Gospel Story Finder

A young mother recently shared with me a story called “The World’s Meanest Mom,” and I would like to share it with you here. She said:
“I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids had no breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs, and toast. When others had pop and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. My mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times. You’d think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and what we were doing. She insisted that if we said we’d be gone for an hour, that we would be gone for one hour or less.
“I am ashamed to admit it, but she actually had the nerve to break the child labor law. She made us wash the dishes, make beds, learn to cook, and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she lay awake nights thinking up mean things for us to do. She always insisted that we tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“By the time we were teenagers she was much wiser, and our lives became even more miserable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us.
“My mother was a complete failure as a mother. None of us have ever been arrested or beaten a rap. Each of my brothers has served a mission, and his country. And whom do we have to blame for this terrible way we turned out? You’re right—our mean mother. Look at all the things we have missed. We never got to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She made us grow up into educated, honest adults. Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. You see, I thank God that he gave me the meanest mother in the whole world.” (Orien Fifer, Phoenix Gazette)

My niece Katie was a hopeful 20-year-old university student with many talents and plans for the future. Four years ago Katie died in an auto accident. Though our family still feels much homesickness for her, we know that we will be with her again, and we are not worried about her. In Katie’s wallet was her temple recommend, given to her by her bishop so she could be baptized for her ancestors. Katie was worthy. Not long before Katie died she wrote these words: “If this were my last day on earth, this is the record I would leave. Make each day meaningful. … Stay close to the Lord. Gain all the knowledge you can about the scriptures, the gospel, the creations of the Lord. … Give of yourself … and always remember Christ for His example and His Atonement and strive each day to be like Him.” Katie had entered in the way that leads to eternal life, and she had stayed in.

For a moment I stood on the front steps and stared through the rusty screen door at Mom as she hummed softly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Her back was to me, so while I built my courage to enter, I watched unobserved, detached momentarily from the familiar scene.
A cool breeze whispered through the elm trees down by the pasture and across the corrals, bringing with it the faint smell of clover mingled with the distinct but not entirely displeasing odor of sun-baked manure and hay. A calf bawled imploringly from the barn, and a pesky fly pinged persistently against the screen door, demanding entrance.
I filled my lungs with the aromas from the kitchen, savoring the rich mixture of Mom’s baking bread, a tantalizing roast, and a trace of lilac that drifted in from the lilac bushes blooming just outside the kitchen window. The table, draped in the old familiar oil cloth that was beginning to wear ragged around the edges, was covered with scrubbed carrots, chopped lettuce, a greased cake pan, and a sprinkling of flour.
I sighed ruefully and pulled the screen door open. It whined a welcome and then chattered noisily behind me as I stepped inside onto the scarred but polished linoleum floor.
"Robert!" Mom called out with surprise, wiping her brow with a damp forearm. Though it had been just a few weeks since I’d seen her last, the gray in her hair seemed more pronounced, and there were deeper lines of worry and stress written across her face. "I had decided you weren’t coming," she said, stepping toward me with a half-peeled potato in her hand and kissing me on the cheek.
I pressed my lips into a wan smile and set my duffle bag on a kitchen chair. Mechanically I glanced at the hook behind the door and noted that Dad’s faded felt hat was missing. That hat was an extra appendage with Dad. He would have no more considered leaving the house without it than he would have gone without his pants or boots. Mom followed my glance and deciphered my thoughts. "He’s been gone all morning," she explained.
I nodded, reached for a carrot, reconsidered, and stuffed my hand into my pocket.
"We thought you would be here last night," Mom called over her shoulder as she returned to the sink.
"I had a date," I replied sheepishly, avoiding her eyes. Actually I had spent the entire evening in my apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed, debating whether or not I should even come home, struggling with a nagging necessity to speak with Dad and yet perplexed by the simple how. I just couldn’t bear to witness his flesh waste away, the creases in his brow deepen, and his eyes groan in silent agony. I guess I hoped that by not seeing him he would always stay the way I remembered him, robust and full of life.
"Dad will be anxious to visit with you," Mom commented.
"Yeah," I muttered softly, pressing my lips together and nodding forlornly. There had been a time when speaking to Dad was the easiest thing in the world for me, but disease had made a stranger of him. I’m sure the inside of him was the same. But, oh, how the outside had changed, and it was this shocking outside, this terrifying shell of the man I had known intimately, which confronted me each time I returned home. I no longer knew the words or had the courage to form the words that would adequately express what was harbored so pointedly in my heart. Just when I most needed and wanted to communicate my feelings, I was driven into a frustrating and unnatural silence. I found myself turning away from Dad as though he were responsible for his condition. Each time I came home, I arrived determined to talk with him and brush away those difficult-to-explain feelings that had spring up from the seeds of my disappointment, but nothing ever worked out. Something was always awkward and wrong. And when I returned to school, I went with all my feelings churning inside me.
"You’ll be here the whole weekend won’t you?" Mom asked as she began rinsing off the potatoes and dropping them into a pan. I didn’t answer. I wanted her to hurry on to another question, but she waited and finally prodded. "You will, won’t you?"
"Well, most of it."
"You’ll go to church with us?"
I cleared my throat. "I have a test Monday. I’ll have to leave here early tomorrow afternoon. Finals are coming up." I laughed awkwardly. "I don’t want to blow it these last two weeks."
It was a lame excuse. We both knew it, but we pretended not to notice. I had changed. It was hard to believe, to hope, to pray, knowing that Dad was slipping away. I hadn’t turned into an infidel, gone inactive or anything that drastic, but there was definitely a portentous fracture in my faith.
I think Mom and Dad suspected, but they didn’t broach the subject. I don’t know if I could have told them had they asked. I didn’t really understand myself. Maybe I was trying to bargain with God, subtly announcing that my diligence was coupled with Dad’s recovery, that my faithfulness would be the payoff for his health.
"Your dad and I are speaking in sacrament meeting. It sure would be nice to have you there. I know you dad is counting on it."
"Where is Dad, anyway?" I asked, changing the subject.
"At the lot, working on the wall."
"I should have known," I mumbled, smiling. "I’ll put my things upstairs and go out and give him a hand." I turned to go but then stopped. As much as I hated asking the question I knew I would have to. "How has he been?"
Mom’s hands relaxed their grip on the potato she was holding. It dropped and she let her hands sag limply in the sink. "Not very well," she bemoaned. "His spleen is so swollen. It literally bulges when he lies down. He gets so tired, and he’s so skinny. He can’t keep his pants up now. He has lost almost ten pounds since you were here last. He keeps losing weight, and he just doesn’t have any to spare. I tell him to get suspenders, but you know how he hates them."
Turning and facing me, she laid bare her fears. "Robert, he’s bad. I can’t help thinking of what Doctor Hart told us when we saw him the first time. He charted the disease. I hate to admit it, but this is the last stage. He hurts all the time. He doesn’t say so until it gets really bad, but I can see it in his eyes. Sometimes I see him gritting his teeth and clenching his fists and I know what’s happening inside of him. I just want to go off by myself and cry."
"He still hasn’t talked about seeing the doctor again?"
"No," she whispered with a wan smile, "and he won’t. You know that."
"And the medicine?"
She shook her head. "He’s convinced that the medicine makes him worse. He’s probably right. He got such terrible headaches while he was on it. He felt drowsy or nauseated and he couldn’t work, and you know that if you dad can’t work, he’s miserable."
I nodded and smiled knowingly. Idleness was just not a part of Dad. As long as I could remember he was immersed in projects. He always had something going on the farm, in the house, on a piece of equipment, or wrapped up in a new invention—a better way to pump water to the lot, a more efficient way to feed the cattle, a handier way of irrigating the garden. He was the only person I knew who relaxed by working.
Pain, hardship, failure—these were the lurking monsters of most men approaching retirement, but Dad could face those unflinchingly. Idleness was his fear, and now, in his weakened condition, he found it increasingly more difficult to hold it at bay.
"What does Adams say?"
"Dad won’t see him, not as a doctor. He likes him as a friend and a neighbor."
"Have you talked to Adams lately?"
Mom shook her head tiredly and looked out the window. "He says your dad should be dead," she answered slowly. "He doesn’t know what’s keeping him going. He says he could drop over tomorrow or keep going another month or so." Mom paused and looked at me. "I know what’s driving him. His work. That’s what scares me, Robert. He gets so exhausted now. He works for just a few minutes, and he’s completely drained. If he is ever in bed for more than a week or so …"
Neither of us spoke. Neither of us wanted to end that foreboding sentence. We stood and stared out the window at the three milk cows ambling about the corral so we wouldn’t have to see the worry on the other’s face. Finally I picked up my bag and went upstairs to my room.
I sank on the bed, almost wishing I hadn’t come home. My eyes wandered about the room, seeing the things that had been such an integral part of me before going to college. I saw the pictures of my basketball and track teams. The trophies were still on the dresser where Mom kept them dusted and polished. The scrapbooks and the book of remembrance sat prominently on the shelf. My Duty to God pin was mounted on a plaque next to the mirror.
Eventually my eyes rested on the photo of Mom, Dad, and me the night of my Eagle court of honor six years earlier. That was where I always stopped. That was the pivotal point in my life. The week after that picture was taken, Doctor Adams made his doleful discovery. Dad hadn’t been feeling well for some time. He had spent the last 13 years in the bishopric, either as a counselor or bishop. We had just assumed he was run down. No one had ever suspected leukemia!
It was a shattering blow. Mom and the four girls didn’t attempt to disguise the shock, but I tried to be stoic. In reality I cowered behind a wall of impassivity. Behind that hastily built facade, my world teetered. It was so coldly unfair. I began to question the justice of God. Dad had been so good, so faithful, and now he was to be repaid like this.
"Robert," Mom called from the foot of the stairs. "I fixed a drink for Dad."
"Okay, I’ll be right down."
"Tell him dinner will be ready in about an hour. And don’t let him get too tired. He can’t be in bed tomorrow."
I grabbed a pair of patched jeans from the closet, dug out my work boots from under the bed, and headed for the lot. During the last two years Dad had leased most of the farm to our neighbor, Brother Maner, but he hadn’t been able to give up the lot. The lot was his first piece of ground, one he had bought from Grandpa when he was only 17. It had always been his prize. The best sweet corn in the whole county had been grown there. Of course, that was more a tribute to Dad than the lot itself.
Though the soil was rich, Dad seemed to harvest more rocks than anything else. There was no end to them. Soon he had piles of rocks all around the lot. But with those rocks, which anyone else would have cursed and discarded, Dad began to build a wall.
Every year he dug up more rocks, and every year he added to the wall. Building this rough, rugged wall became an art with Dad. He sighted and measured and leveled. He chose each rock carefully and set it into position with a precision that was unique to him. He met this challenge with the same zeal and meticulous care that he worked the soil, repaired his barns and fences, or performed his church duties.
There was only a hundred feet of unfinished wall when Dad learned of his leukemia. He began to joke that the Lord wouldn’t take him until he finished the wall. When Doctor Hart told him and Mom that he had between six months and a year to live, he smiled over at Mom and said, "I don’t know if I can finish the wall that soon. The Lord will have to give me some more time."
Dad had already lived six years since then. In fact, he had outlived Doctor Hart, who had died a few months earlier of a heart attack.
When I arrived at the lot that morning, I called to Dad several times, but there was no answer. I went to the bottom of the lot where the unfinished section of wall was, hoping to find him working, but the place was deserted. I stopped and stared at the gap in the wall. There was a 20-foot unfinished section. The rocks were there in a pile, but Dad hadn’t put them in place. I smiled and thought to myself, "He knows what he’s doing. He’s going to make sure there’s always a gap in that wall. If the Lord sticks to his end of the deal, I’ll be dead before Dad."
I set the ice water down and squatted on the ground in the shade of the wall. I closed my eyes, pressed my back against the rough but cool rocks and let my mind wander. A soothing peace prevailed as I remembered earlier days when I had come to the lot with Dad to hoe corn. I smiled. The novelty of the first spring work had always been so exciting, but the excitement soon dissipated. The sun warmed, and the plague of gnats descended. The swarming little insects had tortured me with their annoying, high-pitched whine and persistent biting. Many times I had thrown my hoe to the ground, screamed my agony, and clawed the infected air in frustrated anger. But Dad had always been there to encourage me and to wrap my itching head with his handkerchief to keep some of the gnats away. When they became unbearable, he sent me to sit in the shade while he finished my row of corn.
And there were the mornings I had followed behind him as he blazed a path through the towering stalks of corn, snapping off only the bulging mature ears and stacking them in his and my arms.
I recalled going to the lot in the spring and riding beside Dad on the tractor while he plowed, disked and harrowed the ground. I remembered trudging through the soft, black soil and lugging the myriad rocks that always found their way to the surface in the spring. I remembered watching Dad build the wall and listening to him as he told me Bible and Book of Mormon stories. I distinctly remembered the tears in his eyes when he had related stories of his own faith—the time his father had been healed, the time he had been working in the lot and had decided to go on a mission before marrying Mom, or the time on his mission when he had felt his bosom burn and had known for himself about God and the Church.
In my reverie I forgot the leukemia and the impending end. Here was complete contentment, and I suddenly longed to recapture those moments with Dad before he slipped away. I don’t remember how long I sat by the wall before deciding that Dad had already returned to the house. Finally I stood, brushed the dirt and dried weeds from my pants and left, fully expecting Dad to be waiting at the dinner table for me.
"Did Dad make it?" I asked Mom as I came into the kitchen with the jug of water still untouched.
"I thought you went to get him," she answered.
"He wasn’t there. I waited but …"
The blood drained from her face, and I added quickly to calm her sudden fear, "But he might have walked over to Brother Maner’s to check the fence. He does that you know. I’ll go look."
I made a pretense of calm and wanted to believe my own optimism, but an ominous gnawing in the pit of my stomach cautioned me to brace for the worst. I walked out of the house and across the yard, waiting until I had passed behind the barn and out of Mom’s sight before I broke into a sprint.
I didn’t find him. I was always thankful for that. I had often tried to imagine what I would do when I received word of Dad’s death. I had prepared myself for a phone call. I had never imagined meeting Brother Maner and discovering the dreaded truth etched on his contorted and sweating face. Even as he charged toward me, panting and red faced, I wanted to deny the obvious. Brother Maner had found him face down in the bottom pasture. He had been dead for about an hour.
The next three days were lost in a maze of confusing grief. I kept to myself and let my sorrow and disappointment fester. I didn’t want sympathy or pity. I didn’t want extended hands of comfort. I didn’t want sermons about life after death. I wanted to shake off my helplessness, grab death, strangle it, beat it with my fists.
The morning after the funeral I went down to the lot early. The sun was barely up, and the dew was thick on the grass. Dad’s corn was just beginning to push up through the soil. I walked around the lot twice, each time pausing at the unfinished portion of wall. It pulled like a giant magnet. As I stood and stared, the bitterness welled inside me, and I demanded an answer. Why did it have to be like this? Why did he have to be snatched away now with so much of his life unlived? And the wall? Why couldn’t he have finished the wall? He had eluded death so long, against such insurmountable odds. Why couldn’t he have been given a little more time?
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that morning. The sun’s spring rays were soothing. This was Dad’s kind of day, the kind he would have chosen to work on the wall. Slowly I moved toward the pile of rocks. Picking the largest one, I staggered with it to the gaping hole in the wall and set it down. "It’s not much," I whispered, "but I will finish the wall."
Fighting back a growing wave of grief, I attacked the hole in the wall. I dropped every available rock inside the open section, piling them haphazardly. I didn’t care how the repair looked to anyone else; I just wanted to fill the gap in a bitter attempt to assuage my own grief.
In less than an hour I was almost finished. Panting, I stepped back and surveyed my progress. The shoddy workmanship mocked me. I wasn’t finishing Dad’s wall. I was merely filling a hole, something Dad would have never done.
I picked up a rock and hurled it against my section of the wall. I flew at the wall in frustrated rage, pulling the rocks down and throwing them aside. I ran to the house for a shovel, and when I returned to the lot, I was determined to complete the wall Dad’s way.
Taking a shovel, I cut away the sod and leveled the ground where the wall would go. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and beads of sweat formed on my brow and upper lip. With calculating care I began choosing rocks for the wall’s foundation, this time with a meticulousness reminiscent of Dad. The larger, flatter rocks were set in place first to give the wall stability. The gaps between were filled with smaller, odd-shaped ones. It was like putting together a gigantic, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Each gap had to be filled before another rock could be set into place. The base was broad and tapered gradually upward, the rocks above tying in and holding firm the rocks below.
When I wasn’t certain how to proceed, I studied Dad’s part of the wall, perusing his rugged pattern. He had always made it seem easy, but soon I discovered the truth. Before long my back ached and my fingers were rubbed raw and the palms of my hands were scratched and caked with dirt. I wished for a pair of gloves, but I refused to stop and run to the house for them. The sweat now poured down my face and neck and trickled from under my arms. My mouth was dry; my lips, covered with a sticky film of dirt.
My body cried for a rest, but I had become obsessed, refusing to stop for more than short breathers and pauses to survey my progress. I refused to stop even for dinner. Mom brought me a sandwich and a jug of water, which I ate and drank while I planned the next tier.
"Don’t push yourself, Robert," she had cautioned. "It’s only a wall."
"It’s Dad’s wall. He wanted it finished."
"But there will be other days."
"There were other days. I’ll finish today." Shaking her head and pushing her fingers through her hair, she had finally turned and left me to my obsession.
Many times I rummaged through the pile of rocks, unable to find the right shape or size, and I was forced to search along the irrigation ditch for one that would fit the hole. By late afternoon I was at the brink of exhaustion. The muscles in my back and arms ached, and my clothes clung to me. My lips were chapped, and the back of my neck was scorched from hours in the sun; but I experienced an all-consuming satisfaction that eased the dull ache in my tired body. Dad’s pile of rocks had shrunk, and the final section of the wall had emerged.
Stiffly I stepped back to examine the wall. I compared my section to Dad’s. I nodded, feeling confident that no one would see a difference. Completely drained, I dropped to my knees and closed my eyes. The day’s work had purged much of the bitterness that I had allowed to poison me, and with that purging came a staggering realization. Dad had said he would stay until the wall was finished. Now, it was finished, and not even I could contend with that numbing reality.
I opened my eyes and looked at the wall. Slowly the rocks melted into a watery blur as tears filled my eyes. I tried to fight them back. I had dammed them off in angry defiance, but now there was nothing I could do to hold them back. They were painful at first, but with time they began to wash and soothe, and gradually the last traces of bitterness crumbled and dissolved in the briny flood.
Suddenly I remembered why I had come home for the weekend. I rebuked myself for not having come sooner and bridged the gap between Dad and me. I don’t know why I prayed. Since going to college and watching Dad slip away from me, prayer had been difficult and far from spontaneous, but this evening the prayer came naturally, as a comforting balm, a sincere plea for understanding, just enough to grasp and accept Dad’s passing.
It was in that troubled state of importuning that a new thought occurred to me with stunning force: I had not finished Dad’s wall. Dad’s wall had been finished long before. The wall he had labored so faithfully to build was his legacy to me, his monument built in my honor. The gap I had filled, patterning it so carefully after his, had been the beginning of my wall. I sensed that Dad had known that all along and had left this last section for me.
The tears ceased. It was as though Dad were with me once again, just as I had always remembered him. I knew then that he had not been snatched away before his time; I had just been left temporarily behind to finish mine. As I stared across the lot and observed the work of Dad’s lifetime, I knew I had many walls yet to build. Silently, I prayed that I would build as well as Dad.

By late December 1845, the Nauvoo Temple was completed sufficiently so that the blessings of the endowment could be bestowed. During this time Church members were being forced out of the area by mobs once again in winter. But right up to the last moment, the temple was in full use. President Brigham Young recorded the following in his journal on February 3, 1846:

Notwithstanding that I had announced that we would not attend to the administration of the ordinances, the House of the Lord was thronged all day, the anxiety being so great to receive, ...the endowments until our way was hedged up, and our enemies intercept us. But I informed the brethren that this was not wise,...that I was going to get my wagons started, and be off. I walked some distance from the Temple, supposing the crowd would disperse, but on returning I found the House filled to overflowing. Looking upon the multitude and knowing their anxiety, as they were thirsting and hungering for the word.... we continued at work diligently in the House of the Lord.

Then they were forced to leave. An entry from one of the member=s diary adds to the sorrow of the scene. It reads:
The top of this hill was the last point from which I could see the Nauvoo temple. I have no words with which to convey a proper conception of my feelings when taking a last look at this sacred monument of the living faith of the Saints, and which was associated in their minds with the heavenly and holy. After the lapse of thirty-six years I can scarcely restrain my feelings when I write of it.

Elder Wilford Woodruff wrote:
The work in Nauvoo was done. Henceforth the city of the Saints was to be nothing more to them than a memory until God should determine otherwise. It brought its joys; but its history was also full of sad reminiscences, apostasy, murderous intent, and destruction.
I was in Nauvoo on the 26th day of May, 1846, for the last time, and left the city of the Saints feeling that most likely I was taking a final farewell of Nauvoo for this life. I looked back upon the Temple and City as they receded from view and asked the Lord to remember the sacrifices of his Saints.[10]

After all those years of toil, sacrifice, and anticipation, the temple was in use no more than eight weeks before the embattled and harassed members formed that trail of tears down Parley Street to the Mississippi River. Many even left the doors of their homes unlocked, forsaking all their material possessions except for what could be carried in a wagon box, and many, with their families, crossed the frozen Mississippi on ice into Iowa and the unknown.

The first two names that appear on the fourth company of the Nauvoo Temple register for that very day, February 3, 1846, are John and Jane Akerley, who received their endowments in the Nauvoo Temple that evening. They were humble, new converts to the Church, without wealth or position. Their temple work was their final concern as they were leaving their home in Nauvoo to come west. It was fortunate that President Young granted the wish of the Saints to receive their temple blessings because John Akerley died at Winter Quarters, Nebraska. He, along with over 4,000 others, never made it to the valleys of the Rocky Mountains. William Clayton’s classic Mormon hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” captures well their faith: “And should we die before our journey’s through, happy day! All is well!”
...
John and Jane Akerley and the others of the multitude who waited in the bitter cold to enter the majestic Nauvoo Temple received within its walls the greatest blessings offered by the Lord in this life. They endured much, but their suffering was just beginning. Their temple blessings helped strengthen them for what lay ahead. Separated by death in Winter Quarters, they were able to endure all things because of their faith and the blessings received that cold February night in 1846.

Although many of our experiences in the house of the Lord are too sacred to share publicly, some we can share. Forty years ago, while living in Florida, Kathy and I traveled to the temple in Atlanta, Georgia. On Wednesday night, May 9, 1984, as we completed a session in the temple, an ordinance worker approached me and asked if I had time to do just one preparatory initiatory ordinance. The name of the person I represented was unusual. His name was Eleazer Cercy.
The next day, the temple was full of Saints. As I prepared to perform my second endowment of the day, I was given the name of the person I would represent. Surprisingly, the name was the same individual from the night before, Eleazer Cercy. I felt the Spirit of the Lord as the endowment was completed. Later in the afternoon, still in the temple, Kathy saw an elderly family friend, Sister Dolly Fernandez, who now lived in Atlanta. With no male members of her family with her, she asked if I could possibly assist in the sealing of her father to her father’s parents. I was of course honored.
As I knelt at the end of the altar for this sacred ordinance, I heard once again the name that was now inscribed in my mind, her father, Eleazer Cercy. I fully believe that following this life, I will meet and embrace a man known in his mortal life as Eleazer Cercy.

Elder ElRay L. Christiansen tells an interesting story about his neighbor who bought a boat. He really couldn’t afford a boat; but he bought it anyway, because he had a credit card. In order to pay for the boat, he had to take a second job, which meant he had to work on Saturday. This, of course, left one day per week on which he could use the boat. When do you suppose that was? Yes, you are right—it was Sunday. But he loved his boat and invited Brother Christiansen over to admire it, saying, “Isn’t it beautiful? What shall we name it?” (Now, you see, it is a member of the family—it has to have a name.)
Brother Christiansen said, “Why don’t you call it The Sabbath Breaker?” (Conference Report, April 1962, p. 33.) Now, please don’t misunderstand me—I have nothing against boats. I have a friend who has a boat, and he calls his boat “Never on Sunday,” which, of course, is a better name for a boat.

The Angell family continued to move wherever the main body of the Saints settled. They suffered from mobs and persecution in Missouri and Nauvoo. Over the years, several of Truman’s and Polly’s young children died. While the last of the Saints were being driven from Nauvoo, Truman and a few other men remained behind to complete the temple and dedicate it to the Lord. He must have been heartsick to hear how that sacred building was later desecrated and burned.

Some time ago a dating relationship with someone I cared a great deal about ended. Already anxious about being unmarried, I doubted whether I could find another person with whom I was as compatible.
Not long after, I was reminded of the story of Abraham being commanded to sacrifice Isaac (see Genesis 22:1–14). I realized that both of us were asked to give up someone we loved. Of course, my experience pales in comparison to Abraham’s, but I discovered that his experience taught patterns I could follow.
Knowing that—but not necessarily how—God would keep His promises, Abraham was obedient. His love for his son was great, but his response showed that he loved the Lord above all else. We are asked to demonstrate the same thing (see D&C 101:4–5), and we too have the promise of great reward upon our faithful endurance (see Matthew 24:13). When my relationship ended, it was difficult to move on. Having received the promise that I will marry, moving on seemed to be unaligned with the fulfillment of that promise. But the promise gave me hope, which helped me to try again and to show Heavenly Father that I love Him above all else.

In preparation for this talk, I was thinking about this universal feeling of love, and what happens within us when we have the opportunity to experience it and how life changing it can become. I thought of September 11, 2001. That is one of those days that will definitely go down in infamy. We were united as a nation on that day. I think most of us can probably remember where we were at that time. Hearts all over the world turned with compassion toward the people affected by this tragedy. I was teaching on the BYU Provo campus on that day. It was the beginning of the school year, and it was a Tuesday. I remember that because I had been asked by President Merrill Bateman to sing as a part of his devotional address. I had tried hard to follow inspiration as to what I would sing that day. For reasons I didn't understand, I felt impressed to sing a setting of the hymn, "O Love That Glorifies the Son" .

As it turned out they cancelled the devotional that day, but rescheduled it for the next week. I couldn't have known how appropriate that text would be. Over the period of the next few years, I had strangers stop me on campus to comment on that hymn. As much as I would like to think it may have been my stirring performance, I am more inclined to believe it was a message that rang true to their heart, as music has the power to do.

The parents of many of these youth are not members of the Church, but they have allowed their children to be baptized. Recently, I met with one of the parents. He wanted to know more about the Church his son was attending.
“I’ve seen a lot of change in my son,” he said. “He’s a different person. He’s obedient and nice at home. I want to find out why.”
This father came to church and saw for himself that the Savior’s teachings and restored gospel were what had changed his son’s behavior. “Now I know that where my son goes is a nice place,” he said afterward. “I will allow others to come too.”

I’ll never forget the lesson I learned a few years ago. It was a lesson of how to show, not just teach, the gospel message. At the time, I was serving in the Sweden Stockholm Mission in a town not far from Stockholm.
One rainy day, while my companion and I were riding the bus home for lunch, we met a young lady who had been an exchange student in the United States. She told us that her name was Anna and that she was attending the university in town. We asked her about her beliefs and found that she was very active in another church. She said that she would never change but accepted our invitation to hear more about our beliefs.
During the weeks that followed, we taught her several discussions and had some wonderful spiritual experiences. She read from the Book of Mormon and prayed for answers to her questions. She felt that it was right, but because of her previous religious ties, she had a hard time accepting the challenge to be baptized.
That Thanksgiving we had planned a small “feast” for our investigators and some member friends. As the word spread, our small feast became a large gathering. Of course Anna was invited, along with others that my companion and I had grown very close to.
Before the blessing on the food, I took the time to explain the significance of Thanksgiving and why we celebrate it. I also explained to the guests just how much my companion and I loved and appreciated each one of them. I thanked them for the kindness they had always shown us.
The rest of the night went rather well. There were musical numbers by members and nonmembers alike and many other fun activities. I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, however. It had taken much more of our time than I had expected, and I wondered if the time could have been better spent.
Later that next week, I received a notice of transfer, but before I left, Anna wrote a short letter and gave it to me. I have translated a portion of that letter:
“I also want to thank you for letting me come to your Thanksgiving party. It was quite an experience for me in two ways—partly because I got to eat American food and partly because I got to see the warmth that exists between you and your friends. It will be of great importance for me in my decisions concerning your teachings.”

A word of caution may be in order here, however. A friend of mine named Doug lost his father in an automobile accident when he was about thirteen years old. Though he knew they meant well, it was difficult for him to hear his friends whose parents were still living say, “I know exactly how you feel.” The fact is they probably didn’t, and consequently their well-intentioned remarks sounded hard. A simple “I’m sorry” would have been more appropriate. Furthermore, Doug felt oppressed by those people who felt it was their duty to get him to “talk about it” every time they associated with him. Once he felt the concern and sympathy of his friends by their simple expressions of sympathy, he preferred to introduce the subject himself.

At one community event he and Sister Faust attended, a leader of another faith criticized the Church. Sister Faust recalled, “I became steamier and steamier as he went on, but Jim just listened patiently. Afterwards, he went up to this man and said, ‘Now, Reverend, if you feel that way, we must be doing something wrong. I’d like for us to have lunch together so that you can let me know what your concerns are.’ They did, and the two have been good friends ever since.”

Two years before, when Jeanette and I were at girls’ camp, a testimony meeting was planned for the last night. When we were leaving our cabin for the bonfire, I told Jeanette, “When this night is over, I think I’ll know for sure the Church is true.” But even after testimony meeting I didn’t, not for sure. Not for sure—that was the problem.

That night after the meeting we told ghost stories. One of the older girls told about a story this German guy wrote. It was all about Christ coming back at the end of the world, but instead of saving everybody and taking them to heaven, he tells everyone the resurrection is called off—just a fake. Then everything starts falling apart and flying every which way. The whole universe comes apart at the seams. I had nightmares about that story. It still makes me shudder.

I’ve always been a curious person.
Growing up, I had big questions about how the earth was created, how human life was formed, and why we’re on this planet. When I learned about and accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ at age 14, I found so many answers and greater meaning for my life. I did my best to keep God’s commandments and felt real joy living the gospel.
I continued progressing in many exciting ways—I served a mission, attended university, and more. But as I approached age 30, I became discouraged that I hadn’t had the opportunity to get married. Although I saw many people around me choose to live contrary to the law of chastity, I was firm in my commitment to keep my covenants and prepare for a temple marriage.
I believed that happiness comes from obedience (see Mosiah 2:41). But as I looked around at my friends who chose not to keep the law of chastity, they seemed happier than me. They were having new experiences with dating and relationships, and I felt a sense of unfairness. As a curious and well-educated person, I was frustrated that my friends now seemed wiser and more mature than me.
The commandments began to feel less like a blessing and more like a roadblock keeping me from living my best life.
I was tempted to walk away from the idea of a temple marriage and a gospel-centered life after a while. The law of chastity just felt too hard to keep when I was surrounded by a world that didn’t view physical intimacy the same way I did.
When I was struggling the most, my institute teacher shared a story about having the missionaries over for dinner. He shared how his whole family prepared for and participated in the spiritual thought the missionaries shared.
In that moment, I realized that more than anything, I wanted to raise a family that could enjoy the blessings of the gospel all together.
It all clicked. The law of chastity wasn’t a roadblock keeping me from experiencing the gift of sexuality—it was a blessing keeping me pointed toward the temple and my eternal family.
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “Is it wrong to have rules? Of course not. We all need them every day. But it is wrong to focus only on rules instead of focusing on the Savior. You need to know the whys and the hows and then consider the consequences of your choices.”
When I remembered the Savior and His sacrifice for me, I decided that the blessings of keeping my covenants, including the law of chastity and being married in the temple, would be worth the wait. True happiness isn’t about doing whatever you want. It’s about being worthy to have the companionship of the Holy Ghost.
There can be other instances when we feel tempted to break our covenants. Living the gospel isn’t always easy! But the covenants we make and the commandments we keep were put in place by a loving Heavenly Father who has our best interests at heart. We can trust that He knows so much more than we do and that following Him over the world will always lead us to joy.
I feel grateful that I recently fell in love and was married in the temple. I’m glad I was dedicated to the commandments so I can now enjoy the blessings of eternal marriage.

Charlee Ann Voorhees didn’t get involved in service to get attention. But when she lost herself in the service of others, she ended up finding herself featured in the newspaper and speaking about service at youth conventions.
When Charlee’s parents divorced, she felt overwhelmed. She was in the middle of a situation she couldn’t do much about and needed something to take her mind off of her problems.
It was during that time she heard a Young Women lesson about service. The teacher told her class that serving others is a good way to get through personal problems.
“I decided I needed to get more involved,” says Charlee, a Laurel in the Sioux Falls (South Dakota) First Ward. “I was involved in a lot of other things, but as far as service, I didn’t have much of that kind of involvement in my life.”
Once Charlee submerged herself in service, she found that many of her own problems were put into perspective. “My parents were divorcing, but I could help people even though I wasn’t exactly having the best time myself,” she says.
When Charlee was looking for service opportunities, she attended a volunteer fair where she signed up for nearly every service group represented. But one organization really caught her eye: Sioux Falls’ Promise, an organization that involves youth in community service and other activities.
Charlee applied for a position on the youth board for Sioux Falls’ Promise. She was accepted, and before long she was elected president of the board.
As president, Charlee says her main goal was to create awareness of the concerns, problems, and issues that teens have in Sioux Falls. She served as an advocate for the youth of her community. One of the ways she did that was to hold a town meeting with the youth and the mayor. In that meeting, the teens raised their concerns about youth drug and alcohol abuse and a city curfew.
“Since that meeting, the mayor has actually come to us before making decisions and asked what we think about certain issues,” she says.
Charlee also organized a youth convention to discuss teens’ concerns. More than 1,000 teens attended the convention, where they discussed making friends, resolving conflicts, controlling anger, and using service to improve communities.
The success of the convention led to an invitation for Charlee and the youth board to attend a national youth convention. While there, Charlee discussed service with Colin Powell, chairman of America’s Promise and now United States Secretary of State.
As Charlee has worked to get the youth of Sioux Falls involved in service, she has seen what a dose of service can do for the giver as well as the receiver. “You get the chance to see that others are struggling, too. It’s a big eye-opener for how fortunate you are in your own life.”

Years ago, while a … schoolboy in far-off England, I made acquaintance with an aged sage who placed implicit trust in the … stars … He devoted himself with great energy to instruct me in the mysteries of astrology. I drank at this fountain of error with increasing thirst, and trusted his words with all the power of a child’s simple faith … Before I was ten years old, I had learned to cast the horoscope …
“Among my schoolmates was a big blustering fellow, who ruled … the playground by his great strength. We all acknowledged his supremacy, and paid him tribute of our property … Further, he compelled us to do his arithmetic for him, to draw his maps, and write his essays … If any boy appeared to doubt his authority … a severe beating was applied to bring the rebel to a sense of his duty.
“Worse than this, our oppressor … was the son of a wealthy family, and the teacher favored him …
I consulted the stars, and determined to break the chains that bound us and to set myself and my schoolfellows free … I managed to find from the bully’s sister the date and exact hour of Ben’s birth. With this information I hurried home, and at once proceeded to compute his horoscope. Ah! I might have known it: … He was a son of Saturn, born when the planet was in ill conjunction: it was no wonder then that he was untrustworthy, mean, and cruel. Then I cast the horoscope of the future, and found that at a convenient hour, five o’clock in the afternoon Wednesday, his star would be declining, and mine would be ascending … Surely the day of our deliverance was near at hand: the stars had promised to help me in my dangerous enterprise, and victory was assured. Force should be subdued by the power of superior knowledge.
“So on the morning of the appointed day I confronted the big bully on the playground, and challenged him to meet me that evening at five o’clock, boldly expressing my determination to show him who would be master from that time forth … He laughed loudly and cuffed my ears; but this I bore … for the time of revenge had not yet come … During the day I received many a hearty wish for success …
“At five o’clock we were at the appointed place; a score of boys were there to see that everything was fair. My antagonist was nearly 30 centimeters taller, and fully a stone (14 pounds) heavier than I, but these were trifles I ignored; had I not the happy assurance of the stars that I should win? I made a speech to the burly fellow, telling a few of his many acts of oppression and cruelty, and closed with a … flourish, declaring that henceforth we would be free. This was received with a laugh of derision by my opponent, and the hostilities began.
“The conflict, though fierce, was … brief. I gradually recovered consciousness, and found myself lying on the ground, cheek cut, eyes bruised, nose smashed, a couple of teeth loosened, and a quantity of hair gone. The bully left without a scratch.
“As I slowly walked homeward, I was in an unusually thoughtful state. I began for the first time in my life to have serious doubts about astrology. Amongst my family my appearance created considerable consternation; then my father reminded me of his oft repeated injunctions against fighting; and to impress the lesson firmly upon my mind, he proceeded to illustrate his lecture by hitting me several times with the buckle end of a stout strap.
“This was convincing. My doubts vanished, and with them all my confidence in the horoscope. I knew that astrology was a fraud.”
(James E. Talmage, extracted from an article entitled, “My Study of Astrology,” which appeared in The Contributor in 1893.)

In 1999, a woman newly baptized in the Church wrote the following letter to President Hinckley: “‘My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.’ …
“‘Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us.’…
“This woman goes on:
“‘When we as investigators become members of the Church, we are surprised to discover that we have entered into a completely foreign world, a world that has its own traditions, culture, and language. We discover that there is no one person or no one place of reference that we can turn to for guidance in our trip into this new world. At first the trip is exciting, our mistakes even amusing, then it becomes frustrating and eventually, the frustration turns into anger. And it’s at these stages of frustration and anger that we leave. We go back to the world from which we came, where we knew who we were, where we contributed, and where we could speak the language.’”7

A few years ago, I spoke to a friend who had attended a church meeting earlier that day and enquired how it was. The response was negative; apparently the talks were poor and the meeting not at all edifying. Later that day I spoke to another friend who had attended the same meeting and I made the same enquiry. ‘It was wonderful’ was the response.
I have often pondered about the experience of these two friends. Both attended the same meeting and heard the same talks, yet one had left spiritually hungry, and the other completely nourished. It’s possible that the subject of the talks simply resonated more with my second friend. However, I imagine it was much more than that. My second friend had gone spiritually prepared to listen with an open heart and with a desire to act on that which they heard.
Certainly, those assigned to speak or teach should diligently seek the guidance of the Spirit in relation to the topic, the content, and the presentation of their instruction. My experience though is that those attending have at least equal responsibility to prepare themselves spiritually so that they can be edified and to possess a willingness to act on that which they hear.
When I read the Book of Mormon, I feel the great power of the words of Nephi, of King Benjamin, of Alma, Mosiah and others. At general conference, that same power is present from our prophet, President Russell M. Nelson and the other leaders and general officers of the Church.
Consider just a few instructions from general conference in recent years:
“But, my dear brothers and sisters, so many wonderful things are ahead. In coming days, we will see the greatest manifestations of the Savior’s power that the world has ever seen. Between now and the time He returns ‘with power and great glory,’ He will bestow countless privileges, blessings, and miracles upon the faithful.”2
“I am learning that Heavenly Father is more interested in my growth as a disciple of Jesus Christ than He is with my comfort. I may not always want it to be that way—but it is!
“Living in convenience does not bring power. The power we need to withstand the heat of our day is the Lord’s power, and His power flows through our covenants with Him.”3
“Nothing opens the heavens quite like the combination of increased purity, exact obedience, earnest seeking, daily feasting on the words of Christ in the Book of Mormon, and regular time committed to temple and family history work.”4
“The Savior loves to restore what you cannot restore; He loves to heal wounds you cannot heal; He loves to fix what has been irreparably broken; He compensates for any unfairness inflicted on you; and He loves to permanently mend even shattered hearts.”5
What wonderful instruction, edification, and invitations to act from these and the hundreds of other inspired talks. As we participate in general conference, either in person, through live streams, or reading or watching the talks afterwards, I invite each of us to spiritually prepare to be edified, and to be willing to act on that which we hear. Just as King Benjamin counselled the people of his time, so will the leaders of today guide us through these precarious and tumultuous times, building our faith in Jesus Christ and inviting us to make choices which will keep us safely on the covenant pathway.