Gospel Story Finder

I commence my message this morning with a question: Have you ever taken a vacation with your entire family? If not, you are in for some surprises when you do. My wife and I a few years ago joined our children, their companions, and the grandchildren at Disneyland in southern California. Beyond the entrance to the famous theme park, the group rushed to what was then the newest feature—Star Tours. You enter a simulated rocket, take your seat, and fasten your seat belt. All of a sudden the entire vehicle begins to vibrate violently. I think the mechanical voice which comes over the loudspeaker calls it “heavy turbulence.” (I have never returned to this featured ride. I get all the real turbulence I can handle just flying from place to place fulfilling my responsibilities.)
After recuperating for a few minutes, we journeyed to the feature with the longest line. It is called Splash Mountain. The crowd filed round and round in a serpentine pattern. The music, which was piped through the loudspeakers to the waiting throng, contained the words of the song:
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,
My, oh my, what a wonderful day!
Plenty of sunshine, headin’ my way,
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!
By now we were ready to board the boat which would carry us in a vertical dive that evoked screams from the passengers in the boat ahead as it roared down the waterfall and glided to a stop in the water below. Just before taking the plunge, however, I noticed on one wall a small sign declaring a profound truth: “You can’t run away from trouble; there’s no place that far!”
These few words have remained with me. They pertain not only to the theme of Splash Mountain but also to our sojourn in mortality.

The business I own today was founded by my father nearly 60 years ago. He died in 1980, leaving me to take the helm of the company at the young age of 30.
In those early years, situations came up that required me to make decisions that affected the future of our frail business. I worked hard to act as my father would have acted, and I spent a great deal of time on my knees, trying to discern what to do. In all those decisions, I never felt a calming influence or any direction one way or another. I ultimately did what I thought was best and moved on. But I was disappointed I had not been able to get any confirmation of my actions.
One night my father came to me in a dream. I began to chide him for not helping me know what to do. He said he was aware of my situation but he was busy where he was and his former business was not terribly important. “Chris, we really don’t care about the business up here,” he said. “What we care about very much is what you become because of your business.”
That was a great lesson I hope I never forget. What we get during our life is inconsequential, but what we become in life makes all the difference.

When David O. McKay became president of the Church in 1951, the vision of an institution of higher learning in La'ie, Hawaii, was still on his mind. Such an investment of Church funds in a tiny village on a tiny island in the Pacific seemed counterintuitive to some. But President McKay was adamant about the school and the place. In 1954 he selected Reuben D. Law, Dean of Education at BYU, to be the first president. It is not difficult to imagine the magnitude of this calling, to be the president of a school that did not exist yet, no students, no faculty, no curriculum, and no buildings—not even an exact location. President Law's assignment was to "turn President McKay's vision into a reality." President McKay said to Dr. Law, "You have my sincere blessings. You have my full confidence. You have the positive approach not the negative."

Seven months later, February 12, 1955 President McKay broke ground for the college and insisted that the doors open to students that very Fall. The grandeur of President McKay's dedicatory speech about what the school would become and the influence it would have in the Church and the world might have been intimidating to a lesser soul than Reuben Law.

Starting from scratch, a million details had to be addressed, each one of which could have been overwhelming. But Law did not flinch. He may have felt more apprehension if it weren't for four critical elements: (1) His absolute and fervent testimony of President McKay's calling as a prophet, seer, and revelator; (2) his direct access to President McKay on nearly all matters concerning the college, including budget, thus bypassing much of the bureaucracy and red tape of the Church; (3) his immaculate and courageous wife, Leda Law, who became a full partner in the college building enterprise. The Laws had just constructed their own new home in Provo when the call was extended to come to La'ie, but Leda "cheerfully gave away what the family had collected thirty years to become the mother of the new campus." And (4), a knowledgeable and supportive local Board of Trustees chaired by Edward L. Clissold.

Reuben Law's organizational skills were taxed to the fullest. The immediate task at hand was to get facilities ready for the September 1955 opening of the school. Here Edward Clissold was invaluable. In April 1955, Clissold purchased seven surplus barracks from Wheeler Air Force Base and had them taken to La'ie. "At one time thirty-six sections of the buildings were on the two-lane highway simultaneously."(History) They were set up just below the temple with asphalt pavement linking the buildings together.

A battalion of construction missionaries were called from the U.S. and Hawaii to build the new physical plant south of the temple. By September of 1955, twenty faculty, 153 students crowded into the temporary buildings. The faculty were green. Few had experience teaching on the college level. Only a few had any experience living overseas, but like President Law they were committed to President McKay's vision and to Hawaii. When Kenneth and Dorothea Slack had their baby shortly after arrival, they named her KananioLa'iekapuamuakakulanui, the beauty of La'ie, the first flower of the college.

President Law cultivated a sense of pioneering among the faculty. Like all pioneering efforts, there was occasional conflict and misunderstanding among the ranks. A man of strong character, Law wielded a firm hand. Under his guidance a strong curriculum was created, focusing on the Liberal Arts with some vocational courses and teacher education, as well as courses in Religion. When President David O. McKay returned in the spring of 1957 to visit to the campus, he was amazed at what he saw exclaiming, "what hath God wrought." He said to President Law, "You have the right spirit at this college, I can feel it."

Where’s José Luis?
That’s what I wanted to know. I’d heard so much about the energetic 18-year-old, and I only had a few minutes to interview him on that hot Sunday in Seville, Spain.
“I think he’s in Sunday School with one of our investigators,” said a tall, North American missionary as he hurried his way through the crowd in the halls of the Nervion meetinghouse.
“He’s always with our investigators,” said the missionary’s shorter companion, trotting to keep up. “That guy is one sharp mission leader. He keeps all the full-time missionaries on the ball. He just goes crazy over missionary work.”
Before I could ask which class José Luis might be in, the missionaries had disappeared into the colorful throng. The church was packed, and everyone seemed excited to be there.
Across the foyer I spotted Marcos Camacho. Marcos is José Luis’s home teaching companion. “Marcos, where’s José Luis?” I called.
“He might be preparing our home teaching lesson,” Marcos told me as he threaded his way through the large group of people between us. “He’s very good about it. We always get our home teaching done, and the people we visit really like him. Oh look—here comes his mother. Maybe she knows where he is. Ask her,” he said as he ran off to teach the Young Men.
His mother? What was she doing here? I’d heard she was against his church activity and had prohibited him from coming to the chapel. Now here was this lady, all smiles, soft curls, and a perky pink dress, coming toward me.
“Hi there,” I said as she approached me. “I’m looking for your son, but I’m really happy to see you. I’d heard you were not excited about your son’s coming to church. It looks like your attitude has changed?”
“Of course,” she told me, kissing me on both cheeks, which is the Spanish custom. “You know, the first time I came to this church, I came to tell them that they couldn’t baptize José Luis. I wasn’t about to let them make a Mormon of him. But once I got here and talked to the people,” she said, waving a hand at all the smiling, laughing people milling about us, “I thought maybe it wasn’t so bad that he come after all.”
“And now you’re coming as well?” I asked. “How did that happen?”
“One night, very late, about one in the morning, my friend came running to me. Her son was very sick. José Luis and I went to help, but he called the elders to come and give a blessing first. I was very impressed that two young boys would get up at that hour to help us. So later, when José Luis introduced me to the missionaries, I was willing to listen to them. I was baptized three months after he was.”
“But it wasn’t quite that easy, Mom,” said José Luis, popping up behind her, seemingly out of nowhere and putting his arm around her shoulder.
So finally I got to meet this legendary guy. He’s taller than his mother, medium height, with thick, straight dark hair and a perpetual smile. You can tell he’s from southern Spain, Andalucia, by his accent and his vocabulary. Even though he’s famous here for being a gospel dynamo, there is absolutely nothing intimidating about him. He’s about as humble as you can get.
“I started coming to church when I was 16,” he explained. “I met the missionaries on the street. I thought they were lawyers or executives by the way they were dressed. Then I realized they were foreigners. I was curious about them, so I started hanging around them, asking questions.
“In my first discussion, they told me about the Book of Mormon and about Joseph Smith, and I thought, What a great experience to have. I believed it all.”
“Mom didn’t like that and didn’t want me to come to church at first, but she finally said it was all right. Still, when I asked her if I could get baptized, she said no way. So I continued going to church for about seven months, not being a member.”
“What finally changed her mind?” I asked.
“Well, I fasted and prayed, of course, and my birthday was coming up, so I told her that the best gift she could give me would be permission to be baptized. I guess I bugged her so much about it, she finally said to go ahead. You know the rest of the story.”
“But the story isn’t finished yet,” I said. “How would you write the rest?”
The foyer had cleared out by this time. Most of the people had gone into their classes. I was alone with José Luis and his mother, who was gazing at her son with admiration.
“I’ll go on a mission for sure, just as soon as I’m 19; then I’ll have to serve in the mili.” Every healthy Spanish male, when he turns 19, serves an obligatory nine months of military service. “After that, I’d like to study to be a teacher.”
“You already are,” I replied, thinking how much his enthusiasm, his faith, his warmth, his friendliness, had already taught me—how much it could teach New Era readers—how much it had taught his mother, the missionaries, and other members of the ward.
“I know that Christ lives and that Heavenly Father always listens to us and loves us,” José Luis said, simply and sincerely. “I want everyone else to know that too. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I’m supposed to be helping a friend with a lesson,” he said, and he was off.
So for all of about five minutes, I could have answered the question, “Where’s José Luis?” But if you asked me right now, I could probably make an educated guess.
“Where’s José Luis?”
He’s out doing what he can to build the kingdom. And that’s a great place to be.

A decade ago, while visiting Rwanda, my wife and I struck up a conversation with another passenger at the Kigali airport. He lamented the unfairness of the genocide and poignantly asked, “If there were a God, wouldn’t He have done something about it?” For this man—and for many of us—suffering and brutal unfairness can seem incompatible with the reality of a kind, loving Heavenly Father. Yet He is real, He is kind, and He loves each of His children perfectly. This dichotomy is as old as mankind and cannot be explained in a simple sound bite or on a bumper sticker.

I return to the question posed by our fellow passenger in Kigali when he lamented the unfairness of the Rwandan genocide and asked, “If there were a God, wouldn’t He have done something about it?”

Without minimizing the suffering caused by the genocide, and after acknowledging our inability to comprehend such suffering, we replied that Jesus Christ has done something about infuriating unfairness. We explained many gospel precepts concerning Jesus Christ and the Restoration of His Church.

Afterward, our acquaintance asked, with tears in his eyes, “You mean there is something I can do for my dead parents and uncle?”

We said, “Oh, yes!” We then testified that all that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ and that by His authority families can be joined together forever.

1823–1895
“I … wish to be useful to the Church.”
He was born in Spain. He traveled to Cuba, Mexico, and the United States to help people.
He met missionaries and joined the Church.
He helped translate the Book of Mormon into Spanish.
He learned that there were no schools for children who spoke Spanish in El Paso, Texas, USA. So he started a school for them and taught there for many years.
L.M. Peterson letter, Manassa, Colorado, to John Taylor, 1880, Church History Library, Salt Lake City, Utah, USA.

As you recognize, the story of Job happened centuries ago. Let me tell you of one that happened just a few years ago. I was attending a stake conference; and on Saturday afternoon between meetings, when we normally have a bite to eat, the stake president asked if he might be excused to visit his wife in the hospital. This was the first I knew that she was ill. Upon further inquiry I found that she was critically ill. As a matter of fact, the doctors indicated that she had just a few more hours to live. I, of course, told the stake president that he was excused from any further responsibilities for the conference, whereupon he said his wife had told him that his responsibility at that time was to carry out his priesthood obligation and that she preferred that he attend to his stake conference responsibilities.
He went to the hospital and then returned to our seven o’clock meeting. At the conclusion of this meeting, he went back to the hospital and stayed all night by her bedside. He arrived promptly at our meeting Sunday morning and delivered an unusually fine address to the members of the stake. The only time his emotions broke—and then just slightly—was when I suggested that for the intermediate song we sing “I Need Thee Every Hour.”
After the conference was over, I went alone to the hospital to meet a woman who so loved the Lord and her husband as to encourage him to honor his priesthood even under the most trying of circumstances. As I came to her room, I was greeted by her returned missionary son who was by her side. She seemed to be sleeping, so I left. As I returned to my car, her son hurried after me and said that she had roused and asked if I would come back to give her a blessing.
As I walked into her room, I saw lying on the bed a lovely, beautiful young mother. I do not think she had any gray hair. She had a lovely smile on her face, even though she was so sick. When I expressed my admiration for her faith and reminded her of the blessings she had in store in heaven, she smiled and said, “Bishop Brown, it isn’t always easy, but the Lord truly blesses us.”
This good woman had gone through all of the anguish and difficulties of a long siege of cancer, including many operations. Her life was ebbing very rapidly; and yet under these circumstances, realizing full well that it would not be very long before she would face the sorrow of leaving a lovely family, she had the faith and the strength to encourage her husband to do his duty—which really means that she was influencing him in an unusual way to order his life so that he, too, would achieve eternal life.
The next morning early she quietly passed away. As a righteous wife and mother, she had qualified herself to enjoy the blessings of eternal life. She truly loved the Lord and had proven her love after deep trial, as had Job.

In 1986, President Ezra Taft Benson promised the Saints that the power of the Book of Mormon would begin to flow into our lives the moment we began a serious study of the book (see Ensign, November 1986, page 7). Inspired by his promise, my wife and I decided to start reading the Book of Mormon with our family.
At the time we had four children, ages six months to six years. At first, we were able to read only one column each day. With 531 pages and twice that many columns, the book seemed like a never-ending undertaking.
Despite, or maybe because of, how slowly we read, we made every effort to read each weekday. Our children were eager to please—often waking us to start reading. Although we missed very few days, it took us more than six months to read 1 Nephi.
By this time our two oldest children were able to read a few words by themselves. As we slowly made our way through 2 Nephi, including quotations from the writings of Isaiah, we were growing as a family in spiritual as well as other ways. We added a daily devotional time and another child to the family. Dirty diapers and cries of hunger often interrupted our reading, but each day we would finish our allotted column no matter how long it seemed to take.
About the time our oldest turned 11 years old, we started reading at an accelerated pace—one page per day. As we neared the middle of that year, we received word that the Alberta Temple would be rededicated the next spring, an event our family had been looking forward to. We did some calculating and found that if we continued reading at the same pace, we would have one chapter of the Book of Mormon left to read on the day the dedication would begin. We planned to travel the 1,200 kilometers to attend this event, rise early that morning, and drive to the temple grounds to read the last chapter.
The morning of the dedication dawned bright and clear. The temple grounds were beautiful, and we sat down behind the old stone monument as we prepared to read.
The Spirit seemed to be with us more strongly than usual as we finished the chapter and concluded the volume of scripture. It had taken us about five years to complete reading it. We each took a turn praying for confirmation that the Book of Mormon was indeed the word of God. We didn’t see any angels or hear voices, but we did feel the calm, peaceful, loving presence of the Holy Ghost. Tears filled our eyes as the Spirit testified to each of us of the truthfulness and sacredness of the Book of Mormon.
We gave thanks for the opportunity we’d had to become closer to the great prophets of the Book of Mormon and for the blessings that we had received through reading their words—blessings of increased faith, strength in the face of adversity, and greater love and tranquility in our home. Indeed, we had received the blessings a prophet of God had promised us.

Bear and Chipmunk were sitting at their kitchen table. “Do you remember what day today is, Chipmunk?” Bear asked his friend.
“Tuesday?” said Chipmunk.
“Yes, it’s Tuesday,” said Bear, “but do you remember what else today is?”
Chipmunk looked at the calendar on the wall. “Why, it’s your birthday, Bear! Happy Birthday!”
“You remembered!” said Bear smiling. “Wouldn’t it be nice if someone baked me a birthday cake and gave me a birthday present?”
“That would be nice,” said Chipmunk. “Maybe someone will.”
“Maybe I’d better leave so that someone can get busy,” said Bear.
“Maybe you’d better,” said Chipmunk, trying hard not to smile until Bear was safely gone.
“I love birthdays, especially Bear’s,” Chipmunk said, opening the kitchen cupboard and taking out a cake. “I’m glad I baked this yesterday.” He mixed up a batch of honey frosting and spread it over and around the cake. “I hope Bear likes it.”
Bear was peeking through the kitchen window. “I will,” he said quietly. “I will!”
Chipmunk carried the birthday cake into the dining room and put it on the table, then went to the bedroom and took a big box out of the closet. Taking some wrapping paper out of the desk drawer, he wrapped the big box. “I hope Bear likes it,” he said.
Bear was peeking through the bedroom window. “Oh, I will,” he said quietly. “I know I will.”
Chipmunk carried the big box into the dining room and put it on the table next to the birthday cake. “There now,” he said. “Everything’s ready. I’ll call Bear.”
But Chipmunk didn’t have to call Bear. Bear was standing right there next to him! Chipmunk laughed. “Happy birthday, Bear!” he said.
“You really did remember, Chipmunk!” Bear said happily.
Bear opened the big box. His eyes shone with pleasure. “Oh, Chipmunk,” he said, “I’ve always wanted a pair of roller skates just like these!”
“Do you like them?” asked Chipmunk.
“I love them!” Bear said, putting them on and lacing them up.
“I’m glad.”
Bear stood up. “Let’s go roller-skating together right now, Chipmunk.”
“I’m sorry, Bear,” said Chipmunk, “but I can’t.”
Bear looked surprised. “Why not?”
“I don’t have any roller skates.”
“Well then,” said Bear, “why don’t you take the money Grandma Chipmunk sent you for your birthday last week and buy some.”
“I already spent it.”
“On what?”
“On something special.”
Bear looked down at the new white roller skates he was wearing. Suddenly he knew what that something special was. Bear didn’t know what else to say, so he just said, “Thank you, Chipmunk.”
“You’re welcome,” said Chipmunk, smiling again.
Just then the doorbell rang. Bear skated over and answered it. A delivery person handed Bear a big package. It was from Uncle Bear. Bear unwrapped it, and his eyes opened wide. “Look at these, Chipmunk!” he said, taking a pair of glowing purple roller blades out of the box. Bear had never seen such fabulous skates before!
Chipmunk hadn’t either. He didn’t say anything, but the pair of white roller skates he had given Bear for his birthday seemed quite plain and ordinary now.
There was a card in the big box. It said:
Dear Nephew,
I Hope you enjoy these.
Happy birthday!
Uncle Bear
P.S. If there is something else you’d rather have, please exchange these for it.
Bear looked at the glowing purple roller blades he was holding. He looked down at the white roller skates he was wearing. He looked at Chipmunk. Then Bear put the glowing purple roller blades back into the big box and skated out the front door with them. “I’ll be back soon, Chipmunk,” he called over his shoulder.
Chipmunk watched Bear disappear down the road. “He didn’t even take time to have a piece of his birthday cake before he left!” Chipmunk said sadly.
He was sitting in his favorite chair when Bear came back. Bear was still wearing the white roller skates Chipmunk had given him, but he was not carrying the big box from Uncle Bear. Instead, he had a little box. Bear skated over to Chipmunk and handed him the little box. “Open it, Chipmunk,” he said.
Chipmunk’s eyes shone with pleasure. “Oh, Bear!” he cried, taking a pair of little white roller skates out of the little box. “I’ve always wanted a pair of roller skates just like these!”
“Do you like them?” asked Bear.
“I love them!” Chipmunk said, putting them on and lacing them up.
“I’m glad.”
Chipmunk stopped lacing up the little white roller skates. “Bear,” he said, “where are the purple roller blades Uncle Bear sent you?”
“I exchanged them for those,” said Bear, pointing to the little white roller skates Chipmunk was wearing.
Chipmunk didn’t know what else to say, so he just said, “Thank you, Bear.”
“You’re welcome,” said Bear, smiling again.
Chipmunk finished lacing up his little white roller skates. He stood up. “Let’s go roller-skating together right now, Bear!”
“I’m sorry, Chipmunk,” said Bear, “but I can’t.”
Chipmunk looked surprised. “Why not?”
“I haven’t had a piece of my birthday cake yet! And honey frosting is my very favorite.”
Bear ate three big bear-size pieces of birthday cake. Chipmunk ate two big chipmunk-size pieces. Then Bear wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “I’m ready, Chipmunk. Let’s go roller-skating together right now!”
Chipmunk wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “Let’s!”
And the two friends did.

But what if in this war it is neither a neighbor nor yourself at risk, but someone desperately, dearly loved by you who is hurt or defamed or perhaps even taken in death? How might we prepare for that distant day when our own child, or our own spouse, is found in mortal danger? One marvelously gifted man, a convert to Christianity, slowly watched his wife dying of cancer. As he observed her slipping away from him with all that she had meant and had given him, his newfound faith about which he had written so much and with which he had strengthened so many others now began to waver. In times of such grief, C. S. Lewis wrote, one runs the risk of asking:
“Where is God? . . . When you are happy . . . [you] turn to Him with gratitude and praise, [and] you will be . . . welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You [might] as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. . . . [Yet he was once there.] What can this mean? Why is [God] so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?” [C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed (New York: Seabury Press, Inc., 1961), pp. 4–5]
Those feelings of abandonment, written in the midst of a terrible grief, slowly passed, and the comfort of Lewis’ faith returned, stronger and purer for the test. But note what self-revelation this bitter cup, this bloody baptism, had for him. In an obligation of quite a different kind, he, too, now realized that enlisting for the duration of the war is not a trivial matter, and in the heat of battle he hadn’t been so heroic as he had encouraged millions of his readers to be.
“You never know how much you really believe anything,” he confesses,
until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you. It is easy to say you believe a rope to be strong and sound as long as you are merely using it to [tie] a box. But suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn’t you then first discover how much you really trusted it? . . . Only a real risk tests the reality of a belief.”

The witness of the truth of the Book of Mormon which came to me as a young man was that kind of experience. It was during World War II. I was a young sailor assigned to the Anacostia Naval Air Station in Washington, D.C. I was just a small insignificant cog in a vast system of cogs and wheels that turned for much larger purposes. One of my jobs was to help make training films, identifying shapes and outlines of enemy ships and airplanes. These films were made in a large, barnlike structure containing a big flat stage approximating the horizon or the sea or whatever was demanded. The building itself was filled with models and outlines and forms and staging devices to make possible the fulfillment of our assignment. Most of the time we were very busy, but there came a time toward the end of the war when we went for weeks without assignment. Eventually, all the other personnel on this job were assigned to other duties, but for some reason I was left alone in the building, I guess to guard the equipment. At first I enjoyed my freedom. It was great to have nothing to do. All the electricity in the building was turned off with the exception of one outlet, into which was plugged a small crook-necked lamp which sat on the corner of a flat drafting table. There was a hard wooden chair where I could sit if I cared to. All the rest of the great building was in darkness. So for a few days I opened the door to the outside light and sat in the doorway on the old chair and thoroughly enjoyed myself, but before long I became immensely bored.

I had been raised in the Church by careful parents who had taught me the gospel, but I had never read the Book of Mormon completely through for myself. One day, as I sat idle, I decided this was an opportune time for me to do this. And so, that afternoon, I brought my small serviceman’s Book of Mormon from my quarters and, desiring privacy, went inside the building and turned on the little light by the table and began to read, hunched over there in that great dark building. I remember how I was struck by those first words, “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. . . .” And as the days went by I read every word, and my soul, programmed as it was to goodness and truth, began to respond to the testimonies of the prophets. I had never had such an experience! I read slowly, prayerfully, savoring every word, looking forward to what was to come, even wishing that it would never end. I had feelings in my heart that I had never been conscious of before. And when at last I read the admonition of Moroni at the end of the book, I felt a great desire in my heart to try his words, to ask for spiritual verification even greater than what I was then feeling. I remember shutting the doors of that vast building and locking myself in, then kneeling in the darkness on the cold cement floor, my forehead resting against the hard wooden seat of the old chair, and telling the Lord that I believed the words of Moroni, and asking him to strengthen my belief into knowledge.

I shall never forget what happened; I have felt it many times since. I became aware that I was surrounded by a power beyond myself, which came over me and through me. It was all around me, calm, clear, indescribably powerful. It seemed white and delicious to me, like the fruit of the tree of life which Nephi told of. It filled me completely to the brim and over the brim, and did not leave me for days afterward. It was not shocking or disturbing in any way, as is the power of evil, but was sweet and assuring to my soul. I knew that the book was true.

Recently I had the opportunity of riding a pleasure boat up Germany’s Rhine River. The three-hour trip only covered a few miles because we had to go against the current. The bus that took us to that boat sped on ahead to our destination, affording the driver a long nap while he waited for our vessel to churn against the river before catching up to him. As we sunned on the deck, looking at the medieval castles jutting out among the vineyard-covered hills paralleling the famous river, we saw many similar boats pass us from the opposite direction traveling at several times our speed.
Perhaps you have experienced such a boat ride or tried to swim or row against the current. You might have wished then that it was your option, like our oncoming craft, to ride easily in the opposite direction—allowing the force of the current to sustain you instead of the exertion of muscles. There is an obvious parallel in our secular society: it is easy, fun, fashionable, acceptable, even legal to move with the sensual current in entertainment, in courtship, in reading materials, but it leads into a secular atmosphere that you do not control. There is, however, another life-style that could be called “swimming upstream.”
For example, there was a young soldier on sentry duty one day. His foul-mouthed sergeant, whom he generally avoided, approached him. The recruit steeled himself for the customary barrage of profanity that he would later have to scour from his mind. Instead his sergeant said, “You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?” The recruit nodded in the affirmative, with some surprise, only to be stunned by the next observation: “I could tell because you don’t swear.” The private gulped inwardly as he took quick inventory. The sergeant continued: “You know what gets me about you guys? You are good when you don’t have to be!”
Another time in the military a whole delegation of LDS college men went through summer training. As they moved from one field demonstration to another, each hour they endured the military instructors who began each session with a dirty joke. One NCO unintentionally prefaced the inevitable lewd story by asking, “Anyone object to a joke?” There was a split second of intense silence while the opportunity ran through the group. Then quickly from the back came a solitary but solid, “Yes.” The cadreman looked up in shocked surprise, immediately becoming defensive. Intending to intimidate such an upstart, he fired back, “Well, leave if you don’t like it.” Again a second of silence—followed by a decision. Then three-fourths of the group voted with their feet.
The military experience is like other forays into secularism that LDS youth are facing today. They are away from home with carnal options on every hand—gambling, profanity, pornography, immorality, and bug-out-ism. Such crass enticements successfully ensnare the uncommitted, but thousands of others choose to swim against the current. One young priest, during his first week away from home, confronted some returned missionaries in his barracks who appeared more sophisticated. Why weren’t they saying their prayers, he queried. His challenge encouraged them all to overcome their smoothly disguised fears of censure. They joined after lights out for a family prayer each night. Soon they discovered that their Mormon compatriots throughout the post were doing the same in small scattered groups; they even included their fellow nonmember squad members. The result was a brotherhood—blessing when sick, counseling when troubled, and bolstering each other during competition—instead of the harassing, cutting, and undermining that are so common in basic training. This higher life occurs without leaders or instructions; it emerges from being “anxiously engaged in a good cause,” from conviction, from feeling the power of God within. All over the globe, many Mormon youth seek out each other. Their spiritual adventures are legion. They often reach out to friends who have followed the carnal path into deprivation. Their example, caring, and persistence have supported many through a transformation that has led them into the Melchizedek Priesthood, the temple, sometimes mission calls—in other words, into their eternal potential.
These modern youth discover the spiritual adventure, not appreciated by many today, that is symbolized by the legendary friendship of David and Jonathan in ancient Israel. Here were two young men who should have been rivals because David was anointed to be the successor to Jonathan’s father, King Saul. Instead, their commitment to virtue bound them, as the scripture says, so “that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.” (1 Sam. 18:1.)
The contemporary Davids and Jonathans in high schools and colleges, in the mission fields or army, on the job or the playing field, experience these rare friendships. They have no need to long for that relationship between David and Jonathan. It is available right now.
How can that be?
It is because there are many young Latter-day Saints, worldwide, who have caught the vision. They have discovered that by adhering to the Word of Wisdom, attending church, paying tithing, and performing other essential requirements, they are prepared to move on to a higher law—one that happens only in the soul, one that causes a burning in the bosom, a resolve in the mind, and a love in the heart. Once this happens, these youth discover a whole new vista about the gospel. They realize that being able to proudly answer to a bishop that they have refrained from sin is an exciting achievement and will help one enter the temple. But there is also a virtue built upon that restraint; it consists of positive acts that one has initiated. These are possible for young men and women who master their natural tendencies and then continue to grow by adding personal initiatives—magnifying the priesthood and radiating virtue.
This is what bound David and Jonathan; it was pure joy to love one who also loved virtue. Jonathan added selflessness and sacrifice to his basic self-mastery; David added total dedication. Their love for one another was magnified because they were committed to common principles. Their lives had purpose well beyond desire to rule an earthly kingdom over which they could easily have parted. Instead theirs was a consecration to build a kingdom of God. This vision throbbed in their beings and gave meaning to their lives.
For them and countless of your generation, it is not only a matter of filling requirements and doing what is expected in the structured environment of the Church. Instead, while holding to that rod, you go beyond to total dedication on your own initiative. It is the adventure of virtue when you are away from observation. That is where you find spiritual excitement—when you are on your own.
The result is electric.
In countless student apartments prayer permeates college life without destroying fun. On campus, as well as on the job, friendships grow beyond the joys of adolescent idealism when Mormon youth out on their own discover the adventure that awaits those who achieve self-mastery. In one apartment, for example, four freshmen lay awake late into the nights discussing the profundities of a universe governed by eternal progression. In another circle several young men regularly drove to the mountainside where they could view the heavens and discuss truths learned. There they extended the evening’s worship, pondering the galaxies. The power of prayer bound two other youthful companions, who were linked by friendship and by assignment as local missionaries. Because of the draft and a war, they were not called as full-time elders, but they did not let that rob them of the power others had to go to distant lands to discover. They found it on their own through mighty prayer, as have many others. There are home evening groups on many campuses that love roommates into the gospel—often guiding them through the substantial trials that conversion can inflict. These examples are not unusual; they are but a selection from a whole vista of LDS youth who are developing their own lifestyle, one not depicted in movies and records but one with a higher adventure.
Among them are some youth with real spiritual courage who contact a bishop to confess. These are the genuine heros who internalize the gospel. Instead of living behind a facade of acceptability, they choose to bare their soul to a judge in Israel. Anyone who has occupied that judgment seat is awed by the courage and integrity of those young Church members who take the scriptural admonition literally: “By this you may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them.” (D&C 58:43.)
In that vista of virtue, there are many who choose to develop their own courtship style instead of adopting the romanticized recreation that is loudly flaunted by the male-conquest approach. One such elder confided: “At first she was afraid, but when she discovered I would not take advantage of her, she developed a trust in me. What scares me is that now she trusts me too much. I could damage that sacred trust, so my challenge is to protect her from me. That is why I have to be the one who is in control instead of depending on her to resist.”
These are only a sample of the youth on several continents. You have undoubtedly felt their spirit too—in different places and with different actions. Not all achieve this level of internal growth, nor do even the best maintain such spirituality at all times. But this possibility of self-mastery plus positive virtue is achievable. It is often found powerfully in those under 18. You can strive for it without apology.
You must realize that such spiritual achievement does not immunize one from difficulties or doubt. Nor will it endow you with unearned talent. But it brings you an eternal perspective for our times. It will help you perceive the essence of the gospel life-style for a new era. Instead of despairing about the norms of society that are deteriorating and the laws that are legalizing what used to be forbidden, you will find a way to utilize the new freedom instead of allowing it to destroy the gospel environment. Whereas many of the youth of certain past centuries were controlled so they would avoid sin, you will know the heady feeling of voluntary choice; you can internalize moral restraints that will emerge more from conviction. This will be harder to sustain than the puritanical system of the past, but it will also bring more adventure to those who catch the vision.
Many will not be able to stand such freedom; they will be enticed by situation ethics, relativism, and even overt temptations. They will jump on the old-fashioned bandwagon that will be dressed in new apparel without recognizing that the arguments are crass. “Everyone is doing it,” “It’s your own life, so live it,” “It’s all right for consenting adults,” “There is a new morality that has outgrown conformity”—these are not new insights, merely new wrappings for sensualism. They will not lead to enduring the sublime joy. They will not qualify as spiritual adventure. Instead, it is positive virtue that leads to the celestial—even to knowing some of its joy right now.
There is more spiritual adventure to come than has yet passed—for those who swim upstream.

One son bought a small home in a distant state. He showed me bricks on a corner of the foundation that were eroding away. He asked what he should do.
I did not know, but I asked, “Is there an older couple that lives close to you?”
“Yes,” he said, “across the street and down a few houses is a retired couple.”
“Why don’t you ask him to come over and look at that. He knows your climate.”
That was done, and he got the advice of an older man who had seen problems like that and many others. That is what adopted grandpas can do.

Ned Winder, a lifelong friend and formerly the executive secretary of the Missionary Department, tells of an amusing and humbling encounter which he experienced.

Two of the General Authorities, accompanied by Brother Winder, were walking down a staircase in view of a mother and her son, who were sitting on a couch facing the staircase. Seeing the brethren approach, the boy said to his mother, “Who is that first man?”

She replied, “He is Elder Marvin J. Ashton, a member of the Council of the Twelve Apostles.”

The boy continued, “Who is the man next to him?”

Mother replied, “He is Elder Loren Dunn, of the First Quorum of the Seventy.”

Then the boy concluded, “Who is the other man?”

The mother spoke more softly, yet she was still audible to Brother Winder: “Oh, he’s nobody.”

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.

For one of my Cub Scout adventures, I had to go somewhere that people worship or feel reverence. My family decided to go to the Sikh (pronounced seek) temple near our house. It was really cool because we’ve driven past it a lot of times. It’s a building with a flag and gold trim around the top. We got to go inside. We got to see how they worship, and we got to eat food with them after.
The people could speak a different language, and all the boys’ middle names were the same: Singh. All the girls’ middle names were Kaur. They treated us very nicely. We had to take off our shoes and put on a hat or a scarf to cover our hair. We did that so that we could show respect for the way they worship. The food that they fed us was really good. They gave us juice, candies, and some sweet fried dough.
I felt amazed after I met them, because the way they worship is a lot different than the way we worship. Instead of sitting on benches, they sit on the floor. But some people whose legs hurt sit on benches. They also have a special place for their sacred books.
We took a picture with the people we met, and then we got hugs from them. I felt happy that I got to know these people a bit. I would love to go back sometime.

When my teenage daughter ran away from home, we were unable to persuade her to return, but we asked her to at least attend her meetings. She didn’t. The New Era was the only contact she had with the Church for over four years because of her hostility toward all Church members. But the New Era came to her every month, she read it regularly, and recently she came home, graduated from high school, and is now preparing to go to college on a national scholarship. She isn’t active in the Church yet, but she is home and safe and still reading your magazine.
Name Withheld

This brother radiated enthusiasm in telling an unforgettable experience, and he effectively transmitted this feeling to his audience. His story dealt with the reaction of two fathers having a picnic with their children near a swift-flowing river. One father screamed excitedly as his little boy walked close to the river’s edge. The child was spanked and dragged away from the water. The second father kept careful watch on his son’s activities and then, kneeling beside him, he demonstrated the danger of the rushing water. Together, father and son threw sticks into the river and watched them be swept away by the current. The child’s curiosity was satisfied and he contentedly followed his father back to safer ground.
The high councilor asked us which of the two children received a lasting lesson from a parent who acted wisely.
We learned a lesson from this personal story, and we also learned a lesson from the manner in which the story was presented.

In the early 1950s the United States was at war on the Korean peninsula. Because of the draft policy of the government at that time, young men were not allowed to serve missions but instead were required to join the military. Knowing this, I enrolled in the Army Reserve Officers’ Training Corps when I went to college. My goal was to become an officer like my oldest brother. However, when I made a visit home for the Christmas holiday, my home-ward bishop, Vern Freeman, invited me into his office. He advised me that a young Church leader by the name of Brother Gordon B. Hinckley had negotiated an agreement with the U.S. government permitting each ward in the Church in the United States to call one young man to serve a mission. This young man would receive an automatic deferment from the military during his mission.
Bishop Freeman said he had been praying about it and felt he should recommend me to serve as a full-time missionary representing our ward. I explained to him that I had already made other plans—I had enrolled in the Army ROTC and expected to become an officer! My bishop gently reminded me that he had been prompted to recommend me to serve a mission at that particular time. He said, “Go home and talk to your parents and come back this evening with your answer.”
I went home and told my father and mother what had happened. They said the bishop was inspired, and I should happily accept the Lord’s invitation to serve. My mother could see how disappointed I was at the prospect of not becoming an army officer right away. She quoted:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
That night I went back to the bishop’s office and accepted his invitation. He told me to go to the Selective Service Office and advise them of my decision.
When I did so, to my surprise the lady who was chairman of the Selective Service Office told me, “If you accept a mission call, you will receive your draft notice before you can reenter Army ROTC. You will serve as an enlisted man, not as an officer.”
Despite this unexpected change, my mission was wonderful. It changed the course of my life as it does for those who serve. But true to their word, the government sent an induction letter drafting me into the U.S. Army about one month before my mission release.

On November 10, 1882, a young woman named Sarah Jane Carter married Alma Porter, a widower of 10 years. Sarah Jane was almost 18 years of age, and Alma was almost 48. To Sarah Jane and Alma were born 10 children. Their last child and eighth daughter was my grandmother. My grandmother was just five months old when her father died, leaving Sarah Jane a widow at age 38. In addition to losing her husband, four of Sarah Jane’s daughters died at a young age.
Sarah Jane worked hard to provide for her family. Her only source of income was from what they produced on a small farm. From the cow’s milk she made butter to sell at the local butcher shop. With that money Sarah Jane could buy the items the family needed that they could not supply themselves. She also sold apples and raspberries for money to pay the taxes on the farm.
In my living room hangs a large oval frame with a picture of Sarah Jane. On days when I think my life is hard, I think of her. I think of her challenges. I believe it was Sarah Jane’s faith in the Lord and belief that He would strengthen her that helped her through what I imagine were very difficult and lonely days. My grandmother wrote this about Sarah Jane:
I can never remember sitting down for breakfast but what we knelt down and had a family prayer. It was a must at our home. You all know the slogan today, “the family that prays together stays together.” Mother knew she needed lots of help to keep her family close to her and our Heavenly Father was her best source of strength.