Gospel Story Finder

“When our oldest son was about three, he would kneel with his mother and me in our evening prayer. I was serving as the bishop of the ward at the time, and a lovely lady in the ward, Margaret Lister, lay perilously ill with cancer. Each night we would pray for Sister Lister. One evening our tiny son offered the prayer and confused the words of the prayer with a story from a nursery book. He began: ‘Heavenly Father, please bless Sister Lister, Henny Penny, Chicken Licken, Turkey Lurkey, and all the little folks.’ We held back the smiles that evening. Later we were humbled as Margaret Lister sustained a complete recovery. We do not belittle the prayer of a child. After all, our children have more recently been with our Heavenly Father than have we” (“Building Your Eternal Home,” Liahona, October 1999, 4).

I believe in sustaining our living prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, by listening to and following his counsel.
In general conference last fall, I listened to President Hinckley tell of the emigration of thousands of European Saints who faced their trials “with optimism and enthusiasm” (Ensign, Nov. 1995, 72). He counseled us to do the same.
It was hard advice to hear. At the time I was unhappy, frustrated, and busy feeling sorry for myself.
For months over the summer, I trained to become a member of the varsity volleyball team. I ran, lifted weights, did endless drills. I put in my time. The work paid off. I made the team. My dream was coming true, or so I expected.
Then the dream started to tarnish. Others played better than I did. Much of the time, I warmed the bench, cheering my teammates, yearning to play more, trying to deal with the disappointment.
Life wasn’t being fair. My attitude affected my relationship with the other girls on the team. And it affected how I felt about myself.
Why would Heavenly Father let me work so hard and come so far to end up so disappointed? Finally, after wrestling with my choices and praying for direction, I decided to leave the team. I needed to get back to my studies and my life away from volleyball.
But I couldn’t seem to let go of my disappointment and resentment. Then general conference came. It is a time of year I love because the Spirit is abundant in our home. Conference can be heard in every room.
President Hinckley’s address offered the counsel I needed to put things into perspective. By having an “overpowering spirit of optimism” and enthusiasm (Ensign, Nov. 1995, 72), I could decide to let go of my volleyball experience. I could decide to be positive and optimistic about the many good things in my life: my friendships, my studies, my family. I could play volleyball for fun rather than competition. Suddenly the dilemma that had seemed so overwhelming began to fade. I started to feel better about myself. I read the scriptures more. I prayed more. I liked other people more. I felt the Spirit reenter my life.
I am grateful for a living prophet who taught me to let go of feeling sorry for myself. He quoted Alma 26:35, which teaches us there never was a people “that had so great reason to rejoice as we, since the world began.” I realize now that I have so much to be grateful for, so many reasons to rejoice. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Three weeks later, on December 27, 1847, about a thousand Saints from settlements along the Missouri River gathered for a special conference. They had built a log tabernacle for the occasion on the east side of the river at a place later called Kanesville. The building was larger than any cabin in the area, but it could not hold everyone who wanted to attend.
Inside, the Saints sat shoulder to shoulder on hard log benches. Though the winter had been intensely cold so far, when the Saints arrived at the log tabernacle the weather was unseasonably pleasant. The day before, Heber Kimball had promised them that if they attended the meeting, they would have one of their best days ever and a fire would be lit that would never go out.35
On a platform at the front of the room, the apostles sat with the Winter Quarters high council. The meeting opened with singing and prayer, followed by sermons from some of the apostles and other Church leaders. Orson Pratt spoke about the importance of the First Presidency.
“The time has come when the Twelve must have their hands liberated to go to the ends of the earth,” Orson said, certain now of the Lord’s will. “If there is no First Presidency, it confines the Twelve too much to one place.” Reorganizing the presidency, he testified, allowed the Church to turn its eyes to the distant parts of the earth, where thousands of people could be waiting for the gospel.36
After the sermons, it was proposed that Brigham Young be sustained as president of the Church. The Saints then raised their hands in unison to sustain him. Taking the stand, Brigham proposed that Heber Kimball and Willard Richards be sustained as his counselors.
“This is one of the happiest days of my life,” he told the Saints. The road ahead would not be easy, but as the Saints’ leader, he would dedicate himself completely to fulfilling the Lord’s will.
“I will do right,” he promised. “As He dictates, so I will perform.”37

My wife’s grandfather James B. Keysor has always impressed me with his own mighty change of heart. Born of faithful Latter-day Saint pioneer ancestors in the Salt Lake Valley in 1906, he lost his mother at a young age and struggled throughout his youth. His teenage and young adult years were spent away from the Church, during which time he acquired a number of bad habits. Nevertheless, he met and married a faithful woman, and together they raised five children.

In 1943, following the difficult years of the Great Depression and during World War II, Bud, as he was called by friends and family, left Utah and moved to Los Angeles, California, to look for employment. During this time away from home, he lived with his sister and her husband, who was serving as the bishop of their ward.

With the love and influence of his sister and brother-in-law, he started to revive his interest in the Church and began to read the Book of Mormon each night before going to sleep.

One night, while he was reading in Alma chapter 34, his heart was touched as he read the following words:
“Yea, I would that ye would come forth and harden not your hearts any longer. …
“For behold, this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors.”

While he was reading these verses, a powerful feeling came over him and he knew that he had to change, to repent, and he knew what he must do. He got up from his bed and knelt down and began to pray, pleading with the Lord to forgive him and to give him the strength he needed to make changes in his life. His prayer was answered, and from that time forward, he never looked back. Bud went on to serve in the Church and remained a faithful, committed Latter-day Saint to the end of his life. He was changed in every way. His mind, his heart, his actions, his very being were changed.

The Irish wind moaned outside the cottage and whipped the cold rain against the windowpanes. Inside, Patrick McEntree was warm. The branch members were gathered for sacrament meeting around the flickering peat fire on the hearth. Yet Patrick was warmed not only by the fire but also by the words of the tall, young missionary with the American accent. “I know the gospel is true,” he said, “and I’m grateful to serve the Lord here in western Ireland.”
Patrick knew the gospel was true too. Suddenly he couldn’t wait until he was nineteen to be a missionary. He had to tell his friends now about the wonderful Book of Mormon he was reading. He clutched his copy tightly. The beautiful, leather-bound book had been sent to him personally from Salt Lake City by the missionary who had taught his family the gospel.
Patrick’s donkey, Flopps, stood waiting outside the cottage as she did every Sunday. Even the typically blustery Irish weather did not keep her away.
The meeting over, Patrick’s father donned his cap and hurried out with the rest of the family.
Patrick strolled home more slowly beside Flopps. “You know, Flopps, I want to be a missionary,” he said. “How am I going to tell Tom and my other friends about the gospel?”
Flopps only flopped her ears and blinked at Patrick.
“No answers for me, Flopps? Well, you’re a good friend anyway, even if you don’t understand.”
A few days later, Patrick weaved his way through the mooing cattle, bleating sheep, and squawking chickens on the village street. Flopps trotted close at his heels. It was fair day in the village, and everyone had come from miles around to barter their goods. Patrick wanted to find his friend Tom and tell him about the branch activity that evening. Everyone from the youngest child to the oldest grandfather would gather to dance the traditional Irish jigs and reels. It might be a first step in telling Tom about the gospel, he thought.
Patrick saw Tom at the open fruit market, but his way was suddenly blocked by Michael O’Brien with a huge creel of seaweed strapped to his back. Patrick ducked around Michael and his seaweed only to find that Tom had disappeared. Patrick grimaced and looked back at Michael. Even in school Michael smelled vaguely of seaweed. Most villagers gathered seaweed in the early springtime to fertilize their rocky potato ridges; Michael gathered it year round to dry and to sell to the factories.
A strange feeling came over Patrick, but he pushed it aside. No! He definitely did not want to invite Michael to the branch activity. They weren’t friends. In fact, he didn’t even like Michael. Michael often played pranks on the teachers at school and laughed when they asked him questions.
Stubbornly, Patrick looked straight ahead. “Come on, Flopps, there are other people who deserve to hear the gospel more than Michael.”
But Patrick couldn’t get Michael off his mind. The next morning he hardly remembered hitching Flopps to the cart and going to the bog with his father to cut peat to dry for fuel.
“Ah, my boy, you have been quiet today. Where are your thoughts?” questioned Patrick’s father as they unloaded the last of the peat beside their cottage.
“Father,” Patrick asked slowly, “do you think Heavenly Father sometimes asks us to do things we don’t want to do?”
His father raised his eyebrows. “Why, yes, I think He sometimes does.”
“I think He’s been telling me to be a missionary to Michael O’Brien. But I don’t like Michael. Sometimes he’s mean.”
“Mmm, well now,” mused Patrick’s father, “I suppose if God waited until His children were always good to love them, He would love very few of us on this earth. In fact,” he said winking at Patrick, “He might not love you all the time—I’ve known you to be naughty on occasion. But since we know God loves all His children, I’m sure he wants Michael to have the gospel too.”
“Do you think praying would help me to like Michael?”
“Yes.” His father nodded toward the lane. “But you’d better do it fast.”
Patrick turned around. Trudging up the lane was Michael, on his way to gather seaweed while the tide was down.
Patrick looked at his father for courage.
“You can do it, my boy.”
Patrick swallowed hard and, with a prayer in his heart, called out, “Michael, would you like some help gathering seaweed? I could help you cut it, and Flopps is all hitched up to the cart, so you wouldn’t have to carry it yourself.”
Patrick and Michael sliced their knives through the strands of wet seaweed draped around the slippery rocks, while Flopps waited patiently for them to carry the dripping bundles to her cart. Hour after hour they crouched over the rocks, unaware that the raindrops splashed ever harder and that the wind drowned out the sound of the sea. Only when Flopps began braying did Patrick notice the wind and the chilling rain. The night and the tide were creeping in.
Patrick shouted above the gale, “Michael! I think we’d better stop.” He saw Michael suddenly teeter on a slippery rock and fall. Patrick scrambled to help him.
Michael gasped, “My foot’s caught between these rocks!”
Patrick took hold of a slimy rock and heaved. It didn’t budge. “Can you move your leg at all?”
Michael tried, and his face twisted with pain.
The tide was now lapping around the boys’ legs. What can I do? Patrick agonized. Abruptly, he blurted out, “I think we should pray!”
“Pray?” repeated Michael incredulously through his chattering teeth. The jeering laugh that Patrick disliked so much started out of Michael’s throat, then stopped short. “OK,” he agreed quietly.
Patrick prayed until his fears were gone and he knew exactly what to do. He unhitched Flopps from the cart and coaxed the reluctant donkey out onto the slippery rocks. He tied a rope around the rock and attached it to her harness. At first Flopps didn’t want to pull. She pawed at the water rising around her legs and switched her tail in annoyance.
“Come on, Flopps, you’ve always been my friend,” Patrick urged her.
Flopps pricked up her ears and moved forward. The rock moved too.
All the way back to Patrick’s cottage, Michael kept saying, “I can’t believe it. When you said that prayer, I had such a calm feeling. I just knew everything was going to be all right.”
Patrick’s mother served the two shivering boys steaming bowls of oxtail soup.
“Flopps and I will make sure you get home safely, Michael,” said Patrick’s father.
Michael was hobbling out the door when Patrick noticed his Book of Mormon lying on the table. Impulsively he grabbed it and called after Michael, “Here. Take this. You might want to read it.”
It had been two weeks since Patrick had gathered seaweed with Michael. Patrick fiddled with Flopps’s harness and wondered why he had given his precious Book of Mormon away.
“Hurry up, Patrick,” called his father. “We’ve lots of hay to rake and pile today.”
As Patrick led Flopps along the rock fence toward the hayfield, he saw a woman with a baby coming up the road. Stopping on the other side of the fence, she shyly said, “I’m looking for Patrick McEntree.”
“I’m Patrick.”
“Oh. I wanted to thank you for giving my son that book—the Book of Mormon. Ever since my husband died last year, I have been looking for it. Someone gave me a copy many years ago, and I just laid it aside then. But when my husband died right before the baby came, I had to put most of the work on Michael. My whole world seemed to fall apart. For some reason, I just knew I had to find that book again and read it. Now that I have, I feel much better. Thank you so much.”
Patrick could only stand with his mouth open.
The woman paused and hoisted the baby farther up in her arms. “Could I ask for one more favor? Would you teach me more about your church?”
The next Sunday Patrick went with the two missionaries to Michael O’Brien’s home. When he walked into the cottage, Patrick gulped in astonishment. The room was packed with people! He sat down beside Michael and whispered, “Where did all these people come from?”
“They’re my cousins from Dublin. They come every year at haying time. They want to hear about your church too.”
Patrick watched Michael smile as the missionaries talked about the gospel of Jesus Christ. He was beginning to understand why God loved Michael so much.
Patrick noticed his leather-bound Book of Mormon on a table near the glowing fireplace. Someday, he thought, I’ll get another leather-bound Book of Mormon. He was glad now that he had given his first one away.

“I don’t care what everybody else is doing,” I snapped, charging from the barn where I’d been gathering eggs with my older sister, Minnie.
“Nobody needs my eggs.”
“But they do, Penelope. They don’t want all your eggs—just the ones the chickens lay on Sunday. It’s to help rebuild the church.”
One of the first things the people of Snowflake had built when they first settled here along the banks of Silver Creek was the church. We’d all been proud of it. Two weeks ago it burned.
I glared at Minnie standing in the barnyard with her bare feet peeking out from under her skirt. “I’m not giving away my eggs.”
“But Bishop Hunt wants you to give your eggs.”
I shook my head furiously. “Right in church yesterday, he said that nobody had to give their eggs. He said that the Lord doesn’t want anything from anybody who doesn’t want to give it. That’s how I know He doesn’t want my eggs.”
“But that’s being horribly selfish.”
“Minnie,” I exploded, “I have plans for my eggs.” I thought of the catalog at the general store, where eight months earlier I’d seen the prettiest pair of black, pointed, high-heel shoes with buttoned laces on the sides. I wanted those shoes more than anything so that I could go to church in something really nice. But they cost five whole dollars. In 1894 in Snowflake, Arizona, five dollars was a lot more money than any ten-year-old girl had.
I had even prayed about those shoes, and two days later, Pa gave me an egg. I called it my treasure egg and kept it warm in a rag by the fire. It hatched in three weeks, and I had my first chicken.
I took really good care of that chicken. It wasn’t long before she was laying eggs and having chicks herself. Now I had sixteen chickens, all laying eggs. I’d just started selling those eggs for ten cents a dozen. I knew that when I sold enough eggs, I’d be able to buy that pair of black, pointed-toe shoes.
“What about the church?” Minnie demanded.
“Minnie,” I grumbled, “my few eggs won’t get the church rebuilt any sooner.”
“You’re just thinking of those black shoes in the catalog.”
“What if I am? I want something nice to wear to church.”
“Except there won’t be a church for you to wear them in because you won’t help rebuild it.” Minnie stalked back into the barn.
Snowflake’s Sunday egg project was Sister Ballard’s idea. She was the Relief Society president and had asked all the people in Snowflake to donate the eggs that their chickens laid on Sunday. The Sunday eggs were to be sold and the money given to rebuild the church.
Any other time, I’d have joined the Sunday egg project, but most of my chickens had just barely started laying and I’d need every dozen eggs I sold to buy my shoes. Last Sunday, my chickens had laid twenty-one eggs, a real record!
Minnie came stomping out of the barn with a wooden bucket in each hand. She held one out to me. “Will you at least go around town to collect eggs from everybody else?”
“I can help collect the eggs,” I muttered. “I’ll be helping with the project then. That will be more important than my few eggs.”
“Have you gathered your eggs yet?”
I swallowed and pressed my lips together. “I’m going to do it right now.”
After I’d looked in every single nest, I charged out of the barn. “You stole some of my eggs, didn’t you? I have only nine eggs, not even a dozen! Just last week I had twenty-one. You must have taken some of mine.”
Minnie wagged a finger at me. “I didn’t touch your old chicken eggs.”
I went with Minnie and my best friend, Harriet, to collect eggs that Monday morning. I had never seen so many eggs. I was afraid that we were going to break half of them as we lugged our buckets around town. I told Harriet all about the fancy catalog shoes. “Nobody’s going to have shoes as nice as mine,” I boasted.
“They do sound like mighty fine shoes, Penelope. I can hardly wait to see them.”
Just then we passed the church. The thick adobe walls were still there, but the roof was gone and there were ugly black holes where the windows and doors used to be. I could hear the men working inside, and suddenly I felt a worm of uneasiness wiggle inside me. I looked away. “I can hardly wait to get my new shoes,” I repeated awkwardly to Harriet. She just stared sadly at our poor church.
“Why, you girls have surely been busy this morning,” Sister Ballard greeted us. “I can’t believe how well the chickens have been laying since we began our Sunday egg project. We’ll have that church rebuilt before you know it.”
Minnie laughed cheerfully. “The chickens must know we’re using these eggs for the church, because they’re laying more than ever on Sundays.”
“I certainly hope you’re right, Minnie,” Sister Ballard chuckled.
I had a little notebook under my pillow in the loft. On the first page, I kept a record of how many eggs my chickens laid each day. Before the church had burned down, my chickens laid heaps of eggs. But since the egg project began, it was as if they dried up. I fed them and coaxed them to loosen up, but they sure had a hard time.
There were other troubles. Three times during the week, skunks prowled around the barn at night and scared the chickens until Mustard, our dog, chased them off. Another night, a coyote sneaked in and ran off with one of Pa’s best laying hens. And Silas’s dog next door got through a crack in the wall and gobbled up half a dozen of my eggs.
With everything happening, my chickens were so nervous and afraid that they practically stopped laying eggs altogether. In fact, the next Sunday, they laid only four eggs among them. My notebook showed that they didn’t do much better all week.
Monday morning when it was time to gather the Sunday eggs, I told Ma that I wasn’t feeling well, so she let me stay in bed while Harriet and Minnie collected the eggs. I wasn’t exactly sick, but I was miserable. I didn’t want to ask other people for their eggs when I wasn’t willing to give up mine.
In the distance I heard the hammering and the sawing at the church. It was a horrible, annoying sound. I ducked under the sheet and buried my head in my pillow so I wouldn’t have to hear it.
That afternoon, Ma sent me to the store to buy two cups of sugar. Before I got it, I took another peek in the catalog. For some reason, my shoes didn’t seem as pretty and fancy as they had.
Saturday night, as I studied my egg record for the week, I frowned. I had gathered only twenty-two eggs all week—not even a whole two dozen. I remembered the Sunday I had gathered twenty-one eggs in one day. Tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t fair—I was working hard, but my chickens weren’t cooperating.
I thought about asking the Lord to bless my poor chickens. After all, I’d prayed to get my treasure egg in the first place, and He had answered that prayer. But then I got a sick feeling in my stomach. How could I ask the Lord to help my chickens so I could get some fancy shoes, when I wouldn’t even share my eggs to help Him rebuild His church?
I looked at my record again. The Sunday before, I had gathered six eggs. “I can give the Lord six eggs,” I muttered to myself.
As soon as I said those words, a warm, peacefulness suddenly drove away my misery. I dropped to my knees. I didn’t ask the Lord for one thing. All I did was promise that until the church was rebuilt, I’d give away all my Sunday eggs.
As soon as I pushed up off my knees, an ugly thought pushed its way into my head. What if tomorrow my chickens lay another twenty-one eggs? I closed my eyes. I could give six eggs away, but could I give twenty-one? For a moment, I wondered if I should go back to the Lord and change my promise. The old misery started twisting in my stomach again. I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and stomped my foot. “A promise is a promise,” I whispered firmly. “I don’t care if the chickens lay a hundred eggs.”
The next day, I was tempted to check my chickens, but I didn’t. Monday morning, I was up bright and early and charged out to the barn. Before I slipped through the door, I said a little prayer, reminding Heavenly Father what I’d promised and letting Him know that no matter what, every single egg belonged to Him.
What if there are only five eggs? Or even four or three? I asked myself. I suddenly felt horrible and closed my eyes again. “And if there aren’t very many,” I whispered softly, “Thou canst have some of my Monday and Tuesday eggs, too.”
I didn’t have to worry, though, because those silly chickens must have known what I’d promised. When I went around to their nests, they’d been working overtime. I collected twenty-two eggs!
I gathered them as fast as I could, and without waiting for Minnie or Harriet, I raced down the street to Sister Ballard’s house. I wanted mine to be the very first eggs she collected that Monday morning. As I ran by the church, the men were already working. I could hear the saws whine and the hammers bang, and it was beautiful, soothing music in my ears. It was my music because my few eggs were going to help it keep sounding beautiful and soothing until the church was finished.

Seventy-five miles of backpacking beauty in the high Cascades and not a worry in the world! The immediate future seemed to hold nothing but blue skies and bluebirds for our Scout troop.
We were counting on an unforgettable experience, and we got it. With only a half hour of trail behind us, we were hit with a downpour that soon turned the steep trail into a slippery tightrope. For six days it rained, and for six days we slogged and slipped along that trail, and the experience kept getting more unforgettable with every step.
It was especially memorable for: The boy who slipped into a swift river and was being dragged by the current to a probable death when his head lodged between two tree branches just long enough for us to save him. The boy who slipped and slashed his forearm badly. The two of us who twisted our knees. The two boys who sprained their ankles. The boy who suffered second-degree burns when boiling water was spilled on him. The two boys who developed bad colds. The boy who contracted a serious case of diarrhea. The three boys who developed hypothermia—a dangerous lowering of the body temperature—especially one of them who came very near death as a result.
We started out expecting blue-birds—and maybe a few bruises and blisters if we were unlucky. When the bluebirds flew away and the brickbats started flying, we were very grateful that we had some first aid supplies and knew how to use them. If that boy with hypothermia had died, the hike would now be unforgettable in a way I don’t like to think about.
That hike in the high Cascades was the most accident-laden trip I had suffered through in my ten years of backpacking. It was the exception rather than the rule, and yet every year groups face much worse first aid challenges in the out-of-doors. I don’t want to scare off any would-be campers, but I want to emphasize that we must prepare for the worst case and not the best. I am constantly running into youth groups in the wilderness who aren’t even prepared to fix a blister—let alone deal with a serious accident. Such groups are simply courting tragedy.

In 2012, I was part of a sailing trip from Tahiti to Hawaii. The trip took almost 20 days. Before setting out, our crew trained hard to prepare for anything. But even with all our training, we hit a storm that was unlike anything I had experienced before. The sky was dark, and rain came down hard as the wind whipped through the air. Fear crept into my heart as I thought about the unknown. But then, I remembered a priesthood blessing my father had given me before I left. He blessed me that I would be safe and watched over. I also knew that my family would be praying for my safety. Holding onto that blessing and the prayers of my family brought me a sense of calm, and I knew that whatever came, we would make it through.

The storm eventually passed, and we continued our journey to Hawaii, grateful and a little wiser. This experience reminded me that we must regularly assess where we are and keep our focus on where we’re headed, especially when challenges arise. Sometimes, it’s only by taking a step back and looking with an eternal perspective that we gain the peace and strength to move forward.

Even though I’ve grown up in the Church, I’ve still had to learn to love Jesus Christ and understand who He is to me. When I was in my 20s, I decided to make sure I had a strong gospel foundation—and then build on it.
I wanted to know for certain if Jesus Christ knows me personally—if His Atonement really does apply to me.
Around the time I was struggling through some of these things, I saw an opening to act as an extra on a popular TV show about the life of Jesus Christ. I applied immediately. This was an opportunity I couldn’t miss.
“OK, everyone, we’re going to do it again,” called out the man in charge of the extras.
A groan went up among the masses of people surrounding me. Creating this show turned out to be a lot more complicated than I’d expected. We’d been there for almost eight hours, shooting the same scene repeatedly, and the directors weren’t happy with the shots. All of us extras were more than happy to be there and see the actor portraying Jesus bring our Savior to life. But still, eight hours was a long time to sit and perform the same scene.
While we waited to start another take, I looked out over the crowd, wondering how many religions and nationalities were represented across this wide multitude of people. It was an incredible sight, knowing so many of these people had traveled far to be here today.
And all because they loved Jesus Christ.
“Action!” someone shouted, and we started again.
Only a few minutes later, the cry of “Cut!” went up again, followed by another announcement that we were resetting back to starting positions. The crowd murmured their discontent, but we prepared for another take.
It was frustrating to have to get in and out of character so many times, and I was nervous that we would be running through this scene until nightfall.
That’s when an older man stood up and shouted, “We’re all followers of Jesus Christ. We all believe in Jesus Christ. We’re trying to do this by ourselves, and it’s not working. We need to pray. We need to ask God for help, because just trying to do this by ourselves is clearly not working.”
He began to pray out loud.
Suddenly, all five hundred of the extras were praying, each in our own language and in our own way. Even the cast and crew stopped and joined us.
So I decided to pray too.
As I knelt to pray, I thought about my own struggles and my own need to know that the Savior knows me and really can help me throughout my life. I prayed to Heavenly Father for a miracle not only on set but also in my life. I prayed to notice and feel the Lord’s hand.
When I finished, I lifted my head and looked around. Everything I’d been worrying about seemed to become still, and I felt a profound peace. As I watched all these Christians in their different roles, I felt like I was taken back to Jerusalem, like I was there to hear the teachings of the Messiah.
I felt the Spirit speak to my heart that the Savior knew me personally, the same as He knew every person around me.
I felt what Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminded us of when He said: “I believe the Savior Jesus Christ would want you to see, feel, and know that He is your strength. That with His help, there are no limits to what you can accomplish. That your potential is limitless. He would want you to see yourself the way He sees you.”
Realizing this changed my faith for the better.
When the cast finished their prayer, we began to shoot the scene again, and the moment “Cut!” was called, we all knew this final shot was the take they needed.
Production moved on, but nobody forgot that sweet experience of kneeling together. We had all chosen to be there because we all loved Jesus Christ, and our faith had produced a miracle!
That day, I went home feeling in my heart that my prayers had been answered. I knew that Heavenly Father had blessed me with a knowledge that He and Jesus Christ love me, see my efforts, and are supporting me. I could feel the Savior’s power driving me forward and lifting me up.

I recently read the story of Marie Madeline Cardon, who, with her family, received the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ from the first missionaries called to serve in Italy in 1850. She was a young woman of 17 or 18 years of age when they were baptized. One Sunday, while the family was holding a worship service in their home high in the Alps of northern Italy, an angry mob of men, including some of the local ministers, gathered around the house and began shouting, yelling, and calling for the missionaries to be brought outside. I don’t think they were anxious to be taught the gospel—they intended bodily harm. It was young Marie who marched out of the house to confront the mob.
They continued their vicious yells and demands for the missionaries to be brought out. Marie raised her Bible up in her hand and commanded them to depart. She told them that the elders were under her protection and that they could not harm one hair of their heads. Listen to her own words: “All stood aghast. … God was with me. He placed those words in my mouth, or I could not have spoken them. All was calm, instantly. That strong ferocious body of men stood helpless before a weak, trembling, yet fearless girl.” The ministers asked the mob to leave, which they did quietly in shame, fear, and remorse. The small flock completed their meeting in peace.
Can’t you just picture that brave young woman, the same age as many of you, standing up to a mob and defending her newly found beliefs with courage and conviction?

On my mission in Europe, people that I met in the streets would ask me this same question - but I didn't have an answer and so I searched for the answer very sincerely.
I remember a man I met named Bakari. Bakari was a refugee from Sudan. The neighboring tribe was trying to kill all the men in his tribe. The United Nations took Bakari and many of the men of that tribe to Switzerland to keep him protected until things were sorted out. In the meantime, Bakari's wife and 7 children were in Sudan all by themselves. Laws in Switzerland prevented refugees from working. This meant Bakari could not save money up and send it home to his family. He just had to sit there and wait. His wife could not make enough money to feed herself or their kids and 5 of their kids died of starvation. If anyone was having a tough time, it was Bakari. The most incredible thing about Bakari was that he still believed in God. He lost 5 of his children to starvation. Not one, not two but FIVE! How would you feel if this happened in you? I don't have any children, but I have nieces and nephews who mean so much to me. If I were to lose them I would be crushed, yet Bakari - here is a man that still believed in God and trusted in Him with all of his heart. Of the hundreds of people that I met during my time in Switzerland and France, Bakari was the most inspirational man that I met throughout all of my mission experiences. He knew he would see his children again and he knew that someday, everything would work out. I felt the same way as Bakari. So my quest to answer the question why do bad things happen to good people like Bakari became increasingly important to me and I came across three answers.

Nestled on the southern edge of New Jersey are several small towns. Many of the families here earn their living from the sea. The Cape May Lighthouse guides the fishing boats and ferries around the dangerous rocks and shoals. Just as the lighthouse leads boats to safety, Chandler and Michael Altieri trust the gospel light to guide them past spiritual rocks and shoals.

Sister Christine Altieri joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when she was ten years old. Although she did not marry a Church member, her husband, John, supported her in her beliefs. One by one their children were born: Corie (15), Lauren (13), Brittany (12), Michael (10), Chandler (7), Ty (5), Abigail (2), and Drew (11 months). Their family shared a lot of happiness and love. But one thing was missing: Dad had never joined the Church. He attended regularly and participated as fully as he could without being a member. But his family wanted him to become a member so that they could be sealed together as an eternal family.
Michael was going on eight. His dad had never had the opportunity to give a name and a priesthood blessing to or baptize any of his children. A few months before his birthday, Michael decided that, “All I want for my birthday is for Dad to baptize me.” Michael, his mother, brother, and sisters fasted and prayed harder than ever that their father would decide to join the Church and be able to baptize Michael.
Weeks passed, then months. “We kept praying and praying and praying,” Michael recalled. The week before he turned eight, his mother said, “It didn’t work. We need to talk to the branch president about your baptism and who will perform it.”
“But Mom, we’re praying, we’re praying.”
The next Sunday Brother Altieri volunteered to talk to the branch president about Michael getting baptized and to take care of all the details.
In sacrament meeting, the family was stunned with joy when the branch president announced an upcoming baptism—not Michael’s, but his father’s! The family’s prayers had been answered! Brother Altieri was baptized that week, and the following week, Michael’s dream was realized when his father baptized him. Michael said, “I had really wanted him to baptize me, and it finally happened. It felt really good.”
Chandler had also prayed that her dad would be baptized. She is now looking forward to her own baptism. “I want to be baptized so that the Holy Ghost will be with me.” She is preparing to be baptized by listening to President Gordon B. Hinckley and following his counsel. “I try to choose the right and to be kind to others.”
The Altieri family was later sealed together in the Washington D.C. Temple. “When we were sealed, Mom and Dad had to go somewhere for about three hours,” Michael remembered. “We stayed in this nursery place. We picked out white clothes and put them on. A temple lady showed us a movie that explained what being sealed was all about. At first she put in the wrong film. It was in Spanish. I thought maybe we needed to learn to speak Spanish. But then she put in the film in English. After the film, we went into the sealing room. Some other people were there, even the stake president. Then we were sealed, and I was so happy!”
Chandler still has the white ribbon she wore in her hair that day in the temple. “We were sealed so that we can be together for all eternity.”
Besides seeing his family sealed together, Michael has another hope—of becoming a champion wrestler. He’s been undefeated for three years in his weight and age division in the South New Jersey Wrestling Association. But sometimes he has to make tough choices between two things he loves—wrestling and the Church.
A few years ago, a very important tournament was coming up. Michael’s parents thought that the tournament was on a Saturday, and he signed up to go. When they found out it was on a Sunday, his father asked him if he still wanted to be in the tournament. Although he knew that his team was counting on him to score some team points for it, he said, “Well then, I can’t go.” He explained, “It’s hard not to go to Sunday tournaments, but I don’t, because it’s against a commandment. And I’ve had a lot of blessings.” Since making that decision the first time, not competing on Sundays has been easier. And his decision has showed others that he lives what he believes.
Chandler also lives what she believes. Not long ago her family was fostering a dog they called Puppy. Puppy had been mistreated the first nine months of his life, then was taken away from the people who mistreated him. But he was now skittish and frightened of people. Before he could be adopted, he had to learn to trust people and to get along with children. Teaching him that was what the Altieri family volunteered to do.
One day, he got loose and ran away. “We looked and looked for him,” Sister Altieri said, “but we couldn’t find him. Some of us got in the car to go looking for him. As I was driving, Chandler said a prayer, asking Heavenly Father to help us find Puppy. We had driven miles, and I thought that we’d never see the dog again. We turned down a road that ran along railroad tracks. Beside the tracks were thick woods. And by the railroad track, we could just see this head sticking up—it was Puppy! I’ll never forget it.”
Mom said how amazed she was that they found Puppy. “But we said a prayer, Mom,” was Chandler’s simple reply. She knows that Heavenly Father answers her prayers. Eventually Puppy learned to trust people and to play with children, and he was adopted by a good family.
Michael tries to be like Jesus by staying out of bad situations. “Sometimes my friends go back into the woods, but I don’t go. They do things back in there that I don’t want to do, like shooting off firecrackers (which is illegal), starting fires, and smoking.” One fire that was started in the woods came right up to the back of the Altieri property before it could be put out. “I tell my friends, ‘Let’s not go.’ Sometimes they listen to me, and sometimes they don’t. But I won’t go.”
Both Michael and Chandler strive to follow the gospel light as they make their way through life’s sea of choices. And by their examples they try to help others find the way, too.

During filming, my brother Byron lay in a hospital bed in California, USA, while my newborn granddaughter lay in a hospital bed in Salt Lake City, Utah. Byron was dying of cancer, and my granddaughter, born with a serious birth defect, was not expected to live.
I had to miss the reunion because my daughter Angie needed my help and support. On June 3, her first child, Athena, was born with a diaphragmatic hernia. Surgeons operated on her three days later. They did not expect her to survive.
Fortunately, my husband and I were nearby during this trying time. Each afternoon after I finished my Book of Mormon video work, Angie would leave her vigil at the hospital and join us at our motel, where we comforted her and prayed for Athena.
That night, I learned that God had taken Byron home. I’m grateful for the faith I have that I will see him and my parents again. I’m also grateful that God heard our prayers for Athena. After she spent 88 days recuperating in the neonatal intensive care unit, we finally brought her home.

Guy remembers all too well his first year at the academy. Six torturous weeks of basic training come first—physical tests of fitness, obstacle courses, marching, climbing, running; psychological tests of loss of personal identity and of following orders no matter what. Cody Carr, a sophomore from Mantua, Utah, also remembers. “You feel like dirt for a while, but each little hassle has a purpose. You all start from zero, and any success you have depends on what you do at the academy.”
The fourthclassmen, or freshmen, are always required to be at attention except when in class, their own rooms, or the latrine. In most places they are not allowed to speak. To cross campus, they must walk only on the white marble borders crisscrossing the terrazzo, the terrace between the academic buildings and the dorms. Freshmen are assigned most of the details and are constantly critiqued by upperclassmen.
“They were always correcting us, and everything was exaggerated,” Cody said. “If there’s a tiny string sticking out from your uniform, they call it a cable. If your arm comes away from your side a quarter of an inch, they say it’s flying in the breeze. You had to run everywhere and could never go fast enough to satisfy them. They expected perfection.” Even at meals, freshmen, also called “doolies” (from the Greek word for slave), are required to sit at attention and to pass food to upperclassmen before they can eat.
Cadets learn that no privilege is to be taken for granted, from breathing on up. It is a big day when they are first allowed to wear civilian clothing or listen to music. Distractions are kept to a minimum because each cadet carries an academic load of 18–21 or more semester hours and is also required to participate in intramural sports. Academic failures soon find themselves back in civilian life.
“There’s a lot of strain,” Guy said, “but the Church is a real relief valve. It provides a way to get out and away from it all on Sundays. When you’re going through pressure, it’s either going to make you or break you. In my case it’s really strengthened my testimony. But there are a lot of things competing for your time—academics, extra-curricular activities, teams, squadron leadership—so it’s easy just to stay here on Sunday and not go to church. You’ll find that the active cadets have to have strong testimonies.”
LDS cadets, even doolies, are allowed to attend a weekly institute class. Guy remembers his first time at institute: “It’s great to see an upperclassman and not have him yell at you. The first time at institute I called an upperclassman sir, and he said, ‘My mamma named me Bill, not sir.’ That sort of put me at ease.
“The amount of contact you have with the Church during the week is limited. Until the academic year starts, doolies aren’t even allowed to go off base to meetings. So the institute is some of the first contact we have with the Church. It’s good to get away from the academic rigors for an evening, and an hour and a half isn’t much to sacrifice. Even now it’s one of the highlights of my week.”
LDS upperclassmen are friendly to LDS doolies, but they let them know they won’t receive any special treatment. Cody explained, “If your eyes wander a little as you’re walking along the terrazzo, one of the LDS upperclassmen might say, ‘What are you staring at mister? Planning on buying the place?’ Then he would add, quietly, ‘By the way, there’s a dance at the ward this Saturday, and you’re invited.’ They want you to know it’s nothing personal, that they respect you because they’ve been through the same thing.”
Both Guy and Cody agreed that being LDS is no disadvantage. Latter-day Saints are held in high repute because of the performance of past LDS cadets. For example, in 1978 both the number one and number two graduates were members of the Church.
“You’re respected if you uphold your standards,” Guy said. “Some nights, for example, I’ll come home late and jump into bed, and my roommate will ask me why I didn’t say my prayers. The other cadets will always order soft drinks for you instead of beer. Once you’ve established yourself, there’s no real friction. The ones who have problems are those who don’t live their own standards. They lose self-respect and the respect of their peers.”
On a typical day, Guy gets up at 4:30 or 5:00 A.M. to finish homework from the night before. Then he gets his room in inspection order, because inspections can come at any time. Breakfast is optional but must be eaten before 7:00. Cadets must be in full uniform and ready for the day by 7:05, and often there’s a squadron meeting until 7:45. Classes begin at 7:55 and last until evening, with some athletic events interspersed in the schedule. There is also a noon formation for lunch and daily marching so tourists can see the cadets. Academic call to quarters starts at 7:30 P.M. and lasts until 11:15. “That’s study time to spend as you need to,” Guy explained. “As you can see, the rest of the day is pretty well scheduled for you.”
“We have a saying here, ‘Sleep is optional,’” Guy continued. “Everything else takes precedence. If you want to get more done, sleep less. Sunday meetings and the weekly institute class really provide a break from that type of pressure, a chance to think about the other side of things.” And Guy does find time to study the scriptures and write in his journal. “I usually stay up until 11:30 or 11:45 and do it then,” he said. Like most of those who go from the academy to the Mission Training Center, he’s likely to discover that his military background will make missionary training seem easy by comparison.

Mauro Salerno has a little easier time getting to seminary, even though he lives outside of Rome and it takes about twenty minutes to make the trip—his father is the teacher of the class! Mauro tells of an experience he had recently which made him glad that he has made the effort to attend seminary. “In my school, I had been assigned to give an oral report in a history class about the Jews and the history of Jesus Christ,” Mauro recalls. “At that time, we were studying the Doctrine and Covenants in seminary, so I added a little bit to my discourse. I told my class that I was a member of the LDS Church and that I was taking a seminary course. And then I spoke a little bit about the Church.” And with a big grin, he adds, “I took an eight on the exam—eight of nine points that are possible!”
It took courage for Mauro to tell his classmates about his religion, because he is the only member of the Church in his school. In fact, each of the seminary students in the Nomentano Branch is the only member of the Church in the school they attend. They each go to a different school, and they each have opportunities to talk about the gospel to their nonmember friends. Arianna Canzachi has been a member of the Church all her life, but all of her friends at school belong to the Catholic Church. “I know that if I am a good example of what I believe, then my friends will understand a little of what my religion is about,” she says.

Speaking of the COVID-19 pandemic, Elder D. Todd Christofferson, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, said it was a time that required having “a constant consciousness of the well-being of those around you.”1 Most of us experienced fear and worry due to the uncertainty caused by COVID-19. The confinement forced us to stay home to prevent all physical contact with others. In addition, this gave great opportunities to our family to express our love, to serve, and to minister. And we are grateful that we have sometimes made a resolution, as a family, to forget about ourselves for the benefit of other people. We ministered through technology, calling people we considered most affected by the crisis in order to comfort them and to hear about their needs. At times, it was just a few texts or social media messaging.
To prepare for the quarantine, like many people, we stocked up on basic items, and even some cash. But we learned that our desire to serve enabled us to reach out to others either on our own initiative or through their solicitation. Although we did not know how long the confinement would last, we didn’t hesitate to donate food and at times money from our small reserves, to a few families and people who were in need (of course, while taking necessary health precautions). The Savior’s instruction given to His new disciples whom He had chosen and called among the Nephites comforted us: “For, behold, ye are they whom I have chosen to minister unto this people . . . Take no thought for your life, what you will eat, or what you shall drink” (3 Nephi 13:25).
No words can express the reward we received. Just as for the widow of Zarephath whose flour was not lacking, and oil did not decrease (see 1 Kings 17:16); our little supplies at home did not dry up. We felt a sense of comfort and tranquillity during this difficult time and a sense of confidence that all would be well for our family. A brother wrote to us a little later: “I’ve been thinking about you today since the morning. I am realizing how your little acts of care and love strengthen our lives and give us the energy to continue with a happy heart. That counts. Thank you for these small means that your life abounds of during your services. You are listening. Please know that your little actions make a difference. Thank you.”

Brose just can’t seem to please his pa. When Pa expected to find him weeding the garden, Brose was tending only the pumpkin patch. Granny had given him pumpkin seeds, and Brose forgot about all the other vegetables. Pa had given up teaching him to play the fiddle—Brose had ten thumbs, Pa’d said. And when he offered to let Brose drive the wagon home, Brose had paid more attention to listening to a bird than to hitching the horses to the wagon. When he’d yelled, “Giddap,” the horses had moved but the wagon hadn’t! Now Brose couldn’t even do a girl’s work right. He’d put the wool he was supposed to card too near the fireplace!
Brose jerked the wool away from the heat, but part of it was already scorched. Ma had told him before that scorch marks would not wash out. Now the whole family would have a streak in their socks to remind them that, even at carding wool, Brose was no good.
Brose was unusually quiet the rest of the evening and the following day, but no one seemed to notice. He went to do chores with Pa and Jeremy, but this time he didn’t even ask if he could try to milk one of the cows. He remembered too well what had happened only a few days earlier.
Pa had been in a hurry, needing all the help he could get. “Seems like you ought to be able to milk Old Brin, Brose,” Pa’d said. “She never kicks. She’ll stand right still for you.”
The cow had stood still, and Brose had done his best, but when he’d finished, Brose knew he hadn’t gotten as much milk as he should have. Pa had taken one look at Old Brin and said, “She doesn’t look dry to me, Jeremy. She hasn’t let Brose have her milk. Better strip her out.”
And Brose had suffered as he watched Jeremy’s smooth, regular milking finish filling the bucket. “I tried,” Brose had said. “I tried to milk her dry.”
Jeremy had poured the milk through the white sack they used as a strainer on the neck of the milk can. “Oh, you’ll get the hang of it, Brose,” he’d replied as he picked up his wooden milk stool and went on to the next cow. “All it takes is practice. Right now, though, come over here and hold Whitey’s tail for me.”
Hold Whitey’s tail! That’s the kind of job I always get, thought Brose. A two-year-old could hold a cow’s tail! Or Jere could just tie it around the cow’s leg, the way he usually does. I won’t do it! But he did. He held it tightly. Whitey tried to swish her tail back and forth, but Brose held on. Not once did he let go of it, and not once did it hit Jeremy in the face.
After the milking was done, Brose walked over to the pumpkin patch. There they were, big and orange and beautiful in the autumn dusk. And they were his. He had raised them all by himself.
He remembered Granny saying, “When pumpkin pie time comes this fall, your pumpkins might be just what we need.” Now he wondered what she’d meant. He had plenty of pumpkins all right, but Granny ought to know as well as anyone how scarce sugar was. They could roast pieces of pumpkin on a bed of coals in the fireplace—Brose’s mouth watered at the thought of a big piece, hot, steaming, and with a big blob of Ma’s fresh-churned butter melting and running down the side—but without sugar, how could Ma make pies?
Brose decided to cut one of the pumpkins right then and clean out the seeds and take it to the house. The evening had turned chilly, and Brose shivered a little as he took out his pocketknife. He glanced up at the sky. It felt cold enough to snow, but the sky was cloudless.
His knife blade was small and a little dull. It took a while for Brose to hack through the tough stem of the pumpkin vine. Then he worked the knife into the top of the pumpkin and began cutting out a piece from the top. He had just finished scraping out the seeds when he heard Pa call.
He had forgotten again! It was time to feed the calf, and here he was in the pumpkin patch! Leaving the pumpkin on the ground, he ran as fast as he could. But he was too late to get the calf bucket ready. Jeremy already had the milk in it. Brose grabbed the bucket and went to feed the calf. That was when he made another mistake!
Later he remembered that when Pa had first given him the job of feeding the calf, he’d told Brose to always hold the bucket tightly while the calf was drinking so that none of the milk would spill out.
“That’s why we feed him on the bucket, Brose,” Pa had explained. “It saves milk. This little feller doesn’t need all the milk Whitey gives. We can feed him enough to grow on and have the rest of her milk for us. But be careful. Every person—and animal, too—in this valley knows what it is to be hungry. We mustn’t waste a thing.”
When Brose set the pail down in front of the calf, he noticed several burrs on its back. While the calf was drinking, Brose pulled a few out, but there were some so far back that he couldn’t quite reach them and hold on to the bucket at the same time. Brose only let go for a moment.
But, of course, it was that same moment when the calf gave an extra hard bunt with his nose! Brose grabbed for the bucket, but he was too late. He could only stand there and watch the milk seep into the ground.
What should he do? Just take the bucket back to the barn and not say anything to Pa? Even as he thought it, Brose knew he couldn’t do that. After all, it wasn’t the calf’s fault. That’s just the way calves are, bunting and pushing. It wouldn’t be fair to make the calf go hungry because of my carelessness, he decided. I’ll have to tell Pa.
Brose went to bed early that night, and it wasn’t until the next morning that he thought of the pumpkin. He hurried out to the patch and found it right where he had left it. It didn’t look spoiled or anything, but there was some water inside.
That’s strange, Brose thought. How come? It didn’t rain last night.
He learned over to take a closer look. There were drops of moisture oozing from the inside of the pumpkin. When he tipped the pumpkin, some of the liquid spilled onto his hand. Brose put the pumpkin down and looked for something to wipe off his hand. Not seeing anything handy, he tried licking it off his fingers. To his amazement it tasted sweet! He took another taste. Yes, it was sweet! Brose grabbed the pumpkin and ran to Granny Dodd’s cabin.
“Granny!” he cried. “Granny!”
He found her at her woodpile, gathering chips in her apron.
“Granny! Look at this! Taste it! Taste it, Granny! It came right out of the sides of the pumpkin! It’s sweet, Granny!”
Granny stood up, letting the chips fall to the ground. She looked at Brose, then carefully dipped a finger into the liquid and tasted it.
“I do declare, Brose! It’s sweet, all right, just like the sap from a sugar maple back home.” Granny had that same sort of smile that Brose had seen when she gave him the seeds. “Now what do you suppose a body might use it for?”
“Pie, Granny! Pumpkin pie with whipped cream!” Brose tasted it again, just to be sure. “It must have been the cold night that did it, Granny. Here. You keep this one. I’m going to cut open about half a dozen and leave them out in the frosty night air.”
The following evening Brose ate his dinner in a hurry, feeling he would burst with excitement if Granny didn’t come pretty soon. Finally he saw her coming across the field that separated the two cabins.
“Pie!” cried Jeremy. The sound in his voice was all Brose had hoped for. His brother’s eyes were about as round as the pie was when Granny held it out piled high with whipped cream. “Is it really pumpkin pie?”
Pa just sat and stared as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“The sugar,” said Ma quietly. “Where did you get it?”
“Brose got it,” said Granny, cutting the first piece and handing it to him. “He raised this sugar right in his pumpkin patch. It’s pumpkin sugar.”
Brose turned to see Pa looking at him, and there it was—that very look of approval and pride he had been striving so hard for—all over Pa’s face. Brose was in no hurry. He could wait for his pie, just like Pa and Jere. He handed the plate across the table. “Here, Ma,” he said. “You have the first piece.”

Laura Jensen of Jerome, Idaho, is proving to be one of the girls to watch at the Idaho A2 State Track championships. As a sophomore, Laura took first place in the South-Central Idaho Cross-Country Conference, in the Cross-State championship, and in the district cross-country championship.
Laura reached one of the goals she set for herself when she won the 3.1 mile state championship race. She crossed the finish line 55 seconds ahead of her nearest competitor.
Laura is an honor student. She attends early-morning seminary and is first counselor in her Laurel class in the Jerome Idaho Third Ward.

Perhaps it is partly this aura of impossibility that draws Kent to eagles, just as it has drawn poets, prophets, and emperors for centuries.
Actually, it all started with snakes. From the day he was born, Kent seemed to delight in all wild creatures, but snakes were his first real love. As a very young boy, he turned his backyard into a reptile menagerie with cages full of crawling snakes, gila monsters, horned toads, lizards, and just about any other tail-twitching belly-crawler he could find. As soon as he learned to read, he went hunting for reptiles in the library too.
But a new love was waiting in the wings, and at 12 years of age, Kent was to have his eyes snatched from the delightful snake-harboring ground to the wide, blue, eagle-bearing sky.
One day on a camping trip Kent’s Scoutmaster pointed at a dead cottonwood tree and said, “Hey, guys, there are two eagles!” The two golden eagles perched on skeletal limbs burned their image into an unexposed surface of Kent’s brain and filled his life’s appointment book all in an instant. He came. He saw. He was conquered.
But finding eagles isn’t all that easy until you learn where to look, and it was two years before Kent was able to make a house call. One rainy afternoon in early May he stepped onto a tiny protruding ledge that overhung more than 150 feet of sheer emptiness. As he peered over the edge, the sun burst through the rain clouds, spotlighting the golden hackles of a female eagle on her nest about ten yards down. Seeing Kent, she soared silently away but left behind two eaglets who sat cheeping at him in a blaze of downy sunshine.
Kent says of that instant: “At that moment I was so inspired by the beauty and majesty of the eagles that I felt more alive myself. The air smelled fresher, and the stream far below sparkled more brightly than before. I had simply opened my eyes and had really seen and felt what was around me.”
From eagles Kent’s love spread to all raptors (birds of prey). The fierce independence and aristocratic bearing of these aerial hunters caught his imagination and sent him out during every spare moment to follow their flight and study their habits.
He went to the library too, hunting these feathered sky-riders among the quiet stacks of books. He learned, both from books and experience (he doesn’t believe a book until he has proved it in nature) about the different raptors—where they nested, where they hunted, how they hunted, what their prey was, how they mated, and even how they flew. Before long he could see a bird silhouetted gnat-small on the horizon and name it by its flight pattern. Every time he saw a bird or visited a nest, he took careful scientific notes of everything he observed. He has several PhD dissertations lying unwritten in his notebooks.
During his junior year in high school, Kent dropped out of football and basketball to allow more time for raptor study. He traveled miles and miles searching out nests and roosting areas. He developed the climbing ability of a mountain goat and the stamina of a mustang. Leaving home Friday night after school or well before dawn Saturday morning, getting home well after dark Saturday night, and spending much of the time in between climbing steep mountains at a brisk trot, he found many raptor nests and gradually became a legitimate expert in the field. Weekdays after school also found him in the hills as often as possible.
One of his most rewarding experiences came one winter after a month-long search when he found the winter roosting grounds of bald eagles from Canada and Alaska. “I stood alone in two feet of snow near the bottom of an isolated canyon in west-central Utah, my eyes searching the sky for signs of life. Suddenly, as if by magic, they came, one by one, in pairs, and in small groups. Bald eagles dropped from the tall pine trees to the south and were gradually caught up in thermal drafts of air. Slowly circling higher and higher, traveling on wings of up to eight feet in length, they drifted west in a steady stream of traffic across the sky.”
That summer he carried back-breaking loads of wood and canvas up a towering mountain in order to build a blind from which to observe these eagles during the coming winter. When the snows were deep on the mountain a few months later, he spent hours watching them up close. “I have often crawled out of a warm bed at 3:00 A.M. and hiked up tall mountains through three feet of snow in the dark. Then I have sat cramped and numbed in a dark blind until mid-afternoon. By that time I have begun to wonder what is wrong with me. Suddenly, only 30 feet away and halfway up a scraggly old pine tree, a beautiful bald eagle has landed, and I wonder no longer.”
Kent interrupted his eagle watching to accept a mission call to the Kentucky Louisville Mission, but on his return he was on the road again checking nests.
Kent, like other students of raptors, is especially interested in the predators’ nesting behavior because this is the cycle that stands between the species and extinction.
There is also the mystery of the eternal interplay between the flight and the nest, freedom and responsibility. “An eagle’s freedom is exciting. They can leave the ground any time they want and ride the wind, and yet, like people, they’re tied down with responsibilities. When an eagle has eggs, she’s on the nest for 45 days, and she may leave it for only an hour a day. Eagles must follow their food supply too. They have certain laws they have to live within, but when they get up there and ride that wind, there’s not much that can touch them.”
In Utah, golden eagles begin their courtship flights in January or February, lay eggs from late February through March, and then incubate them from 42 to 45 days, after which the eaglets stay in the nest for from eight to ten weeks before taking to their wings. Kent warns that anyone interested in eagles should simply stay away from the nests during egg laying and incubation because during that period adult eagles are most prone to abandon the nest. Whenever a human being approaches her nest, the female eagle will invariably leave it until he is gone, and even if she returns, exposure to heat or cold can easily destroy the eggs. After the eaglets have hatched, the nest can be safely visited for very short periods of time, but after the eaglets are about seven weeks old, there is serious danger of frightening them off the nest before they are able to fly.
First flight is as breathtaking an experience for eagles as it is for people, and the proud lords of the skyways start out as bumbling, incompetent aviators. They too often crash and break a wing on the first flight and become easy prey to starvation or some four-legged predator. Kent once saw a ten-week-old eagle make its first flight and remembers: “He hopped off the nest as if he knew what he was doing, but all of a sudden he was speeding down toward the opposite cliff and losing altitude fast. You could see the shock in his eyes. His wings were spread out, his primary and secondary feathers flapping back and forth in the breeze. His head was moving back and forth watching the ground and looking back up at the nest—looking everywhere at once. He looked as if he was wondering what he had gotten himself into, whether he had really blown it, but you could also feel his exhilaration and the thrill of his first flight. He dropped down to the mouth of the canyon and hit an updraft that just pushed him right up out of sight. I found him the next day sitting on a tree unhurt.”
Kent realized from day one that it would be unthinkable to put an eagle in a cage like his childhood pet lizards, so he found another way of capturing the wild, free beauty of these magnificent creatures—photography. He seldom goes anywhere without his camera and his 400, 150, and 50 mm lenses. Over the years he has accumulated a fine collection of raptor slides and has organized them into several slide shows guaranteed to make you sad you were not born an eagle. He presents these shows to many groups and enjoys sharing them with people in rest homes and with handicapped children. It is his way of giving wings to people who are the most earthbound.
“I love eagles,” he says, “but people are the most important part of that love. It wouldn’t mean a thing to me if I went out there and filmed all those great things and didn’t have anybody to share it with.”
In photographing raptors, Kent has developed a skill that few people share. If you don’t believe it, go out sometime and photograph a bird moving in and out of focus at eye-blurring speed across blue sky, white clouds, black mountainsides, and blazing patches of snow, all in a few seconds. You’ll be very lucky even to find the thing in your telephoto lens, much less focus it and get the right exposure.
Kent’s delight in all living things has never faded. He still can’t pass up a lizard without stopping and watching. A porcupine is still a miracle. A turtle is still a masterpiece. A raven or a meadowlark is still breathtaking, and snakes still make him shiver as good as they make most of us shiver bad. There are no commonplace animals for Kent; they all bring him joy just by being. It is significant that on the gun rack in his pickup he has hung only a pair of binoculars.
But in spite of his reverence for all things, those binoculars are filled mostly with raptors right now, and Kent has been repaid for his thousands of hours of work with some heart-thumping experiences—a squadron of bald eagles on a winter day, the soaring rise of a Swainson’s hawk, the screaming dive of a prairie falcon, the puppet-like unreality of baby owls. And speaking of owls, he had the privilege of being knocked backwards off a 30-foot cliff by a frightened great horned owl and of having his face bloodied by the fierce attack of another not-at-all frightened member of the species.
He especially remembers one top-of-the-world moment on a peak high in a remote canyon. The granite walls were so buffeted by a tree-toppling wind that day that he had to lie flat to avoid being blown away like a leaf. A golden eagle came floating down onto the highest point on the peak, sorting out the changing, punishing wind with his wings, and somehow keeping an even keel. He stood there a moment looking regally around at the whole world lying beneath his talons as if inspecting his kingdom. “He only touched down for a few seconds, and then he simply opened his wings and turned them back into the wind. He shot up and out of sight like a rocket without ever flapping a wing.”
No one but Kent can say how many hours of sleep or basketball games or TV shows that experience was worth to him, but he isn’t complaining.
There is another aspect to Kent’s studies beyond the intellectual and aesthetic. Living with these magnificent birds has strengthened his testimony of his Creator. One winter day he took an atheist friend to a canyon where he knew there would be eagles. As they stood in the snow watching some 50 bald eagles soar above them, Kent looked at his open-mouthed friend and said quietly, “That didn’t just happen by accident.”
“Boy, I know it!” his friend said, his voice small with awe.
If anybody wants to know why eagles are worth saving, maybe that’s why.

They started to raise their family from a very humble single attic-room apartment in the heart of Amsterdam. After several years of washing their clothes by hand, they had finally saved up enough money to purchase a washing machine. Just before they would make the purchase, the bishop visited them, asking for a contribution to build the meetinghouse in Amsterdam. They decided to give all they had saved for the washing machine and continued to do the laundry by hand. As a family we went through some hardships, just like any other family. These have only made us stronger and have deepened our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, just like when Alma was sharing his story with his son Helaman, where he told him that he had been “supported under trials and troubles of every kind” because he had put his trust in the Lord Jesus Christ. How did two people who experienced so many trials in their younger years become the very best parents I could ever wish for? The answer is simple: they fully embraced the gospel and live by their covenants to this very day! After more than 65 years of marriage, my mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, passed away in February. My father, at the age of 92 and still living at home, visited her as often as he could until she passed away. Some time ago he mentioned to my younger siblings that the dreadful experiences in the camp in Indonesia during World War II had prepared him to patiently care for his wife for so many years as she fell ill and deteriorated from this horrible disease and also for the fateful day he had to entrust her primary care to others and could not be by her side anymore. Their motto has been and still is to “Just carry on,” having a perfect hope in Christ to be raised up at the last day and to dwell with Him in glory forever.