Gospel Story Finder

“Do you think Moroni was lonely, Daddy?” Roslyn asked as her family finished the Book of Mormon in their scripture reading session for the day.
“What do you think?” her father asked, then commented, “Moroni was alone for many years after the big war destroyed his people.”
“He was probably lonely,” Roslyn said, as she thought of her own loneliness over the past several weeks.
“What do you think Moroni did that might have helped him feel less lonely?” her mother asked.
Roslyn thought about Moroni for a few minutes. “Well, he wrote a lot.”
Her mother responded, “Moroni wrote some wonderful messages from the Lord to us, didn’t he, honey? It probably did help him in his loneliness.”
Later, as she brushed her teeth and changed into her nightgown, Roslyn thought about their conversation. She opened her desk drawer and lifted out the journal that had been there since the last time she’d written in it, more than three months before. She used to write in her journal on Sundays, and sometimes in between, but after her sister Shelly was killed in a bicycle accident, Roslyn had not felt like writing in it or doing the things they used to do together.
Roslyn looked again at the empty bed in her room. She had other brothers and sisters, but Shelly had been the one closest to her age, and they had shared many interests. She believed that Shelly was now in a wonderful place and happy among others who loved her—Roslyn was glad about that—but she missed her sister very, very much.
Opening her journal, she began to read some of the things she had written. One Sunday’s entry said, “Our family went to Steve’s Cub Scout pack meeting Thursday evening. It was fun. After they gave out the awards, all the families went Christmas caroling and then went back to the meetinghouse for hot chocolate and cookies.”
On another Sunday, Roslyn had written, “Yesterday when Shelly and I finished our morning chores, we fixed sack lunches and went exploring on the cliff by our house. Chips went with us. It was kind of scary because Chips kept running between us and the cliff. He’s a very protective dog. I said a silent prayer that we would be safe—I didn’t want to fall into all those spiky trees and bushes below us! My prayer was answered, and Chips helped Shelly and me eat our picnic lunch as we sat on our hillside ’thrones’ (the big ‘chairs’ we carved in the dirt).”
As Roslyn read, it was as if Shelly was with her again. What a sweet feeling it gave her! She turned to the last entry she had recorded. It was mostly about her brothers, Steve and Wesley: “Today Steve cut a hole in the bottom of one of his old sweatsuits. He stood Wesley behind a little table with a blanket over it. Wesley had the sweatsuit on, but the legs of the pants were on the table. Steve put his arms through the pants legs and put shoes on his hands so that it looked like Wesley’s legs were sitting on the table. He hid behind Wesley and made the legs dance from side to side, up around his face, and all over. We all laughed and laughed.”
The picture of six-year-old Wesley and those funny, dancing “legs” came clearly into Roslyn’s memory, and she began to laugh again, even harder than she had then. It felt good to laugh.
Then she found a pen in her drawer and began to write. She wrote about Shelly’s accident—about losing her best friend, her dear sister. She wrote about how hard it was to still sleep in the same room and to do alone or with someone else some of the things they used to like most to do together. She ended by referring to Moroni and saying that he must have felt even lonelier than she did. “But Moroni is very happy now,” she wrote, “and writing in my journal makes me feel less lonely too.”

Ever since I was little, I was fascinated by the stories of Church leaders who served in the armed forces. Many of them have been war heroes and great examples of valor and humility in their home countries. Their experiences inspired me to participate in my country’s military.
When I was 13, I entered a school known for its strict military discipline and infantry training. My schedule was demanding. I often was so exhausted by the end of the day that my scripture study and seminary participation seemed impossible.
By my second year at school, I had made plans for my life: upon finishing school at age 18, I would go directly into officer school and graduate four years later as an officer in the Guatemalan Army. All my wishes and dreams seemed to be coming true.
One day I told my mom about my plans, and she asked, “When are you planning to serve a full-time mission?” From that day forward her question lingered in my mind every time I thought about my future.
I still had a rigorous schedule, but I started to show more interest in my spiritual training. I started attending seminary, working with the full-time missionaries, and participating in Church activities. Following the advice of my older brother who was serving a full-time mission, I also began reading the Book of Mormon.
When I was training to be a paratrooper, we had very intense training each day. We would get back to our barracks almost crawling, but I always found the strength to read the Book of Mormon. Daily reading of the scriptures strengthened my spirit and helped me continue with my training.
One evening several of my friends gathered around my bed to ask me some questions about the Book of Mormon and the Word of Wisdom. It was my opportunity to be the best kind of soldier—one who defends the truth and brings freedom through a firm and convincing testimony of the Book of Mormon.
When I was 19, I enlisted again in an army—the army of God, the most powerful army of all. I had the privilege of standing shoulder to shoulder with the valiant elders and sisters of Zion in the battalion of the Mexico Puebla Mission. Girded with the armor of God, we proclaimed the gospel and fought for liberty with courage and strength.
We are fighting against the hosts of darkness, but the victory belongs to God. I want to continue to be a brave soldier, enlisted for our King. We have powerful weapons: the Book of Mormon, the Holy Ghost, and the fulness of the gospel. We are led to victory by living prophets. If we train and prepare ourselves for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ, He will give us crowns of honor in celestial glory.

President Monson, the entire worldwide membership of this Church joins in that great anthem with this wonderful choir, and we say, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet.” Thank you for your life, for your example, and for that welcoming message to another general conference of the Church. We love you, we admire you, and we sustain you. Indeed, in this afternoon’s session we will have a more formal opportunity to raise our hands in a sustaining vote, not only for President Monson but also for all the other general officers of the Church as well. Because my name will be included on that list, may I be so bold as to speak for all in thanking you in advance for those uplifted hands. Not one of us could serve without your prayers and without your support. Your loyalty and your love mean more to us than we can ever possibly say.
In that spirit my message today is to say that we sustain you, that we return to you those same heartfelt prayers and that same expression of love. We all know there are special keys, covenants, and responsibilities given to the presiding officers of the Church, but we also know that the Church draws incomparable strength, a truly unique vitality, from the faith and devotion of every member of this Church, whoever you may be. In whatever country you live, however young or inadequate you feel, or however aged or limited you see yourself as being, I testify you are individually loved of God, you are central to the meaning of His work, and you are cherished and prayed for by the presiding officers of His Church. The personal value, the sacred splendor of every one of you is the very reason there is a plan for salvation and exaltation. Contrary to the parlance of the day, this is about you. No, don’t turn and look at your neighbor. I am talking to you!
I have struggled to find an adequate way to tell you how loved of God you are and how grateful we on this stand are for you. I am trying to be voice for the very angels of heaven in thanking you for every good thing you have ever done, for every kind word you have ever said, for every sacrifice you have ever made in extending to someone—to anyone—the beauty and blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I am grateful for Young Women leaders who go to girls camp and, without shampoo, showers, or mascara, turn smoky, campfire testimony meetings into some of the most riveting spiritual experiences those girls—or those leaders—will experience in their lifetime. I am grateful for all the women of the Church who in my life have been as strong as Mount Sinai and as compassionate as the Mount of Beatitudes. We smile sometimes about our sisters’ stories—you know, green Jell-O, quilts, and funeral potatoes. But my family has been the grateful recipient of each of those items at one time or another—and in one case, the quilt and the funeral potatoes on the same day. It was just a small quilt—tiny, really—to make my deceased baby brother’s journey back to his heavenly home as warm and comfortable as our Relief Society sisters wanted him to be. The food provided for our family after the service, voluntarily given without a single word from us, was gratefully received. Smile, if you will, about our traditions, but somehow the too-often unheralded women in this Church are always there when hands hang down and knees are feeble. They seem to grasp instinctively the divinity in Christ’s declaration: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”
And no less the brethren of the priesthood. I think, for example, of the leaders of our young men who, depending on the climate and continent, either take bone-rattling 50-mile (80 km) hikes or dig—and actually try to sleep in—ice caves for what have to be the longest nights of human experience. I am grateful for memories of my own high priests group, which a few years ago took turns for weeks sleeping on a small recliner in the bedroom of a dying quorum member so that his aged and equally fragile wife could get some sleep through those final weeks of her sweetheart’s life. I am grateful for the Church’s army of teachers, officers, advisers, and clerks, to say nothing of people who are forever setting up tables and taking down chairs. I am grateful for ordained patriarchs, musicians, family historians, and osteoporotic couples who trundle off to the temple at 5:00 in the morning with little suitcases now almost bigger than they are. I am grateful for selfless parents who—perhaps for a lifetime—care for a challenged child, sometimes with more than one challenge and sometimes with more than one child. I am grateful for children who close ranks later in life to give back to ill or aging parents.
And to the near-perfect elderly sister who almost apologetically whispered recently, “I have never been a leader of anything in the Church. I guess I’ve only been a helper,” I say, “Dear sister, God bless you and all the ‘helpers’ in the kingdom.” Some of us who are leaders hope someday to have the standing before God that you have already attained.
Too often I have failed to express gratitude for the faith and goodness of such people in my life. President James E. Faust stood at this pulpit 13 years ago and said, “As a small boy … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently … go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house. I was so insensitive … [that] I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill [that] box.” Then, his voice choking with emotion, he said, “I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”
If a man as perfect as I felt President Faust was can acknowledge his youthful oversight, I can do no less than make a similar admission and pay a long-overdue tribute of my own today.
When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
As we encourage missionaries to do, I had saved money and sold personal belongings to pay my own way as best I could. I thought I had enough money, but I wasn’t sure how it would be in the final months of my mission. With that question on my mind, I nevertheless blissfully left my family for the greatest experience anyone could hope to have. I loved my mission as I am sure no young man has ever loved one before or since.
Then I returned home just as my parents were called to serve a mission of their own. What would I do now? How in the world could I pay for a college education? How could I possibly pay for board and room? And how could I realize the great dream of my heart, to marry the breathtakingly perfect Patricia Terry? I don’t mind admitting that I was discouraged and frightened.
Hesitantly I went to the local bank and asked the manager, a family friend, how much was in my account. He looked surprised and said, “Why, Jeff, it’s all in your account. Didn’t they tell you? Your parents wanted to do what little they could to help you get started when you got home. They didn’t withdraw a cent during your mission. I supposed that you knew.”
Well, I didn’t know. What I do know is that my dad, a self-educated accountant, a “bookkeeper” as they were called in our little town, with very few clients, probably never wore a new suit or a new shirt or a new pair of shoes for two years so his son could have all of those for his mission. Furthermore, what I did not know but then came to know was that my mother, who had never worked out of the home in her married life, took a job at a local department store so that my mission expenses could be met. And not one word of that was ever conveyed to me on my mission. Not a single word was said regarding any of it. How many fathers in this Church have done exactly what my father did? And how many mothers, in these difficult economic times, are still doing what my mother did?
My father has been gone for 34 years, so like President Faust, I will have to wait to fully thank him on the other side. But my sweet mother, who turns 95 next week, is happily watching this broadcast today at her home in St. George, so it’s not too late to thank her. To you, Mom and Dad, and to all the moms and dads and families and faithful people everywhere, I thank you for sacrificing for your children (and for other people’s children!), for wanting so much to give them advantages you never had, for wanting so much to give them the happiest life you could provide.
My thanks to all you wonderful members of the Church—and legions of good people not of our faith—for proving every day of your life that the pure love of Christ “never faileth.” No one of you is insignificant, in part because you make the gospel of Jesus Christ what it is—a living reminder of His grace and mercy, a private but powerful manifestation in small villages and large cities of the good He did and the life He gave bringing peace and salvation to other people. We are honored beyond expression to be counted one with you in such a sacred cause.
As Jesus said to the Nephites, so say I today:
“Because of your faith … , my joy is full.
“And when he had said these words, he wept.”
Brothers and sisters, seeing your example, I pledge anew my determination to be better, to be more faithful—more kind and devoted, more charitable and true as our Father in Heaven is and as so many of you already are. This I pray in the name of our Great Exemplar in all things—even the name of the Lord Jesus Christ—amen.

A little over a year ago while serving as temple president, I received a letter from a sister that illustrates the promises the Lord makes in the sealing ceremony. The letter told of a blessing she and her family had received through the temple ordinances. The letter told the following story:

Three years earlier, the family had sent one of their younger sons on a mission. He had an early birthday so he did not attend college before leaving. He was a wonderful young man who served faithfully in one of the South African missions. After serving two years, he returned home just before Christmas in 2008. In early January 2009, he left home for his first day of class at the local university. The roads were icy and suddenly a car behind him lost control, smashed into the rear of his vehicle and propelled him across the median into the path of an oncoming semi-truck. There was a head-on crash and he was killed instantly.

A few days later, the parents were at the mortuary dressing their son in his temple clothing in preparation for the burial. While doing so, the mother and father had a feeling that they should gather their family at the temple. After leaving the mortuary, they called their endowed children and invited them to attend the temple that evening. As the family entered the temple, the father felt that they should do a sealing session as a family. They dressed appropriately, went to the sealing office and were assigned to a particular session.

During the session, the sealer suggested a short break and asked those in the room, "What brought you to the temple today and why did you choose to do sealings?" When it was the family's turn, the father explained what had happened and how he and his wife had felt the need to gather the family at the temple. The father explained the impression to do sealings as he entered the temple. When the father finished there was one more person in the room to respond. The man indicated that he and his wife had come to do initiatories. When he entered the locker room, a strong feeling came to him that he should do sealings. Consequently, he had come to the sealing office where he was assigned to the same session as the family.

He then said, "My wife and I lost a son in a terrible car accident a few years ago. I understand the deep loss and the grief that the family is feeling. I can also assure them that the Lord will heal their grief in time and they will come to know that the son is fine." The sister writing the letter then wrote: "We all felt the Spirit witness that it was not a coincidence that he was with us and some tender healing began to take place. We were reminded that others have experienced similar heartaches and that our grief will be temporary. The man also knew why he had been prompted to be there to offer encouragement and example."

The letter continued. "Yesterday (early January 2010), we attended the temple to begin our day of remembering our son. He has now been gone for one year. We came with the intention of doing an endowment session, but upon entering the temple again felt directed to do sealings." She then stated that during the early part of the session, other couples were invited to the altar to do sealings for daughters to parents. When it was this couple's turn to go to the altar, the sealer coordinator came into the room with a new batch of names and indicated they would now begin sealing sons to parents. As the father and mother knelt at the altar, the sealer reviewed the new names and said, "These names are from South Africa." The mother then wrote: "We felt our son close by with a big smile on his face. I will remember that experience forever. It felt so good." The mother and father knew the son was busy doing missionary work on the other side of the veil. He was still involved with those he had learned to love on his mission. For a moment the veil was lifted and the parents and son rejoiced as they received a confirmation of the eternal bonds between them.

A number of years ago I received a telephone call that would change my life—my eternal life.
A good sister from my ward called to invite me to perform a dance floor show number at a Mutual activity evening that was being held in a couple of weeks. Dancing was a hobby of mine, and I was studying ballroom dancing at a studio in Salt Lake City. I had never been to a youth MIA dance before, and I was excited to accept the invitation to perform.
My partner and I arrived on the appointed evening and were greeted enthusiastically. I was surprised to find that we were the only ones on the program. It was an exciting experience, and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.
The following Sunday morning, I decided to go to church in our ward for the first time since I was ordained a deacon. At that time, none of my family was active. I found people who welcomed me warmly, and they demonstrated a genuine friendship and caring. These experiences started me on the road to activity and service in the Church that has been a joy to me throughout the years.
The senior Aaronic Priesthood committee, as it was called then, was a group of brethren who worked with men who were older than the normal Aaronic Priesthood age. These were just regular men who were doing what the Lord wanted them to do. They took me under their wing, and we became good friends. A wonderful returned missionary gave our class instruction. He taught the basics of the gospel and helped prepare me to serve a mission. During this same time I was asked to help teach dancing in the ward, which gave me a feeling of being needed, and it also gave me a responsibility.
The next 15 months flew by, filled with growth and happiness as I progressed. I soon received a call to serve a mission in Mexico. I quickly grew to love the language, the country, and its people. Sharing the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ gave me a foundation upon which to build the rest of my life.
That evening so long ago when I was invited to share my talent, the door opened to a wonderful new world of friends and activity in the Church. I am grateful for those who reached out with a warm hand of fellowship, invited me in, nurtured me, and blessed my life.

I think next of a moment last spring in an advisory board meeting in New York City for a group of scholars interested in issues of religion and society in the United States and beyond. A noted religious and intellectual leader unexpectedly asked if I would tell the group “what is new these days among the Mormons.” He explained that he was asking this question because he realizes increasingly that, compared to other American religious groups, the Mormons are becoming what he called “major players,” a growing Church with “great vitality.” Others in the group commented on the growing influence they see across the country from faithful and able Mormon scholars, mostly from the BYU faculty. They also displayed an astute understanding of the spectrum that ranges from Mormon scholars who are faithful to their Church to those who are uncomfortable with their Church—a phenomenon they have commonly seen in other religious groups. They continued with serious but sincere questions, wondering why we do missionary work in Latin America and how our leaders are chosen. It became very clear to me that these sophisticated people knew more about us than we might assume. And they take BYU very seriously, urging our help in addressing the social and religious issues of the day. To them, this university is coming of age, both intellectually and spiritually—and it s doing so not in spite of our serious religious commitments, but precisely because of them.

Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia was a short, round man with a tall opinion of himself. “I am the wealthiest man in all of San Pedro,” he would say. “Therefore, I am also the most important.”
Yet when he went out onto the calles (streets) of San Pedro, nobody gave him the attention he felt that he deserved.
“Perhaps if you thought more of others instead of yourself, you would gain the respect of the people,” his wife said gently.
Don Antonio did not listen. “Why, they pay more attention to that peasant, Juan Mendoza, than they do to me,” he grumbled.
His wife smiled. “Juan is a good man. He grinds corn for the old women of the pueblo, for their tortillas. He has a kind word for everyone, and you can always see him coming, because of that large sombrero he always wears.”
“Ahhhh, his sombrero!” Don Antonio ignored everything else she had said.
The next day he rode to the big city. When he returned, he was wearing a new sombrero—but what a sombrero! It had red tassels that bobbed as he trotted by, and a shadow so large that it kept both Don Antonio and his horse in shade from head to tail.
Villagers filled the calles as Don Antonio rode by. They stared in amazement.
He smiled and waved.
“At last the people see how important I am,” Don Antonio told his wife when he returned home.
She looked at the sombrero, shook her head, and said nothing.
For days Don Antonio went out whenever he could, enjoying the crowds that gathered at the sight of his unusual hat.
Soon, however, the novelty wore off. People saw him coming and merely murmured, “Buenos días (Good morning),” before returning to their tasks.
Don Antonio was not pleased.
“Why even Claudia Sanchez gets more attention than me,” he complained to his wife.
“Isn’t she the one who tutors the children after school?” she asked. “Even so, she has time to grow that magnificent garden—and shares what she grows with the less fortunate.”
“Ahhhh, a garden!”
The next day he rode into the big city. When he returned to San Pedro, people flocked to the calles again, their jaws dropped in amazement. Don Antonio was wearing the same sombrero, but now above the red tassels were piles of potatoes, cascades of corn, and bunches of bananas. It was a most amazing sight.
“At last they see how important I am,” he told his wife proudly.
She sighed and said nothing.
For a week Don Antonio basked in the attention of the village. However, his fame did not last. Soon people grew accustomed to his strange sombrero. They no longer gazed in awe as he rode through the calles, and he began to feel smaller and smaller beneath his enormous, heavy hat.
“Why, they pay more attention to Carlos Ramirez than they do to me,” he complained to his wife.
“Ah, Carlos,” she replied. “Isn’t he the boy who carries water for half the women of the pueblo and never charges a peso for it? He sings in the church choir and has a parrot named Xiomara.”
“Ahhhh, a parrot!”
The next day he rode into the big city. As he returned to San Pedro, the people of the pueblo gathered to stare. His sombrero was still huge, with red tassels, and it still looked like a garden. But now four enormous parrots perched on the crown. Their tails dangled down over the sides of the sombrero, and they nibbled at the corn as they rode along.
It was a most unusual sight.
Don Antonio smiled as he rode through the crowd. At last they see how important I am, he thought proudly. But as he rode down the calle, enjoying the amazement of the crowd, he noticed that not everyone was watching him. Some of the children were playing a game.
He was angry. A man of his importance deserved the attention of everyone!
He waved his hands and shouted to make the children look at him.
The startled parrots fluttered from his hat. One landed on the horse’s head. The horse reared, and Don Antonio fell off—kersplash!—into a mud puddle nearly as large as his hat. The sombrero went rolling down the calle, scattering potatoes, corn, and bananas. The parrots winged their way to freedom.
The people of the pueblo sprang into action.
“Save the sombrero of Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia!” they shouted as they raced down the calle after the runaway hat. “Save that magnificent sombrero!”
Soon there was no one left but a short man sitting in a large mud puddle.
“Save Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia!” he cried, but nobody answered. So Don Antonio had to get himself out of the puddle and limp home with mud on his clothes and water in his boots.
“Even my sombrero is more important than I am,” he told his wife, sadly.
She looked at him and shook her head. “You’re the one who made the hat so important,” she pointed out. “If you spent as much time making friends as you did making a magnificent sombrero, you would not have been left alone in the calle. Never let what you wear become more important than what you are.”
For once, Don Antonio had nothing to say.

1 Whoa! I’ll get sent down to the minors if you keep pounding my famous fast ball.
2 Dad, Sister Simon told us that Jesus blessed people who couldn’t walk, and they stood up and walked. You gave me a blessing after my accident. How come I wasn’t healed?
I don’t know why, Sweetheart. Heavenly Father could raise up everyone out of every wheelchair, but he has chosen not to. What I do know is that he loves you and will do what’s best for you.
3 But being healed, would be best for me. What could be wrong with running and jumping and being free of this chair?
I don’t know. But tell me—haven’t you gained anything from being in that chair?
4 Well, I guess my arms are stronger.
And so is your spirit. You’ve become a very brave young lady, and I’ve watched you develop great love and kindness for other people with problems. Would you really want to give up everything you’ve learned?
5 I guess not, but I really want to walk again.
You will, Cathlyn. Because of the resurrection, you’ll have a perfect body again someday, and you’ll also get to keep everything you’ve learned from being in this chair. I know it’s a long time to wait, but Heavenly Father will help you.
6 And in the meantime, I can already hit your famous fast ball.
True, but I’ve been working on a mystery curve.
I like solving mysteries.

Some weeks ago I was called out of a Thursday evening meeting at the Missionary Training Center, where I serve as a branch president, by an elder with a toothache that hurt so bad that he was crying in pain and with a jaw so swollen that he had not been able to eat all day. Unable to get into a dentist until the next day, he asked if I would bless the pain away. “Do you think it can be done?” I asked, trying to put down my own inner Schweinhund that sees toothache as abscesses in need of repair and wondering how I could arrange to get him some painkiller pills at that time of night. Then I heard him say, his voice charged with faith, “I know the Lord can do it, and I don’t see any useful lesson to be gained by this pain when I can’t concentrate on Japanese or anything but this pain; and I see a whole lot to be gained if the Lord will simply stop the pain.” We talked until I felt the Spirit whisper, “Now,” and flood my mind with what I should say. Then I laid on hands and blessed the young man. On feeling those impulses that I know as the promptings of the Spirit, I clambered out on a swaying branch I had trodden before and promised him that he would be healed at once. I concluded the blessing, spoke a few words of instruction about how to pray after a blessing, and we returned to the branch meeting. Otherwise engaged with missionaries, I did not see him again that evening, but I prayed hard on Friday and Saturday that the Lord would have already granted the young man the blessing he sought—and more. On Sunday morning he was at my office door, bright-eyed and radiant, to tell me that a miracle had indeed occurred. Before he had taken his seat in the meeting to which we returned on Thursday, the pain had stopped; by the end of the meeting the throbbing was gone; by the time he was back in his room the swelling had left and he was able to eat. He did not keep his appointment with the dentist the next afternoon—he said he couldn’t afford the time away from Japanese. He bore testimony to me that his joy in the reality of the Holy Spirit in his life exceeded the relief he experienced with the cessation of pain. This testimony had come to a spiritually insecure young man who needed at that time, in that place, and in that way, some unambiguous support from his wise Heavenly Father. As the door closed behind him, I said aloud, “Thanks, Lord,” and experienced that familiar flood of warmth and comfort—something akin, I suppose, to being perched in the hollow of his hand.

During my last year in Primary we got a new teacher: Brother Reynolds. He had gray hair and wrinkles, and he shared stories about the Depression and his service in the U.S. military during World War II. At first I didn’t relate to his stories—they were boring and happened so long ago.
One time my friends and I were misbehaving in class. Brother Reynolds took me aside and spoke directly to me. He simply asked me to do better and told me he wanted the best for me. Before then, my friends and I hadn’t been paying much attention. But we soon learned something special about Brother Reynolds—he cared deeply about us, and his only agenda was to love us.

The choirmaster of St. Michael’s Church looked up in surprise at the two travel-stained young boys the doorkeeper had just brought into the room. “What’s that you say?” he asked, turning to the youngsters. “You want to sing in my choir?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Please take us into your choir and school,” both boys answered at once, their eyes lighting up and brightening their faces in spite of their tired, dusty appearance.
“You must be able to sing well to join the choir of St. Michael’s,” the choirmaster said. “But first, tell me about yourselves. What are your names, and where are you from?”
“My name is Sebastian Bach,” the younger of the two boys said. “This is my Georg Erdmann. We have come from Ohrdruf.”
“Bach. Ah, yes,” the choirmaster said. The musical Bach family, he mused. How well they are known throughout the countryside. “But tell me,” he said, turning to the boys and staring into their dusty faces, “Ohrdruf is two hundred miles away. Surely you did not walk all the way here to Lüneburg.”
“Yes, sir, we did,” Sebastian answered.
“Except when a kindly old man gave us a ride in his oxcart,” Georg added.
“Sir,” Sebastian said. “We have a letter for you from our choirmaster in Ohrdruf. He told us to come here.”
“He said that to sing in your choir would pay for our tuition and lodging at St. Michael’s,” Georg added.
“Yes, that is so,” the choirmaster said, “and you must sing well, or Elias Herda would not have recommended you. But now you must have food and rest. Tomorrow we shall hear you sing.”
Sebastian and Georg ate heartily the soup and bread that were placed before them. When they finished, they sat wrapped in blankets before a warm fire. Soon they were sound asleep.
The next morning, when the choirmaster saw how easily they could read music and heard what clear, beautiful tones they sang with, he was delighted. “Yes, indeed,” he said, nodding his approval. “We certainly have a place for such fine voices in our choir.” Turning to Sebastian, he said, “Even for a Bach, your musical training has been superior.”
“My brother Christoph taught me a lot the last five years,” Sebastian told him. “When my parents died, I went to live with him in Ohrdruf.”
Sebastian’s home had been in Eisenach, Germany. Like almost all the other male Bachs, his first name was Johann. His family was very musical, and there was always much singing and music-making in their home. In fact, once a year all the Bach relatives gathered together for a three-day music fest.
When Sebastian went to live with his brother, Christoph taught him to play the clavier, which was a forerunner of the piano. Christoph taught him to play other musical instruments, too, and it was the organ that thrilled Sebastian the most. He loved to sit in church and listen to the music flowing from the mighty instrument. It was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. Now that I am in the choir school, I want to learn to play the organ better, he thought.
Sebastian eagerly began his new life at St. Michael’s. There were other lessons to study, but he was happiest when it was time for music. When his voice changed and he could no longer sing in his fine soprano tones, he played the violin and other instruments in the church orchestra. He spent countless hours practicing the music of the great masters and learning from them. Many, many years later Johann Sebastian Bach would be considered one of the greatest masters of music, but today he was just a young boy eagerly learning all he could from the opportunities he found before him.
One of those opportunities was that of studying the organ with the accomplished Georg Böhm, organist of St. John’s Church in Lüneburg. Sebastian loved to send the music echoing through the church, sometimes softly, sometimes loudly. Melodies began to flow through his mind, and he wrote them down.
During his lifetime Sebastian became famous as an organist. Most of the music he wrote was played or sung in churches. But although he wrote a vast amount of music, very little of his work was published in his lifetime. It was not until Mozart, and later Beethoven, heard the music of Johann Sebastian Bach and taught it to their students and presented it to the world that people realized what a great genius Bach was. March 21, 1985, will be the three hundredth anniversary of his birth. Today, Johann Sebastian Bach is still bringing joy to those who listen to his beautiful music.

Mom hung up the phone slowly. “Ben,” she called quietly, so as not to waken the younger children. “I need your help.”
“Sure, Mom,” Ben said, closing his book. “What is it?”
“Dad is coming home from his business trip tonight,” Mom began, “but planes have had trouble landing at the airport because of the fog. I just called there. They expect Dad’s plane to land, but the bad weather has made it late—so late that Dad will miss his ride home from the airport. It’s a dangerous night for driving, but I’ll have to go and pick him up.”
“Do you want me to baby-sit?”
“No. I’ll ask Mrs. King to come over and sit while the little ones sleep. It’s awfully late, I know, Ben, but I’d like to have you come with me to the airport. I’d appreciate your company.”
“Sure, Mom!” Ben dashed to the closet. “I’ll get my coat.” It wasn’t often that Mom even allowed Ben to stay up late.
Once in the car, Ben realized how thick the fog was. It drifted past his window like clouds of pale cotton candy. He could scarcely see the white lines marking the lanes of the freeway, let alone the signs giving directions. “I sure hope you know the way to the airport, Mom. This is like trying to look through mashed potatoes.”
“Actually,” Mom replied hesitantly, “I’ve only driven to the airport once before, and that was in daylight. I know which signs to look for, but without those, I’m pretty lost. That’s one reason I asked you to come along. I hope that two pairs of eyes watching for the signs will be better than one.”
Ben stared into the milky whiteness outside his window, trying to see anything besides fog. The words of the prayer Mom had offered before they left the house meant more to him now: “Please bless us with safety and guide us to our destination.”
Mom seemed to be whispering. “Did you say something, Mom?” Ben asked.
“Yes, sweetheart, I did,” Mom answered with a smile, “but not to you. I was praying. The fog’s getting worse. I can hardly see the road at all now, and it’s too late to turn back. Please pray, too, Ben.”
Ben didn’t need to be asked. “Please, Heavenly Father,” he was saying silently, his eyes closed, “remember what Mom prayed for before. We need help to find our way through this fog.”
When Ben opened his eyes, in front of their car and a little to the right, he saw two small red lights glowing dimly through the fog. “Look, Mom,” he pointed. “Lights!”
“I see them,” Mom sighed. “They’re taillights. Another car must be in front of us. If we follow it, maybe it will help us stay on the road.”
They followed the taillights through thick fog and through thin fog. Once, when the fog cleared a bit, Ben saw that the other car was a rather ugly old green one. “It’s not a very pretty car,” he laughed, “but I don’t think I’ve ever liked one better.”
“Me, either,” Mom agreed. “Watch for signs now. We need to exit the freeway soon and take another road.”
Ben’s eyes searched for signs. In the thinner fog, he and Mom saw their exit sign at the same moment. But while they had been looking for it, they lost sight of the old green car.
“I feel as if I’ve lost a friend,” Mom said. “I wish I could thank whoever is in that car. They’ll never know how much they helped us. Without them, I don’t know if we would have made it through the first challenge of our trip.”
“The first challenge? That means there must be another one.”
“More than one, I’m afraid. It’ll be darker on this country road, and there’s only one little sign to mark the airport turn. If we miss it in the fog, we’ll really be lost. Keep praying, Ben.”
Usually when he was with Mom, Ben talked nonstop about everything he could think of. But now he was too scared. He felt that they were all alone in a big empty whiteness that was swirling in darkness. It was a lonesome and fearful feeling.
After a few minutes, Mom spoke again. “Do you know what this reminds me of, Ben?” Ben shook his head. “Remember Lehi’s dream that we talked about in family home evening a few weeks ago? Remember how all the people were striving toward the tree when thick mists of darkness surrounded them and many lost their way? Well, this is like being in a mist of darkness. We know where we’re trying to go, but we can’t see to get there. But some people made it through the mist. How did they, Ben?”
“They held on to the iron rod.”
“And what is the iron rod?”
“The word of God,” Ben answered.
“Well, I’m thinking of some of the words of God right now. I remember that He said, ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’* I think ‘whithersoever thou goest’ even includes through the fog to the airport, don’t you?”
Ben smiled a little into the darkness. His eyes strained for a glimpse of a sign out the window, and in his mind he kept praying, “Please help us find our way.”
Mom slowed down so suddenly that they came to a complete stop. “Do you see something out there?” she asked.
Ben’s eyes ached as he tried to see. He watched one tiny patch of fog clear just enough to reveal a sign: AIRPORT.
“Oh, Ben!” Mom’s voice trembled as she turned the car. “We’re not alone out here, are we? Only one more challenge now.”
“What’s that?”
“At the airport, there will be quite a bit of traffic, and since I don’t know my way around very well, I’ll have to go slowly and follow signs. I hope we don’t have an accident in the traffic and the fog.”
Mom was right about the traffic. As they neared the airport, cars and buses and all sorts of vehicles converged from all directions, some going much too fast for a foggy night. Mom was forced to keep up with them. “I can’t see the signs, Ben, can you?” Her voice was tense. “I’m not sure where to go from here.”
Ben didn’t know how to help. He was nervous about the speeding cars all around them. Then, just ahead, Ben spotted a familiar-looking ugly green car. He relaxed his clenched hand to point; then he and Mom glanced wordlessly at each other. Mom changed lanes and followed the green car right to the entrance of the parking lot. She parked the car, turned off the engine, leaned back weakly, and looked at Ben.
“Mom,” said Ben, after a quiet moment. “Do you think Heavenly Father answered our prayers with that ugly green car?”
Mom smiled. “What do you think, Ben?”
“Well, I think …” Ben swallowed. Then he grinned. “I think Heavenly Father can answer prayers any way He wants to. Let’s go find Dad.”

Several years ago, I learned a lesson about listening. I was diagnosed with Stage III cancer and had to have chemotherapy treatments to save my life. The first treatment was too strong for my body and I nearly lost my entire immune system. With a high fever, I was admitted to the hospital emergency room and was put into isolation for 3 days.

During that time, only the doctor and the nurse could come in with masks on their faces and my husband could come in once a day for a few minutes with a mask on his face. I spent 3 days and 3 nights in solitude with unbelievable quietness that I had never experienced before. It was such a change from my regular life as a busy, active mother who was on the go 18 hours a day.

There in isolation, I spent most of my time in deep meditation and prayer. It was then that I learned what the Lord meant when he said, "Be still and know that I am God." I received many personal revelations during that time especially regarding my husband, my children and those whom I loved and cared about deeply. I experienced the sweet whisperings of the Spirit, the still small voice, ideas, impressions, dreams that instructed me and other sacred means of communication from the Lord.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
D. Tasha hides the cigarette as her mother drives past, then starts to put it in her mouth. You yell, “Stop! It really is bad for you.” She says, “Once won’t hurt. I want to know what it tastes like.” She takes a puff and starts to cough. When she throws the cigarette down, you stomp on it and say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to hurt our bodies.” Tasha asks, “Is Heavenly Father the same person as God? How do you know that He doesn’t want us to smoke?”
If you say, “I just do, that’s all. Come on—it’s Julie’s turn on the swing,” go to C. If you say, “Because he told us so in a scripture we call the Word of Wisdom,” go to G.
G. “What’s the Word of Wisdom?” Tasha asks. “It’s kind of like a health code,” you say. “It teaches us to not smoke, drink coffee, tea, beer, or wine—stuff like that. And to not do drugs.”
Julie pipes up, “It teaches us to eat fruits and vegetables and grains—you know, healthy things.”
“So do you two go to the same church?” Tasha asks. When you both nod, she looks down. “I don’t go to church, except when I visit my grandma. What do you do at your church?”
“Well,” you answer, “we have Primary every Sunday. It’s kind of like Sunday School in other churches. We have a lesson and learn about Jesus Christ. We sing songs, too, and have a lot of fun. Oh, and we have special activity days every so often.”
“Yeah,” Julie chimes in, “it’s all really neat! Would you like to come with us this Sunday?”
“Do I have to wear a dress?”
“We always do,” you tell her. “I’m always glad I do—it just feels right, somehow.”
Tasha shrugs. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to dress up. Sure—I’ll ask Mom if I can go.” (The End)

I had given our third-row seats in the chapel to the missionaries and their investigators and resettled my little family in the last row of folding chairs in the cultural hall. Unknown to me, my nine-year-old daughter, Tracy, was planning to bear her testimony that fast Sunday for the first time in her life.
Three times during the meeting, Tracy stood up and began to walk toward the pulpit. Each time, another member of the congregation also arose and Tracy rushed back to her seat. The hour was growing late. I told her, “Honey, you have to keep going. You can’t give up.”
At the conclusion of the next testimony, she drew a deep breath and began the long walk. The only other person who stood up was the first counselor, who addressed the congregation with gratitude for the testimonies borne. Tracy kept walking.
The organist began the introduction to the closing hymn. Tracy kept walking.
As the congregation sang, Tracy kept walking.
Tears streamed down my face as she took a seat beside the second counselor. He put his arm around her and whispered in her ear. Then, before the benediction, the first counselor announced that one more testimony would be borne that day.
Her head held high, Tracy bore the sweetest testimony—that of a child whose Primary classmates had all been baptized but her. She alone had not entered the waters of baptism, because her father had not yet given his permission.
Tracy remained steadfast. Praying that she would be granted the desire of her heart, she “kept walking.” She never gave up.
That same counselor who put his arm around her at the testimony meeting later conducted her baptismal service. Never had I seen a child as aglow—with the possible exception of her younger sister, who was baptized that same day.
This wasn’t the end of the story, though. In June 1999, Tracy’s father was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. One year later, Tracy’s smile glowed brighter than ever when her family was sealed for all eternity in the Oakland California Temple.

During an interfaith event in October, I was asked by Mrs Lynda Ford-Horne, Chair of the Poole and Bournemouth Holocaust Memorial Committee, if I would be willing to accept the invitation to be one of the volunteers to light one of the seven candles for the Holocaust Memorial Service that was being held on Sunday 26th January at The Poole Lighthouse Theatre.
The six candles represent the six million Jews that were murdered during the holocaust, with the seventh candle representing the other million victims from groups that were also murdered.
I am the granddaughter of a Ukrainian Jew and when Lynda asked me, I felt that I was being given this honour to represent my Jewish ancestors and my heart was very full.
On the day of the Memorial Service, tears fell as I stepped forward to light the candle and my heart and soul felt very close to my Jewish family that have passed through the veil. I gave thanks that I was able to do this task in their name.

I shall always remember how the precepts of the gospel of Jesus Christ dramatically changed my life. Although my parents were not active in the Church, I always was inspired by the law of tithing. It was a great honor as a young boy to make an appointment with my bishop to pay 50 cents or $1 or $2 tithing—earnings from delivering newspapers, mowing lawns, or cleaning out grocery stores. Little did I know that this simple habit would affect my life’s work.

In 1970, at the age of 32, I was appointed by the president of the United States to oversee the Welfare, Social Services, and Medicaid Program for the entire United States. It was an enormous task for a young man, but I thrived on my new appointment in Washington, D.C., as part of the presidential administration. Several months into that appointment, I received a call from the White House chief of staff, who asked me if I would immediately come to a meeting in his West Wing office. Nervously, I was interviewed for the next two days to determine if I was the proper candidate to become special assistant to the president of the United States and also serve as White House staff secretary. I had to pinch myself several times to realize that here I was, a young man born and raised in southern Idaho, now one of 14 candidates to possibly become one of the president’s right-hand men.

Near the end of the second day, the White House chief of staff looked me squarely in the eyes and asked a most improbable and unexpected question. He asked, “Are you a full-tithe payer in your church?” Yes, he injected the word full.

Without hesitation I said, “Yes, sir, I am. I always have been. It is an honor for me to pay a full tithing to my church.”

He said, “No one here in the White House is a member of your faith, but I know enough about your religion to know if you are a full-tithe payer, you are a person of integrity. Thus I am recommending you to the president to become his next assistant.”

The very next day I moved my offices into the White House. It was a humbling but joyful experience to know that the result of honoring the priesthood and paying a full tithing not only brings the joys of heaven but also, at times like this, can bring the honors of men.

Sometimes the hand of the Lord needs to get some outside help from mothers who are close to the Spirit. Such was the case with Theodore Maeda who planned to attend the University of Hawaii with his friends after he graduated from Waianae High School in 1962. His mother Berniece Young Maeda, however, felt much the same as President McKay did about the infant college in the cane fields.

"The low tuition school was built especially for the students of the Pacific," she told her son. "No, you're going to CCH. The Church has built a school for the local students and that's where you should go," she insisted. [xxiv] Reluctantly, Maeda took her advice and went to La'ie where he grew to love the college and the opportunity for an intimate education where everyone was equal, rich or poor or racially.

He was later elected student body president and after his graduation returned as a member of the BYUH financial department where has been for 30 years. His sister Sharlene B.C.L. Furuto has been professor in the School of Social Work since 1975.

President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, once explained how he used scripture study to find specific guidance for his life and calling. After praying to Heavenly Father about what to do, President Eyring wrote down a list of answers, color-coded each item on the list, and pasted a copy in an inexpensive set of the scriptures. He explained, “The first [answer on the list] was ‘I am to be a witness that Christ is the Son of God.’ Then I read my scriptures looking for ideas that taught me how to witness that Christ is the Son of God. Every time I came to something, I marked it in blue. Soon I developed my own topical guide around what I thought the Lord wanted me to do.”1

William Wood’s teenage years ended while he was serving in the British navy. Now, after war experience in the Crimea and China, and a three-year voyage around the world aboard the (His Majesty’s Ship) Retribution, the sailor enjoyed being home again on the Isle of Sheppey, near the mouth of the Thames River. He relayed and became reacquainted with his relatives, none of whom had appreciated his joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints five years earlier.
After being home two weeks William looked up the local branch of the Church. His sister went along, thinking he was just going for a walk. They ended up at a Mormon meeting in Sheerness held in “a little upstairs room in a dirty back alley.” William received a hearty welcome from the branch president and the few Saints who had known him before.
They called on him to speak at the meeting and tell about his sea experiences. His sister was surprised, he noted, “at finding me still a Mormon and hearing me preach.”
To supplement his discharge pay of 80 pounds sterling, William found work as a butcher. He was hired at good wages by none other than his former employer at Maldon, Mr. Blaxall, the man who fired him years before for joining the Latter-day Saints. William returned to Maldon and worked for about a year, during which period he had two pressing goals: emigrating to Zion and “selecting me a wife.”
Early in 1862 the seaman met and fell in love with Elizabeth Gentry, the attractive, 16-year-old daughter of the branch president in Maldon. Her mother had joined the Church in 1853, Elizabeth in 1854, and her blacksmith father the next year. Brother Gentry and William, converts the same year, had served together as priests at preaching services around Maldon before William’s navy service.
When William and Elizabeth became engaged, they counseled with traveling elder Francis M. Lyman about immigrating to Zion. Elder Lyman, later a member of the Council of the Twelve, advised the couple to join the emigrating company he was then organizing.
The couple joined other emigrating Saints at London and then the group traveled to Liverpool and boarded the old sailing ship William Tapscott, which had been specially chartered by Church emigration agents. For the voyage, the vessel received one of the largest Latter-day Saint companies ever to emigrate together across the Atlantic, numbering 800 souls from the British Isles, Denmark, and Sweden. “It was an interesting sight,” William reported, “to see the Saints boarding the ship with all kinds of tin utensils tied in bunches and some were carrying their straw mattresses on their heads, while others were carrying all kinds of parcels and lunch baskets. Some had old pieces of furniture … or some old picture of great-grandparents.”
William thought it remarkable how quickly the large crowd, divided into shipboard wards headed by specially appointed presiding elders, became orderly. “I do not think the same number of non-Mormons would have settled down to such order,” the veteran of shipboard life observed. “Nothing but the Spirit of the Lord would produce such harmony.” The ship left the Liverpool docks on May 13, 1862.
Ward teachers were assigned to each family, and Elder Lyman requested William to be responsible for the welfare of seven emigrants, including Elizabeth. The seaman obtained their rations, arranged for their food to be cooked, and performed other needed services. The slow, six-week voyage, characterized by rough seas and much sea-sickness, ended at Castle Garden in New York. The company passed health inspections, then boarded trains for St. Louis, Missouri. Because the American Civil War then was escalating, “we were moved and changed about a number of times. At one place we were hustled on board of a freight train. The cars had been loaded with hogs and they had not been swept or cleaned out, thus we were choked with the dust and could taste it for days afterwards.”
At the Missouri River they transferred to a small steamboat. It arrived near Council Bluffs, Iowa, very late at night, in the darkness, and passengers and baggage were unloaded at a fast speed and in confusion. At daybreak the weary travelers located their scattered luggage, then assembled at the Church’s emigration campground. There they were organized into companies of tens, fifties, and hundreds by Church emigration agent Joseph Young. William, being a military veteran, was named captain of the guards.
Wagons and teams had to be prepared, baggage loaded, food supplies purchased and packed, and teamsters trained. While this work was being done the camp was struck by a violent storm with high winds, torrential rains, and vivid lightnings. Cattle broke loose and stampeded, doing great damage. Lightning killed at least two Saints and badly injured several others. Floods washed gullies 3 meters deep in places. During the storm William, as captain of the guards, was called on to help a sister give birth under a collapsed tent—both mother and son remained his lifelong friends in Utah. The company needed two or three days to recover from the storm, and many Saints never found boxes and bags washed away by the flash floods.
A Brother Cooper, noticing William’s skill with cattle, hired him to train his teams to work together in a yoke and then drive them to Utah. In return William and Elizabeth were promised free transportation. A few days later, however, their employer announced that he did not intend to go to Zion but wanted them to help him farm nearby. When William refused, he and Elizabeth were ordered out of the wagon and left without food or water.
Fortunately for the stranded couple, Elders Lyman and Charles C. Rich rode in from the west and found them that evening. They arranged for Elizabeth to ride to Utah with a family named Wardell for 40 dollars. Elder Lyman, however, asked William to return to Florence to help with the D. F. Kimball freight train. The fiancé agreed to this separation reluctantly:
“I think this was the greatest trial I ever underwent—to leave my betrothed and go back. However, I submitted and kissed my girl good-bye and gave her a half sovereign, all the money I had in the world, and jumped in the buckboard and we went, I with a sorrowful heart and a mind full of reflections as to the outcome of it all. Brother Rich found I was in tears and told me to cheer up and have faith and all would be well.”
His first night in camp provided the other men with a good laugh then and for years after. William, preparing for bed, reached in his bag for what he thought were closely woven cotton sailor overalls and instead he held up “some sort of ladies’ underwear trimmed and adorned with lace.” His comrades laughed loudly. He had taken his sweetheart’s bag by mistake instead of his own! But perhaps the seaman was more fortunate than the others: while the freight company members slept on hard ground for three months, William rested comfortably in his sea hammock slung between two wagon wheels. On rainy nights he simply covered himself and hammock with canvas.
Day by day the scenery and travel grew increasingly tiresome. Near Chimney Rock (in what is now Wyoming) some of the cattle became diseased and died, forcing the company to make shorter drives each day. William began to think he would never get to Utah and rejoin Elizabeth.
Finally one October Saturday, William’s company descended the hills above Salt Lake City, awed by a beautiful sunset across the Great Salt Lake and by the splendid square-blocked city stretched out below them. As they approached the city, an occupant of a nearby cabin called and waved to William. It was Sister Wardell, the woman with whom Elizabeth had traveled to Utah! William hurried to her, but his anticipation was instantly crushed. She informed him that Elizabeth no longer loved him and planned to marry a local polygamist!
“This was like a bolt of thunder to me,” he recalled. Heartsick, the young man continued with the company to the valley floor, then returned that night to the Wardells. The woman tried to persuade William to marry her daughter, but he was not interested. “I formed a resolution that I was going to have the ‘love of my youth’”, he said.
Friends from Maldon lived in Centerville so early the next week William hiked 19 kilometers to locate them. He arrived at night, and “to my great joy the girl of my heart was found lying asleep on an old home-made lounge and looking free although almost in rags. She awoke, and her joy was unbounded.” Elizabeth then explained that the Wardell woman had tried to marry her to her own son. That failing, the mother sent the girl away and kept all the clothes and bedding until Elizabeth’s 40-dollar fare was paid in full. The woman then had made up the story about Elizabeth’s loss of affection for William, hoping the navy veteran would marry into the Wardell family.
William returned to Salt Lake City and drove his freight team to Springville where he received his three months’ wages. Then he walked back to Salt Lake, paid off the 40-dollar debt, obtained his and Elizabeth’s belongings, and then got a ride back to Centerville. Two weeks later the engaged couple were married.
Hard work brought the young couple a fine brick home and prospering meat business in Salt Lake, enabling them to pay for the immigration of Elizabeth’s family in 1867. But the next year the Woods gave up home and career to fill a difficult colonizing mission to Arizona. They returned destitute four years later and took up residence in a poor smelter dug in the side of a hill within sight of their former home.
William again left his prospering business and a growing family in 1880 to a mission to his home country. Near the end of that otherwise successful mission he reported:
“I preached the Gospel to my dear ones, my father, mother, brother, and sister, and although none of my own kindred have obeyed, they had to acknowledge they could not confute the doctrine, and they feel today that I am not what they judged me to be twenty-seven years ago. When a boy … All my dear relations have treated me with marked kindness, as they have any of the Elders that called upon them at the time. I know God will bless them for that.”
Six years after he returned from his mission, his beloved Elizabeth gave birth in her 42nd year to their 13th baby, but within days both mother and baby died. William later remarried, and he and his families went on to gain prominence in Canada where the Wood name became linked with extensive ranching and meat-packing interests. William’s son Edward J. served for many years as a stake president and temple president in Alberta.
The year before William died, he wrote his impressive life story, hoping his example as convert, sailor, pioneer, and missionary might teach young people in the Church that “should they have to leave the place where they have been taught the gospel … never to yield to any invitation that leads to intemperance or immorality. Always pray to the Lord, whether you are called by the servant of God to preach the Gospel or surrounded by the horrors of war—never forget to offer a silent prayer to your Eternal Father. He will not forget you.”