Gospel Story Finder

When Billy Jackson sees a need, he looks for ways to fill it. And the need for service is all around Billy in his home of Pretoria, South Africa.
When Billy arrived in South Africa he decided that he wanted to make a difference in his new home. Today a mother-child nutrition center and a well that brings water to thousands of people has been constructed as a result of the plans Billy proposed. Billy also recently organized a clothing drive which distributed 40,000 pounds of clothing to those in need.
Billy, a teacher in the Sunnyside Ward, Pretoria Stake, has also helped in assisting a local homeless shelter, a cancer hospice, and a women’s health center. He was recently recognized for his service as the recipient of the Foreign Service Youth Award. The award, which is given by the U.S. government, goes to one student each year who is living overseas and shows dedication to community service.

I wish I could say that I grew up loving the principle of modesty, but truthfully, I didn’t. Although my parents taught me that modesty was important, I thought the immodest outfits on the shows I watched were much cuter than anything modest.
I heard a lot of reasons for dressing modestly that did not make sense to me, from “Modest is hottest” to “It’s your responsibility to dress modestly to keep boys’ thoughts out of the gutter.” The immodest way I dressed got me the attention I wanted. I was unwilling to even consider the blessings of dressing modestly, and I felt a lot of anger when people encouraged me to.
One summer, I was going out with some friends. My mom saw the immodest outfit I was wearing and said, “Elizabeth, you are approaching adulthood. You really need to think about the kind of person you want to be, and with that comes the appearance you project.” When she said this, I was ready to fight.
“Mom, give me one good reason I should dress modestly. I’ve heard them all. And I’m still waiting to hear something that doesn’t involve boys and their thoughts. Give me something, anything, that makes sense.”
She looked out the window for a moment. After some time in silence, she looked up at me lovingly and quietly said, “Because it is a principle of obedience, and you love Heavenly Father.”
I was completely disarmed, unable to retort. Her words planted the seed I needed to begin to overcome this struggle.
I began to realize that modesty was not just about the way I dressed. Like the warnings in the scriptures against wearing costly apparel (see Alma 5:53; Mormon 8:36–39), my choice of clothing was just a symptom of being prideful in thought and behavior. And that pride was something I had held on to for so many years. I was unwilling to let go of what I wanted, which was really validation and attention, for what Heavenly Father wanted for me.
The For the Strength of Youth guide says, “Heavenly Father wants us to see each other for who we really are: not just physical bodies but His beloved children with a divine destiny” ([2022], 24). I began to see my body as sacred, something I needed to use to glorify God, not myself.
When I began to repent, Heavenly Father filled the parts of my heart that wanted attention with His love. This was so empowering and gave me so much hope that the desire for immodesty started to leave my soul.
The way I spoke started to change, my love for others grew, and my desire to serve increased. I didn’t just adopt the principle of obedience to God in my life; I began to love it. I could feel its protective power. This change helped me prepare to go to the temple and make beautiful, sacred covenants in His house.
I now love modesty because I love the principle of obedience, something I never thought would be the case. But Heavenly Father never gave up on me, and He will never give up on you in whatever you are struggling with, even if it is a long, bumpy journey.
For more on modesty, see For the Strength of Youth: A Guide for Making Choices (2022), 24, 25, 27.

Several years ago I sat in a little white room in the Los Angeles Temple—a simple, little room with no fancy adornments on the walls. My wife, Ruby, was there by my side. We had one son and his wife there along with our daughter and her new husband. Our other son was kneeling at the altar holding the hand of the young lady he was about to be sealed to.

As I looked around the room, I knew the great moment of my life was there, then, because all I had that was really important—remember, really important—was in that room. The bishops and stake presidents had found each member of my family worthy to be in that room.

It is not the number of cars you own or the size of your bank account or the number of cattle you have in the hills, but the eternal values that count. You remember the Lord said something about moth and rust getting through to our worldly possessions (see Matthew 6:33). I knew that the greatest moment in my life was having all of our family in that little white sealing room in the Los Angeles Temple. Each of our children and their companions had participated in the sacred ordinances and ceremonies that pertain to salvation and exaltation in the kingdom of God.

One of the greatest blessings of life is to realize what is truly important in our lives and then work toward that end.

I was one of three young LDS girls who traveled with a touring party of seventy in October of 1972. We went to New York, California, and Utah. We visited many, many lovely people. Temple Square is so beautiful, even better than on postcards. Other members of the group were envious of us because we knew so much about the salvation of man and never worried at depressing moments. A few of them were good listeners and even abstained from their unclean habits. We earned their respect, and I know that these people will never forget the experiences we had in Utah. I felt so proud to be a Latter-day Saint and still do.

Now that I am home, I find that my testimony has been strengthened. It was a good experience being in the Promised Land, knowing that there are people on the other side who live the way I do. I only hope that I will be able to return one day.
Pauline RuruHawkes Bay, New Zealand

“Mike,” Dad called. “Time for school.” Walking slowly down the stairs, Mike found Dad waiting for him at the bottom.
“Do I have to go?” Mike asked. “Can’t I wait until tomorrow?”
Dad shook his head. “There have been too many tomorrows. I understand how you feel, but you need to get caught up.”
“Mrs. Peters sent home some of my work,” Mike said.
Dad sighed and handed Mike a sweater. “Today I go back to work—and you go back to school.”
Mike felt tears welling up. Surely he wasn’t going to cry again! “It’s so hard without Mom.”
Dad knelt and hugged Mike. “I know.” Mike could see the pain in Dad’s eyes.
As Mike walked out the door, he looked at Mom’s beautiful rose garden. But it wasn’t beautiful anymore. Weeds were popping up everywhere. He sighed. Would anything ever be the same again?
School was the same—noisy children running and talking. Mike dragged himself into his third-grade classroom.
Sam, his best friend, waved. Mike tried to smile, but his smile wouldn’t work. He kept taking deep breaths and trying not to cry.
Mrs. Peters began class. Mike heard her talking, but his gaze wandered outside. It was sunny. “How can the world look bright when Mom has died?” he wondered. A tear slid down his nose.
“Look, Mike’s crying!” shouted Bill, who sat across the aisle.
Without thinking, Mike got up and ran out the door and down the hall. He would never go back to school again! He pushed open the big school doors and ran the five blocks home. It was cold without a sweater.
He went to his room to get a jacket, then sat on his swing in the backyard. He swung back and forth, staring at the ground.
He thought of going to Grandma’s house, but she was sad now too. She used to laugh a lot and go bowling and bake cookies. He wondered if she had gone back to work too.
Mike made the swing go higher. Maybe, he thought, he would fall off and die. Then he could go to heaven and see Mom.
He heard words like the wind in the trees—“Then Dad and Grandma wouldn’t have you. Would you want Dad to leave?”
He stopped the swing, his feet skidding in the dirt. Who had said that? Was it Mom, speaking to him from heaven? He looked around, but there was only the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.
Mike looked at the patch of blue sky through the trees. “I miss my mom! Please, Heavenly Father, help me!” His tears started again.
Suddenly he had the urge to go to Mom’s rose garden. He stood looking at the poor rosebushes, without water and with lots of weeds. Mom sure wouldn’t like that! He knelt and began pulling and yanking at the weeds. Then he grabbed the garden hose and watered the bushes he had weeded. Soon it would be spring, and the roses would bloom bright red and yellow and pink. He wondered if Mom would see them from heaven. Somehow he felt closer to her as he worked in her garden.
Dad’s car came roaring up the driveway. He jumped out, ran to Mike, and hugged him. “They called me from school.”
“I’ll go back tomorrow,” Mike promised. “Dad, look at the rosebushes.”
“Mom would be proud,” Dad said. “I’ll change clothes, and we can work on it together.”
As Mike weeded alongside Dad, he thought of the roses that would bloom. He could almost smell their fragrance. After they bloomed, he decided, he would pick some of them for Grandma.
Mike looked up to see Sam and Bill. The two boys looked at the weeds.
“Can we help?” Sam asked.
Mike nodded. Slowly, a smile crept onto his face.

The museum was in the heart of the city. Urban decay had rotted away the neighborhood near the museum. They parked the car and walked along a newspaper-strewn sidewalk.

A man stood in a doorway watching them approach. He held in one hand a twisted brown paper bag which contained a bottle. As they came near him, he stumbled out of the doorway toward them.

“Are you Mormons?” he asked, slurring his words.

“Yes,” Scott answered.

“I thought so. Well, I’ve got a question for you. Do you know Jesus Christ?”

The man leaned forward, thrusting his face at Scott.

“Our church can tell you more about the Savior than any other church,” Scott said.

“That’s not what I want to know. Do you, yourself, know him?”

Scott felt the man’s probing glare. He’s only a drunk, he thought. He probably has to beg for whiskey.

“Do you know Jesus Christ?” the man again demanded.

Scott tried to move aside, but the man grabbed his coat sleeve.

“Do you know Jesus Christ?”

“Let go of me!” Scott ordered, jerking his sleeve and running for the museum doors. Elder Anderson followed after him.

“Tell me!” the man shrieked.

“Well, he won’t follow us in here,” Elder Anderson said with a smile in the museum lobby.

“Why not?” Scott asked, still shaken by the experience.

“Because it costs two dollars to get in.”

They strolled through the museum corridors, following the progress of mankind from earliest times until the present. Around every corner, Scott expected to see the man charging toward him, yelling his question, but he never saw the man again.

As they stood before one exhibit, Elder Anderson stood beside Scott and said quietly, “Elder, I’m sorry. I didn’t even want to be a zone leader.”

Scott turned slightly to acknowledge his companion. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”

Several seconds passed, and then Elder Anderson asked quietly, “Whose fault is it?”

Scott looked at him, puzzled by the question. “Is it President Snowden’s fault for receiving the inspiration? Or is it the Lord’s fault for giving the inspiration?”

“I’m sorry,” Scott said quickly. “I didn’t mean that. It just slipped out.”

Scott couldn’t sleep that night. An overwhelming feeling of failure crept into his throat and chest and crushed down. Dreams became nightmares. The man from the street ran through his thoughts, shouting at him with the same question.

What was the highlight of Kaonu Ly’s trip to Washington, D.C.? Kaonu and several other outstanding students from around the U.S. got to tour government agencies, visit historic sites, and participate in discussions of how government works. She also got to meet Senator Jesse Helms (shown here with Kaonu), the senator from Kaonu’s home state of North Carolina. And although Kaonu loved all of those things, she loved something else even more.
“A sight I will never forget was the Washington D.C. Temple. It was so sacredly beautiful. I felt so proud to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” she says.
Kaonu, who is a Laurel in the Albermarle Branch, Charlotte North Carolina South Stake, also used the trip as a missionary opportunity, sharing pamphlets about the Church and the Articles of Faith with the other youth she met.

Teaching children requires more than desire. It requires diligence on our part. Earlier I mentioned the song “Teach Me to Walk in the Light,” written by Clara McMaster. Sister McMaster shared with me that while serving on the Primary general board, she received the assignment to write a song about teaching children. She found this an especially daunting task and prayed to know how to begin and complete this assignment.

After much effort she submitted her work, only to be told that it was not yet right. She was not told what to change, only to continue the effort until it was right. She was spiritually exhausted, not knowing how to proceed. She again sought guidance from the Lord, made changes, and submitted another edition. This process continued three times until at last she was told it was perfect and she was not to change anything.

Even though there were many times that Sister McMaster wanted to give up, she diligently worked at what she had been asked to do and what she hoped would bless the lives of children. Her inspired music has been sung by adults and children in many lands and in many languages. This song represents the desire of my heart—that all children will learn to walk in the light of the gospel of Jesus Christ. This song begins with a plea from a child, “Teach me to walk in the light,” and ends with a commitment, “Gladly, gladly we’ll walk in the light.”

My wife, Chris, and I have been best friends and sweethearts for more than 18 years. We have supported each other through the ups and downs of married life, celebrated and grieved together, and, with our seven children, worked to build a strong, Christ-centered home.
So I was excited by an invitation to speak at a priesthood leadership meeting in which I would address the topic of serving my wife. With confidence, I outlined the main doctrinal points I knew were important, filled in supporting gospel illustrations, and crafted what I believed was a strong, gospel-oriented talk. I concentrated on the eternal aspects of marriage and family, summarizing the words of the prophets on the role of women and emphasizing the responsibility men have to assist them.
I stayed after work one night to put the finishing touches on my talk and headed home with eager anticipation. Chris has always been my “congregation of one” as I have outlined talks and ideas to her before presenting them in public. I can always count on her support and encouragement, and I was sure she would like this talk.
“Chris, do you have a minute?” I asked as I came through the door.
“Hi, honey. I’ll be right there. I just need to check on dinner first,” she replied from the back of the house.
As I walked into the living room and picked up the mail, I could hear her giving instructions to the children: Shannon was to help with dinner, Casey was to set the table, and Caitlin, our two-year-old, was to put her clothes on.
“Okay, what’s up?” Chris asked after a quick kiss and hug.
“Well, I’m giving a talk in a few days at a priesthood leadership meeting. I want to read it to you so you can tell me what you think, and—”
“Just a minute, honey.” Turning toward the kitchen, she called out to the children: “Shannon, the meat smells like it’s burning. Casey, is the table set yet? Brianne, would you please check on Caitlin?”
She turned back to me. “Sorry. The kids are driving me crazy today. I’ve had to constantly remind them of the simplest things. What were you saying?”
I smiled and started over. “I’ve been asked to give this talk at—”
Just then Brianne walked in and said she couldn’t find any clothes for Caitlin. Chris directed her to the laundry room and asked her to start another load of clothes. Before I could say another word, Caitlin came running into the room with several copies of music Chris had ordered for a choral festival.
“Oh, no!” Chris said as she hurried off to rescue a large box filled with about one hundred copies of the music. “I spent all morning and most of the afternoon marking each of these for breathing and pronunciation. All I need is for Caitlin to scribble all over them.”
“Anyway, about my talk,” I continued after she returned. “The subject is serving your spouse. I thought I would have you tell me how a priesthood holder can best serve his wife so that I can see how close I came in my draft.”
“I’d like to hear your thoughts first,” she said over a rising din coming from the kitchen.
“Well, it’s a rough draft, and I was hoping that you would use your perspective to help me fill in the weak spots,” I said. “So tell me, what does a wife need the most?”
After brief reflection, Chris said, “A wife needs someone who’s willing to help her do the things that she does for everyone else in the family. She needs an uncomplaining, good-natured helper who can keep focused on cleaning, cooking, shopping, child rearing, and organization—someone willing to do these things even if deserved recognition and praise do not always come. Do you have that in your talk?”
“Oh-oh,” I said, lowering my gaze.
Warming to the subject, she continued, “This helper should also be able to anticipate the needs of family members, be willing to put personal projects on hold when the children need attention, and be able to quickly find family possessions.”
“I don’t have that in my talk either,” I told her. But my talk did have plenty of good elements. “What about priesthood? Isn’t it important to a wife that her husband hold the priesthood?”
She smiled. I had missed the mark only a little after all. Or so I thought.
“Yes, it means a great deal to me. But what’s important is using the priesthood, not just holding it. A priesthood holder should look for ways to use his priesthood to bless his wife. When a wife has to ask for help and service, she wonders if her husband is really aware of her needs. When a husband is sensitive to his wife’s needs, emotions, and daily trials, she feels valued and appreciated.”
“Thank you,” I said, leaning over and kissing her. “What else can a husband do to serve his wife?”
“Just two more things,” Chris said. “First, he should listen to her. She shouldn’t have to compete with the television or the newspaper or other distractions. He should listen with his heart to what his eternal companion has to tell him. If we’re going to spend eternity with each other, we ought to know each other’s thoughts, opinions, worries, frustrations, and hopes.”
I quietly put down the mail I still held in my hands.
“And second, he should simply love her. He should love her when she is impatient and frustrated after a busy day, or when she burns his dinner, or when she has trouble loving herself, or when she is four and a half months pregnant and doubts her ability to meet the needs of another child.”
That night I rewrote my talk, emphasizing that service means much more than helping my wife only when she asks for my assistance. Chris reminded me that true marriage, just as President Spencer W. Kimball said, is based on a happiness that “comes from giving, serving, sharing, sacrificing, and selflessness” (Marriage and Divorce, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1976, page 12).

It’s easy to say, “The time isn’t right.” But there is danger in procrastination. Years ago I worked for a man in California. He hired me; he was kind to me; he seemed to regard me highly. I may have been the only Latter-day Saint he ever knew well. I don’t know all the reasons I found to wait for a better moment to talk with him about the gospel. I just remember my feeling of sorrow when I learned, after he had retired and I lived far away, that he and his wife had been killed in a late-night drive to their home in Carmel, California. He loved his wife. He loved his children. He had loved his parents. He loved his grandchildren, and he will love their children and will want to be with them forever.

Now, I don’t know how the crowds will be handled in the world to come. But I suppose that I will meet him, that he will look into my eyes, and that I will see in them the question: “Hal, you knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

My best friend last year had a back injury that was creating severe pain. She had surgery scheduled but it was four weeks away and she was almost incoherent from the pain. Her faithful home teacher Ron Barney came and gave her a beautiful blessing that she would be pain free. But as days and then weeks went by, I believed the blessing was not coming to pass. "Nothing" happened between the blessing and her already scheduled appointment on December 31. I wanted relief for her that very night. I wanted a doctor to have a cancelation in his schedule and operate immediately. However a month from that blessing, after the surgery had been performed at its scheduled time, she called me up to say she had sat through ward council that day pain free and feeling great. She returned to her regular work and her back continues to heal from the very competent surgery that was performed by a very fine surgeon.
She also tells me that this was the best Christmas she has had in a very long time. She had time to really ponder the life of Jesus and also to think about other people who are dealing with physical and emotional pain. So I see that I am a spiritual panicker and yet how tenderly the Lord says, "Sharon, give me a month or two, or give me a year, or give me 10, or give me until your next life. I see the long view and I will never leave you comfortless."

Some years ago our family was taking a drive into the countryside after a week of being confined to our home due to excessive rainfall. As we pulled off to the side of the road to take a look at the cherry blossoms, we felt the car’s tires sink into the wet, soft mud. All of our attempts to drive back onto the center of the road only pushed us farther down until the quicksand-like mud was above the car’s hubcaps. We were hopelessly stuck and hadn’t seen another car for some time.
Suddenly we noticed a large dilapidated truck with six boisterous teenagers coming to a stop behind our car. As they jumped out of the truck, we noticed tattoos, chewing tobacco, and extreme hairstyles. My husband became fearful for our family’s safety and told us all to get into the car and lock the doors. The young men asked my husband if we needed help. My husband said no, we could easily handle the problem.
The boys’ appearance looked more ominous than the car stuck in the mud up to the axle. The boys noticed the five small children and wife in the car as the “we” my husband was referring to and suggested that he get back into the car and start driving while they pushed. The wheels spun sheets of mud in every direction, covering the boys from head to toe while they pushed the car onto the pavement.
My husband pulled money out of his wallet to pay the teenagers, but they refused and jumped back into the truck, saying they were happy to help a brother. They were gone before we could even thank them properly. My husband, who had expected the worst at the outset, was overcome with gratitude. Physical coverings can impede seeing into the heart.
Our family has often retold the story of being stuck in the mud and rescued when we have temporarily forgotten the basic goodness of people and judged needlessly. Jesus saw beyond the temporal coverings to the heart as He reached out to the tax collectors, forgave the debtors, and healed the sinners.

Dear brothers and sisters, today is a special day for me as once again God proved that He listens and answers our sincere prayers.
When my family moved from Chennai to Vijayawada in 2014, we were starving for spiritual food, as no branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was available in Vijayawada and we were not interested in attending other churches, despite their being available aplenty around our house. Monthly we used to travel about 200 km to attend church meetings in Rajahmundry, but for rest of the month we had no spiritual nourishment. As a family we used to pray for a branch in Vijayawada, and God has answered our prayers. In November 2015, the mission president agreed to have a home group in Vijayawada at our house with seven members. We as a home group sincerely prayed for a branch in Vijayawada. Today is a great day for us, as we have a branch in Vijayawada with about 50 members.
God not only answered my prayers but also gave me an opportunity to serve Him as branch president. I’m very much grateful to Heavenly Father for listening and answering my prayers. I’m once again surrendering myself to Almighty God to utilize me as a useful vessel. What I shared is true, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“Planting Temple Seeds” was the theme for the day. The stake center adjacent to the new Anchorage Alaska Temple was the selected location. The girls planned several activities all tied to their theme. Flowers needed to be planted on the temple grounds. The girls brought their gardening spades and enthusiasm for the project. They also were prepared to do baptisms in the temple. And they would also have the opportunity to fill out family group sheets and investigate family connections in the cultural hall, where tables represented different places and types of records that needed to be checked. It was a day to plant a lot of seeds, both literally and spiritually.
Pulling on their gardening gloves, the girls divided into three large groups and took turns planting seedlings around the temple under the direction of the head gardener. After receiving some instructions, the girls dug in, literally. Rebecca Lamb of the fifth ward said, “It was neat planting the flowers because you know they will be pretty and everybody will want to look at them. It’s going to look really, really nice when everything is blooming.”
The groups loved planting flowers and making sure all the gardens around the temple were neat and weed free.
For the family history experience, the two organizers, Liz Seymer and Asti Liang, borrowed some real-life family histories from stake members. They wrote the stories, leaving out some important details but leaving in clues to help uncover these facts. From the clues given them, the girls had to figure out where they needed to go for more information. Around the cultural hall were tables and resource people. One had census records. Another represented cemetery headstones. Others represented the Church’s Family History Library and computerized records. If the girls asked the right question of the person in charge of the table, they were rewarded with the correct answer. But if they didn’t know the correct question to ask, they didn’t get an answer, just as in real life. They had to retreat and do a little more figuring.
Mounted on easels to one side were the photographs of the families the girls were researching, as if they were just waiting to be found. Hilary Ekstron of the sixth ward said, “Our group had to go to five different places just to find out one thing. But it was really interesting.” It was surprising how quickly the girls became involved in their “mystery” family as they were introduced to certain types of records and how information is recorded.
After a day of changing from casual clothes for digging in the dirt of the gardens to Sunday dress for temple attendance, the girls were pleased by the activities that day.
Bille Jean Leffler of the 10th ward said, “I thought it was going to be something where we just sat and listened. I didn’t know it was going to be this much fun being together. It’s nice.”

I never cared for household dusting. But one day, this simple act was the reason I was able to take my family to the temple.
I joined the Church in 1970. My family was involved in Primary, Relief Society, and youth programmes. I noticed that our branch president kept mentioning the word ‘genealogy’ every Sunday. I kept turning a blind eye; I was too busy; I would do it later.
One Sunday, we had a visiting speaker who challenged us to think about where we could begin finding information about our ancestors. I then remembered seeing my name and birth date in my great-aunt Lizzie’s birthday book when I was a child. I wondered where the book might now be, as she had died many years ago. Jessie (my mother’s cousin) might know because she knew Lizzie. But what was her address? I’d had no contact with her since I was a child.
The next morning, I was dusting. I can’t imagine why, as dusting was hardly a favourite pastime of mine. I picked up a beautiful wooden bowl that my husband had made for me before we married. Underneath, there was a piece of paper with Jessie’s address on it. I was stunned. Where did it come from? I didn’t question it; I sat down and wrote to Jessie there and then. Jessie wrote back that “no one else has asked for it, Edith, so it’s yours.” Within the week I had that book in my hands. It is now my treasured possession. It gave me a flying start to my research into my mother’s side of the family!
I’m still not much of a duster, but I’m ever so grateful for that prompting so long ago.

To illustrate my point, I would like to share a personal spiritual experience which I have not previously shared beyond my family. It is very personal to me. I trust you will accept it in the spirit in which it is given.

I was called by President Hinckley to serve as a Seventy ten years ago this month. In response to the call, I agreed with the President that within the following two months I would appropriately resign as Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of the company that I headed at that time in New York City. He asked that I be free to attend the General Authority training meetings beginning on April 1, 1997. I agreed.

My company retirement dinner was held in New York City on the Monday evening prior to the meetings to be held in Salt Lake City the next morning.

The dinner concluded about 11:00 p.m. Our plan was to have our driver take us to our apartment in New York City, where we would pick up our bags and then be taken to a nearby airport where our corporate airplane was waiting to take Sister Staheli and me to Salt Lake City.

As we left the dinner, we found that a "northeaster," a blinding blizzard with strong winds, had engulfed the area.

As we reached the car, the driver informed us that our pilots had called, advising that the storm had forced closure of the airport.

The forecast indicated no letup in the winds and blizzard for the next several hours. Our pilots were ready to scrub the flight and go home.

As I called our pilots and discussed the situation with them, I felt a special prompting of the spirit. I was impressed to tell them that we would continue our plan to arrive at the airport, at which time we would again review weather conditions. They reluctantly agreed but made it clear that they saw no chance of getting out that night.

As we went to the apartment and readied for the trip, Sister Staheli and I had a special prayer asking for the Lord's help as to how we might arrive in Salt Lake City in time for that opening session, where I was to be introduced as a new Seventy.

As we arrived at the airport, which was a private airport for corporate planes, the pilots reinforced what we already knew: there had been no letup in the blizzard and the high winds. Again, I was prompted to respond to Don, our chief pilot, as follows: "Don, in the many years that we have flown together and the thousands of miles that you have piloted me on various trips, I have never, ever, asked you to do anything that was contrary to the laws of safety. Tonight I want to bend that rule just a bit."

I then asked the pilots to request clearance to take the plane to the end of the runway and let us sit there to see if there was any chance of any break in the weather within the next hour or so. The pilots and tower personnel reluctantly agreed. After de-icing the plane for the third time, we moved to the end of the runway.

We sat there for only a few minutes with the wind and blizzard howling around us, when all of a sudden the chief pilot came over the intercom stating, "Buckle up, the tower has informed us that there has been a strange opening in the storm, and we're going to try and make it through."

As we rolled down the runway I quietly pleaded with the Lord to let us have a safe takeoff. We did exactly that. No sooner had we gotten through the heavy storm cloud cover when the pilot came back on the intercom saying, "You can't believe this. The heavy winds and blizzard conditions have reappeared. The airport is again closed. The pilots were perplexed with what had happened. We knew the Lord had intervened on our behalf.

As we landed in Salt Lake City about 4:30 a.m. in the morning, the pilots were still musing about the unique occurrence that had taken place. Only we knew that the Lord had responded to our prayers for help.

The Lord is in the details of our lives. As we continue our efforts to stay spiritually strong, He will respond and bless our efforts at the appropriate times. If you will always strive to live to be worthy of the direction of the spirit, you will be blessed in unimaginable ways.

“The first thing I do whenever I’m transferred is check for the location of the local chapel,” said Joseph Clancy, 19, in the U.S. Army and stationed at Ford Ord, California. “I walked to every chapel on the base here looking for the Mormon chaplain, and when my feet got sore, I let my fingers do the walking and checked the phone book. The local ward directed me to Chaplain Cooper, and he had a member pick me up for church.
“I’ve also learned that trying to fit in with the gang that runs around is not my style. I’ve concentrated on being a missionary wherever I go, and I’ve just converted a friend in the barracks. I like being in the military. I guess I’m old-fashioned because I feel that patriotism and honor and duty to your country are important.”

We live in a very materialistic world. The love of money and the trinkets it can buy seem to occupy the thoughts and efforts of many. Too many chase the “almighty dollar” at the expense of all the better things that money cannot buy.

Recently I interviewed a priesthood leader whose tithing in the past year was a six-figure amount. He owned many businesses, and everything he touched seemed to turn a profit. Nevertheless, he was one of the saddest men I have ever met. At the conclusion of our conversation, he wept and said, “I would give up all that I possess for a little love and harmony at home.” I returned home feeling that I was indeed a very rich man.

I was raised in a nondenominational church and learned a lot of misinformation about the LDS Church. Believing what I was told, I was convinced that Latter-day Saints were wrong. I often told my school buddies that they shouldn’t listen to the Mormons. I even convinced some of my friends who had an interest in the Church not to listen. I spent six years of my life as an enemy to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I often had the opportunity to discuss religion with the Bulleighs. From them, I learned that Mormons believe in Christ. Point by point, and precept by precept, I began to see that the teachings of the gospel made sense. How could God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit be the same person? Are we saved by faith alone or is there more? What must I do to live with God? Questions such as these and many more began to prick at my heart as I considered the things the Bulleigh family taught me.
My LDS friends invited me, at age 16, to attend a youth conference held at a Church-owned ranch in northern Oklahoma. The Church leaders asked all the youth to read 3 Nephi in preparation for the youth conference. I decided I would read it. I remember reading the last page of 3 Nephi and then going to the Bible to read. I picked up where I had left off in Acts 9. I remember the words of the Savior as he chastised Paul (Saul). “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest: it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks” (Acts 9:4–5).
I had persecuted the Lord as Paul had. I had kicked against the pricks of the Holy Spirit for nearly seven years. I decided at that moment that I would join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I went to the youth conference. Near the end, a time was allotted for testimonies. I stood in front of more than 1,000 people and bore testimony of this gospel and of this Church. In front of the very people whom I had persecuted for nearly seven years, I expressed my desire to join the Church.

The organ music was solemn and low, and a reverent silence fell over the congregation as the pallbearers entered carrying the simple pine box. A few garden flowers had been lovingly placed on top, and nestled among them was an old mandolin, its worn but polished finish gleaming dully in the dim light. The flickering candles made the large room seem gloomier, although sunlight reflected in here and there between the rough-hewn logs.
The organ seemed out of place in this rugged wilderness. There were few luxuries in this early western settlement, and the small organ, brought all the way across the plains on a wagon, was highly treasured.
Amanda watched little puffs of dust rise from the floor as the pallbearers walked slowly down the aisle.
“The coffin is so small,” she whispered to her mother.
“Your great-grandfather may not have been very tall in stature, but he was a giant in spirit,” Mother whispered back.
Amanda nodded, and bitter tears stung her dark brown eyes. Grandpa’s death was hard for her to understand. He had been light-hearted, always spreading laughter wherever he went. And music. How he loved music!
“Manda, the world would be a sad and sorry place without music,” he had said to her often. “It’s helped me more times than I can recollect, both before and after I left the old country.”
“Tell me a story about the old country, Grandpa. Please?” she used to plead.
“All right, but you know you’ve heard them all before.” His eyes would twinkle as the tale would unfold. “When I was a young lad, my family took care of sheep in the fields surrounding the town. The country was lush and green in the daytime, but at night everything was veiled in shadows. I had the evening watch alone. Sometimes the sheep were restless, so I always took along my old mandolin. I’d sing a quiet song, and it would settle them down. It would ease my mind a bit too. Tending sheep can be mighty lonely. My mandolin has always been a comfort to me, Manda. I’m glad you have learned to play it. Someday I want you to have it.”
A sharp nudge from her older brother brought Amanda back to the present. Bishop Madsen stepped up to the tall box that served as a pulpit and announced the opening song and prayer. Then Amanda’s mind wandered again as the service began. She could see herself bumping around in the back of the covered wagon, gazing longingly behind them as the trail disappeared into dust. She’d missed her home and the friends she’d left behind. Grandpa hadn’t seemed to, though. He’d sat in front, constantly looking ahead.
“Let’s sing a song,” he’d suggest. Amanda would be the first to join in.
Their voices had been carried by the warm Nebraska wind, and soon all the settlers in their company had began to sing along.
The most precious moments had been at night around the campfire. The wagons had been pulled together into a circle, and the moon had looked large in the prairie sky, softly shining on tired, sunbaked faces.
The trek to Utah was long and hard, Amanda thought. Grandpa had made it then. Why did he have to die now?
The bishop had finished speaking, and he turned toward Amanda.
“Amanda, we all know how much you and your great-grandfather loved to sing together. Do you think you could come up here and sing one of his favorite songs for us?”
Amanda froze in her seat. I could never sing without Grandpa, she thought. She looked at the mandolin lying among the flowers. It had helped Grandpa while he tended sheep. Maybe it would help her now.
She rose slowly and walked over to the casket. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mandolin from its bed of flowers. Several people in the crowd nodded encouragement. Amanda cleared her throat, placed her fingers on the strings, and began: “Come, come, ye Saints, …”
The song went beautifully until she came to the last verse. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice started to quaver.
Bishop Madsen stepped quickly to Amanda’s side, beckoning the congregation to join in. Instantly the little log church was filled with music.
And should we die before our journey’s through,
Happy day! all is well!
We then are free from toil and sorrow, too;
With the just we shall dwell! …
Amanda sat down, still holding the mandolin. Mother put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and said, “Grandpa’s mandolin can become as much a part of you as it was a part of him. Take good care of it.”
Amanda smiled. It was already a great comfort to her.