Gospel Story Finder

The power of love between a man and a woman is special. The love shared with my beloved companion, Dantzel, has increased the power of love for both of us. That love brought us to the altar in the temple of the Lord. Her love for me motivated her to teach school during the early years of our marriage. When things were tight, she held a second job at night. Once when things were exceptionally tight, she even sold her blood in between her two jobs to keep us solvent. (Her dear parents may have wondered what kind of a son-in-law they had on that occasion!) I thought of that many years later when she needed a transfusion urgently and her blood couldn’t be matched readily with donor blood from the blood bank. What a privilege it was for me to donate mine directly to her.

Elder Lynn A. Sorensen’s call to be a General Authority was something he could not have imagined as a young boy growing up in the rural area of Murray, near Salt Lake City. “I can remember the first time that I attended general conference as though it were yesterday,” he reminisced. “I was just a young boy, and my wonderful parents brought me to the Tabernacle so that I could have a spiritual experience early in my life. We sat in the balcony to the left of the podium, and I could look directly down at the General Authorities. It was a great thrill for me to see President Heber J. Grant for the first time. I particularly remember how he sang the hymns with enthusiasm and how uncomfortable the hard wooden benches were to sit on. I remember looking at the upholstered individual seats occupied by the Tabernacle Choir and deciding that some day I would sing in the choir and have a comfortable, reserved seat for conference. Sitting in the red General Authorities seats was not what I had in mind at all.”
According to Elder Sorensen, his mother was “a very sweet, humble, sensitive person, and we had a lovely home life. My father was a master cabinetmaker who took great pride in his craft. There are many monuments to his woodworking abilities. Not long after he married, he was chosen to install all the woodwork in the new Cardston Alberta Temple. Then, when I was about six, we had a chance to go with him as a family the summer that he installed the woodwork in the Mesa Arizona Temple.”
Elder Sorensen remembered that some of the happiest times that he had were the summers he spent with his cousins on his uncle’s farm in Idaho. “Three of us boys, all about the same age, slept in an old bed out in the orchard under an apple tree. It was there on the farm that I learned to milk cows, thin beets, and weed potatoes. We were allowed to help thresh the peas when the big steam threshing machine came to our farm. Some people thought that that was hard work, but I thought that it was fun—and I still like to ‘farm’ in my big garden in Salt Lake City when I can.”
The oldest of five children, Elder Sorensen remembered that “just surviving during the Depression was a challenge. We always had food on the table, but we had a minimum of clothing to wear. The very first job that I had was folding newspapers once a week. I folded papers all day for twenty-five cents.”
Elder Sorensen loved sports and excelled in football, basketball, and baseball in high school in Salt Lake City. As a younger boy, however, he played baseball with the neighborhood boys in an open field, with a black friction-taped ball, a few gloves, and one old bat. “My mother wanted me to learn to play the piano,” Elder Sorensen said, “and she persevered for about six months, but she had a hard time getting me to practice, especially when I wanted to be out playing baseball. However, I had enough musical training so that when I was in the mission field, I could play about fourteen or fifteen hymns. I wish I had practiced more!
“I remember the excitement of being chosen as a crossing guard in sixth grade and how cold it was walking in the snow all the way to the school on the hill when I was in seventh grade. My biggest challenge was applying myself in school. I was more interested in sports and other things. Then, in junior high school, I was stimulated to learn so that I gained a balance in my life. I was able to pull up my grades and earn a scholarship.
“Serving a mission in Brazil was a great turning point in my life,” declared Elder Sorensen. “When I was twenty and had just completed two years of college at the University of Chicago on an academic/athletic scholarship, I had doubts about my going on a mission. When I returned home that summer, Mom said to me, ‘Well, now you can prepare for your mission.’”
Elder Sorensen told his mother that he had changed his mind and didn’t think that he would serve a mission. “I’ll never forget the hurt look on Mom’s face,” he recalled, “after I told her my decision. She didn’t scold me, but afterward she privately cried and prayed.
“I didn’t go back to school in Chicago that fall. With the help of Mom and Dad and a wise and understanding bishop, I accepted a mission call to Brazil and left for South America in 1940.
“It wasn’t very long after I arrived in the mission field and began studying the scriptures regularly that my testimony really began to grow. Since then it has never wavered but has grown stronger. I’m grateful to the Lord and my parents for guiding me at that very important crossroad.
“Children, listen to your parents. They love you more than anyone else does, except your Father in Heaven, who has an even greater capacity to love. If you follow their good teachings and example, you will always be happy that you did. And remember to follow the counsel and guidance of Church leaders, particularly your bishop.”

At age seven, Joseph Smith contracted typhoid fever, and an infection settled in his leg. Dr. Nathan Smith was pioneering a procedure by which the infected leg could be saved. Without anesthesia, Dr. Smith would need to cut Joseph’s leg and actually remove portions of the infected bone. Joseph declined brandy to endure the pain and refused to be tied down but said, “I will have my father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms, and then I will do whatever is necessary.”1

What trials will our children face? Like Joseph Smith, our children can find the courage to “do whatever is necessary.” When we are intentional about holding them and teaching them of Heavenly Father’s plan through prayer and scriptures, they will come to know where they came from, why they are here, and where they are going.

A true story from the USA.
Diego was lonely. His family had moved to a new place. He missed his friends from his old home.
Diego played with his little sister Cara now. But he also wanted a new friend.
Soon a family moved in next door. They had a little boy, just like him! His name was Sam.
Diego and Sam played together every day.
One day while they played, Diego saw that Cara was sad. Maybe she was lonely too.
“Do you want to play with us?” Diego asked.
Cara smiled big. “Play!”
Diego, Sam, and Cara played trains together. They pushed the toy train cars back and forth. “Choo-choo!” Diego smiled. He was having fun, and so was Cara!
Illustrations by Natalie Briscoe

I once conversed with a fine young man who was not of our faith, although he had attended most of our worship services for more than a year. I asked why he had not joined the Church. He replied, “Because I do not know whether it is true. I think it may well be true, but I cannot stand and testify, as you do, ‘I actually know it is true.’”
I inquired, “Have you read the Book of Mormon?” He answered that he had read in the book.
I asked whether he had prayed about the book. He answered, “I have mentioned it in my prayers.”
I told my friend that as long as he casually read and prayed, he never would find out, worlds without end. But when he set aside a period for fasting and pleading, the truth would be burned into his heart, and he would know that he knew. He said nothing more to me but told his wife the next morning that he would be fasting. The following Saturday he was baptized.

I looked at the clock and shut my scriptures, relieved that my 30-minute study had finally ended. I knelt and offered a mostly passive prayer. The one thing I was sincere about was this: “Heavenly Father, please please please help me know if I’m worthy to go to the temple today.”
I repeated that phrase over and over as tears began to stream uncontrollably down my cheeks and the pit in my stomach grew.
It was the eighth week in a row I had gone through this before my weekly temple appointment. Each week my prayer seemed to grow longer and the pleading more fervent.
I knew I had sinned. I knew I had done something that made me unworthy to attend the temple.
I just couldn’t figure out what that thing was.
I had a habit of repeatedly confessing sins to my bishop. I confessed things that I had done as a child, things I had already repented for, and worst of all—things I wasn’t even sure I had done.
Although each confession provided temporary relief, the next day I would be overwhelmed with guilt again. I began obsessively reviewing my life to find the sin I was sure I had willfully committed.
Each Sunday I would take the sacrament and be filled with the purest peace imaginable. That moment was the highlight of every week. Five minutes later, however, I would be back to painstakingly reviewing my sins and shortcomings, convincing myself that each infraction was far more severe than I’d originally thought.
This constant pattern of constantly repenting and feeling guilty continued until I sought help. Three years later, through the divine guidance of a newly called bishop and small, miraculous circumstances, I found myself sitting in a therapist’s office. I was formally diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD).
Through professional help and acts of faith on my part, I have learned more about myself and how OCD affects my relationship with Heavenly Father.
Although scrupulosity, otherwise known as “religious OCD,” is just one aspect of how OCD affects me, it has been debilitating.
In my battle with OCD, I felt like if I didn’t read my scriptures, pray, or attend the temple, God would be angry with me. With that perspective, worship became dutiful, dull, and repetitive. Like the Zoramites worshiping upon the Rameumptom, I began to “pervert the ways of the Lord in very many instances” (Alma 31:11).
Because of my disorder, scripture study became a time of mindless reading and relentlessly avoiding any passages that had anything to do with repentance. Praying became an apathetic effort. Temple attendance made me feel guilt-ridden and fearful rather than uplifted and fulfilled.
Gratefully, my feelings and perspective gradually changed. As I worked with my therapist, my anxiety became manageable. I began intentionally exercising faith and believing that I could always be forgiven and that God knew my circumstances. I began giving myself more compassion, and for the first time in a while, I felt that God was pleased with me and loved me. My relationship with Him began to be more fulfilling and more empowering. As I prayed for help and healing, I began to understand the gift of repentance and to worship God because I loved Him—not out of fear.
I started understanding what Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles meant when he recently remarked, “Our Heavenly Father’s goal in parenting is not to have His children do what is right; it is to have His children choose to do what is right and ultimately become like Him.”1
Although scripture study caused (and sometimes still causes) me anxiety, seeking the healing power of Jesus Christ and gaining helpful tools in therapy have helped me connect with Him and Heavenly Father again.
Perhaps the hardest lesson I have had to learn is trusting Heavenly Father’s timing more than mine.
One day as I was reading the blessings He promised to me in my patriarchal blessing, I was overwhelmed with the idea that because of my OCD, the blessings described would be impossible for me. I was promised that I would feel peace, but how could I with so much anxiety?
How would I ever learn to love the temple when I always felt unworthy to attend?
I pled for God to remove my OCD from me. But as I did, a single thought came to my mind: “Would I continue to follow the Savior if He didn’t take my OCD away?”
The thought that Heavenly Father wouldn’t take my mental disorder away was devastating. In the days since, I’ve pondered that question a lot: “Will you follow me if not?”
I’ve learned that although OCD might always be present in my life, God will help me to handle its symptoms and continue to grow. My healing still includes crying, bouts of guilt and anxiety, therapy, and pleading on my knees.
But more and more, my healing involves reclaiming joy in my life, offering myself love and grace, and connecting with the Savior. As I turn to Him, He helps me have the strength to carry on. He is by my side as I weep. I have felt His presence more than ever as I plead for His help in dealing with OCD. I now understand how “he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people” (Alma 7:11). I am learning that He truly does know how I feel and will provide me with what I need as I keep moving forward.
Although the extent of the healing I desire may not come now, I hold on knowing that, as Elder Renlund taught, “‘All that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ’ [Preach My Gospel: A Guide to Missionary Service (2018), 52].”2 I have faith and hope that promised blessings and healing will come—even if that means in the eternities.

I was on a basketball team when I was in third grade. After playing the first and second quarters, we’d practice shooting the basketball during halftime. One boy never brought a ball but always tried to get mine away from me and play keep away. It happened every halftime, and it wasn’t much fun.
My mom and I decided that we needed to do something about it—but what? We could talk to his parents, we could confront him about it, but neither seemed the right thing to do. After thinking about it, we decided to bring another ball for him to play with.
At the beginning of halftime of the next game, before he could start his tricks, I handed him my basketball and said, “Why don’t you use this?” He stopped for a minute, then started shooting baskets. I went to the bench and got the other ball from my mom and started shooting baskets, too. He saw me and said, “Oh, you brought another ball.” But he didn’t try to take it from me. I kept bringing two balls and sharing one with him. After about three games, he started bringing his own ball.
Was what I did hard to do? No. I learned that sharing is better than bringing one thing and not sharing and that sometimes we have to go even farther, if the other person isn’t willing to share with us.
I still bring two basketballs to my games. After all, you never know who needs a little extra friendship.

I know a little girl who is the last child in a large family in which the other children are all boys. I guess the shock of being a girl in this big family of boys has made her keenly aware of the fact that she is different from the other children. Her mother has wisely taught her that the boys wear trousers and that she wears dresses. Now you cannot get her to wear anything else but a modest dress. I am certain she will have no problem adjusting to Church dress standards anytime in her life because there will be no need for change. This is something she has been taught from the very beginning of her life. How easy it will be for her to accept the proper dress standard as she moves from child to youth to adult.

Parents and church leaders play an important part in molding our children and youth to become valiant missionaries. The things they learn will help them as they serve because
a mission is not a bed of roses. Challenges and trials are part of the missionary experience, as experienced by Brother Gym Vergel Ramos from Binmaley, Pangasinan.

Gym was 8 years old when he joined the Church in 2010 together with his entire family. He was called to the Philippines Butuan Mission and was supposed to enter the Missionary Training Center in June 2020, but it was postponed due to the lockdown. He underwent virtual MTC and was reassigned to his home mission, the Philippines Urdaneta Mission. On September 21, 2020, two days before he was supposed to report to the Urdaneta Mission home, his paternal grandfather, Fernando Ramos, passed away. His nonmember relatives could not understand why he wouldn’t postpone his mission any further to stay and grieve with the rest of their clan.

After 11 months of service in the field, he learned that his father Virgilio passed away due to Covid19. His area was a few towns away from their home, but his mother counselled him against going home, telling him to stay focused on his work as a missionary. His mission president gave the same advice, and he stayed put and continued to serve. Two months later, Elder Ramos learned that his maternal grandparents Efren and Julieta Manalo passed away one day apart. Despite all the loss, he soldiered on and gave his best as a missionary.

“Death is inevitable and the gospel is true,” says Gym Vergel, who honorably finished his mission last June 2022. “I don’t have any regrets. Heartaches are a part of life and learning. Because of the trials I experienced during my mission, I grew closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. The atonement became more meaningful and gave me strength whenever I felt sad.”

Gym also said he learned to rejoice in the promise of the resurrection. It gave him hope, not just in coping with the loss of family members but also in becoming a better person so he can be strong for his mother and siblings. The tragedy they experienced made them closer and stronger as a family.

Looking back at his mission, Gym is grateful for who he has become. He is blessed not just by the things he learned but also by the people he met. Friends who are now like family continue to help and support him as he works hard to gain an education and at the same time stay on the covenant path.

Tim jogged up the sidewalk after school. He saw Mom sitting on the porch steps holding a camera. “What’s the camera for?” he asked.
Mom patted the step beside her. “I’d like to take your picture, but I need to talk with you about something first. Sit down for a second, please.”
Tim plopped his backpack on the porch and sat down. He got a funny feeling all of a sudden. Was something wrong?
“I got a call this afternoon,” Mom explained. “Your friend Shem is in the hospital.”
Tim took a quick breath. “What happened?” he asked. “Is Shem OK?”
Mom slipped an arm around Tim. “No, he’s not. He had to have an operation.”
“But Mom,” Tim protested, “Shem was here just two days ago. He was fine!”
“I know, honey,” Mom said. “But sometimes something goes wrong inside the body very suddenly. An important blood vessel in Shem’s brain stopped working. Doctors aren’t sure if he’ll be able to see or recognize anybody once he wakes up from the operation.”
Tim couldn’t think of anything to say. His eyes stung with tears, and his throat hurt. He hugged Mom and thought about Shem. They had so much fun last summer playing knights and dragons in Shem’s backyard. He was scared for his friend.
“Why do you want to take a picture of me?” he finally asked.
Mom smiled. “The doctors think it might help Shem if some of his favorite things are nearby when he wakes up. You can’t be in Shem’s hospital room, but we can send a picture. Would you like to do that?”
“Yes!” Tim jumped up. Anything to help Shem. Mom stepped back and took the photograph.
Tim folded his arms and thought. “Can we do anything else to help?”
“You can pray for him.”
Tim felt relieved. Of course! Prayer was the perfect idea. “I’ll go do that right now,” he said, running inside.
The next morning Mom offered Tim some eggs and cereal for breakfast. Everything looked so tasty, but Tim shook his head. “I don’t want any, thanks.”
“What’s wrong? Do you have a stomach ache?”
“No,” Tim answered. “I just think maybe I should fast today. For Shem.”
“Oh,” Mom said. She knelt down beside Tim. “I think that would be a very good idea,” she said quietly.
When Tim got to school, he gave his teacher a note Mom had written, explaining that he wouldn’t be eating lunch. Miss Thompson looked closely at him after she read the note. “Shem must be a very special friend,” she said. Tim nodded.
All day at school, whenever Tim’s stomach rumbled, he said a silent prayer that Heavenly Father would bless Shem. It wasn’t easy, but he felt good inside doing this for his friend. On Sunday he learned that other Primary kids had fasted and prayed for Shem too.
Several days later Tim walked in the house just as Mom was hanging up the phone.
“Great news!” Mom said. “Shem opened his eyes today. And the first thing he said was, ‘Where am I, and why is there a picture of Tim?’”
“He saw my picture?” Tim asked, excited. Shem could still see!
“Yes, he did, and he knew it was you,” Mom said. “That means his brain still works the way it should. The doctors are calling it a miracle.”
Tim let out a whoop of excitement. He leaped up and started running down the hall toward his bedroom.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Mom asked.
Tim paused for only a moment. “I’ve got to thank Heavenly Father!”

Antonella and Mariana loved going to church each week. But now they couldn’t go to church in person because of the COVID-19 pandemic. They had Primary class online, but it just wasn’t the same.
Antonella and Mariana missed going to Primary in person. A year ago, their family had moved from Chile to Canada. The pandemic made it hard to make new friends. They missed being able to learn about scripture stories with the other kids. And they missed having lessons in Spanish like they did in Chile.
One day, after having church at home, Antonella and Mariana looked online for something to help them study Come, Follow Me.
“I wish we could find more videos in Spanish,” Antonella said. She thought for a moment. Then she had a great idea. “We could make our own videos for Come, Follow Me every week.”
“Yeah, and we could do them in Spanish!” said Mariana. “Then we could share them with other kids too.”
Mamá and Papá said they could help. The whole family was excited!
First the family read the scriptures for the week’s lesson. The girls planned what they would talk about. Then they started to make the videos. Antonella and Mariana took turns recording themselves as they talked about stories in the Book of Mormon. At the end of each video, one of them shared something they learned from the lesson. Then Mamá and Papá helped them make the video to post online.
At first, they didn’t always know what to say. But reading the scriptures and learning more about the lessons helped them.
One Sunday, Antonella and Mariana sat in front of the computer for their Primary class. This week’s lesson was about the stripling warriors in the Book of Mormon. “Why did the stripling warriors go to fight?” their teacher asked.
Mariana unmuted their microphone. “I know!” she said. She and Antonella had made a video about that story last week. “Their fathers promised God that they wouldn’t fight, so the sons went instead.”
Antonella nodded. “And their mothers taught them that if they had faith, God would keep them safe.” She smiled at Mariana. It was fun to study the scriptures together.
That night at dinner, Mamá asked, “How was Primary?”
“Good!” Antonella said. “Making the videos has helped me learn a lot more about the scriptures.”
“Me too!” said Mariana. “I can answer a lot of the questions in Primary. And we know the scripture stories better.”
“I’m glad the videos have helped you,” said Papá. “I think they’ve helped a lot of other people too!”
“That’s right,” said Mamá. “Sharing what you’ve learned and how you feel about the gospel is a great way to serve!”
Mariana smiled. “I like that we can serve this way,” she said. Then she turned to Antonella. “Let’s start planning next week’s video!”
This story took place in Canada.

Twice a year, before the sun came up on Saturday morning, the youth from the East Shores (Michigan) Ward would pile into cars and vans. For the next four or five hours they would sleep, sing, play games, and anticipate their destination: the Toronto Ontario Temple. They would spend the afternoon doing temple work, then pile back in the vehicles and arrive home late in the evening.
Now the East Shores youth travel to the temple six times each year, but the travel time has been cut to about 25 minutes since the Detroit Michigan Temple was dedicated in October 1999.

Blessings
When President Gordon B. Hinckley gave the dedicatory prayer at the Detroit Michigan Temple, he prayed that the people who performed the temple work, as well as those who had passed away, would be blessed. With the temple so close, the East Shores youth have had plenty of opportunities to experience the blessings of temple work.
Many of the East Shores youth were at the temple when President Hinckley gave the dedicatory prayer. At that time, they had many expectations of what it would be like to have a temple so close. Now, more than a year later, they are looking back to see if their expectations were met.

Great expectations
When the Detroit temple was announced, Jessica Ellison, an East Shores Mia Maid, could hardly wait. “I remember the exciting feeling of knowing there would be a temple closer and we’d get a lot more chances to go.”
Michael Oniones, a teacher, shared in the excitement. “I knew it would be a lot easier to do the things we used to do at Toronto and other temples because it would be in our own backyard. We could go whenever we wanted.”
Jessica and Michael got their wish.
“We go every other month now,” says Erin Coons, a Mia Maid. “The Young Men and the Young Women switch; the girls go one month, and the next month the boys go.”
This is quite a change from the twice-a-year trip to Canada. But even though the temple is so close, the East Shores youth say going there is like entering another world.

Coming together
Although the greatest expectation the youth had was to attend the temple more often, they have been flooded with other blessings.
In the temple, sacred work is performed that connects families through the generations. The East Shores youth say that, as they work in the temple together, they forge strong bonds with each other.
“You get to know the girls in your ward better because you go together,” Erin says.
The friendship the Young Men and Young Women develop as they attend the temple is stronger than with their other friends because of the important work they do in the temple.
“There aren’t many people you get to share such a spiritual thing with,” says Krista Lyke, a Laurel. “There’s a bond with those girls that you don’t have with your outside-church friends.”
A missionary now
One blessing that wasn’t expected by the East Shores youth was the opportunity the temple would present for sharing the gospel. But when a granite building with a gold angel appears on one of the main streets in town, people ask questions.
Erin took two of her friends through the temple during the open house.
“Even though they weren’t extremely interested in learning more,” Erin says, “it just felt nice to share with them what I believe in.”
A greater respect
The Detroit temple is one of the new, smaller temples. Since there is minimal staff, those attending are expected to help keep it clean. This means that when the youth finish with baptisms, they wipe around the baptismal font, help do the laundry, and make sure everything is left in order.
“It makes it more personal to you because you’ve taken care of it,” Jessica says.
Some of the cleaning responsibilities may not seem very pleasant, like cleaning the bathrooms. But, as Mike says, since it’s the temple, it’s a privilege, not a chore. “If you clean the bathroom, people may not think that’s so great,” Mike says, “but still, you’re cleaning the bathroom in the temple, and even to be in the temple is a great thing.”
Challenges
When Moses was leading the Children of Israel through the wilderness, fiery flying serpents came down and bit them. After they had been bitten, the Lord presented a way for them to be healed. All they had to do was look at a serpent on Moses’ staff (Num. 21:8–9). “And because of the simpleness of the way, or the easiness of it, there were many who perished” (1 Ne. 17:41).
Since the Detroit temple has been built, the East Shores youth say it is quite easy to attend. But as it was with the people who died from the fiery serpents because the cure was so easy, it is also easy to say, “The temple is close by; I can go any time; I’ll skip this month and go next month.”
“We have to go to the temple on Tuesday or Thursday because we save the weekends for other stakes and wards that aren’t close,” says Krista. “So you have to change your priorities, because, if you’re in sports and you have a practice, you have to decide what’s more important, your practice or going to the temple.”
“Life doesn’t stop for you,” says Chris Young, a teacher. “Being closer to the temple does make it easier, but you still have to plan for it.”
Blessings closer to home
The East Shores youth say they are enjoying the blessings President Hinckley prayed for in the dedicatory prayer. One of the things he prayed for was that the temple would “shine as a bright and welcome light, a refuge from the storms and stresses of the world.”
Jessica, like the rest of the youth, says the temple has done that. “When you get to go, you don’t have to worry about anything. You feel so calm and special, and you don’t have the worldly matters to deal with anymore.”
As more temples are built around the world, more youth are enjoying the blessings and feelings of the Spirit that come with frequent temple attendance. “I feel that feeling more now,” says Mike. “Before we had to go far, to Canada. And now that the temple is closer, the feeling is closer.”
“There are many areas of the Church that are remote, where the membership is small and not likely to grow very much in the near future. Are those who live in these places to be denied forever the blessings of the temple ordinances? While visiting such an area a few months ago, we prayerfully pondered this question. The answer, we believe, came bright and clear” (Ensign, Nov. 1997, 49).
—President Gordon B. Hinckley
“‘Come to the temple.’ If not now, come soon. Pray fervently, set your lives in order, save whatever you can in hopes that that day may come. … The temple transforms the individual and makes abundantly worthwhile any efforts made to get there. For some who live at great distances from a temple, the temples will come to you before you might come to them. Keep your faith and your hope and determine that you will come—that you will be worthy and that you will come to the temple” (The Holy Temple, pamphlet, 1982, 1).
—President Boyd K. PackerActing President of the Quorum of the Twelve

When John Rainer was a young boy in Taos Pueblo, New Mexico, one of his favorite parts of the day was dusk. Like most young Indian children, John would run and play and do chores all day long, with an exuberance typical of those who grow up with space to roam and air to breathe. But at the end of the day, when golden fire filled the horizon, John would pause and listen. He would always hear the song of the flute.
“It was a peaceful, relaxed melody,” John recalls. “The old man would sit near the river half a mile from town and play his tunes. He believed the music would travel with the water. You couldn’t see him, but you could always hear his tunes.” It was a time for rest from the day’s labor, a time of repose and contemplation, a time during which a love for music was born in John’s heart.
John grew up and moved to the city. He lived in a comfortable brick home in a suburb of Orem, Utah, with his wife and children. And every evening, just at dusk, he would take his flute—one he made himself—and play a melody—one he wrote himself—to his family. His neighbors didn’t always see John, but they could usually hear his songs. When they did, the whole world seemed to pause, breathe deeply, then sigh in contentment.
“Playing the flute is my way of sharing something my ancestors shared with me,” John said.
Over the years, John taught a lot of students about Indian flute music. Tilda Suen, from Toadlena, New Mexico, remembers standing in front of a class of about 30 Brigham Young University students. Using simple fingering patterns, she played an original composition for her classmates. Then Brother Rainer led the entire group in a discussion about the melody.
“Trying to compose on the flute is fascinating,” Tilda recalls. “It’s hard to get your own expression and style into your song. But Brother Rainer taught us something that helped. He wanted us to convey strong feelings in our music, things like love, our feelings about the Church, our emotions.” Others also played their compositions for the class, then offered supportive comments.
“We learned about improvisations,” explained Lance Silverhorn of Anadarko, Oklahoma. “We arranged the notes we knew to come up with a song, practicing fingering and basic sounds. Later, we’d work out more complicated melodies on our own.”
For John Rainer, teaching a class was another means of sharing his love for the art of his ancestors—and also a means of preserving a skill that to them was interwoven in the fabric of everyday life.
“Native American flute playing was a dying art 15 years ago,” he said. “But now it’s regaining popularity throughout the country, as native performers like Commanche Doc Tate Nevaquaya of Norman, Oklahoma, record traditional songs and travel the country explaining them.” Brother Rainer invited Doc Tate to BYU several years ago and learned a lot from him about how to make flutes and play them. Through his own study, John also amassed a personal knowledge about the role of the flute in Indian society, a knowledge he continues passing on to others.
“I try to help people understand the function of the flute as it was and as it is today,” he said. It is a story of a rich heritage.
Some songs were most personal and were played only for sacred occasions. Some tribes treated songs as actual property—another person could not perform them without permission, payment, or proof they were given to him as a gift. In the Northern and Southern Plains, songs could be rented or leased.
Although many people think of the voice as the primary means of producing a melody in Indian society, the flute and whistle were also used.
Flutes were used in religious ceremonies, to mark events of importance to the community, as a means of self-expression, as a greeting to strangers, as a war signal, to announce the arrival of VIPs, and often in courting.
“Courting was not as overt as it is in modern society. A young man with feelings for a young lady could have a flute made or purchase a song and play it, hoping the young woman would respond. In some cultures, if she was impressed she would tie a feather in his pony’s tail. But they would not go walking around hand in hand.
“The Apaches had a very strict moral code. For them a melody was a prayer. They believed the flute player, to offer an effective prayer, had to be totally clean.
“The philosophy of the people was that there was life in everything, animate or inanimate. Taking that into consideration, they had respect for all life around them. So when the flute maker went out to select his wood, he did so in a religious context. He would try to understand the area from which his wood would come.
“If you have strong feelings and want to compose a song, it’s almost like putting clothes on a feeling. As Latter-day Saints we can use the flute to convey feelings about our Heavenly Father, our testimony, and our love for the gospel and our fellowman. At first your songs will be rough, but expect that. Practice each day and you will find it becomes part of your means of expression.”
One of the non-Lamanites who studied with Brother Rainer at BYU was Ingrid Jensen of Payson, Utah, who had exposure to European classical music in her home. One day in class she interrupted with a question, wondering how the trill so common in native American music is produced. Brother Rainer, whose favorite European composers include Bach, Berlioz, and Mozart, demonstrated the technique. Then he and Ingrid discussed diatonic scales and compared the baroque period’s augmented fourth interval with styles traditional in Navajo hymns.
Not everyone John talks to about flutes is so musically inclined. “Very few of the students in the flute-making class had any musical training when we started,” explained Katherine Kokenes of Mililani Town, Hawaii. “We came to the class because we wanted to build our own flutes and learn to play them. Once our first flute was made, he taught us simple tunes like ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ and we practiced them over and over until we got used to them.”
Katherine based the exterior decoration for her flute on a Hawaiian motif symbolizing the ocean waves surrounding her island. She rubbed the wood with kukui nut oil.
Others John has taught have also found ways to personalize their instruments. Freida Maize from Shiprock, New Mexico, carved an “S” on her flute to stand for her home town. Ray Delgarito of Crown Point, New Mexico, fashioned part of his in the shape of a quail. And Jackie Smith of Dustin, Oklahoma, carved a thunderbird and other tribal symbols of the Creeks and Seminoles on her flute.
“The thunderbird symbolizes power, and to me music is a powerful way to influence people. In my tribe and every tribe it plays a vital part because it is involved in everything—religion, everyday singing, powwows, war dances. Everything is tied in with some form of music or other.”
She explained that her mother, who is not a member of the Church, heard her playing the LDS hymn “I Need Thee Every Hour” on the flute and asked her about its meaning. “I was able to show her that she can kneel before God and meet him any time, every hour.”
John Rainer knows that the wood on a flute can be left natural, rubbed down with a piece of cedar to smooth the surface, or the wood can be finished with linseed oil, stain, or shellac. Designs can be painted on the surface. Each flute, like each song, should represent the person who made it.
“It’s more worthwhile than just making something,” Tilda said. “Something simple becomes something beautiful when you use it to play a song.” John agrees. “It’s an extremely satisfying experience to take wood, carve it out, and then make music from your own creation. And each flute has a timbre all its own—no two instruments, just like no two songs, are alike.”
A flute is made from two halves joined together. This allows the center to be rounded, hollowed, and sanded. When the halves are joined, the instrument must then be tuned. The process requires consideration of many variables: size of holes, their distance from each other and from other parts of the flute, the diameter of the center bore, and the distance from a sharp wooden edge inside the flute that produces the vibrations. Most tuning is accomplished by increasing or decreasing the size of holes.
John explains that his ancestors made their flutes by burning holes with wooden rods, or by hollowing out cane which, when hot, is almost like plastic. In some regions pine, cedar, and redwood were used.
Early flutes were simple, straight tubes. With time, the two-piece construction was perfected, using resin rather than epoxy or glue to join the wood together. Interior carving leaves a thin strip of wood designed as a resonator. A wooden block is usually cemented above the resonator to help redirect air toward the finger holes.
It’s easy to see that a person who wants to make a flute needs to learn something about woodworking as well. A novice learns quickly. Tilda had nearly completed her first flute when it cracked; she completed her second in four days working three hours a day.
“I worked on my flute outdoors,” said Eric Hatch, a Navajo from Fruitland, New Mexico. “It helped me get a feeling for the olden days. The old ways are not so dead after all. My grandparents would be surprised, but they would be proud to see I want to learn and understand things that were important to them. Brother Rainer’s gone back to a lot of things I never knew, things I used to ignore. But now I listen and it seems very real.”
“I learned not only how to make flutes, but I learned a lot about the flute makers’ way of thinking,” Lance said. “It’s quite invigorating culturally to think of them and then build a flute and play a song the same way they would have.”
“I didn’t even know Navajos used flutes,” Ray said. “I think flutes sound neat. When you’re alone, play your flute and it’s like someone else is there. At first I thought I’d learn and then quit. But I think I’ll keep making them. People keep asking me to play songs for them.”
Nelson Atine of Salt Lake City, Utah, said playing the flute helped him think of the future, “what I’ll do with my heritage and my family and my children.”
John has taught many people to share the song of the flute. Some have played Church hymns in meetings. Others have shared their talent with relatives. John often plays a beautiful song he composed for his wife. He smiles proudly when his son David plays his flute.
John’s expertise has opened new opportunities for him. He has moved to San Carlos, Arizona, back to the reservation so that he can spend more time carving ebony and ironwood into flutes. People come from all over the world to hear him play. He travels to universities to give lectures. His music is being recorded and distributed throughout the country.
John will explain that every Indian tribe used the flute in some way. He’ll talk about geographical distribution, varieties of flutes, and compositional techniques. He reminds you that in some native American societies, the flute was so revered that the instrument and the honor of being the flute player was handed down from one generation to the next.
In his own quiet way, that seems to be exactly what John Rainer is doing for the coming generation—he is passing on to them the tradition of the song of the flute.

I want to begin today with a personal story.
The Pitchfork
When I was a boy, I loved to visit my grandparents in Cannonville, Utah. They had a farm there, and I loved to ride the horses and the tractors and play in the barn.
On one visit, when I was about 9 years old, I was playing in the barn just before supper. I saw an old pitchfork standing against the wall next to a few bales of hay. I grabbed that pitchfork and jammed it into the hay again and again, just like I had seen my grandpa do. I wanted to get more leverage and more power, so I braced my left foot on one of the bales. I lifted up the pitchfork as high as I could; and then, forgetting that my foot was in there, I stuck it down into the hay with everything I had. That pitchfork went through the hay, through the top of my black canvas sneakers, and right into my foot.
O, that hurt! But I was so embarrassed I went right into dinner and didn't say a word to anyone about my injury. In fact, I didn't say anything to anyone about it for a couple of days.
Now, you can imagine the kind of pathogens that lived on that old, rusty, heavily used barnyard pitchfork. But I didn't think about those germs at all. I looked at my foot, and all I saw was a little puncture wound. I didn't want to tell anyone about the stupid thing I had done, so I said not a word.
My leg started to hurt the next day. At first it just felt like a pulled muscle, and I hid it pretty well. But the second day was much worse. My friends and I went swimming in our favorite pond that second morning. As soon as I put my left foot into the cold pond water, the pain shot up my leg. I was miserable.
I tried to hide the pain, but my Dad saw me limping around and came over to find out what was wrong. I told him what happened in the barn two days before, and he immediately put me in the car and hurried to the hospital in Panguitch. When we got there, the doctor took one look at my foot and leg and said: "It looks like tetanus. You are lucky your Dad brought you in when he did. Any longer and this would have been really, really bad."
The doctor disappeared for a moment and then returned with the biggest needle and syringe I had ever seen. He shot a large amount of penicillin into my left arm; it really hurt. My arm went stiff and I couldn't lift it without pain for two weeks. But that's what it took to kill the poison. And it worked.
When I walked into that hospital, there was poison in my foot and leg, poison that had begun to spread. If I had waited a few hours longer, my life would have been in danger. But the penicillin attacked the poisonous bacteria and worked with my own immune system to rid my body of that terrible threat.

Laura was someone who recognized a potentially awkward situation and did something to avoid it. She and Kate were best friends. The two of them included others in their circle of friends. A few of these girls planned a party, inviting all in the group except Kate. Laura, after becoming aware of what had happened, told the others that she would not be able to accept their invitation unless Kate was included. This kind, loyal act of a friend who followed the golden rule (see 3 Ne. 14:12) prevented pain and sorrow.

“Mary, what do you see?” Mary’s stepmother spoke softly from her sickbed.
“The fighting seems to be getting closer,” said Mary, looking out the window. The American Civil War was being fought just a few miles away. The sound of gunshots had filled the air since morning. Mary turned to her stepmother. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think we can leave the house to get the doctor.”
“Come closer.” Mary sat next to the bed and took her stepmother’s hand. “I know your father is still not well,” Mary’s stepmother said quietly, “but you need to take the family to Zion—your brother, your sister, and the twins. Don’t give your father any peace until he goes to the Rocky Mountains! Promise me!”
Mary knew how much her family wanted to go to Salt Lake City. After they heard the gospel and were baptized, they had left England to join the Saints in Zion. But would it even be possible? She glanced at her father, who sat silently in his chair. Three years ago, Father had suffered a terrible stroke that had paralyzed his left side.
Mary took a deep breath. “I promise,” she whispered.
Soon Mary’s stepmother closed her eyes for the last time.
One morning soon after, Mary decided it was time to tell her father about her promise. “I know I’m just 14,” she said, “but I must take our family to Zion.” She heard the twins waking. “I need to go get breakfast started,” she said. “But just think about it, please.”
A few days later, Father called Mary’s name. “It’s all arranged,” he said. His speech was still slurred from the stroke. “I’ve sold our land and the coal mine so we can buy a wagon, some oxen, cows, and a few supplies. A wagon company is leaving soon for the West. They’re not Latter-day Saints, but we can travel with them as far as Iowa. When we get there, we can join a party of Saints going to the Salt Lake Valley.”
Mary threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Father.” Soon they would go to Zion!
The days passed quickly as Mary helped get the family ready for their travels. “Everything is going to be all right,” she told herself. “Soon we’ll be in Zion.”
But then Father fell ill. From the way his mouth drooped on one side, Mary feared it was another stroke.
“He’s too sick to travel,” she told the leader of the wagon company. “We just need a few days for him to recover.”
“We can’t wait,” the man said briskly. Seeing Mary’s face, he softened his tone. “You can stay here until he’s ready to travel, and then you can catch up with us.” With no other choice, Mary agreed.
A week later, Mary got her family ready to travel again. “The twins and Sarah can ride on the oxen,” she told Jackson, her nine-year-old brother. “Father can ride in the wagon, and you can help me drive the oxen.”
“I’m scared,” Sarah said in a small voice. She was only six, and she looked tiny on the ox’s broad back. The four-year-old twins looked at Mary with wide eyes.
“We’ll just make good time and catch up with our group!” Mary said with forced cheerfulness.
On and on the Wanlass family traveled, for miles and then for days. Finally, even Mary had to admit the truth.
The wagon party had not waited for them. Mary and her family would have to travel to Zion alone.
“Whoa, there!” Mary pulled back on the reins, and the oxen slowed. “Everyone all right?” She looked at her three youngest siblings, who rode on the oxen’s backs. They nodded.
The Platte River lay before them, wide and muddy. “What now?” her younger brother, Jackson, asked. He was only nine, but he was helping Mary drive the oxen. Father lay in the back of the wagon, still sick from his stroke.
“We don’t need to cross the river,” said Mary. “But we can follow it.” There was no road to Zion, but the river should guide them as they headed west. “Giddyap!”
Mary didn’t know that Mormon pioneers traveled on the other side of the Platte River and went a different way. By not crossing the river, they were entering Indian Territory. They would not see another wagon train for the rest of the journey.
They traveled on. Weeks later, Mary saw a cloud of dust approaching. “Steady,” she whispered to the oxen and herself. “Steady.”
The dust cleared to show a small group of Indians riding on horses. One of the riders moved toward the back of the wagon, where Father was lying.
The rider’s eyes were kind. “He is sick?” he asked, pointing to Father.
“Yes,” Mary whispered. The man called out something in his own language, and the men rode off as quickly as they had come.
Mary looked at the sun in the sky. “We’ll stop here,” she told Jackson. She lifted Sarah and the twins down.
“Mary, come look!” Jackson said. The man with the kind eyes was riding toward them, something heavy in his hands.
“Wild duck,” he said. “And rabbit. For you.” Mary could only stare, speechless, as he dropped the game into her arms. With another nod, he rode off into the twilight.
“Food!” Mary exclaimed. “Meat!” The man’s gift was truly a miracle.
More miracles happened on their journey. A buffalo herd came near them but then parted around the wagon, going on either side of it. A dust storm carried one of the twins into a river, but Mary was able to save her.
But the journey was still difficult. Every day the wagon looked more worn, and the oxen looked more tired. The ground was steep and rocky. The mountains were hard to cross. But Mary and her family kept plodding forward.
They were just coming down from a tall summit when Mary saw a man driving toward them in a wagon.
“Maybe he can tell us the way to Lehi, Utah!” she said to Jackson. They had an uncle who lived there.
“You’re in Echo Canyon, not far from the Salt Lake Valley,” the man said when she asked where they were. “But where is the rest of your party?”
The whole story came out, and the man listened with amazement. “You’ve traveled over 1,000 miles (1,609 km) all by yourselves?” He shook his head with admiration. “You are one brave girl. Let me tell you the way to Lehi. You’re nearly there.”
“Nearly there,” Mary whispered to herself as the man drew a rough map in the dirt. Nearly to Zion. “I think we might make it, after all.”
Mary and her family made it to Lehi, Utah. She later married and had a large family of her own. Her example of faith and courage has blessed many people.

I knew the Prophet. While I was nine, I attended a school kept by a Miss Mitchell in his brother Hyrum’s brick office.
I was passing the Prophet’s house one morning when he called me to him and asked what book I read at school. I replied, “The Book of Mormon.” He seemed pleased. Taking me into the house, he then gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon to use at school. It was a gift I greatly prized.
Jesse N. Smith

Pres. Shumway extended an invitation for me to sculpt the sculpture of George Q. Cannon and Napela. I felt that it was an inspiration and I was moved to sculpt it.
On the day we unveiled the sculpture, a short Hawaiian lady came over to hug and congratulate me. She whispered a statement which inspired my new dream.

"Thank you for doing this for my people; I feel closer to them."

Ever since that day, I dreamed of doing the same thing for the Tongans. I went to the library and I found that the history of the Pacific Islands was well documented: the Samoans, Maori, Hawaiians, and the Tahitians, but nothing for Tonga.
I took this dream to the Lord and I have been in the heat since. I have been sweating for the past five years, navigating this dream. I have been searching the history of my roots, from mission records and journals of those American missionaries who have served in Tonga since Elder Brigham Smoot and Alva John Butler in 1891.
I titled this project "Seek the roots for the health of the shoots".

Time dulls some memories. Others never die. As a missionary in Kentucky and Tennessee, I had experiences that will live brightly in my mind for many years to come. During the summer of 1972 I had the opportunity of working in the small southern town of McMinnville, Tennessee. Though my stay was relatively short, it was one of the most profoundly significant times of my life.
I vividly recall the night of my arrival in McMinnville. It was early evening, and the early summer heat was stifling. I was excited. I was humble. And I was soon to come to grips with the reality of the harsh world of proselyting. This was a world where great idealism and great hope had to be translated into great faith and hard work. It was a world where baptisms were earned with blood, sweat, toil, and tears, if even then. But the Church was true, and I was excited.
Missionary work in McMinnville was hard, and the first weeks presented us with some real difficulties. The town had been tracted out on a regular basis every six months for at least the past ten years, and we only had two contacts. Fortunately, I was too green and idealistic to be discouraged, and so we went forth. And as time went on, tracting seemed increasingly fruitless. The people for whom we had the most hope seemed to be the first to lose interest. Yet in my heart I had a burning desire to succeed. The funny thing was that I really didn’t know what it meant to succeed. I didn’t know exactly what I was expecting to find, but I did know whatever real success was, that’s what I wanted.
It was early June when we called back at the first house on the right side of Van Buren Street. We had left a Book of Mormon there earlier. The husband answered the door and invited us in. The TV was on, and he returned to his easy chair where an ash tray and a beer can sat on opposite arms of the chair. After he had readjusted himself, he turned slightly and said, “Well, boys, what can I do for you?” (Boys was the common term for a couple of Mormon missionaries in the South.) I remember as I answered him that I had to speak loudly because I was running close competition with the local broadcast of Hee Haw. I explained, as best I could, why we had come: we had left a copy of the Book of Mormon with his wife, and we would like to tell them more about it as it contained a message of beauty and great importance for himself and his family. He told us he and his wife were going out for the evening but that they would be glad to have us back next week. The next week we went back. After a few preliminary introductions we were ready to go. Unfortunately Uncle Fred and his family had decided to pay an unexpected visit and showed up in the middle of the opening prayer, so we were on the road again. The next week we returned and were able to give them the first discussion. It was a rough evening. I didn’t know too much about burning hell, and the fine points of polygamy still weren’t too clear; but we explained the gospel the best we could, promised to find some more scriptural references, and bore our testimonies. Afterwards I asked Mr. Hale how he felt about the things we had discussed. I think his answer was a classic. He said, “Boys, I don’t know whether what you’ve told me tonight is true or not, but I feel like Joseph Smith did when he went to the woods to pray. I want to know the truth. I want to know the truth.” And he meant it.
The next week as we walked in the door to give the second discussion, I noticed that a curious change had taken place. The room was spotless. There were no beer cans or cigarettes this time, and the Hales were waiting for us. And to add to our rejoicing, as we pulled out our lists of scriptures on hell, polygamy, and other subjects he’d asked about, he said, “Oh, let’s go on to something else. I already believe the Church’s teachings on all that now that I’ve had a chance to think about it.” As the discussion progressed, he began asking questions he’d wondered about all his life. What a thrill it was for us to be able to give him the answers he’d been waiting so long to hear. At the end of the discussion, he confided in us that when his fellow workers found out he was listening to the Mormon missionaries they had started giving him a bad time. I asked him if this bothered him. His answer was choice: “There’s always another neighborhood to move to. There’s always another town. But if this is the truth, then that’s all that really counts.” And it was.
We knew these people were special, and more than anything we wanted them to come into the Church. I believe I learned more during that month as I searched out answers to their questions than during any other month in my life. I remember calling my district leader several times to ask for help on some tough questions. This was a particularly desperate move considering those were long-distance calls.
The third discussion was the turning point. That night I bore my testimony with all the fervor of my heart. More than anything else I wanted to touch their lives. Then an amazing thing happened. After we bore our testimonies to them, they bore their testimonies to us. They told us that they knew the Book of Mormon was true because God wouldn’t leave us with just the Bible. They told us they knew we were servants of our Heavenly Father and that the things we told them were true. And the rest—the rest is history. On July 7, 1972, Arthur and Nancy Hale were baptized members of the true church of Jesus Christ.
During their conversion I learned to love those people. In fact I would have given anything I had to see them accept the truth. For one moment I was loving and serving as Christ would love and serve. This was my joy, and my heart was full. As President Harold B. Lee once said, “If you want to love God, you’ve got to learn to love and serve the people.” This was success—to be able to love and serve others with all your heart. To love and to care, to share and to bear, to reach out and experience rebirth—this was true success. This was the answer.
I cried when I left McMinnville. Maybe I’ll go back there someday. But whether I do or not, the lesson in love I learned there will be with me the rest of my life.

That summer, Louisa Pratt and her daughters camped at the Mount Pisgah way station on the Iowa trail. The place was beautiful, but the water was tepid and foul tasting. Sickness soon overran the settlement, and many Saints died. Louisa’s family escaped in early August in good health, but they felt awful about leaving so many sick friends behind.
Louisa’s company camped a short time later beside a mosquito-infested creek, and soon she and others were running fevers. The company stopped to rest and then pushed on to the Missouri River, where a long line of wagons waited to be ferried across. When it was finally Louisa’s turn, something frightened the cattle, causing great confusion on the ferry and aggravating Louisa’s illness.
On the other side of the river, Louisa’s fever soared, robbing her of sleep. Around midnight, her groans awoke the ferryman’s wife, who found her in terrible condition. The woman quickly directed Louisa’s daughters to make a separate bed for themselves so their mother could get some rest. She then gave Louisa warm coffee and some food to revive her.14
The next day, the company rolled into the Saints’ new settlement, Winter Quarters, the largest of several settlements of Saints along the Missouri River. About twenty-five hundred people lived in Winter Quarters on land shared by the Omahas and other local Indian tribes.15 Most of the Saints occupied cabins made from logs or sod, but some lived in tents, wagons, or cave-like dwellings called dugouts.16
The women of Winter Quarters immediately surrounded Louisa, anxious to help her. They gave her brandy and sugar as medicine, which at first made her feel better. But soon her fever worsened, and she began to shake violently. Afraid she was dying, she cried to the Lord for mercy.17
Some of the women who attended to Louisa anointed her with oil, laid their hands on her, and blessed her by the power of their faith. In Nauvoo, Joseph Smith had taught the Relief Society that healing was a gift of the Spirit, a sign that followed all believers in Christ.18 The blessing comforted Louisa, giving her strength to endure her sickness, and she soon hired a nurse to care for her until her fever broke.
She also paid a man five dollars to build her a cabin of sod and willow brush. The cabin had only a blanket for a door, but it was well lit and large enough for her to sit in a rocking chair beside her fireplace while she recovered her strength.19