Gospel Story Finder

Not very many years ago in a Maori village in New Zealand, a baby boy was born. He soon received a blessing from his grandfather who said in the blessing that this boy would one day become an educational leader among his people. Some of the men in the village laughed at that blessing; it seemed so unrealistic. That boy, Barney Wihongi, earned his doctorate and became president of the Church College of New Zealand. He became president of the Church College of New Zealand at age 35 and had influence among other educators in the country of New Zealand. The promises given to Brother Wihongi as a baby amused some. Brother Barney Wihongi inspired many!

When his Scout leader asked Jonathan Conger, a priest in the Lundstrom Park First Ward, Logan Utah East Stake, if he wanted to plant and harvest a wheat field for his Eagle Scout project, Jonathan said, “Sure.” Little did he know the immensity of the project before him. Only later did he realize how much he would have to rely on Heavenly Father and the community to help him achieve his goal.
Jonathan’s Scoutmaster at the time, Edward Redd, first got the idea for the project while visiting the Cache Community Food Pantry. During his visit, Brother Redd asked what the pantry needed most, and they told him flour was always a much needed commodity.
When he first started thinking about Eagle project ideas, Jonathan had been planning to paint some benches at his local meetinghouse. Then Brother Redd told him about 10 acres of land he owned that hadn’t been planted yet. He suggested to Jonathan that they should plant wheat on the land, have it milled, and donate the flour to the pantry as his Eagle Scout project.
“I didn’t really think about how big a project it would be, but it sounded good,” said Jonathan. Planting and harvesting a 10-acre field is not an easy job. Jonathan and Brother Redd discussed how to grow the wheat, take care of the field, harvest the wheat, and find a mill to grind it.
First on the list was finding seed. This was where the first of many people came to Jonathan’s aid. A member of Jonathan’s ward had planted wheat the previous year and had a silo filled with seed. He offered to give Jonathan the seed for planting the field.
Now that he had seed, Jonathan had to wait until April for the field to dry out enough to be ready for planting. Looking ahead to the harvest, they searched for a mill that would handle the grinding of the wheat, and they eventually found a local mill that agreed to help. Jonathan told them that sometime around September they would bring the wheat to be ground into flour.
To prepare for planting, Jonathan first had to arrange for the field to be leveled so the seed would fall on even ground. They were given permission to use a tractor to level the field and pull the seed drill (used to plant the seeds). But the tractor broke. Luckily Brother Redd knew someone who could fix it.
“He took it home, fixed it, and brought it back to us,” said Jonathan. “He didn’t even hesitate. I told him what I was doing and asked him for help. He said, ‘Sure. Anytime.’”
The next step was for Jonathan to organize for the field to be fertilized and then, in July, to be irrigated. This became a challenge when Jonathan realized the irrigating was not automated. The pipes had to be laid and moved by hand. Watering the field took three days.
“It was kind of troublesome,” Jonathan said. “You set the pipes on the ground, and it was really muddy and gross because irrigating for a few days turns the field into a swamp.” Even though it was hard work, Jonathan has fond memories of the fun he had irrigating. Fortunately the natural weather took care of the rest of the irrigation needs as it was one of the wettest springs the area had seen in a long time.
“We were really lucky when we planted. It rained right afterwards, and if we had waited any longer, the ground would have been too wet again. Everything fit in just right.”
Another set of challenges arrived with harvest time, but Jonathan found that when you’re in service to a good cause, others are always willing to help. A week before harvest, Jonathan checked in with the flour mill and found that the person he had made all the arrangements with was on vacation for the next week and had not told anyone of the agreement. Now the mill did not have room to take his wheat until a later date. Also, they faced the task of harvesting the wheat with a small combine that would take them many hours.
The mill made the effort to clear a space for the coming wheat, and the farmer who had donated the seed just happened to be passing by in his combine harvester when they were about to begin harvesting. He had been on his way to harvest his own field and decided to help out again, harvesting the field in under three hours. In the tradition of helping hands, another farmer lent a trailer to the project to store the wheat for a few days until the mill could receive it. Yet another person helped to store the flour after it had been packaged and set on pallets at the mill.
The 10-acre field produced 23,000 pounds of wheat, 20,000 of which was given to the mill to grind. The mill kept some of the flour as payment for processing the wheat, but finally Jonathan was given 5,400 pounds of flour, enough to bake approximately 5,400 loaves of bread, all of which was donated to the food pantry. The rest of the wheat was kept, cleaned, and sold to cover the costs of fertilizer and herbicides. More people donated time and resources to again store the wheat and then help in loading the flour at the Cache Community Food Pantry, which opened its doors after hours specifically to receive it.
Jonathan is happy with the service he provided, and the flour’s delivery signified the end of his project. But visiting the pantry made him realize what he had achieved. He knew that what he had done was going to benefit a lot of people.
“It felt good to help those people, and I was just glad I could help in the little way I did,” Jonathan said. The Eagle Scout project left a good feeling, and Jonathan knows that it couldn’t have been done without a lot of help from family, fellow Scouts, and other people who donated time and energy. Jonathan feels that Heavenly Father’s help in particular was important.
“Obviously God played a big part in guiding us while we were doing this, because at times things didn’t work out very well, but then they came together all of a sudden,” Jonathan said. “It may just seem like luck, but I think God was watching, and He knew this was a good project and He wanted to help me.”
Jonathan Conger isn’t planning to grow more wheat in the future. He’s more likely to be found playing the piano, thinking about medical school, and preparing for a mission. But he will always remember his Eagle project and what it taught him about the law of the harvest.

Some time ago I found a large white envelope in my mailbox. Inside was a story written by a boy I had taught years before when he was in sixth grade. I remembered the student and the assignment his class had worked on for months. I also remembered that he loved to write and would sit and think and think. Sometimes only a word or two found their way to the page. At times he worked during recess, but when the due date arrived, his story still had a chapter to go. I told him just to turn it in as it was, but Jimmy had a different vision and wanted to turn in a finished story. The last day of class he asked if he could finish during the summer break. Again I told him just to turn it in. He pleaded for more time, and finally I sent him on his way with a stack of wrinkled and smudged papers, complimenting him on his determination and assuring him of my confidence in his ability to complete a great story.
I thought about him that summer, but the assignment left my mind until years later when I found his completed project in the mailbox. I was amazed and wondered what made Jimmy finish his story. What kind of vision, determination, and effort had been required in this task? Why do any of us finish a hard task, especially if no one demands its completion?
My husband’s great-grandfather Henry Clegg Jr. was a finisher. He joined the Church with his family when the first LDS missionaries went to Preston, England. Henry had a view of his destination in his mind as he and his wife, Hannah, and their two young boys immigrated to Utah. Henry left his older parents, who were too feeble to make such a long and arduous journey, knowing he would never see them again.
While crossing the plains, Hannah contracted cholera and died. She was laid to rest in an unmarked grave. The company then moved on, and at six in the evening, Henry’s youngest son also died. Henry retraced his steps to Hannah’s grave, placed his young son in his wife’s arms, and reburied the two of them together. Henry then had to return to the wagon train, now five miles away. Suffering from cholera himself, Henry described his condition as being at death’s door while realizing he still had a thousand miles to walk. Amazingly he continued forward, putting one foot in front of the other. He stopped writing in his journal for several weeks after losing his dear Hannah and little son. I was struck with the words he used when he did start writing again: “Still moving.”
When he finally reached the gathering place of the Saints, he began a new family. He kept the faith. He continued his story. Most remarkably, his heartache over the burial of his sweetheart and son gave birth to our family’s legacy of moving forward, of finishing.
I have often wondered as I have heard pioneer stories like the one of Henry Clegg, “Could I ever do that?” Sometimes I fear this question, knowing our pioneer legacy lives on today. I recently visited West Africa and witnessed everyday pioneers walking forward, joining a new church, leaving behind centuries of traditions, even leaving behind family and friends, as did Henry. My admiration and love for them is as great as for my own forebears.
Do the challenges of others appear more difficult than our own? We often look at someone with tremendous responsibilities and think, “I could never do that.” Yet others might look at us and feel exactly the same way. It is not the magnitude of the responsibility but rather how it feels to be the one in the middle of the unfinished task. For a young mother with many children at home, caring for them through the day and then through the night could feel like a thousand miles yet to walk. Giving a lesson in Relief Society to women who are older or younger, more experienced or more educated could feel difficult, especially when the topic is one you are struggling to understand and live yourself. Teaching a class of 10 active six-year-olds can be daunting, especially when your own six-year-old is in the class and you haven’t quite figured out how to teach him one-on-one.
What do we learn from young Jimmy, from early pioneers, and from modern pioneers around the world that will help us in our specific challenges? Jimmy spent years writing on his own for no deadline, Henry Clegg marched on alone and without heart even to write in a journal, and African Saints lived worthy of a temple they could not have imagined would one day rise in their own nation. To keep going, to stay faithful, and to finish had to be its own reward.
Years ago one of our daughters asked me to come outside and play tetherball with her. She told me to sit down and watch as she hit over and over again a ball on a rope that wound itself around a pole. After watching several windings I asked what my part was in the game, and she said, “Oh, Mom, you say, ‘Good job, good job,’ every time the ball goes around the pole.”
“Good job!” helps the journey seem possible. It might sound like a phone call from a mother of one of the six-year-olds in that Primary class, calling to let the teacher know that her son carefully helped his little sister into the car seat without being asked, acknowledging the Primary teacher’s lesson as the impetus for this new behavior. It might look like a husband getting the children off to nursery and Primary as his wife sets up her lesson for Young Women. It might be as simple as a smile, a hug, or a long walk to sort things out with a friend, a husband, or a child.
We each must find and finish our own story, but how much sweeter the telling when encouragement is called out, when arriving at our destination is valued and celebrated, however long ago the journey commenced.
The greatest mentor and advocate we have said: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88). Can any of us afford to leave this piece out of our individual journey?
Henry Clegg was still moving forward to live among the faithful Saints, to take his place, to raise a righteous family, to serve his neighbor. He had that picture in his mind even when his heart was breaking. I heard a Primary child from Ghana answer the question “What does it mean to choose the right every day?” with, “It means to follow the Lord and Savior every day and do your best even when it is hard.” This modern pioneer boy knew President Hinckley’s admonition. He knew about keeping commandments every day. He understood that his own story would unfold simply by putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time.

Much of Brother Bollbach’s service has been as a missionary in the land of his birth. In 1969, six weeks after Fritz had opened the workshop, Fritz and Elli’s bishop called them into his office and asked them a question. The bishop had to repeat the question three times: “Fritz, the Lord wants you and your wife to serve together in the mission field. What do you think about that?”
“I was shocked,” Brother Bollbach remembers. “I could say nothing.”
Unable to answer the bishop’s question, he asked Elli, “Well, Mama, what do you think?”
She glanced at Fritz and said, “The decision is yours. I will be your eyes.”
He turned back to the bishop and replied, “Bishop, we will go where the Lord wants us to go.”
The Bollbachs were soon serving in the Germany Central Mission. Their main responsibility was to help bring people back to church. “Many of them did not want to pray because they said they had nothing to be grateful for or they just didn’t need anything,” Sister Bollbach explains. “However, Fritz inspired them and helped them to be grateful for life and for God’s blessings.”
One of his first assignments was to serve as branch president in Gelsenkirchen. At first Brother Bollbach was hesitant when the mission president called him to the position. “But you know that I’m blind,” Brother Bollbach told him.
“Yes, of course I know that,” the mission president replied. “God knows it as well.”
Brother Bollbach labored as branch president there until he had a mild heart attack a year later. “I wondered if I should go home after that,” he recalls. “But the doctor examined me and said it was all right for me to stay. So we stayed.”
After they returned from the mission field in 1971, Elli went back to working in the Salt Lake Temple, and Fritz reopened the workshop and put his wood pieces on display. As people flocked to see Brother Bollbach’s carvings, many thought it impossible that a blind man had done such splendid work. “Unbelievable, but not impossible,” he told them. “You must have faith in the Lord and confidence in yourself. All people—no matter what race or creed—are children of God and brought talents with them to earth. It depends upon the individual to discover and realize those talents through diligent effort.”
In 1975, the Bollbachs were surprised by another mission call, this time to the Germany Frankfurt Mission. About the same time, Elli discovered she had cancer. “No one can imagine the fear we felt,” Fritz explains. “Within one week, she underwent three operations. The curious thing was the blessing the bishop gave her. He said to her, ‘Elli, you will recover, and you will again go into the mission field with Fritz to serve God.’ We wondered how he could say such a thing.”
Sister Bollbach recuperated from the operations, and they served an eighteen-month mission in Pirmasens, Germany, near the French border.
Less than a year after returning home, the Bollbachs locked up their house and workshop a third time to serve in the Germany Munich Mission, where Brother Bollbach was called to be branch president in Nürnberg. Although the branch had more than 450 people on its records, only about 20 members attended regularly.
The Bollbachs knew they had challenges, but they also knew how to overcome them. With faith, prayer, obedience, and diligence, they concentrated on visiting less-active members. “A miracle happened,” Brother Bollbach exclaims. “The branch grew. Several months later, the branch was divided into three branches—Feucht, Fürth, and Nürnberg. I know it was the blessing and help of God. We were just the instruments in his hands.”
After coming home, the Bollbachs served as Sunday School teachers for about ten years. Because Fritz could not read the lessons, Elli recorded the lesson manual and passages of scripture onto a tape. Fritz would then listen to the tape several times and would study with Elli for up to eight hours. “I searched out the questions and had them put on tape,” he says. “Then I learned them by heart so we could teach the class together.” They finally were released when Brother Bollbach became too sick to continue the weekly assignment.
The Bollbachs say all their Church assignments have made them happy. “We used our time only for the Church and for God and for learning,” Brother Bollbach comments, “and we were glad. But it was not ourselves, but the power of prayer and the help of God that allowed us to do the work. Without God and Elli, I could not have made it. Without His help, I could not see spiritually with my heart.”

Lydia Kaminaga, like Hirobo Obeketang, was born into the Church but became less active during her teen years. But the story of her journey back is as remarkable as it is distinct.

Lydia and her husband, Kaminaga Kaminaga, both grew up in the Church. “I never had any doubt about the teachings of the Church,” says Kaminaga. “I’ve always believed them.”

But life moved differently for Lydia. When she was in seventh grade, she says, “I was the only Mormon in my school, and I felt left out. I did what my friends were doing. I got my priorities wrong.”

Lydia’s parents sent her to Provo, Utah, USA, to live with family, hoping their influence might inspire Lydia to live the gospel. Though she learned things that helped her later in life, at the time she wasn’t interested in Church activity.

Lydia moved back to the Marshall Islands in January 2002, just a month after Kaminaga returned from serving a mission in Japan. They met shortly thereafter. Although Lydia was not living Church standards, Kaminaga kept coming to her house pretending that he wanted to visit her nephew, Gary Zackious.

Eventually, Kaminaga made up his mind to talk to her parents about going out on dates—wholesome, clean activities—with Lydia. Although they initially tried to dissuade him, Kaminaga says he “finally told them, ‘There’s still a chance for her to change.’ When I said that, the whole feeling in the room changed. Her dad cried and said, ‘I’ve always wanted her back in the Church. You can try.’”

At first Lydia didn’t take Kaminaga seriously. After all, he was a clean-cut returned missionary, and she hadn’t been active.

“But he saw something I didn’t see,” Lydia explains. Since she wasn’t dating anyone, she agreed to go out with him. “He brought me back. Being his girlfriend, I had to set my standards straight. He reminded me of my covenants made at baptism. He reminded me of all the things I really missed a lot, like reading scriptures and family home evening. Kaminaga and I did service projects together. We read the Book of Mormon. We went to firesides. He showed me how to live differently. Going to church was not just sacrament meeting but also Sunday School and Relief Society too.”

As they spent time together on dates that were wholesome and uplifting, Lydia’s life began to change and her testimony grew. She still had to clear some things up, however.

“It was hard coming back,” she admits. “Repentance is not easy, but I have a really strong testimony of repentance. In a lot of ways, our dating was about getting to know each other more and about getting me back to church, to see things differently.”

“It’s about relationships,” adds Kaminaga.

Lydia and Kaminaga were married on November 28, 2002. A year later they were sealed in the Laie Hawaii Temple and attended Brigham Young University–Hawaii. Now they live in the Marshall Islands with their three children. Lydia serves as their ward’s Sunday School teacher for the young men and young women, and Kaminaga serves as the Young Men president.

In ninth grade, Tami had a friend who was good at everything. Tami’s friend, Sandy, was popular. She ran track and won. Tami joined the track team just to be like Sandy. But Tami never won a race. Usually she came in last. Sandy could tell a joke. And boys liked Sandy.
Just before Christmas, the school announced a writing contest. Tami decided to enter. She spent her evenings writing her poem instead of talking with Sandy on the phone as she usually did. She worried about entering the contest. It wasn’t the kind of thing Sandy would do. Tami didn’t even tell her friend she was doing it. Sandy might laugh, or maybe even make fun of her. But it was thrilling to find how much she liked writing. When the results were announced, Tami’s poem won second place.
Encouraging herself to try something on her own wasn’t easy. But Tami discovered something—deciding for herself what she wanted made her happier than trying to imitate her friends. It gave her strength to make more decisions on her own.
In the next few years, as some of her friends began making choices that were against Tami’s standards, it was easier to make her own choices, even when they were less popular.

“Are General Authorities human?”
I suppose this is a question that is in many minds and has been from the very beginning. It arises, in the very nature of things, because of the high regard in which we hold the offices that these Brethren are called to fill.
I recall an incident from early Church history, from the days of persecutions and difficulties. Heber C. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, found himself in circumstances where he sought hospitality from a member of the Church, a widow woman. She offered him what she had—bread and milk—and provided a room with a bed for him. He went to retire. She thought: “Here’s my opportunity. I would like to find out [and this is, in effect, the same old question: Are General Authorities human?] I would like to find out what an Apostle says when he prays to the Lord.” So after the door was closed, she crept quietly up to it to listen. She heard Brother Kimball sit down on the bed. She heard each of his shoes fall to the floor. She heard him lean back on the bed and then utter these words: “Oh Lord, bless Heber; he is so tired.”
… This is a subject about which people often have incorrect concepts. Many people had this same question in their minds during the time of Joseph Smith. He said: “I was this morning introduced to a man from the east. After hearing my name, he remarked that I was nothing but a man, indicating by this expression, that he had supposed that a person to whom the Lord should see fit to reveal His will, must be something more than a man. He seemed to have forgotten the saying that fell from the lips of St. James, that [Elijah] was a man subject to like passions as we are, yet he had such power with God, that He, in answer to his prayers, shut the heavens that they gave no rain for the space of three years and six months; and again, in answer to his prayer, the heavens gave forth rain, and the earth gave forth fruit [see James 5:17–18]. Indeed, such is the darkness and ignorance of this generation, that they look upon it as incredible that a man should [speak] with his Maker.”

Sometimes it is hard to feel this love. A young woman I know looked like she had everything going for her. She had just won a student-body election, she had auditioned for the madrigal choir and made it, and she had been chosen as the junior prom queen. She went home from school one day and threw herself on her bed in tears. Her mother asked what was wrong, and the daughter blurted out, “I feel like a failure; nobody likes me; I don’t have any talents; I can’t keep up in my classes; and besides that, I’m ugly.” No one would suspect that she was feeling insecure, lonely, and inadequate; but most teens feel this way at one time or another.

One evening recently my husband and I were relaxing after dinner in our family room. I was watching the TV, looking at Facebook on my iPad, having a text conversation with one of my children on my cell phone, and in the back of my mind thinking about giving this talk, all while sitting right next to my husband on the loveseat. All of a sudden I became aware he was talking about he and a friend going to Montana the next day so they could chase cows and horses. I said to him, “What in the world are you talking about?” He said, “I knew you were not listening to me. I’ve been talking to you for the last five minutes.” Honestly, we were literally sitting inches apart and I had not even been aware that he was speaking to me.

When I asked my husband to repeat the things that he had been talking about that I obviously missed, he said he had already forgotten. He’d just wanted to talk to me because I had been gone all day. He needed my attention, and I had missed the opportunity. It had slipped by.

When Ruby and I knelt at the Salt Lake Temple at the altar on September the fourth, 1930, holding hands and looking at one another, little did we ever realize what would lie ahead for us. We were two young people. I had come out of the country in southern Idaho, and Ruby had come out of Sanpete County, Utah. Our fathers were dead, but we had two wonderful widowed mothers, and they were with us in the temple. As we knelt and made covenants and promises, I knew that that was for real.

Now, after we have been married 70 years, I can say to all of you that it gets better, that it gets better year after year, with the preciousness and the tenderness and the realization of some of the eternal blessings that lie ahead for us. And so to all of you I would say, and Ruby would join with me if she could be standing here, that life can be wonderful and so meaningful, but we have to live it in a simple way. We must live the principles of the gospel. For it is the gospel in our lives that makes the difference as we wend our way through life.

One who received and welcomed the gift of peace was Joseph Millett, an early missionary to the Maritime Provinces of Canada, who learned, while there and in his later experiences in life, of the need to rely on heavenly help. An experience which he recalled in his journal is a beautiful illustration of simple yet profound faith:

“One of my children came in, said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks were out of bread. Had none that day. I put … our flour in [a] sack to send up to Brother Hall’s. Just then Brother Hall came in. Says I, ‘Brother Hall, how are you [fixed] for flour.’ ‘Brother Millett, we have none.’ ‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided [it] and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you were out.’ Brother Hall began to cry. Said he had tried others. Could not get any. Went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett. ‘Well, Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back if the Lord sent you for it. You don’t owe me for it.’ You can’t tell how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew that there was such a person as Joseph Millett.”

Prayer brought the gift of peace to Newton Hall and to Joseph Millett.

In October 1840, 34-year-old Vilate Kimball wrote a letter to her husband, Elder Heber C. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “President [Joseph] Smith has opened a new and glorious subject … which has caused quite a revival in the church,” Vilate wrote to Heber, who was serving his second mission to Great Britain. The subject of Joseph Smith’s teaching on this occasion was baptism for those who hadn’t had the opportunity in their lifetimes.
“Joseph has received a more full explanation of it by Revelation,” she reported. “It is the privilege of this church to be baptised for all their kinsfolks that have died before this Gospel came forth.” Vilate celebrated the revelation that in doing these proxy baptisms for deceased family members, “we act as agents for them; and give them the privilege of coming forth in the first resurrection.”
The Kimballs had moved from New York to be with the Saints in Kirtland, Ohio, and then moved to Far West, Missouri. Just a year later, in 1839, they had to flee Missouri with thousands of other Latter-day Saints to escape persecution at the hands of violent mobs. They made their home in Nauvoo, hundreds of miles from where their journey had started.
Although their arrival in Nauvoo had been under trying circumstances, Vilate’s October 1840 letter to her husband was teeming with excitement. “I want to be baptised for my Mother,” she exclaimed. “I calculated to wait until you come home, but the last time Joseph spoke upon the subject, he advised every one to be up and a doing, and liberate their friends from bondage as quick as possible. … Thus you see there is a chance for all. Is not this a glorious doctrine?”
Vilate was one of the first women to be baptized for the dead in Nauvoo.

My parents and grandparents were born and raised in Utah. However, my mother and father began their married life in Phoenix, Arizona. That is where my three brothers and I were raised. Almost every summer my father and mother would take all of us to Utah to get out of the Arizona heat and also to enjoy the association with our cousins and other relatives.
Our parents taught us early the importance of working, first with the various responsibilities around the home and later adding other work opportunities such as selling newspapers, magazines, doing gardening for the neighbors, and babysitting. When I was old enough to work for someone else on a full-time basis, I had desires to go from Phoenix to Utah alone and spend the summer there working and earning money. This was to be during the summer vacation. One spring before school was out I asked my father if I could go to Salt Lake City to work and then return to Phoenix at the end of the summer to be with my family and begin school again. After thinking it over, my parents decided it would be fine. When school was out in May, Dad took me with him to the Continental Bus depot and, since I had no money of my own as yet, bought me a ticket to Salt Lake City. I was somewhat taken back when I found out that he had purchased for me a one-way ticket instead of a round trip. He said he would take the responsibility to see that I arrived in Salt Lake City but it would be up to me to do what was necessary while I was there to purchase the ticket for a return home to Phoenix at the end of the summer. As you can imagine, I was most anxious to come back home after my work experience as I had burning in my memory the happy experiences we had always enjoyed in our home. I enjoyed the association with and loved my three brothers and was most happy and comfortable being with my parents.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City I immediately set about to find work. This I was able to accomplish, and as soon as my first paycheck was given to me, guess what I did. First I paid my tithing, and then I took the rest of the money to the bus depot downtown in Salt Lake City and purchased a return trip ticket to Phoenix. I wanted to be sure that when summer was over there would be nothing to stand in the way of my returning home. I loved my home very much. For the rest of the summer I was particularly mindful of taking good care of myself and doing everything necessary to insure my return home to Phoenix. More than anything else I wanted to enjoy again the experience of being with my family.

Mari frowned. Grandma was telling the same story. Again.
Grandma came to live with Mari’s family several months ago. Mari loved her, but being around Grandma was sometimes tiring. She told the sames stories over and over again. Sometimes she’d start over before she even finished telling the story.
Mari sighed. “Grandma,” she said, “you already told me that story.”
Grandma looked down. “I did?”
“Yes,” Mari said. “You told it to me just a few minutes ago.”
“I don’t remember,” Grandma said. She looked sad and confused. Then she stood up and wandered back to her room.
Mari felt sorry that she had upset Grandma. Ever since Grandpa died, Grandma had gotten more and more forgetful. Once she even left the stove on, and it started a fire in her kitchen. That’s when Mom and Dad brought Grandma to live with them.
Mari found Dad in the kitchen. “I really love Grandma, but I get tired of hearing the same stories. Why doesn’t she remember that she already told me that story about fifty million times?”
Dad smiled. “I bet it’s not fifty million times. But I know it’s hard. Your grandma has a sickness in her brain that makes her forget things. Her stories are her way of trying to remember who she is.”
Mari hung her head. Why hadn’t she been more patient with Grandma? Grandma had always treated her with love. She called her “my Mari.” Mari thought about when she used to help Grandma plant flowers and weed the garden.
Mari knocked on Grandma’s door.
“Come in,” Grandma said.
Mari opened the door. Grandma was sitting in a chair with the scriptures open on her lap.
“Grandma, would you please tell me how you and Grandpa joined the Church?” Mari asked.
Grandma looked up. “You want to hear about Grandpa and me?” she asked in a hopeful voice.
Mari sat down next to Grandma. “I do. I want to hear everything.” Mari took her grandma’s hand. “You’re very special to me, Grandma. You always will be.”
Grandma smiled, sat back in her chair, and started to tell the story.
Mari had heard the story many times, but this time, she didn’t feel annoyed or impatient. Instead, she felt love and amazement. She knew Grandma and Grandpa had sacrificed a lot when they joined the Church in Germany. Her grandparents had moved far from their home so they could live near other Church members.
Grandma finished the story and smiled. “You are a good girl, my Mari.”
Mari hugged her grandma. “Thank you, Grandma. I love you.”
This story took place in the USA.

Having given some negative examples, I will close with a positive one, of BYU students to whom much was given, from whom much was expected, and who were a worthy “example of the believers.” This group met the challenge and represented BYU and our Church and nation in a way that can make us all proud. I refer to the Young Ambassadors who performed this summer in Poland and the Soviet Union. Three other great BYU groups were performing abroad this summer, the A Cappella Choir, the Lamanite Generation, and the American Folk Dancers. All made us proud. I describe the Young Ambassadors because theirs was the special challenge of being the first organized group ever to represent the Church or the University in the Soviet Union. My wife, June, and I were blessed to travel with them.

The group consisted of twenty-eight BYU students, including five dancers, ten singers, nine orchestra members, and four technicians for sound and lights. The tour director and spiritual leader was Professor Gray Browning of our Russian faculty. The creative director was Randy Boothe of the Entertainment Division. Our objective in sending the group was to provide a living example of Americanism and Mormonism to the people of the Soviet Union.

The Soviet agency responsible for the tour had agreed to four performances. When they saw the quality of the BYU group, they kept adding performances until the Young Ambassadors finally had nine full shows in Rostov Veliky, north of Moscow, in Kiev (the capital of the Ukraine), and in Moscow itself.

The Russian people were extremely curious about Americans and Mormons, and very warm and loving in their response to our students’ performances. The applause was usually tentative at first, but progressively warmer until the last three or four numbers, when the audience clapped in unison and kept the group for several encores and several of those choice occasions when the performers came down into the audience to distribute BYU buttons, postcards, and autographs, to grasp the outstretched hands, and to exchange words of friendship. By then, the look in the eyes of the people in the audience, which I saw clearly because I always seated myself among them, could only be described as shining. During some of the numbers I saw tears in their eyes and a positive look of rapture. You could see their growing understanding of the message of friendliness and love communicated by our BYU students.

Before leaving on this trip, most of the twenty-eight students had taken a semester-long course in Russian language and culture from Dr. Gary Browning, so each had enough phrases to carry on a simple conversation with the people they met. After the performances many of the people would remain in the hall, embracing our students and telling them how much they loved the program and how good it had made them feel. After one show in Kiev, a handsome young man of about thirty-five, accompanied by his six-year-old son, introduced himself to us as the Communist Party secretary in charge of culture in that district of the city. He told us through Dr. Browning how impressed he was with the program and especially commented “on how good it made him feel—what a beautiful feeling it communicated.” That comment told us we were accomplishing our objective in the Soviet Union.

Our students were responsible, as the Psalmist said, to “sing the Lord’s song in a strange land” (Psalms 137:4). But that could only be accomplished—that beautiful feeling could only be communicated—by those who had spent many months of grueling work to bring their program to a professional level, and who were then willing, unselfishly and cheerfully, to give many, many days in the exhausting routine of performance after performance. More than that, they had to work together harmoniously and live in tune with the Spirit so that they could be instruments in the hands of our Heavenly Father in communicating his Spirit. In all this they succeeded, and the results were beautiful to behold.

I could tell you much more about this trip, including the church services we held, the testimonies borne, the rapt attention of the Russian women who slipped into the meeting to feel its spirit, our experiences performing on the street in Kiev, passing out literature in an unprecedented informal tracting exercise, and much more. But I must close by sharing only one more experience, which relates directly to the examples with which I began, the question of how we appear to others.

After the Young Ambassadors had taped the television show, Svetlana told how much she admired our students, especially the young women. “Your students are not sexual like most young people nowadays,” she said. “They are modest in all of their gestures, even when they are expressing very deep feelings.” Then she asked: “What does it mean to be a Mormon; how are Mormons different?” At that point it was easy to share what we wanted to share, and we made a friend.

I was proud as I felt the impact of our students’ appearance and performance and as I felt what they had been able to communicate, spirit to spirit. They had been scrupulous in observing BYU standards, and they had been willing to make the effort and the sacrifices necessary to qualify themselves to present the kind of entertainment we wished to have representing the University and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I hope every student in this University will remember the impact that group had on the Soviet audiences and a Soviet television executive. “It made me feel good,” he said. “Modest,” she said. And then she asked, “What does it mean to be a Mormon?”

One summer I took my son and his friends through some canyons in southern Utah. On the last day of our trip, we hiked through Muddy Creek, a narrow, water-carved sandstone canyon. Muddy Creek has the greatest mud on earth! It was simply wonderful!
Skating and sliding along the creek bank was sheer delight to those boys. Though they did not dwell on the majesty of the setting, I think their reactions revealed something just the same. I watched the boys sliding wildly across the mud, saw their fascination with the sound it made as they pulled their feet out of it, and watched the exhilaration of their races over it. Occasionally in life we get the feeling that we are being watched; there is a certain silence that causes us to look around. That day I felt that silence and sheepishly looked to see if anyone was watching. No one was there, but Someone was watching. I could feel his delight in our delight.

Several years ago, I was invited to speak at a convention of insurance executives in Vail, Colorado. On the way, we crossed the Colorado River.

We could see a new bridge in process of construction. It was an engineering marvel. Anchored to the sheer stone walls on both sides was an abutment for the bridge. Launching out into space from that abutment, reaching out for the other side, were sections of steel girders. When they met and were locked together in the middle 1,000 feet above the Colorado River, each would give strength to the other, and that bridge would be locked together over which traffic of all kinds could flow back and forth safely and conveniently.

Alwi, a devout Muslim of Arabic ancestry, and I, a Christian and devout Mormon, have agreed to symbolically walk arm in arm into the future. Together we hope to build a bridge. Except what that symbolizes is accomplished, all of us face a very dark and very dangerous future.

Noelle Bronson tugged at the ribbon tightened around her blond ponytail. She gave a final look before leaving the mirror, hesitating at the door for one last glimpse as if she might never see a mirror again.
Outside in the yard she could hear the sounds of engines running and of her friends laughing as they came up to the front door calling her name.
She smiled into the mirror and said, “Let me live through this.” Noelle had been looking forward to this outing for months. “At the time, I was mostly thinking about having fun with my friends. I’d heard about my great-great-grandfather, Parley Butt, who was part of the original scouting party and also came through the Hole with the main company when he was only 17. Even though his story was part of our family tradition, none of us had ever been there,” Noelle said.
It was almost 7:00 A.M. and time to meet at the stake center. When they drove into the chapel parking lot she saw most of her friends from the Blanding Utah West Stake, along with leaders and dozens of off-road vehicles packed with provisions and camping gear for the journey ahead of them.
To Noelle and the others, this morning was the culmination of more than a year’s efforts in planning and preparing for this youth conference. The young people of the stake had requested an activity that would let them learn more about their own unique heritage. Like Noelle, most of them had been raised on the stories of the Hole-in-the-Rock pioneers and how they had come to settle Blanding. Many of them were descendants of these early settlers and yet had never seen the places that figured so importantly in their own upbringing. Names like Grey Mesa, Salvation Knoll or the Chute were familiar names but were not familiar to many as places.
During the planning stages, the purposes of the youth conference were identified. The youth and their leaders involved in the planning wanted to have a good activity that was close to home, that would help develop spirituality, and that would provide an experience to bridge the gap between the pioneer heritage and today. Adults from each ward who were experienced with 4-wheel drive vehicles and (if possible) had been on at least part of the trail were called as specialists to help with the activity.
Some felt that this was an impossible journey. Though it had been 100 years since the first pioneers made the journey, the area that they traveled in was still probably among the most remote and little explored places in the U.S.
The presidencies and planning committees met several times during the winter. The young people read histories and studied pioneer journals. They learned how their ancestors had answered a mission call by President John Taylor to come to this wild corner of the world and establish a peace mission among the Indians, how in addition to this challenge they were to provide a civilized buffer in this part of Zion because to that time the San Juan country was controlled by thieves, outlaws, and murderers who used this corner of southern Utah as a place to hide out from the law.
Many of the descendants of the early pioneers still feel under obligation of that original call from President Taylor. In his campfire remarks to the youth, Stan Bronson explained, “We are here to help bring about the fulfillment of the prophecies relative to the restoration of Israel. We have never been released from that first call. I believe the end result of this ‘peace’ mission will be to have the fulness of the gospel operating among the Lamanites here. The ‘peace’ will come here from the ultimate giver of peace and be evident in the hearts and lives of this people.”
“I was excited about going on the Hole-in-the-Rock trip with our stake so I could see for myself the places that have been talked about,” said Cheyenne Johnson. “Walter Joshua and Elizabeth Kinney Stevens, my great-great-grandparents on my father’s side, were newlyweds. That trip was their honeymoon, and I think it must have been more honeymoon than they wanted since it was supposed to last six weeks and it lasted six months.
“Grandpa Stevens drove the first wagon down through the Hole. Also on my mother’s side of the family, great-great-grandparents Benjamin and Sarah Perkins were on that trip. Grandpa Perkins and his brother Hyrum had been miners in Wales and they were responsible for blasting out some of the places where they needed to build roadways down through the Hole. One place known as ‘Uncle Ben’s Dugway,’ was named after Grandpa Perkins. Platte D. Lyman, another great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side, was also on the trip. His wife Adelia stayed in Fillmore to have a baby who was born while the group was at the top of the Hole. He was carried through the Hole-in-the-Rock a few months later. That baby was my great-grandfather, Albert R. Lyman, who later married Mary Ellen Perkins, and they were the first settlers in what is now Blanding. They had 15 children, my grandmother being the 15th. Grandpa always kept a journal and wrote many stories and books. I was anxious to see the country where he had been a cowpuncher and to see his name carved in the rock at Lake Canyon. I felt a special closeness to him there.”
The day had arrived. After much worry, prayer, and planning, these young people from Blanding were going to try to retrace the incredible journey their pioneer ancestors had made 107 years earlier. Brother Glen Shumway, the stake Young Men president, had spent a good deal of his life as a uranium miner and had worked outdoors in this wild country.
“I knew how inhospitable this country could become. The weather, the gnats, the sun, and of course the condition of the trails were all concerns because any one of these factors could wreck the experience for us,” Glen said.
At the stake center, 30 4-wheel drive vehicles were loaded with 135 people and all of their provisions for the three-day outing. Young people from Blanding, Kayenta, Bluff, and Mexican Hat were also represented. It was appropriate that several Native Americans participated because their Paiute, Ute and Navajo ancestors had lived and hunted in this same desert. The caravan traveled the first 75 miles on Highway 95 because at this point the modern road was much the same as the route taken by the early pioneers.
Along this part of the journey they saw Clayhill Pass, where the existing road crosses the old trail. They also were able to see Comb Ridge and Salvation Knoll in the morning light. Because they were traveling from Blanding back to the Hole-in-the-Rock, they were seeing the pioneers’ journey in reverse order. The caravan turned off the paved highway and headed into the desert. Early morning light amplified the color and richness of the red sands and the desert spring wildflowers. The yucca plants were in bloom with many of the pale yellow flowering spikes rising six feet and taller into the air. Purple sage and prickly pear cactus blooms added to the beauty of the desert with its many other flowers. After driving for a few miles they stopped at a tank trailer that seemed to be parked alone in the middle of the desert. Of course Brother and Sister Boyles had towed the trailer here earlier so every vehicle’s fuel tank could be topped off before they got into the more rugged part of the journey.
Even at this point, however, there was some uncertainty from a few of the young people about continuing on.
Peggy Sue Pincock said, “I surely wish I was home doing something else.”
For the rest of the day they traveled. Walking and riding they crawled up slick rock slopes and over sandy dunes and finally inched their way down into Lake Canyon.
They drove through the sandy bottom of Lake Canyon, and then bumped up and down ridge tops for an exhausting final leg of their journey into the camp near Marble Canyon at the base of Grey Mesa.
By this time, even though the group had only been out one day, many felt as Elizabeth Morris Decker felt 100 years earlier when she said, “It’s the roughest country you or anybody else ever seen; it’s nothing in the world but rocks and holes, hills and hollows.”
As the afternoon sun leaned farther to the horizon, tents sprang up around the campground. The clang of dutch ovens could be heard as the aromas of the evening meal spread throughout the campsite. Dutch oven potatoes cooked with onions and bacon, barbecued chicken, corn, fruit punch (seven gallons for each 50 people), and s’mores (a graham cracker, chocolate bar, and marshmallow sandwich dessert) seemed to fill stomachs and rejuvenate the spirits of the camp. Then, like their pioneer ancestors, they held a meeting with musicians and speakers who told about the original journey, and they sang songs of the present and the past.
After a good night’s sleep and a campfire breakfast of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and orange juice, the group felt strong enough to tackle the slick rock slopes of Grey Mesa. Once they got to the top they had relatively smooth going for 15 miles. From the top of the mesa they could look down and see Lake Powell and the Big Bend of the San Juan River. The drivers let themselves and their vehicles slowly down the other side of Grey Mesa while many from the company enjoyed the walk.
As the day wore on they traveled to the top of Cottonwood Canyon, where they were able to look down the canyon and across Lake Powell to the Hole-in-the-Rock.
Though the youth activity took three days instead of six months, there were many parallels in the two journeys. Many of the names were the same, the country was still the same, this modern trip was organized much like the original one. And, like the first trip, this one accomplished the purposes originally intended for it.
“What an eye opener! I couldn’t believe the places those people went over. I love the stories of all the hardships and trials and especially the motivating stories of super faith and hard working pioneers. They were great and very faithful people to do what their leaders asked them to do. I hope I can take this wonderful example and apply these hard working and faithful qualities to my life,” said Annette Carroll.
John Hunt, one of the leader specialists, added “I am 47 years old and have lived in Blanding all of my life. This is my first time to go on this trail. I learned that pictures and stories are not adequate. I have flown over this trail many times, but nothing equals being here. I took my jeep places I never would have believed it would have gone.”
Brother Shumway seemed to sum up most of the feelings of the group when he said, “We all came home with a greater appreciation for the original Hole-in-the-Rock pioneers, who showed their love for the gospel by leaving comfortable homes, disrupting their lives to heed the call of the prophet to extend the boundaries of Zion into this beautiful but inhospitable land of San Juan. We found greater love and appreciation for one another as we camped, ate, jeeped, played, and worshiped in that pleasant setting. We were touched by the Spirit of the Lord in our fireside programs as we listened to the special speakers and music. Most of all, we felt the hand of our Maker, who was with us on this journey and who will be with us on all of our journeys through this life and the eternities.”

One day I experienced that great joy while casually sitting by a friend who had recently been called as mission president, and I thought, “What could I share with him that would help at this important time in his life?” I endeavored to see in this friend what I thought the Lord might see in him. I desired to say what would be of importance to him at this time. I had a wonderful feeling of love for my longtime friend come into my heart, and I was prompted to share with him the thoughts that had come into my mind.

“I guess at a time like this,” I said, “one feels an increased urgency to have a pure vessel through which the Spirit can work unrestrained. Yet, isn’t it a marvelous thing to know that you will have access to that great power, that inspiration, and even revelation every day while yet you and your missionaries are striving for perfection?”

Almost immediately his eyes were moist. His chin began to quiver, and he said, “You must have known I needed to hear that.”

When President Russell M. Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. … To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Oct. 2018 general conference [Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88]).
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came. “You Mormons are such kind people,” someone told me.
“Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, my friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found it awkward to say the full name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And they continued to use the term “Mormons.”
I wanted to make my interactions feel more natural. But this turned out to be more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be embarrassed or lazy about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling members of the Church “Mormons.”
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
One day I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “Yes, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said.
He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?”
And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Jesus Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth several times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, and a military general in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you’re a Christian?”
“Yes, I’m a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do, but I make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church.