gas, Steve? I’d hate to pull up at the station and have Jeff see me in this.”
“Yeah, I have to admit, that halo doesn’t look very natural on you. As a matter of fact,” I added, with teasing glee, “the gas tank’s on empty.”
“Steven!” she squealed.
“Don’t worry, angel,” I said in my best Humphrey Bogart. “Just kidding, just kidding.”
Mom was almost to the bottom of the steps, then went back up again to lock the front door. Loaded down with a bag full of gifts, she looked more like Santa Claus than Gabriel. Mom struggled to get the gift bag into the van, then climbed in the back.
“On Donner! On Blitzen!” she called out in a deep voice. David giggled.
“On Rudolph!” Jennifer added.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence!”
We stopped at the mailboxes to pick up my Dad. He folded his height into the car.
“Any mail?” my mother asked.
“Mail! Everybody and his brother must have sent us a card today!” Dad’s hands were loaded with green and red and white envelopes. I turned to smile at Mom. She had complained that she hadn’t received many cards this year.
“Is there one from Boston?”
“How do I know, my dear?” Dad passed the mass of greetings over the front seat to my mother. “I haven’t examined them yet. The day when we get an envelope from Salt Lake City sending Steve on his mission, now that will be a day to investigate the mail.” I shifted the car into gear resisting the urge to return Dad’s inquiring glance.
“I don’t want Stevie to go away,” David whined. “Why does he have to go away, anyway? I’m never, ever going anywhere!”
“David!”
I eased the car onto the main road that would take us through the familiar streets to the highway. Our Connecticut backroads looked good this year. Delicate strands of lights draped many of the bare trees. At other homes, the lights were arranged precisely, evenly layering their way to the top of the tall pines. Candles flickered in windows.
“There is a card from Boston! Please turn the light on, Steven.” My mother read silently. “She’s still alive, that little lady. Lost her sight in one eye now, but still alive and faithful as ever. Isn’t that nice?”
In the rearview mirror, I watched as Mom reached out and hugged David impulsively. I knew who she spoke of, the little landlady she and my father had lived with, and who had joined the Church while they lived in her house in Cambridge.
“Those are happy, happy memories, aren’t they, John?”
“The very best,” my father replied. “Maybe you’ll have memories like those in a few years, Steven.” I said nothing for the rest of the trip.
We arrived at my grandparents’ house right on schedule. That was important, for my grandpa was somewhat fanatical about time. Greg and his wife had arrived early, as usual, their car parked close to the house. The woods were silent.
“Hello Pop-pop! Hello Nanny! I’m here!” David called, trudging up the front steps in his moonboots and Wise Man costume. The door opened, and Grandpa stooped to hug the king. My mother struggled up the steps with her bag.
“Good grief, daughter! What have you got there?” Grandpa said. “We were supposed to go light on the gifts this year.”
“I tried. I really did.” But books are heavy, I thought to myself as I swung the van door shut. Books were my mother’s traditional Christmas gift.
We settled into the living room, enjoying my grandma’s impressive collection of goodies and the warm cider. I listened as I ate. Greg was having problems in his law firm and Michelle was worried about being a new mother. She left the room to nurse her crying baby.
My grandpa looked much older to me tonight sitting before the fire. I hadn’t been up to see them in months, too busy with commuting to school and doing my work. Grandpa asked me about school and about my plans. I told him my plans were kind of tentative right now, but that I loved my pre-architectural program. I knew he was waiting for me to say something about a mission, and it hurt me to know I was disappointing him. He opened his mouth to say more, but seemed to change his mind. He stood to poke the fire. Michelle came back with the baby.
“Well,” Grandpa began, “are we ready to get on with the pageant? We can talk more later. This is our 15th one, isn’t that right, Mother?”
We stood and bundled up once again, slipping our costumes on over our coats, walking out to the accustomed Nativity spot on the front lawn. The moon was a thin sliver in the sky, the stars without number.
Grandpa had gone to extra work this year, I noticed, as I walked by the familiar manger. He had improved the temporary stable in honor of his first great-grandson, putting in real walls to block any wind. Michelle laid her son gently in the cradle, assuring grandma that he wouldn’t get hungry. Grandma, dressed in Mary’s robes, opened her arms to Michelle and gave her a hug.
“Thank you, my dear. Thank you.” Grandma took her place near the crib, and Greg joined her as Joseph. Michelle had sewn some new robes for him, and he looked quite apostolic in his cotton beard. But he always looked that way.
I took my place a little further down the hillside where the lawn curved gently. Grandpa had thoughtfully provided wood for a fire for us shepherds. My father arrived with matches. The ready warmth was reassuring.
Michelle began her narration of Luke 2, and I repeated the words with her in my mind as she spoke. They were an unavoidable part of my memory after 15 years of seasonal repetition.
Funny, I thought, as our little fire popped and hissed, that taxes started the whole business. And the swaddling clothes. What did that word mean, anyway?
Michelle began the verse about the shepherds, and I got ready for our cue. “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid” (Luke 2:8).
I cowered in the frozen grass, playing the part of the frightened shepherd to the hilt. It was more fun that way, to ham up the telling for David’s sake. But an uninvited feeling overtook me. It set my heart to pounding and it made me feel quite weak, for I realized that my cowering was real, and I knew it like never before. I was afraid of the glory of the Lord.
Michelle’s voice continued as my heart thumped quickly. “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:10–11).
I didn’t hear the part about the babe in the manger, and I barely could make out the form of my mother, standing over me with wide-spread arms, for tears brimmed my eyes, then ran in hot tracks down my cheeks. I rubbed them off, their wetness beading up on my gloves. My mother’s words penetrated the hot glow in my mind.
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:14).
Michelle’s even voice continued to reach out from across the lawn. “And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another …” (Luke 2:15).
Now it was my father’s turn to speak. He extended his hand to help lift me from the snow, but I turned my head away from his outstretched hand, not wanting to let him see the tears on my face. But there was a catch in his voice, too, as he said, “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us” (Luke 2:15).
We walked to the manger together. It was a short distance, to be sure, but something had signaled the start of another, much longer journey for me. Side by side we walked, my father companion and I. And we made haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe, lying in the manger.
How could I stand it, I thought as I looked. The much beloved faces of my grandma and brother, the newborn babe so still in his bed.
I knew then what I would do. There was nothing left to do but go and make known abroad concerning this child and his church. My father and I returned to our fireside, and I knew that he knew what had happened in me.
Michelle read the words about the Wise Men, and David slipped in the snow and tore some gold braid from his gown. But Grandpa, fellow Wise Man, reached to help him, and he said David’s face shone as he gave his gift to Jesus. But I missed all that. In the dim glow of our fire, all I could feel was the strength of my father as he held me, the warming joy of our tears spilled together. I would miss him for the next two years.

In 2018, at the University of Utah, a special professorship was created called the “Dr. Russell M. Nelson and Dantzel W. Nelson Presidential Chair in Cardiothoracic Surgery”—cardio, meaning “heart,” and thoracic, meaning “chest.” It honored President Nelson’s important work as a heart surgeon and the support he received from his late wife, Dantzel. This professorship was paid for by a fund designed to last into the future. The individual selected for this type of prestigious professorship receives recognition, salary support, and research funds.
The first surgeon chosen to hold the professorship was Dr. Craig H. Selzman, a skilled heart surgeon who is not a member of our church. At the ceremony to award this professorship to Dr. Selzman, many important guests were in attendance, including President Nelson and his wife Sister Wendy W. Nelson. During the meeting, President Nelson spoke modestly of his pioneering surgical career.
Then Dr. Selzman shared what it meant to him to be appointed to this professorship. He related that four days earlier, after a long day in the operating room, he discovered that one of his patients needed to go back to surgery. He was tired and disappointed, knowing he would have to spend another night in the hospital.
This evening, Dr. Selzman had a life-changing conversation with himself. In the moment, he thought: “On Friday, I will be appointed to a professorship named after Dr. Nelson. He was always known as someone who kept his emotions in check, treated everyone with respect, and never lost his temper. Now that my name will be linked with his, I need to try to be more like him.” Dr. Selzman was already a very considerate surgeon. But he wanted to become even better.
In the past, his surgical team might have been aware of his fatigue and frustration because he may have let it show in his manner and tone of voice. But in the operating room that night, Dr. Selzman made a conscientious effort to be especially supportive and understanding of his team. He felt it made a difference and resolved to continue trying to be more like Dr. Nelson.
Five years later, President Nelson donated his professional papers to the University of Utah. Dignitaries from the university came to formally thank President Nelson. During this event, Dr. Selzman spoke again. Referring to President Nelson’s initials, RMN, he said, “There is an ‘RMN’ ethos that now pervades the Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery at the University of Utah.”
In frustrating situations, Dr. Selzman explained: “I do what we now teach our trainees to do—focus, get over it, and do the best you can. This ethos lives in us every day. We give lapel pins to every member of the division and each new trainee. At the bottom of the pin are the letters ‘RMN.’ The RMN ethos is foundational to our training; we teach it to everyone.” Dr. Selzman had intentionally improved his prior attitude and aspirations because his name was now linked to that of President Nelson.
This series of events involving Dr. Selzman caused me to ask myself: “How have I changed since I linked my name with the name of Jesus Christ? Have I adopted a Christlike ethos as a result? Have I genuinely tried to become better and more like Him?”
The first parallel is identification. Dr. Selzman’s appointment to the Nelson professorship linked his name to President Nelson’s, and Dr. Selzman began to identify with President Nelson. When we take upon ourselves the name of Jesus Christ, we link our name with His. We identify with Him. We gladly become known as Christian. We acknowledge the Savior and unapologetically stand up to be counted as His.
Closely related to identification is another parallel—remembrance. When Dr. Selzman goes into his office, his eyes are drawn to the medallion he received when he was appointed to the Nelson professorship. This medallion reminds him daily of the RMN ethos. For us, partaking of the sacrament each week helps us remember Jesus Christ throughout the week. As we partake of the sacrament, we do so in remembrance of the price He paid to redeem us. We covenant anew to remember Him, recognize His greatness, and appreciate His goodness. We acknowledge repeatedly that it is only in and through His grace that we are saved from physical and spiritual death.
An outgrowth of remembering what the Savior has done for us is a third parallel—emulation. Dr. Selzman began to emulate President Nelson and the RMN ethos. I believe that President Nelson’s ethos is simply a manifestation of his lifelong discipleship of Jesus Christ. For us, the more we identify with and remember Jesus Christ, the more we want to be like Him. As His disciples, we change for the better when we focus on Him, more so than when we focus on ourselves. We strive to become like Him and seek to be blessed with His attributes. We pray fervently to be filled with charity, the pure love of Christ.
Emulating Jesus Christ leads us to a fourth parallel—alignment with His purposes. We join Him in His work. As a surgeon, Dr. Nelson was known as a teacher, a healer, and a researcher. The lapel pin used in Dr. Selzman’s division emphasizes these endeavors, featuring the words teach, heal, and discover. For us, part of taking upon ourselves the name of Jesus Christ involves willingly, intentionally, and enthusiastically aligning our goals with His. We join Him in His work when we “love, share, and invite.” We join Him in His work when we minister to others, especially the vulnerable and those who have been wounded, shattered, or crushed by their earthly experiences.
So we more fully take upon ourselves the name of Jesus Christ through identification, remembrance, emulation, and alignment. Doing these four leads us to a fifth parallel—empowerment. We access God’s power and blessings in our lives. The Nelson professorship provides Dr. Selzman recognition and support funds that he is using to change the culture in his division. He applies this “endowment of power” to help others. In a similar way, when we take upon ourselves the name of the Savior, our Heavenly Father blesses us with His power to help us fulfill our mission in mortality.

They came by boat, they came by ferry, and youth from Kodiak Island even came by plane. That’s what you have to do for youth conference in the Soldotna Alaska Stake, located 150 miles south of Anchorage on the Kenai Peninsula. The stake takes in more than 10 cities and small communities, and the teens came from near and far to pull handcarts in the shadow of the Ring of Fire volcanoes. But this reenactment was unique. It was a pioneer trek Alaska-style.
Traveling three hours by ferry, two hours by car, and another hour and a half by bus to get to the trailhead, one Laurel from Cordova, Aubrey Finch, said: “I am so glad I went. It built me as a person to see what my ancestors, the pioneers, went through just for what they believed in.”
Like teens at most pioneer treks, these Alaskans pulled handcarts, cooked their own meals, and enjoyed devotionals. But this group faced its own challenges that gave this trek an Alaskan flavor—like keeping an eye out for bear warnings and dealing with nearly 24 hours of daily sunlight.
The first obstacle was finding a place for the trek. “We had no idea how hard it would be to find land that we would be allowed to cross,” said Marlene Meyer, the stake Young Women president. “In some ways it reminded us of the feeling the pioneers had when they were driven out of every place they tried to call home.”
For months the leaders scoured the state looking for a suitable site that could handle 150 people pulling handcarts and camping along the way. Because much of Alaska is covered in wetland, they knew they needed to find an abandoned road with dry campsites every 12 miles. Fourteen days before the event was scheduled to begin, the leaders were contacted about the possibility of passing through some land in a small area called Anchor Point. Miraculously, it had oil pad sites, areas covered in gravel and suitable for camping, positioned every 12 miles along an old road. With only days to spare, stake leaders got the permits and the trek went forward.
Before the trek began, youth and adults spent hundreds of hours building handcarts, welding wagon wheels, sewing clothing, preparing food, and planning. The youth, wanting to make the trek their own, put much of their own effort into the preparations.
Kaylene Forbes, a Laurel of the Soldotna Ward, said, “I did a lot of sewing to prepare for the trek. The skirts and the aprons weren’t very difficult, but the bonnet was hard. After I was finished, though, especially on the trek, I was glad that I did everything myself.”
Each handcart “family” was led by a young man and young woman, called a Pa and Ma, and were also accompanied by adult leaders. The Mas and Pas even arrived early for special training.
“We worked hard,” Brother Forbes, Soldotna’s Young Men president, said. “Hundreds and hundreds of hours, but it was worth 100 times the effort that went into it. It was better than we could have ever dreamed.”
Throughout the trek, efforts to bring to life 19th-century pioneers included a mock Mormon Battalion march and a women’s pull, but no one could plan for one disheartening element they had in common with the pioneers—the weather. One of the original handcart pioneers, John Southwell, who traveled in the Haven handcart company crossing Iowa in 1856, records that they experienced hail, rain, wind, and ankle-deep mud.
One hundred and fifty years later, when the Alaska participants reached the trailhead on the first day of their trek, rain gushed down. The long, muddy trail wandered up tall hills, and the handcart wheels sunk in deep sand.
On the third day, the group awoke to a terrible storm with winds blowing more than 50 miles per hour. Pegs pulled loose, tents collapsed, the rain pounded down, and dark clouds covered the entire sky. Fearing that the weather would stop the trek, the leaders knelt in prayer. President Randy Eberline of the stake presidency asked the Lord to calm the storm. Throughout the camp, trek families also knelt and prayed for relief from the weather. Suddenly, the clouds parted and a bowl of warm sunlight shone down. Kelly Maxwell, a priest from Sterling, described the answer to their combined prayers: “President Eberline prayed for there to be sunlight, and I was also hoping and praying that it would work. Minutes later we saw a break in the sky, and we started to see blue and then the sun just came out of the clouds.”
Kaylene described it this way: “The wind stopped, and you could see the clouds parting and the sun coming out. It was like seeing Moses parting the Red Sea, except this time God parted the clouds for us.”
Brother and Sister Matt and Jodi Clark arrived that evening to speak at a fireside. They reported that on the 100-mile drive from Anchorage it had been pouring rain. As they crested the last hill before reaching the camp, they saw the most incredible sight. Sunlight flooded the camp while the rest of the sky, as far as they could see in all directions, was full of dark clouds.
James Barrett, a priest from the Kenai Ward, said, “It was wonderful to feel the sun again, the warmth and the light that brought encouragement and hope. It was a miracle. It was as if the Lord had stretched out his hand and protected us from the harsh weather by surrounding our camp with sunlight.”
The next day included special devotionals, a memorial fireside, and a testimony meeting, solidifying the spirit of the experience. It started with a devotional in the wilderness for each handcart “family.” At the devotional the youth received a letter written by their parents. Some of the youth later said that during this quiet time they received their first witness of the truthfulness of the gospel. Cyril Zufelt, 17, of Soldotna said, “When I got my letter, I was touched. That was a huge turning point in my life. I’m never going to forget it.”
Then, after walking for several miles, the group was halted by the trail boss who instructed each person to pick up a rock. In a valley between two large hills, they held a special memorial service dedicated to all of the pioneers left behind on the trail, especially those of the Martin and Willie handcart companies, who had lost so many to the early winter weather and starvation. Each person placed their rock on a small memorial of the earlier pioneers. Sister Meyer remarked, “I couldn’t believe how hard it was to walk past that little memorial and think of the families that left loved ones behind. I don’t know how they had the strength to do it.”
As they packed up their tents, put away their bonnets and suspenders, and returned to inside plumbing, the youth took away more than blisters and soggy hiking shoes—they took with them an appreciation for the Saints who traveled 150 years ago and 3,600 miles away. Most of all, they took with them a stronger testimony of the gospel.
Lyssa DaVaney, a Laurel in the Homer Ward, said, “When I left for the trek, I knew that I would be coming back. The pioneers knew they would never go back to their homes again. The trek was such an awakening experience for me. I learned so much about the pioneers, Heavenly Father, and myself. I wouldn’t trade my experience for anything.”
For a history of handcart pioneers, read Linda Dekker, “Some Must Push and Some Must Pull,” Ensign, July 2006, p. 38.

When I was a stake president, there was a women’s conference by satellite broadcast. As it started, we had the video, but all we could hear was Korean.

And so, as a stake president, I pondered what we should do. As I thought about it, I noticed that under the Korean voice, there was a quiet English voice in the background. So I went to the pulpit and said, “Until we solve the problem, if you will listen carefully for the quiet English voice, you will be able to understand the conference talks. If you get distracted even for a minute, you will lose the message.” For 10 or 15 minutes, until we solved the technical problem, we were able to enjoy that message by listening to the quiet voice.