Gospel Story Finder

A story is told of a certain rabbi:
This rabbi . . . went on a journey with the prophet Elijah. They walked all day, and at nightfall they came to the humble cottage of a poor man, whose only treasure was a cow. The poor man ran out of his cottage, and his wife ran too, to welcome the strangers for the night and to offer them all the simple hospitality which they were able to give in straitened circumstances. Elijah and the Rabbi were entertained with plenty of the cow’s milk, sustained by home-made bread and butter, and they were put to sleep in the best bed while their kindly hosts lay down before the kitchen fire. But in the morning the poor man’s cow was dead. . . .

They walked all the next day, and came that evening to the house of a very wealthy merchant, whose hospitality they craved. The merchant was cold and proud and rich, and all that he would do for the prophet and his companion was to lodge them in a cowshed and feed them on bread and water. In the morning, however, Elijah thanked him very much for what he had done, and sent for a mason to repair one of his walls, which happened to be falling down, as a return for his kindness.

The Rabbi . . . , unable to keep silence any longer, begged the holy man to explain the meaning of his dealings with human beings.

“In regard to the poor man who received us so hospitably,” replied the prophet, “it was decreed that his wife was to die that night, but in reward for his goodness God took the cow instead of the wife. I repaired the wall of the rich miser because a chest of gold was concealed near the place, and if the miser had repaired the wall himself he would have discovered the treasure. Say not therefore to the Lord: What doest thou? But say in thy heart: Must not the Lord of all the earth do right?”

They came bearing gifts. After collecting donated items such as toys, clothing, and school supplies, about 30 youth and children from the Semmes and Theodore Wards of Mobile, Alabama, made a visit to the St. Mary’s Home for Children. The youth didn’t just drop off the gifts, but they spent the morning at the community shelter singing Primary songs and playing games with the children who live there.
Lauryn McCullough, a Mia Maid from the Semmes Ward, remembers how much fun they had. “The children really broke out of their shells and enjoyed our visit,” she said. Seeing these children in difficult circumstances also made Lauryn grateful for what she has. “It made me really appreciate my family. We often take for granted what we have.”
Plans for a return visit are already under way in response to numerous requests from both the LDS youth who visited the shelter and from the children living at St. Mary’s Home.

Many years ago, when I was engaged in the private practice of the law, a lawyer in Texas engaged me to take care of a legal problem for him in Utah.
This legal matter was satisfactorily adjusted by the payment of a sum of money, in the form of a check to our office. I forwarded the check to my friend in Texas without first cashing it, with the understanding that a portion of it would be returned to settle part of the obligation through our office.
After I sent the check, I heard nothing more from my friend. Letters, telegrams, and telephone calls went unanswered for many months. I became concerned because it was not my money and if he did not keep his word I was honor bound to make good the loss. The obvious solution was to file a complaint against him. There lurked in my mind, however, the possibility of a far more subtle approach.
I recalled how, as a boy, I had been taught by my mother the words of the Savior, as recorded by Matthew, that tell us that true Christians are supposed to pray for those who despitefully use them (see Matt. 5:44). I certainly felt that I had been despitefully used. I happened to be serving as a bishop in the Church at that time, and I chastised myself because I was something less of a Christian than I ought to be. I had not first considered the direction of the Master. At an appropriate place and time, I went to my knees and uttered a simple but sincere prayer for the well-being of this man in Texas. I am ashamed to say that this was the first time in my life when the sole and only purpose of a prayer was in the interest of one who, in my opinion, had not done well by me. The prayer seemed to have been almost instantaneously heard and brought dramatic results. In the time that it takes for an airmail letter to come from Texas, there arrived a communication from this man containing the promised money. In the letter was an explanation that he had been seriously ill, had been in the hospital, and had had to close his office but now was doing better. He asked our pardon and apologized for the inconvenience that this caused.
I relate this experience without apology to anyone who might think that I was weak, inadequate, or foolish for having humbly sought to follow a commandment of the Savior for a solution to a practical problem. The price of discipleship is obedience. In many languages, the word disciple has the same root as the word discipline. Self-discipline and self-control are consistent and permanent characteristics of the followers of Jesus.

One day I was walking to work and had stopped for a traffic light. There was a strong wind whipping around the buildings. A teenage boy suddenly moved past me as I stood on the curb. He stepped into the line of traffic, which was heavy at that hour of the day. Startled, I reached out to stop him. It was then that I realized he wasn’t just a carefree youth: he was blind!
He was on his way to the Blind Center a block or two farther on. We walked that way together, friends now, as he said, since I had probably saved his life.
He explained that at the blind school he was taught to listen to the traffic before he crossed a street. However, the wind that day was so severe that he couldn’t hear the usual traffic sounds, and he’d decided to take a chance. He was grateful that I had been watching.
I asked him how long he’d been blind. He told me his story.
“When I was eight years old my sole purpose in life was to be the world’s best and most famous baseball player,” he explained. “I was practicing one afternoon when a fellow player threw the bat after a hit. It landed across my eyes. This accident brought a terrible period of tribulation for my entire family.
“I was a mess,” he said. “I lived, but there was nothing science could do to restore my sight.”
“What happened next?” I asked, intensely interested in this vigorous, handsome teenager’s story.
“I withdrew from life. I sulked. I had tantrums. I wouldn’t go to school. I wouldn’t talk to friends. I hated my family, and I especially cried out in anger against God. I mean vocally. I would shout my hate—much to my religious mother’s deep distress. This went on for many months.
“One day my father coaxed me into going outside with him to fly a kite. He said I’d be able to feel the tug on the kite. It would be exhilarating even if I couldn’t see it. We got the kite up, and I was feeling pretty good as I held the string and felt the force at work. Suddenly, the course of the breeze changed and the kite got caught in a tree.
“I was soon out of control. I screamed and lay down on the grass and kicked. Oh, I was one ugly kid. My father called for the fire department, in desperation I guess. They came and got the kite down, but it was broken. More tantrums from me.
“‘Fix it! Fix it!’ I screamed. My dad tried explaining it all to me, but I would not be comforted. It was just another of life’s rotten tricks. Then Dad took my hand and moving my fingers with his, we traced the broken crossbars of the flimsy kite.
“‘See, son,’ he said, ‘It is broken. It can’t be fixed. Any repair work, however carefully done, could add weight to the kite and it wouldn’t fly. It just can’t be fixed. Like your eyes! We’ll have to go and do something else.’”
The young man paused in his tracks, shook his head, remembering. Then he turned toward me and said, “That was the phrase that made the difference. ‘Go and do something else.’ God had given us a lot of options, and Dad would find another one for us. I’m going to the blind school now and learning a trade.”
His feet had felt the pebbles laid in the concrete in front of the school as a signal for the blind students. “I’m here,” he explained confidently. “Thanks again. Make it a good day.”
He didn’t say “Have a good day” as so many well-wishers do. He said, “Make it a good day.”

While serving as a missionary in the Philippines, I met Maria Jocelyn Castillo, or “Jocey,” as she was called.
We taught Jocey and her cousin Nestor the first discussion. The Spirit was strong, and Jocey agreed to read the Book of Mormon.
On our next visit, we found an excited Jocey and Nestor and about five additional people who were interested. On another visit, we taught another first discussion to Jocey’s sister Julie and some neighboring cousins.
The discussions went great. Jocey read all her assignments and started reading the Book of Mormon on her own. She soon committed to baptism. But as we got closer to her baptism, I could feel some concerns. I knew why. Jocey had only one leg and used a crutch to get around. She also wore a handkerchief on her head. On our third visit, we learned that Jocey had cancer and three years earlier had had her leg amputated. That had only slowed the disease. She started painful chemotherapy, and when her hair fell out, she wore a handkerchief on her head.
We hesitantly invited Jocey to attend church. I say “hesitantly” because Jocey lived about two miles from the church at the bottom of the biggest hill in the area. She had only one leg and not a lot of money for transportation; I really didn’t expect to see Jocey at church.
Sunday came, the meeting started, and 20 minutes later I saw Jocey and her cousin walk through the gate. I could see a wince of pain on Jocey’s face with each step. When she saw me, she smiled. I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. I thought of the times I had missed church because my head hurt or I was too tired. I thought of the sacrifice she was making to get to church.
Jocey never missed a Sunday. I knew the cancer was taking its toll as she coughed and tried to cover her pain. When her baptism day came, she told me she wasn’t ready. She wanted to be baptized, but she thought she would be embarrassed to remove her handkerchief with everyone watching. I said a quick prayer and was able to reassure her. She grabbed her change of clothes and a towel, smiled, and said thank you.
I’ve never felt the Spirit stronger than I did at her baptism. Jocey cried, and so did the others in attendance.
Jocey didn’t stop there. She helped the rest of her family, her next-door neighbors, and friends in their conversions. Finally, her mother joined the Church.
But Jocey’s cancer progressed quickly, and she moved on to the next life. It was hard for me to watch her die after becoming such close friends with her. Finally, I realized how blessed I had been to have been able to help this young woman become closer to the Savior.
On the day of the funeral, the members of her ward helped with the service, showing that great love King Benjamin talked about. As they lowered the casket into the grave, Jocey’s mother fainted and was unconscious for about 30 seconds. When she regained consciousness, she looked up and said softly, three times, “Alam ko kung nasaan na siya,” which in Tagalog means, “I know where she is now.” And she calmly walked away.
I learned from Jocey how important the Church is and how much light the gospel can bring to our lives and the lives of our families and friends. I will always remember Jocey.

I’m going to tell you about the time I was chosen to be on the Belchertown, Massachusetts, all-star basketball team. Basketball season had just ended, and my team had been fantastic! We’d lost only one game and won ten! The best players among all the teams were chosen for the all-star team by the recreational department.
When I was told that they wanted me to be an all-star, I was so excited that I couldn’t believe it! Then they said that most of the games were on Sundays but were scheduled for the afternoons so that people could go to church in the mornings.
My parents said that I could make the decision whether or not to be on the all-star team, but they reminded me of our family goal to follow the prophet. I knew that President Hinckley would expect me to make the right decision and keep the Sabbath Day holy. I called the recreation department and thanked them for asking me to be on the all-star team, then told them that I wasn’t going to play on Sundays because of my religious beliefs.
I really wanted to be on the all-star team and was so disappointed that the games were on Sunday. But I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are happy with me, and I know that I did make the right choice.

My parents, Aparecido and Mercedes Soares, always dreamed of serving a mission. They wanted to repay the Lord for the many blessings that had come to their family since they had joined the Church. Their opportunity came in 1989 when they accepted a call to serve in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Only a few months into their mission, however, my father suffered a heart attack and passed away. During his funeral, I embraced my mother as we stood before my father’s casket.
“Mom, what’s next for you?” I asked.
“Your father and I dreamed of this mission,” she replied. “I am serving right now, and I will continue to serve—for him and for me.”
A kind temple president assigned another widow to serve as my mother’s companion, and my mother continued her mission for more than 20 months. Her missionary service blessed her, and her faith and example blessed my family and me.
During her mission, two of my brothers also passed away, and my wife and I lost two children. The first was born premature and did not survive, and we lost the second to miscarriage. During that trying time for our family, my mother was there in the temple every day reaffirming her faith—and strengthening ours—in the plan of salvation.
Her faith in a glorious reunion with my father and the promise of eternal life in the presence of our Heavenly Father sustained her for 29 years as a widow until the end of her days, at the age of 94.

I have a good friend here in Laie. And he was such an example to me. I have not gotten permission to use his name, so I won't tell who he is. One day his wife was killed on Kam Highway because a young kid just ran into her, and just messed her up and she died on the spot. My friend that very day went to that young man, who just ran into his wife and killed her, and told him that he forgave him. That is so huge. Just so huge. He understood what the gospel is all about. He understood what the gospel is all about.

Church leaders have always placed a premium on communication technologies. When I was a young deacon, I remember traveling with my father and grandfather to the stake center in Chicago each April and October to listen to the telephone wire transmission of the general priesthood meeting. Can you imagine being 12 years old, sitting on hard pews, and listening to a conference session over the PA system? What a joy it was when WGN-TV in Chicago decided to broadcast one hour of general conference on Sunday morning—of course the general priesthood session was still a sound-only telephone transmission.

When cable TV was emerging, our local community cable system carried a full session of general conference. Imagine, real time conference on TV! Or was it tape delayed? Before we knew it, stake centers had satellite dishes that enabled us to receive all conference sessions in real time, and without commercials! We could even get some BYU games via those satellite dishes! Now that was a real advancement. Today members worldwide have access to general conference via the Internet.

I was going to Arkansas to do one particular story. Period. But the flight schedules left me just enough time to do an additional story. So I asked Monty, my local contact, if he had any suggestions.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “since you asked—how about Rochelle Abram up in Bentonville?”
I had never worked with Monty before. Did he really know what kind of story I was looking for? I wasn’t completely sure myself.
What I didn’t want was to put some super-gifted super-achiever on a pedestal and make everybody else feel inadequate. Maybe I was just looking for an ordinary kid who has some qualities worth writing about.
I grabbed pencil and paper. “So tell me about Rochelle, Monty.”
He began, and mentally I responded to each point. “… multi-talented …” (The Church has lots of multi-talented kids.) “… state championships in gymnastics …” (We’ve done gymnast stories.) “… has done very well scholastically …” (That’s better, but—) “… a fine influence among the youth here …” (Okay. Now I’m listening.)
On the map, the road between Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and Bentonville looks fairly straight. In reality, it has more twists and turns than a soap opera plot, more bad grades than my fifth-grade report card. But since it winds among beautiful green hills, past some delightful little towns and villages, you don’t mind too much.
With Monty as guide, we found the Abram home, nestled among tall trees on Trail’s End Road, the driveway full of cars. This was Rochelle’s graduation night. Family and friends had started to gather, and it promised to be a little hectic.
Jerry Abram, Rochelle’s dad, greeted us warmly, pulled us into the house with a car salesman’s handshake, and introduced me to some of the family as we moved through the living room. A young woman approached from a hallway and he announced, “This is Rochelle.”
I doubted that boys had to be bribed to take her to the prom. Light blue-green eyes, warm smile and perfect white teeth, reddish-blond hair framing an oval face and fair complexion—Jed, my photographer, was going to have an easy time of it. But my anxiety about trying to do a story on a too-perfect girl had increased.
We discussed a few details, like what she would wear for the photographer and how much time we had before she had to go to commencement exercises. Then we went out onto the deck at the back of the house and sat down at a wrought iron table. It was after 5:00 P.M., and the tall trees that surround the house cast lacy shadows over us. I turned on my tape recorder, and we began to talk while Jed circled about, taking picture after picture.
It was time for Rochelle to go into the house and finish getting ready for her graduation. I looked down at my tape recorder and notebook and thought about the story contained on tape, on paper, and in my memory. Monty was right. She is worth writing about. Hooray for anybody who has gifts, develops them as well as possible, and is modest about them. Three cheers for those who accomplish things for the sheer joy of doing.
But far more importantly, I decided Rochelle was worth writing about because she excels in some ways that everyone can excel in: commitment to Jesus Christ and his gospel, putting aside our own fears and tragedies and reaching out to others. Even a Rochelle Abram sometimes worries about acceptance. It’s a natural fear most of us have. But instead of holding back, afraid to stand out, she goes ahead and does when “it’s there to be done.”
Next time Monty recommends a story, I’m ready to listen.

One Sunday morning, Janalee Gale, a nurse working at a large Salt Lake City hospital, heard an announcement about church services for patients. Janalee checked with her patients, but found that most of them were too ill or too tired to attend.
However, one woman—a Latter-day Saint—said that she would like to attend the Latter-day Saint service. Janalee quickly helped the patient get ready and combed her hair. Although the patient was in constant pain, she didn’t complain.
Some time later, the woman took Janalee’s hand and said, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me get to church. I haven’t been for awhile because I’ve been so ill. When I partook of the sacrament …” she paused, then continued, “I felt God’s Spirit, and I just knew that Christ is my Savior.” Both women were moved to tears. (See Tambuli, December 1983, “The Forgotten Sabbath,” by Janalee Gale.)

When Anna Nadasdi participates in temple work, her enthusiasm is obvious. It is easy to understand that enthusiasm when one knows her story.
Sister Nadasdi was born in Hungary and raised in the Greek Catholic faith. Her father, who had worked in the United States as a young man, told her many stories of that distant “land of promise.”
She was a young woman during World War II when her country was invaded. During those perilous years, she always carried her family genealogy records to prove to the authorities that she was not Jewish. The records, covering one hundred years, were carefully wrapped in a handbag made from braided cornstalk leaves.
After the war, she married. She and her husband decided to leave Hungary, but they could not get exit permits. The only route open to them was through a minefield covered with barbed wire and guarded by soldiers in gun towers. After a period of consideration, they decided on a night to make the dangerous journey. In the agonizing crawl across the minefield they were expecting any moment to be blown up by a mine, ensnared by the barbed wire, or be shot. “The Lord must have been guiding us,” Sister Nadasdi says, “because we crossed safely into Austria. All we had with us were the clothes we wore—and my genealogy. I felt I had to bring my genealogy records with me even though it made crawling across the minefield even more difficult.”
Unable to find a sponsor in the United States, the couple emigrated to Australia. But memories of her father’s stories about the United States stayed in her mind.
One night, Sister Nadasdi had an unusual dream. She saw a beautiful building with many towers, surrounded by lovely grass and trees. She saw happy people entering and leaving the building. When she awoke, the memory of the building was clear in her mind, but she had no idea of what or where it was. She would often think about her dream and wonder what it meant.
In 1954, Sister Nadasdi and her husband separated.
The years passed, and she was successful in her work as a government clerk, but Sister Nadasdi felt something important missing in her life. As this feeling grew stronger, she decided to pray to God. Feeling lonely and desperate, she found a secluded spot and she began to plead with the Lord. After recounting the many difficulties in her life, she asked, “If there is another way, why don’t you show it to me?”
Almost immediately after her prayer, she met two Latter-day Saint missionaries who had just entered her apartment building. After they introduced themselves and explained the purpose of their visit, Sister Nadasdi thought, “As I was talking with the Lord, these two young men were already on their way into my life. Surely they must have an answer for me.”
Sister Nadasdi was receptive to the gospel message, but she was particularly affected when they showed her a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and she recognized the beautiful building of her dream. “If I hadn’t been supported by the arms of my chair,” she later said, “I would have fallen off on to the floor!” In response to her keen interest, the elders explained the doctrine of temple work for both the living and the dead.
“I finally understood why I had brought my family genealogy with me when I left Hungary,” she says. As the missionaries talked, she knew she would join the Church and one day go to Salt Lake City to do the temple work for herself and for her family.
Sister Nadasdi was baptized, and she did make the long round trip from Australia to Salt Lake City for her own temple ordinances and for those of her family.
In 1983, after visiting Hungary, the land of her birth, she moved to Salt Lake City to retire and to fulfill her greatest desire to serve in the House of the Lord of which she had dreamed so many years before.

In San Antonio, Texas, I met a man who had married a faithful Latter-day Saint girl. He was not a member of the Church, so they made an agreement that they would not discuss or argue about religion. His wife was true to her commitment, but shortly after they were married the missionaries came calling. He remained true to his commitment and didn't argue or complain, and the missionaries just kept coming. He went through so many sets of missionaries he lost count. Three years went by, but he still remained indifferent to the gospel. He was a good man; he was just not willing to expend the faith necessary to believe. One evening he came home from work, and his wife said, "The missionaries are coming tonight." He thought to himself, "Oh, no. Not again! Haven't I been through this enough already?" But that night was different. There was an older stake missionary with the elders, and as they began the lesson he said to this man, "John, It's time you joined the Church. You need to make the decision now!" He heard himself saying, "I know; you're right. It is time." As he said those words, he felt a powerful confirmation of the Spirit and knew it was true. He said to me, "I really didn't know until that moment, but then I knew with a confirmation that I could not deny." His one step of faith into darkness opened the door to the confirming Spirit.

A man of wisdom often offered this simple piece of advice: “David, stand tall.” My dad did not expect that I would add inches to my stature or rise up on my tiptoes. He meant that I should be courageous in my decision, not compromising principles, not violating spiritual values, and not shrinking from responsibility. When I have followed his advice, life has been very good. When I have failed to stand tall, life has usually been unpleasant. I recently asked my two young grandsons what it would mean to them if Heavenly Father asked them to stand tall. I noticed one inadvertently raised himself to his tippy-toes so as to seem a little taller. And then they quickly said in unison, “He wants us to do what is right.”

Joseph felt that if he went there, he would probably be killed, so on June 23, 1855, he rowed across the Mississippi River to avoid arrest. In a letter, Emma pleaded with him to return and surrender. Joseph also learned that some of the Saints were calling him a coward for leaving. “If my life is of no value to my friends,” he said, “it is of none to myself.” He returned to Nauvoo, and on Monday, June 24, he and the others charged in the case went to Carthage to surrender.

When they got to Carthage, they were released on bail until a circuit court judge could hear the case. Joseph and Hyrum went to talk to Governor Ford. While there, they were re-arrested on charges of treason.

Joseph and Hyrum were again jailed; John Taylor and Willard Richards went with them.

On June 27, 1844, shortly after 5:00 P.M., a mob rushed up the jail stairs to the room where the prisoners were being held. The culprits tried to break through the door, but were unable to. Shooting through the door, they hit Hyrum, who fell, saying, “I am a dead man.”

Joseph went to the window where he was shot twice from inside the building and twice more from outside. He fell out of the window to the ground and died. John Taylor was shot four times and lay under a bed, severely wounded. Willard Richards was not injured during the shooting.

After the martyrdom, John Taylor wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. … He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood. …” (D&C 135:3).

In 1932 the Olympic Games tryouts and the national A. A. U. (Amateur Athletic Union) championship meet were combined. Colonel M. J. McCombs called Babe into his office at the insurance company where they worked. He told her that he thought that she could represent the company team and win the national championship all by herself!
Over two hundred entrants were competing in the women’s events, and “for two-and-a-half hours I was flying all over the place. I’d run a heat in the eighty-meter hurdles, and then I’d take one of my high jumps. Then I’d go over to the broad jump and take a turn at that. Then they’d be calling for me to throw the javelin or put the eight-pound shot.”
Babe placed fourth in the discus and the hundred-meter dash at that meet. She tied for first in the high jump, and she won the running broad jump, the eighty-meter hurdles, the javelin throw, the baseball throw, and the eight-pound shot put. Along with the six gold medals she won, she set four world records and scored thirty points for her company’s “team.” The second-place team—with twenty-two members—scored only twenty-two points!

It was fast and testimony meeting in the ward. Several young people had stood up and testified of the goodness of the Lord and his blessings unto them. Then an elderly gentleman stood on his feet. There were lines of care on his face, and time had turned his hair to silver. But his voice was clear like the tones of a bell on a frosty morning:
“I know that God lives and guides our destinies. I am here today because he heard my prayers as a boy and guided my footsteps.”
To understand his words we must go back many years to the time when a 12-year-old boy became a man and went to work.
He lived in a coal-mining village in the little country of Wales where almost all of the male inhabitants worked at the colliery (coal mine and its connected buildings). In a few weeks he would be 12, and like other boys in the village he would go down the pit to dig coal. He was a normal boy who understood that he must leave school to go to work to help support the family. But one morning as he was on his way to school, an incident occurred that was to affect his life. He was to learn the meaning of fear.
Coming up the hill toward the cottages where the miners lived was a small cortege. Two men were carrying a stretcher while one walked in front. Their faces were black with coal dust. On the stretcher was a body, a small body covered over with a brown blanket.
“And who is it now?” someone asked.
“It is little Davey Edwards,” the man in front replied. “He was caught by a roof fall, poor lad.”
The boy continued on to school, but his thoughts were not of schooling but of Davey Edwards. Together they had roamed the hills. They had picked chestnuts from the copse on Mynyddyslwyn Mountain and picked wild blackberries along the bank of Gwyddon Brook. They had stood together where the golden gorse ended and the woodland began and listened to the plaintive call of the cuckoo telling of the approach of spring.
“Aye,” he thought to himself, “those days are gone. Soon Davey will be in the graveyard on Llanvach Hill, and it will be the pit for me.” For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of fear. But he kept the fear inside of him.
His 12th birthday came, and his father informed him he was to start work at the colliery come Monday. On Saturday afternoon they went down to the village where his father took him to the haberdashery and bought him a pair of moleskin trousers and a Welsh flannel shirt. He also bought him a tommy box and tea can, and a pair of yorks to buckle below his knees to prevent the coal dust from going up his trouser leg.
Monday morning came cold and wet, but not as cold as the boy’s heart. He was assigned to work as a butty (partner) to Dai Jenkins, an experienced miner. The management discouraged father and son from working together because it looked bad if two members of a family were killed in one accident.
He stood by the side of Dai Jenkins as the cage descended. Through the glimmer of the miners’ lamps he looked across the cage at his father, who smiled back at him. By his father’s side was another 12-year-old boy from the village.
The cage landed on the bottom with a bump. As the gate was opened and the men stepped out, the smell of horses and donkeys assailed the boy’s nostrils. These animals were used to pull the loaded trams out of the headings and the empties back in. A man with the title of hostler took care of the animals.
The boy followed his butty along the narrow tracks until they reached the face of the tunnel where they were to work. Dai removed his jacket and hung it on the nail that protruded from a timber that supported the roof. He did the same with his tommy box and tea can. The boy did the same.
The coal seam was only three feet thick so Dai spent most of his time on his knees swinging his pick. It was the boy’s responsibility to load the coal into the tram and the muck into other trams. The ostler would then come and take them to the cage at the bottom of the shaft where they would be hauled to the surface.
So the days went by, and each day the boy’s hatred for the darkness grew. There were times when there was a squeeze, a time when the earth settled and it seemed the timbers supporting the roof must snap and he and Dai be crushed. It was at times like this he thought of his friend Davey and wondered if he too would be taken home on a stretcher covered over with a brown blanket.
There was, however, a time during the day that he really enjoyed. Dai would lay down his pick and say, “Come, bachen, it’s time for a bit of food and a sip of tea.”
Together they would sit in the dim light of their lamps and eat the food in their tommy boxes. Occasionally, Dai would give the boy a Welsh cake that his wife made. This was like a bit of heaven.
One day while Dai was digging with his pick, a strange and unusual thing happened. They broke through the face of the tunnel into a small cave. It was no bigger than a small room, and the roof seemed to be of solid rock. At about shoulder height a shelf ran across one side of the wall.
One can only wonder why on that same day as they sat together eating their lunch there was a sound like thunder that echoed through the mine. The earth shook. Dai jumped to his feet and grasped the boy by the arm.
“It’s an explosion, bachen; there may be fire. We must put the brattice cloth (temporary partition of cloth) across the opening. It could be the only chance we’ll have.”
Hurriedly they nailed the heavy cloth across the mouth of the little cave and then sat and waited. Soon they felt the heat as the flames approached.
On the surface the villagers crowded around the mine top. Rescue squads had been sent down but came back almost immediately.
“No one could live down there” was their report. “The mine is on fire. God help those who are down there.”
The mine owners met and made a quick decision. A canal that ran close by must be turned into the mine to extinguish the fire.
A woman cried out, “What about our men?”
Her anguished cry was answered with a shake of the head. In the little cave the heat was almost unbearable, but somehow a little air was coming in. Time seemed to stand still and hours went by. Then they heard the water. It came seeping into the cave, first to shoe tops, then to the knees, and it continued to rise.
Dai climbed up onto the shelf and pulled the boy up beside him. As the water rose, the heat subsided. Then came an eerie silence.
“Bachen,” whispered Dai, “can you pray?”
“Aye, I can,” replied the boy. “Before my mam died, she taught me.”
“Then pray for us. ’Tis all we have left.”
The boy closed his eyes, and for a few moments no words would come. Then they came slowly as from a troubled heart:
“Gentle Jesus, we reach out to you in this darkness, having nothing left but your help. If it be thy will, let us see the light once more. Let our feet climb the hill to our homes. Let us hear the song of the birds and see the sun rise over Rhysog Mountain. We are alone and we need your help. Amen.”
He felt Dai’s arm around his shoulder and heard his voice. “Thanks, bachen. It’s not afraid I am anymore.”
Hours went by and night must have come for they slept. When they awoke, their lamps had gone out. Now there was complete darkness, darkness that was black and foreboding. With the blackness came fear, cold, trembling fear. The boy saw himself being carried up the hill on a stretcher, his body covered with a brown blanket. Dai sensed his fear and put a comforting arm about his shoulder.
“Bachen,” he said, “is it a bit of singing you could do?”
The boy hesitated for a while, and then in a fear-stricken voice, he sang: “Jesus lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, when the tempest still is nigh.” In his boyish tenor he sang the chorus: “Hide me, oh my Savior, hide, till the storm of life is past.” He felt Dai shaking with emotion, so he could not continue.
It is hard to know how fast or slow time passes in the darkness, but the pangs of hunger and thirst came to them.
“Chew on a bit of leather, bachen,” Dai reminded him. “It will help the hunger.”
The boy removed the leather york from below his knee and chewed on it. It was new leather, and the taste of the tanning was still in it. But it helped to assuage the pangs of hunger.
Sleep came again and another day passed. Dai was quiet now, as if realizing the end was close. As a result of hunger and thirst, the boy had become quiet and listless. The complete darkness had settled on him like a shroud. He only waited now for that complete sleep.
Then suddenly from far away a voice was heard: “Is anyone about?” The voices came closer. Then someone threw aside the brattice cloth, and his light shone on Dai and the boy.
“A miracle it is,” he shouted to the other rescuers. “It’s alive they are!”
Dai was able to walk, but they carried the boy to the cage that transported them to daylight and life.
The boy’s father had been killed in the explosion, so Davey Edwards’ family took him in. In a few days some relatives from farther down the valley came to pick him up and take him to their home. They were lovely people, it was said, except they had joined some strange church that had originated in America.
Together the boy and his new family made plans, and the day came when they emigrated to America. Here they made their home in the valley of the mountains.
The old man was bringing his testimony to a close. “So, my brothers and sisters, out of fear came faith, and out of darkness came living light.”

I learned once upon a time to fly airplanes. The instructor was flying straight and level. On the horizon was a range of mountains. Then he did something like this [demonstration of snap roll and spin] and I saw the mountain rise up and stand on end. It turned upside down and then continued to its normal position. He put the plane into a spin, and as we were falling and gyrating, I looked below and saw the whole earth turning as if it were a huge wheel. The vision was vivid. It looked so real. I have performed these maneuvers many times since: the snap roll and the spin. If I were to do them today, I could no longer make the mountain turn over or the earth gyrate. Why? Because experience has taught me reality, and now I cannot be deceived.

A few years ago, I was called to serve in a YSA ward here on campus. It was an unexpected calling, and I was sure the Lord needed someone better than me to serve His young single adults of the Church.

As I sat with the stake presidency for my visit that day, I was asked if I would be willing to shave my mustache to qualify to serve. I was not excited to hear that question. I didn’t want to shave my mustache. I had had a mustache for my whole life since returning from my mission. It was like my trademark. My wife and children had never known me without it.

That night I wrestled with the choice before me. I could just keep my mustache and tell them I was good with being in my home ward calling. I could just keep it and see what happened. Or I could do as asked and shave it off. It was a real dilemma in my mind.

At some time in the night I heard the words of the Primary song in my mind, “Sh, be still.” So, I did. I decided to stop wrestling with the decision and worry about it the next day. Later that night as I was not worrying about the dilemma I had been wrestling with, the Spirit touched my heart and whispered in my mind, “Would you miss all the blessings that can be yours—for a mustache?”

Over the next few months, I served as a ward clerk, then a high councilor, and just a year ago was called as a bishop. As I have served in the YSA wards, I have seen blessings so abundant I cannot even list them. Without having taken the time to be still, I may not have been prepared to receive the answer I got that night. That answer prepared me for the time that I would be needed to serve the Lord in the capacity of bishop. Even though I still miss my mustache, I have seen miracles take place in some of your lives because of the opportunity I took to hear Him.

I was 21 years old and part owner of a beauty salon. I taught a Primary class at church. My life was good, but I felt restless. It seemed that there was something else that I needed to be doing—I just didn’t know what.
My bishop called me into his office one Sunday and asked me if I had considered serving a mission. I was totally caught off guard. I had been a member of the Church for only two years and had never thought of serving a mission.
I told the bishop that I didn’t think a mission was right for me. As I was leaving his office, he said, “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” I thought the topic was closed, but the bishop’s words continued to echo in my mind.
I asked myself how I could possibly serve a mission. I was the only member of the Church in my family. How would my family feel? What would I do with my share of the beauty salon? Could I handle serving for a year and a half?
As I pondered these questions, I was prompted to read the Book of Mormon. I picked it up and turned to the eighth chapter of Alma. As I read about Alma and Amulek embarking on their mission, I knew that I also needed “to declare the words of God” (verse 30). The next Sunday I told my bishop that I had changed my mind and I wanted to serve a mission.
My family was supportive, and I was able to sell my share of the beauty salon. I served in Caracas, Venezuela, and I continue to reap the blessings of having honorably served the Lord.