Gospel Story Finder

An area president and I were in a land where, to our knowledge, not one member of the Church lived among the millions of that nation. We met a man who had been a longtime student of the Bible. He belonged to a Christian church but was not satisfied with it. He thought that he should belong to a church that carried the name of the Savior. In an old encyclopedia, he had found listed The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He wrote a letter to Salt Lake City and received an answer with a Book of Mormon. Other literature followed as he requested it.
By the time that we met him, he had read the Book of Mormon again and again and knew that it was true. He knew that the priesthood had been restored with all its gifts and powers. He knew of various Church ordinances and the procedures of our meetings. Did he believe Joseph Smith to be a prophet of God? Most assuredly.
Our friend asked for baptism and hoped to receive the priesthood so that he could teach and act with proper authority.
“But,” we said, “if we baptize you and then leave, you will be left alone. There will be no one to teach you and help you.”
He responded, “God will teach me and help me, and He will be my friend and support.”
I looked into the eyes of that good man and saw the light of faith and testimony. We baptized him, confirmed him a member of the Church, and bestowed upon him the gift of the Holy Ghost. We baptized his wife. We conferred upon him the Aaronic Priesthood and ordained him to the office of priest so that he and his wife could have the sacrament.
We held a sacrament and testimony meeting with them. When we said good-bye to one another, we embraced them. I shall never forget him. I know little of his circumstances now, but this I know: When we talked with him, the fire of faith burned in his heart, and our own faith was quickened also.

We have seen many examples of this promise being fulfilled. Recently a young woman told us that after having researched her grandmother’s name, she had come to the temple to do the work for her. She said that as she was baptized for her, she had the clear impression that her grandmother would greet her in the next life. Experiences such as these strengthen testimonies and instill a desire to participate in further ordinances of the temple.

After we got married, I was a fulltime student working on a Ph.D., teaching part time, and we had a new baby girl, Kialoa, our oldest, and I thought I was busy. Then, I was called to serve as the elders quorum president of the Kahaluu Ward by the president of the Kaneohe, Hawaii Stake at the time: President Scott D. Whiting, who is now Elder Whiting whom I just quoted. I laugh now because I thought I was busy then, and now I have six children.

Anyway, I accepted the call with some reluctance. He asked if I had any concerns, and I said something like, “I’m concerned because if I say I’m going to do it, that means I have to do it.” President Whiting, also a lawyer, smiled and said, “It’s funny how that works – when you say you’re going to do something, you have to do it.”

I served as well as I could and then I had to be released because we were moving to Waianae on the other side of the island. When President Whiting released me, he asked, “Why are you moving to Waianae?” I said “I’m pursuing a Ph.D. and doing my dissertation field work there.” “Why a Ph.D.?” he asked. I told him, “My goal is to teach at BYU–Hawaii.” After our interview, I asked him to give me a blessing. The main thing I remembered him saying in that blessing was that our goal of being at BYU–Hawaii would take longer than expected.

A few years later, in 2005, I applied for a position here at BYU–H. I thought the process went well; I think I gave the best research presentation I had ever given (before or since) and felt like that was confirmation that that was the time and place. Humbled is a nice way of saying it, but it was really disappointing and hard to take when I was informed that I didn’t get the job. It didn’t help that the grant I was working under at UH at the time was coming to an end, and I was about to be unemployed when my wife was pregnant with our third child. I thought, “We talk about returnability, but I’m returning home and can’t get a job.” To make a long story short, this was a very challenging time for us but a time we value and have learned from.

Hindsight is always 20-20, and for me, I’m half blind, so that doesn’t help, but I can see clearly now that not getting the job at that time was the best thing that could have happened. I ended up elsewhere, and that experience was invaluable. I completed my Doctoral degree at UH, got a tenure track job at the University of Hawaii at Hilo, we lived on an acre in lower Puna, we made lifelong friends, and my family was thriving. And then to make a long story short, four years after I first applied, I got a job here, and we ended up coming back home; however, it was in a position that I honestly didn’t anticipate or expect to be in.

I guess four years is a magic number for me; it was also four years after we met that we were married. I guess I’m lucky it was not seven years like Jacob or 40 years like Children of Israel.

However, President Whiting’s blessing proved prophetic – it took me longer than expected to return to BYU–Hawaii. In many ways, that’s the story of my life. My name Kali means “wait” in Hawaiian. Things have taken longer than expected. I was born late, and I’m a late bloomer – I was the last of my friends to serve a mission, one of the last to get married, and it also took me a while to finish my education and to start my career.

In the middle of my sophomore year, my high school drama department announced auditions for the annual Shakespearean play. “This is great!” I thought. I pictured myself in colorful Elizabethan costume, playing a rousing Shakespearean role. It was something I had wanted to do all year. So between American History and lunch I ran into the office and picked up a dittoed sheet of dialogue.
“What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distempered head so soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.”
“That sure doesn’t sound like English to me,” I thought, reading through the rest of the tryout material. I couldn’t make sense of what was going on or of how I was supposed to say one word. I’d seen Shakespearean plays before and even movies. The lines had always sounded easy and natural.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked myself. The audition line I had joined after school was getting shorter. I stood in the C-wing stairwell and reread the pages: “What early tongue …” I was growing frantic.
Matt Ricks filed into the line behind me. “Hey, Brad, it’s good to see you trying out.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. Matt was the best actor in the school, and I was in awe.
“Oh boy,” I thought. “Now I’ll really look like a fool when he tries out after me. Well, I don’t have to look like a fool. I’m not going to walk out on that stage and make a total idiot of myself.” I turned away from the audition line and walked quickly to my hall locker. Luckily Matt was surrounded by his usual harem of admirers and didn’t notice me leave.
I argued with myself: “Don’t be dumb. We’ve gone through all this before. Of course you might not make this play, but then, you might! You have to try.” I climbed the main hall stairs to upper B-wing. “You can’t read Shakespearean English now, but you can learn.”
Then, somehow, all the ifs and theys got to me. “Even if I learned it, what would they say if I botched it?” I crumpled the dialogue sheet and shoved it in my back pocket. It was easy to imagine the hateful names they might call me; it was easy to feel the hurt when they would laugh at me or whisper cruel things if I failed. I envisioned myself onstage—“What early tongue so sweet saluteth me”—dodging all the pencils, spitwads, shoes, rocks, and desks that they would throw.
“I’m not trying out,” I decided firmly. By now I’d missed my bus and knew I would have to walk all the way home. I snatched up my books, kicked the locker door closed, and drooped back down the B-wing stairs. Why should I worry about what they would think? But I did.
When I ate only one taco for dinner instead of my usual three, dad realized something was on my mind.
“I’m not holding myself back,” I told him. “I want to try out and do what I know is best for me, but they won’t let me. They’re intimidating me right out of my best intentions.”
“Who are they?” dad asked.
“Well, you know, they.”
“Who?” he asked again.
“The kids at school,” I answered exasperatedly.
“Who?”
“You know,” I fumbled. “Friends, peer group, the kids trying out who are better than me.” Inside I was frantic. Not a single name came to my mind except Matt Ricks, and he was the only one I was sure wouldn’t laugh.
Then, with the infallible wisdom of most fathers, dad explained that as people mature it becomes less and less important what other people think or say. It took him until 7:00 to finally convince me that “mature people are self-confident enough to live in a way that will please their Heavenly Father. They do what is best, what they know is right, regardless of what they say. Some people never reach that point of maturity, while others reach it quite early in life.”
He reminded me of when our family would go to the park to play baseball. The older family members would leave Chris, my younger brother, and me to play at the small baseball diamond while they went around the wire fence to the grown-ups’ baseball field. “Do you remember how you two would play until you were bored, and then both of you would climb to the top of the dugout to watch the grown-ups play ball? That fence always seemed a tangible measure of age and ability. Now it can be a symbolic measure of maturity as you judge in which ballpark you’d like to play. You need to commit to your goals, never caring about what they may say. It is up to you to reach the fence as early in life as you can.”
Before bed that night I rescued the wrinkled tryout sheet and read it over again. “What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distempered head.” Finally the words were beginning to make sense. I sat right in the middle of my bedroom floor laughing out loud. “Dad’s right.” I thought of where I was and imagined where I could be if I hadn’t talked myself out of so many opportunities, or let others do so, without even trying. Maybe I might not have made the team, or won the office, but maybe I might have. When I was younger I didn’t have the personal courage to try, so I shall never know. But that night dad taught me that one of the nicer things about trying is that you can never lose something you don’t have. You only take a chance on winning.
Dad told me, “Trying is like climbing a hill. If you stand with your feet firmly planted at the bottom and declare that there is no way you can climb that hill, you could stand there forever. If you dare to try, you have nowhere to go but up.”
Of course, it does matter what other people think and say since we all live together on this earth. Heavenly Father tells me I must consider others, that I am my brother’s keeper. Actually, other people are the incentives for most good things I do. Other people and their feelings toward me are often my reward. My happy balance will come as I learn to keep the opinions and actions of others in perspective. I must remember not to let others dictate my actions. In turn, I must not be the one whose remarks or actions could dominate someone else’s life. We must all play in the grown-up park by acting and not reacting.
“All right,” I told myself on the bedroom rug, “if they aren’t holding me back, then what other excuse do I have? The audition is up to me.” Despite the late hour, I practiced the passage again. As the Shakespearean sentences began to flow, my confidence returned. I berated myself for being so stupid as to have given other people that strong a vote in my election. Yes, they have a voice, and there will always be those who encourage and those who discourage, but I have free agency. I cast the deciding ballot, and I vote for what is best for me.
As I practiced, somehow Shakespeare, the man, became a reality to me. What if he had been afraid to try to write a play because of what people might think? What if he had never produced his plays because he feared being laughed at, or called names, or run out of town? I felt foolish. How infinitely poorer our world would be without William Shakespeare, or for that matter, without Thomas Edison, Abraham Lincoln, Harriet Tubman, and Thomas Jefferson. What if Joseph Smith had not prayed in the grove? Or then, what if he had never told anyone else about his marvelous vision of the Father and the Son because of what they might (and did) think?
I would never want the Lord to say of me, “But with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man. Wo unto such, for mine anger is kindled against them.
“And it shall come to pass, if they are not more faithful unto me, it shall be taken away, even that which they have” (D&C 60:2–3).
“Tomorrow,” I vowed as I climbed into my waiting bed, “tomorrow I will really act—in more ways than one.”

Church basketball just wasn’t for me. After all, the Church was five miles away, I had no car, and besides, there was a chance to play on the local commercial league team with some fellows who were stars in high school. They always had some neat social activities, and besides, that’s where the action was. A party after every game!
Stan was captain of the ward team and always seemed friendly when I saw him at priesthood meeting a couple of times a month. Stan had an old model “A” Ford and lots of persistence. During those days of indecision, I’d find him parked in front of our house as I arrived home from school. He seemed willing to wait as long as necessary for me to eat, change, and then go off with him to the church for practice or a game. Stan’s mind was made up—I was going to play on the Church team that season, and play I did. The real victory was not in the regional championship, but rather in the lifelong friendship of those who were my teammates and the wholesome life-style that they provided for me. This has never changed since. Their influence was a significant factor in my preparation for a mission, a temple marriage, and the most precious thing in my life, the Church as a total involvement rather than just the occasional meeting as convenience lent itself. Thanks, Stan!

As I slowly added to my mother’s family tree, I received a message from someone I didn’t know on FamilySearch. A maternal family name I had sent to the temple was reserved by this person, and they asked me for help to find more information about their family.
Temple names can only be reserved by descendants of that name, meaning I was related to this person messaging me. I was astounded! My family had always believed that we were the only members of the Church on my mother’s side and that no one from her side lived in the USA. But we were wrong.
This person turned out to be a distant cousin—their family immigrated to the United States almost 40 years before my mother did and are active members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. By what can only be described as a miracle, they contacted me right when they were visiting my state, and we had the opportunity to meet each other.
We shed tears when we finally saw each other. As we shared our stories, we realized that we had so much more in common than we’d thought. There is something about finding long-lost family members that makes my heart grow with love—a love that has the power to heal loneliness and discouragement and remind me of my divine identity and eternal connections.
The blessings available to us when we do family history work are “breathtakingly amazing because of their scope, specificity, and consequence in mortality,”3 as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared. The Lord blessed my family with relatives who could help us feel a bit closer to home and ease some of the loneliness we’ve been feeling.

As a junior high school teacher with eight children, I needed to provide at least GHC 5.00 as pocket money to each child every school day. None of the days were for rest in my family, including Sundays. My wife needed to work hard with the children to make ends meet. She sold mashed kenkey (ice kenkey), water, cocoa drinks, or farm produce I brought from the farm I owned aside my teaching job.
After my family’s baptism, the missionaries taught us the importance of Sabbath day observance. We found it difficult and inconvenient to observe the Sabbath due to the high financial challenges we faced. The missionaries taught us to our understanding from scriptures such as Mosiah 13:16–19 and Exodus 20:8–11. Reading such scriptures overturned events of the family. We prayed for the Lord to help us keep His day holy by providing for our needs from Monday to Saturday.
While offering a prayer in our family home evening one Monday, I declared that henceforth there should be no more sales on Sundays. My children jubilated with the hope that Heavenly Father would provide. The Lord indeed answered my prayers. Each of these children have now completed various levels in their education, and four of them are returned missionaries with university education.
Thus, the Savior will bless His people who obey and keep the Sabbath day holy.

I will always remember with gratitude one special leader who changed my life for the better. When I met her, I didn’t have many friends. I was not very talkative and would not smile at people. I didn’t participate in seminary or other activities. In fact, I went to church only on Sundays. And even then my thoughts wandered in Young Women class. Some of the girls tried to include me, but I closed myself off from them.
When this leader first tried to get close to me, she didn’t have much success. At first I didn’t even know her name. Then she gave me a job to do and began to depend on me. I accepted the responsibility only because I didn’t know how to tell her no. Then, before I even realized it, she started to become my friend. I began trying harder and harder to fulfill my calling, and I began paying attention in class. I even started attending seminary and other Church activities. I also made friends with the young people in my ward. Soon the gospel was the most important thing in my life.
Who started all these changes in my life? It was my leader. Today when I look into her eyes, I feel an immense love and gratitude. I am grateful to Heavenly Father for the opportunity of having such a special leader. I am grateful to her for preparing me and being with me on the day I received my endowment in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. I am grateful for her example of love, a love I try to apply in my own life.
Now that I am a Young Women leader in my ward, I hope I can do for my young women at least a part of what she did for me.

It had just started to rain when seven-year-old Angela stepped into the tent. Her two older brothers, Michael and Mark, were already inside. Mom and Dad had their own tent set up not far away.
“Let’s say our prayers before we get into our sleeping bags,” Michael said.
The three children knelt in prayer. Angela thanked Heavenly Father for her many blessings, and she asked Him to keep them safe from the storm and to help them sleep well.
After her prayer, she slid into her sleeping bag. For a long time all was quiet except for the plomp, plomp, plomp of the rain against the roof of their tent. Then she heard Michael’s voice. “Hey, Angela, wasn’t Mount Rushmore cool?”
“Yes,” she answered with a yawn.
“So were the animals in the park,” said Mark.
“I liked them, too,” Angela agreed. She pictured the buffalo calves grazing so close to the road that she could see their eyes watching the slow-moving cars.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela squeezed her eyes tight. “Go to sleep,” she told herself. “It’s just thunder.” It had rained almost every day that her family had been on vacation. Every time it rained, lightning shot across the sky like hot arrows, and thunder echoed on and on like beating drums.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela pulled the sleeping bag over her head. “Go to sleep,” she told herself again.
“Mark, are you awake?” Michael whispered into the darkness.
“Hmmm?” Mark’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Are you awake?”
Flash!
Mark opened his eyes. “I am now,” he said.
Boooom!
“Angela, are you awake?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Angela whimpered. “I’m scared. I want to go to Mom and Dad’s tent.”
“It’s raining too hard,” Michael said. “You’ll get soaking wet. Besides, it’s not safe to go out in the lightning.”
Angela frowned. “But I’m really scared.”
Flash! Flash!
“You don’t need to be scared,” Mark said. “The lightning is really cool! It’s just a bunch of static electricity in the clouds.”
Boooom!
“And the thunder sounds like a big whip!” he added.
Angela shuddered. “I don’t like it!”
Flash! Boooom!
“Well, then think of things that make you happy,” Mark suggested. “That might help.”
Angela closed her eyes and thought about a field of yellow flowers. She imagined herself running down a hill into the field, laughing.
Flash! Boom! Flash! Flash! Booooom!
“It’s not working,” Angela said, shaking. “I’m still scared.”
Suddenly, rain began pelting their tent. Angela scrunched deep within her sleeping bag. What could she do to stop feeling scared? Then a quiet thought entered her mind. “Why don’t we sing?” she shouted, hoping her brothers could hear her above the noise. “My Primary teacher said that singing Primary songs can help us feel better.”
“OK,” Mark said loudly. “What should we sing?”
“How about ‘I Am a Child of God’?” Michael suggested.
Slowly, quietly, Angela started to sing.
“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here …”
Angela stopped. Her brothers weren’t singing with her. “They must not be able to hear me,” she thought. So she sang louder.
“Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”
Her brothers were singing now.
“Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must do
To live with him someday.”
(Children’s Songbook, 2–3.)
Flash! Boom!
“Now what should we sing?” Angela asked.
“Let’s sing that one again,” Michael said.
Over and over, Angela, Michael, and Mark sang “I Am a Child of God” until the storm passed and peace returned to their tent.
“It worked!” Angela told herself as she snuggled into the warmth of her sleeping bag. “Finally I can go to sleep.” As she closed her eyes, another thought gently filled her mind. “I am a child of God, and I know He will help me find the way.”

I had faithfully read the Book of Mormon daily since I was a teenager. Even on nights when I’d fall into bed exhausted and realize I hadn’t read for the day, I would pick it up and read at least a few verses.
Two years ago I was asked to teach the Old Testament in early-morning seminary. I was more unfamiliar with the Old Testament than any other book of scripture, so some days I would spend three to four hours studying and preparing my lessons. Because I spent so much time studying the Bible and latter-day revelation, I stopped reading the Book of Mormon every day. We were reading it as a family at night, and I would use it for an occasional cross-reference, so I felt that I was getting sufficient daily gospel study.
In the middle of the school year in January, my stake president challenged the entire stake to read a chapter in the Book of Mormon each day. Though I wondered how I would find time given my heavy seminary studies, I decided I should accept the challenge. I needed to do it not only to strengthen myself but also to set an example for my children and students.
From that moment on I read a chapter from the Book of Mormon each day as I started preparing my seminary lesson or as I got ready for bed. A spirit and a power I didn’t know was missing returned to my life. My seminary lessons, which had been going well, became even better. Parts of the Old Testament that were difficult to understand became clearer. I also realized that I better understood the Book of Mormon as a result of the intense study I had been doing of the prophets and the law of Moses.

Four LDS Scout troops in the Memphis Tennessee Stake took advantage of a week at Scout camp to do some missionary work.
At summer camp, Camp Yocono, in the Chickasaw area of north Mississippi, the LDS troops came dressed in gold T-shirts, designed by Scoutmaster John Larsen of the Booneville Ward, which helped spread the word to the largely nonmember boys at the camp. The shirts declared, “Mormon Scouting—Seventy Years of Honor.”
The LDS troops agreed that, at the end of the week, they would select the staff members who had most contributed to the spirit, fun, and education of the camp while showing good moral character. During the week, copies of the Book of Mormon were given out and gospel discussions were encouraged. Before the Friday night bonfire, members of the camp staff were chosen for recognition and presented with a green T-shirt and a Book of Mormon.
The four LDS troops participating were all from the Memphis Tennessee Stake.

In conclusion, the children told this story about their father when he was in the army.
“One time Dad was in a foxhole and enemy bombs were coming closer and closer all around him. He said a very fervent prayer and promised he would serve the Lord righteously if his life could be spared. One shell landed about three feet from him, but miraculously his life was spared.
“On a recent trip overseas Dad visited the site of this particular foxhole. Now just a short distance from there an LDS chapel has been built. He was amazed and thrilled at the contrast and later spoke of it in a meeting at that chapel. Dad has never forgotten his commitment to the Lord, and he truly tries to live each day as righteously as he can.”

Let me share with you a few of my own experiences.

In 1978, shortly after returning from my mission, I had the opportunity to take the first of several trips to Italy to work with my father and grandfather carving statues from the crystalline-white marble quarried in the mountains above Carrara. On weekends we visited the great cathedrals and museums in Italy. One of the first cathedrals we visited was Santa Maria Novella, a quiet cathedral near the train station in Florence. As we entered the cathedral, the morning sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, projecting colored light along the walls and pews. I was drawn to a large fresco painting of the Trinity by the early Italian Renaissance painter Masaccio. The painting depicts the three members of the Godhead: God the Father at the highest point, His hands supporting the cross that bears His Son, and the Holy Ghost in the form of a dove immediately above Christ’s head. As I gazed on the painting, a strong spirit of reverence came over me. I remained there quietly admiring it, pondering the concept of the Godhead.

In the years that have passed since that time, the image of this painting has often come to mind, and each time I feel the same warm reverence that I felt that day. At the time I was 21 years of age and knew very little about the history of art. I later learned as part of my studies that this painting was among the most important in art history because it was the first use of scientific perspective in Western art. I also learned that Masaccio was only 21 years old when he painted the work. This masterpiece was one of only a few works that he completed before his untimely death at the age of 27. As I learned more about the technical details and historical significance of this work, my admiration for the painting, and its spiritual message, grew.

Another painting had a profound spiritual influence on me. As I child I lived in the Sugarhouse area of Salt Lake City. Our ward met in a lovely old meetinghouse built in an English Tudor style. The chapel had a long vaulted ceiling with dark oak woodwork and a wonderful pipe organ. At the front of the chapel behind the pulpit was a large mural of the Sacred Grove painted by the Latter-day Saint artist Lee Greene Richards. Every week as we met in sacrament meeting, I gazed at that painting. I don’t remember any of the words I heard over the pulpit, but the sweet promptings of the Spirit that I felt as a child in that chapel will always remain in my heart and are forever associated in my mind with that beautiful image of the Sacred Grove.

Thus the Lord, by revelation, brings inspiration into one’s mind as though a voice were speaking. Elder Harold B. Lee gave this testimony:
“I have a believing heart because of a simple testimony that came when I was a child, I think maybe I was around ten—maybe eleven—years of age. I was with my father out on a farm away from our home, trying to spend the day busying myself until father was ready to go home. Over the fence from our place were some tumbledown sheds which had attracted a curious boy, adventurous as I was. I started to climb through the fence and I heard a voice as clearly as you are hearing mine—‘Don’t go over there!’ calling me by name. I turned to look at father to see if he were talking to me, but he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no person in sight. I realized then, as a child, that there were persons beyond my sight and I had heard a voice. And when I had heard and read these stories of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I, too, know what it means to hear a voice because I’ve heard from an unseen speaker” (Divine Revelation, Brigham Young University Speeches of the Year, Provo, 15 Oct. 1952, p. 6).

Now, please permit me to be personal as I set the stage for the next point I want to emphasize.
Susan and I are the parents of three sons. As these boys were growing up, they all loved and participated in sports of every kind. And for our family, March Madness and the NCAA basketball tournament every year always was a highlight. We each carefully researched and filled out our brackets. The trash talking started early. And the winner of our annual competition was granted special recognition and privileges for the remainder of the year. We still participate in this fun tradition with our sons, their wives, and all of our nineteen grandchildren.
Over the years, Susan became especially skillful at picking the winners and losers. In a majority-male household, she delighted in and absolutely relished beating the rest of us almost every year. She continues to derive great satisfaction from her victories to this very day!
My customary enjoyment of March Madness this year, however, was interrupted by an episode that is instructive for all of us. The basketball team from Oral Roberts University, a Christian university located in Tulsa, Oklahoma, shocked the sports world by defeating powerhouse teams from the Ohio State University and the University of Florida in the early rounds of the tournament. The ensuing publicity emphasized the Cinderella-like story of the team’s success.
However, on March 23, an opinion column was published in USA Today with the headline “Oral Roberts University Isn’t the Feel Good March Madness Story We Need.” The article concluded as follows:
There is no way to separate their men’s basketball team from the dangers of their religious dogma, no matter how many top seeds they defeat.
Often, athletic accomplishments and victories on the court make up for moral failings all the time. In this case though, whatever the Oral Roberts men’s basketball team manages to do on the court can’t obscure the dangerous and hateful ideology of its core institution. It’s always nice to root for the underdog, but in this case, there’s very little to actually cheer about.4
Then, on March 25, a second opinion article was published in USA Today with the title “No, Oral Roberts University Basketball Doesn’t Deserve to Be Canceled from NCAA Sweet 16.” The article begins with this statement:
In the age of social media hot takes, apparently, we aren’t allowed to enjoy good things. Even a good sports story has to become a flashpoint in our ongoing cultural battles.5
The conclusion of this episode is still being written. And I believe this story and many others like it inexorably and inevitably will impact Brigham Young University and each of you—in both expected and unexpected ways.
Cancel culture is not new. Lucifer attempted to cancel the Eternal Father’s plan of happiness and the mission of the Redeemer, even the Lord Jesus Christ. The Pharisees and scribes sought to cancel the teachings, influence, and life of the Savior. Critics, apostates, and enemies relentlessly attempted to cancel Joseph Smith. Cancel culture is not new; it always has been and always will be with us until the Savior returns to the earth to rule and reign in righteousness.
But “no unhallowed hand can stop the work from progressing”!

Our family has a set of leather couches in our living room. They are nothing special, but as the one who has to replace things that wear out, I probably show more concern for them than I should. One day I noticed that someone had scratched a work of art into one of the seat cushions on the couch.
After a little deductive reasoning, I called my youngest son, Dallin, who was four at the time, to come and discuss this damage to the furniture with me. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: "Who did this to the couch?" Dallin: "What will happen to the person who did it?" Me: "I will love them even more." Dallin: (very quickly) "It was me!"
Sometimes my students stray outside the boundaries of the Honor Code in their coursework. Sometimes they are not even aware that what they are doing is dishonest. They may even believe they are helping each other. Some have helped each other on take-home exams. Others have shared work with their friends, who then submitted it as their own or "tweaked" it to help themselves feel better about turning it in. Some of the most treasured moments in my teaching here have come during the conversations with these students after they have cheated in my classes.

The Primary children of the Nauvoo First Ward eagerly watched as the temple rose from a large hole in the ground. They wanted to help in building this house of the Lord, but they couldn’t do any actual physical work, such as cutting the stones or carpentry or electrical work. They decided to answer President Hinckley’s call for Church members to make donations for this special temple. But how? Their Primary leaders found the answer in a story* about the original temple there:
A penny fund would be the perfect way for the Primary children of the Nauvoo First Ward to help! Every child could find a way to contribute pennies, and the money would be used to buy a tree to plant on the temple grounds. That way, each time the children went there, they would see a reminder of their sacrifices and contributions. And as the tree was growing, they would also be growing and preparing to enter the temple and make sacred covenants there.
To start the project, the Primary leaders created a special tree on which each class placed a colorful leaf on Sundays when they put their pennies in the Penny by Penny jar. Children brought pennies they earned by doing things like extra chores and recycling cans. Soon the pennies were pouring in, and the special tree branches were filled with colorful leaves. Even children who visited Nauvoo during the busy tourist season put pennies into the jar.
In November 2001, the temple was almost finished, and it was time to prepare the grounds so that they would be beautiful for the open house in the spring. On a cold Saturday morning, the Primary children and their parents gathered in front of the temple to plant their Penny by Penny tree.
First, they sang “I Love to See the Temple.”† The bishop gave a talk, then the children gave their pennies to Brother Ron Prince, the temple project administrator. The tree was placed in the hole prepared for it, a canister containing the written and drawn testimonies of the children was placed among the tree’s roots, then the children took turns shoveling dirt to fill in around the tree. They were very happy to have helped make the Savior’s house in Nauvoo more beautiful, and they look forward to the day when each of them may enter it.

Sally had a problem. Her sister, Meg, a high school junior, recently placed second in the state gymnastic tournament. Meg looked like a butterfly as she flew through her routine. And fourth-grade, freckle-faced Timmy, Sally’s younger brother, could make a violin sing. His teacher said that Timmy had a great future.
Meg and Timmy had special talents, and Sally didn’t have any. That was her problem.
One day Sally overheard a new neighbor say, “I understand that you have two talented children—one a violinist, the other a gymnast. What does your other child do?”
“I couldn’t get along without Sally,” Mom replied. “She’s a great organizer and my responsible helper.”
Though no one saw her, Sally felt her face burn. So I’m only an organizer, she thought. That’s no special talent. Grandma would often say, “Sally will find herself one of these days. You’ll see.” But Sally didn’t want to wait to see.
However, now that Mom was working, Sally didn’t have much time to worry about being talented. Every day after school she did some of the housework and started dinner. Tim and Meg had either lessons or practice. Sometimes when Sally felt annoyed at them, Mom would say, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” and some of the hurt would go away. Anyway, Meg and Timmy did have to do the dinner dishes.
At first, Sally had problems with her cooking. Underdone, lumpy potatoes and burned carrots were only two of several disasters. But Mom helped her learn a little each time she cooked dinner.
Now when Dad came home, he said, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’,” and gave Sally a hug. Then she felt loved and happy.
One day toward the end of May, Meg called Sally and Timmy to her room and said, “Father’s Day is next week. Let’s have a party for him. What can we give for a present?”
Sally suggested that they each do something special … maybe have a program. Timmy looked at Sally and asked, “What would you do?”
Sally slumped down and fussed with her fingernails. Then she had an idea—but she wouldn’t tell. She’d surprise everybody. So she shrugged and said, “I’ll think of something.”
“I’ll bet,” Timmy teased.
“Timmy, that’s not nice,” Meg told him. “Just be sure that your violin’s in tune.”
To change the subject, Sally suggested that they invite Grandpa and Grandma.
The next afternoon Sally hurried home and told Mom her plan and asked for her help. Mom thought that Sally’s idea was terrific, and Sally suggested that they get Mrs. Jensen, their next-door neighbor, to help.
For several days Sally spent extra time after school at Mrs. Jensen’s, working on her project. Then, on Father’s Day, she hurried home from church to work on dinner. Meg and Timmy had assumed that the special dinner was Sally’s part of the program, and she just let them think so. It would be fun to surprise them too.
Mom came home from choir practice in time to help with the last-minute preparations. “Dad will be so pleased,” she said.
Dad was indeed pleased as well as surprised. Everything tasted delicious.
When fruit gelatin with whipped cream was served for dessert, Timmy asked, puzzled, “No cake for the party?”
Dad said, “This gelatin is my favorite.”
Grandpa said, “Young lady, I didn’t know that you’d learned how to cook like this.”
“We’ll have to invite you over more often,” Dad told him.
After dinner Meg and Timmy presented their program. Since they had no gymnastic bars, Meg did a floor exercise to music played on the tape recorder.
As soon as Timmy started to play the first of his two violin solos, Sally slipped out and hurried next door. Then Mrs. Jensen walked her home so that Sally wouldn’t stumble with her precious project. Sally re-entered the living room while the family were noisily applauding Timmy’s performance. Sally nodded to Mom, who announced, “Now we would like you to come back into the dining room for Sally’s special treat for Dad and Grandpa.”
“You mean there’s more?” everyone asked.
Indeed there was more! In the middle of the table sat a five-layer cake. Thick chocolate frosting dripped down the sides. Ruffled chocolate edging circled three yellow frosting roses with green leaves on the cream-colored top. Chocolate frosting spelled out, “Happy Father’s Day.”
The family oohed and ahhed as they examined the masterpiece. Then everyone talked at once. Mother stood with her arm around Sally, who grinned so hard that her face hurt.
Timmy asked suspiciously, “Where’d you get that?”
Before Sally could answer, Mom said, “She made it.”
“Mrs. Jensen is a cake decorator,” Sally explained, “and she taught me how.”
Meg said, “Oh, Sally, teach me. Would you, please?”
Grandma said, “If you’re giving classes, may I come too? Your cake is beautiful.”
“Do we get to eat it,” Grandpa asked, “or is it just to look at?”
“I hope not,” Timmy said. “It looks yummy to me!”
Dad looked at Timmy. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t want any. That would leave more pieces for me and Grandpa.”
Meg sighed. “Sally, that’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen!”
Sally, so happy that she couldn’t speak, handed Dad the cake knife.
He laid it on the table, cupped his hands around his mouth and called in a loud voice, “Look out, chefs of the world! Someone is coming to give you a run for your money.”
Grandma smiled and winked at Sally while taking a piece of cake.

In 1849, President Brigham Young called a small number of men to travel to various parts of the world to preach the gospel. A former Swedish sailor, John Forsgren, who had joined the Church in Massachusetts, USA, and traveled to the Salt Lake Valley, asked President Young to be sent to Sweden as a missionary. He was called to serve and arrived in Sweden in June 1850.
Elder Forsgren first visited his younger siblings in Gävle. His brother Peter was ill, and doctors said he was beyond help. Elder Forsgren explained the purpose of his mission to his siblings, then anointed and blessed Peter, who was restored to full health. On July 19, 1850, Elder Forsgren baptized his brother, who became the first convert in Sweden.
In 1850 Peter Forsgren, above, was baptized by his brother John.
Photograph courtesy of Susan Easton Black

Elder Michael Hayes of the Walsall Ward spends time serving with the Walsall Society for the Blind and the Billion Graves Project. In sharing his thoughts about the blessing of service, Elder Hayes said, “Unfortunately, due to health challenges, I couldn’t serve a teaching mission. I remember sitting at home upset that I wouldn’t be able to serve the Lord. Then one day, the bishop spoke with me about a new mission opportunity. I will never forget the feeling I had when he told me that I could serve for two years as a service missionary. I didn’t know what a service mission was until he spoke about it, but what I did know is that I felt the Spirit so strongly, without hesitation I said, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I knew this is what I had to do. I am nervous, but I know that with the help of my Heavenly Father, I can do anything.”