Gospel Story Finder

Counseling with my bishop. I came to appreciate my bishop’s guidance in helping me make a number of sound decisions. He checked on our family often and made sure I was all right and my family was well cared for. He was my support both temporally and spiritually.
One day the bishop called me into his office and discussed with me each of my children, one by one, to see how they were doing. We came up with a plan to make sure each of my boys received priesthood support through their quorum and auxiliary leaders. He also discussed my financial situation and made sure we had food in the house, and when Christmas came he checked again to be sure we had something to go under our tree.
Besides helping my children, he gave me priesthood blessings and helped me explore my new role as a single sister. What a comfort it was to know I had his backing.

Ezra J. Poulsen relates an experience he had as a student at this university. The English professor and poet was the late Alfred Osmond, and the incident, I believe, adequately reflects that which I would like to explain.
In a college English class years ago, we were assigned to write several rhymed couplets in the style of Alexander Pope. The professor required the trembling authors to read their verses aloud for criticism and review.
One of the boys refused to take part. “I’m not a poet,” he said.
The professor, a large man with bushy eyebrows and a voice of thunder, pointed a blunt finger at the student and roared, “Young man, I want you to understand you’re not a finished product. You’re still in the process of being created.”
This dramatic ten-second speech startled the entire class into a state of intense receptivity, and I doubt if anyone present ever forgot it. It was a master stroke of teaching.
Brother Poulsen continues,
For me, this remark has become a fixed belief. I am not a finished product. I am still in the process of creation. In moments of idleness, retreat, or discouragement, I seem to hear the old professor’s challenge in my ears. And I rise to do battle with my daily problems.
Quickly, new avenues of constructive effort seem to open up. Old plateaus of mediocrity are left behind. I find ever-widening horizons, because growth is the natural law of life. [This Week Magazine, 16 September 1962]

There was once a young couple who had a sweet angel daughter about to turn three. Though money was tight, they wanted to have some kind of celebration for her birthday. Fortunately, the small child was too young to be aware of expensive gifts, so they decided that the regular Sunday afternoon gathering at grandma and grandpa’s house would be a great venue for a simple celebration with family.

The young mother woke up early that Sunday morning to prepare and bake a humble birthday cake. She pulled it out of the oven while preparing to go to church, but as they were walking out the door, a backward glance revealed that the cake had fallen significantly.

Upon returning home, the young mother faced a bit of a dilemma. She didn’t have the time or ingredients to start over, nor did she feel right about running to the store on the Sabbath. She’d just have to do the best she could.

She made up a double batch of frosting, and soon the hole was filled and the cake was nice and flat on top. She’d have to embarrassingly confess before the cake was cut into, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

That birthday cake is a fairly appropriate metaphor for my life. I try to act like I know what I’m doing in life—that I’ve kind of got my act together. But the truth is, one doesn’t have to scratch into the frosting very far to realize that I have some significant holes in my cake. The mistakes I have made in my life are pretty hard to miss when the frosting isn’t hiding them. And though they aren’t front-and-center to everyone else, I know they are there, and so does the Savior, and so does my Father in Heaven.

For many years those mistakes gnawed at my faith. How in the world, I thought, could my Heavenly Father and the Savior possibly love me? For they truly know what I am under that frosting.

Fortunately for me, my current job in online curriculum development causes me to explore, research, and investigate how the human brain works, and how we learn. At the top of my office whiteboard is written “The Myth of Errorless Learning.” This is a constant reminder to me that learning cannot occur without errors. In other words, mistakes are a necessary part of learning.

In this week’s devotional discussion board, I posed the question “Have you ever made a big mistake, but learned something really important from it?” There were several inspiring thoughts shared. Thank you to those who participated. I’ll point out two who both felt that although the mistakes might not qualify as “big,” they were definitely learning experiences. One student shared that as a young lady she worked summers on her grandparents’ farm. One morning she showed up a bit late. Her grandfather told her to go home because only those who arrive on time have the privilege of receiving earnings for the day. What a great lesson from a great teacher! A discussion post from another student was a classic. He registered for a course just to be in the same class as a particular gal. Turns out she dropped the class and he was stuck in it. What a way to learn a lesson! Now that’s what I call deep learning!

To some degree, when we make mistakes, we’re doing what we’re supposed to be doing. That doesn’t mean we should use them as an excuse to intentionally wander—but it does mean that honest mistakes don’t lessen our Father in Heaven’s love for us. The Savior’s Atonement makes even more sense when you understand this concept.

My mother also taught me to be honest, even if it meant doing hard things. Our neighbor grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables. Sometimes his fruit would grow on our side of the fence. Once I picked some of this fruit and took it to my mom. She looked at me and said, “That doesn’t belong to us.” I couldn’t believe it. I said, “What do you mean? It’s on our side of our fence!” Again she said, “That doesn’t belong to us.” Then she took my hand, and we walked to our neighbor’s house. We asked for forgiveness for taking his fruit. My mother said that if we wanted something, we needed to get it honestly.

Today is January 19, 2021. Almost exactly 175 years ago, on February 4, 1846, Charles Shumway ferried across the Mississippi River and started the westward migration of Latter-day Saints from Nauvoo, Illinois. For three weeks in frigid temperatures, wagons ferried across the river, often steering clear of large ice chunks. After Charles C. Rich walked across the Mississippi on February 25, scores of additional refugees crossed the river on solid ice.1 The winter phase of this mass exodus was directed by President Brigham Young—the well-known Camp of Israel trek across Iowa involving approximately 3,000 Saints.

The spring phase of the exodus included three large waves of refugees departing Nauvoo and involved more than 10,000 Saints—triple the ­number in the winter departure.

The fall phase of the exodus included about 700 Saints who were forced from Nauvoo at gunpoint.

The winter withdrawal from Nauvoo in particular caused unimaginable hardship for these faithful Latter-day Saints, and many sought shelter in camps along the Mississippi River. When word reached Brigham Young at Winter Quarters about the condition of these exiles, he immediately sent a letter across the river to Council Point encouraging the brethren to help—reminding them of the covenant made in the Nauvoo Temple. He counseled: “Now is the time for labor. Let the fire of the covenant which you made in the house of the Lord burn in your hearts, like flame unquenchable.”2 Within days, wagons were rolling eastward to rescue the struggling Saints.

From the front porch of my grandparents’ home, I could see the dark blue, spiny-backed ridge line of a mountain range. The road atlas called them the Clear Creek Mountains, but my Grandpa McClary said they were the Windmakers, though I never heard anyone outside of our family refer to them by that name.
“Why do you call them the Windmakers?” I asked my grandpa one summer evening as we sat on the porch, watching the sun’s last rosy light creep higher on the mountainside.
“Feel that breeze?” Grandpa replied. I did, a cool little gust that ruffled my hair and sent a shiver down my shoulders. Grandpa leaned back on his chair and wrapped his fingers behind his head. “That puff comes right from those mountains. I can tell you almost the exact spot, right up that big canyon next to that feather of snow,” he nodded. “Every day about this time, the wind blows down from those mountains. That’s why I call ’em the Windmakers. Someday I’ll let you in on a secret I know about those mountains.”
“Secret?” The word grabbed my attention, as it would capture the interest of any nine-year-old boy talking with his grandfather.
“Yes, secret. When the time’s right, you’ll understand it,” he promised, a trace of intrigue in his voice. “Don’t try to get it out of me; I won’t tell.”
So I had to be satisfied that I’d learn the secret of the Windmakers at a later time. But it was always on my mind when Grandpa, my father, and I made our annual fishing trip to the mountains.
The trip actually began 300 miles away from the Windmakers, in my hometown. On the first weekend in August, my father came home from work at noon, and we began a ritual honed to perfection through the years. We packed our car and said good-bye to my mother and little sister, Melissa. Then we began the long drive to my grandparents’ home in Springvale, a small town in the shadow of the Windmakers.
On Saturday morning, we’d spread out our camping and fishing gear in Grandpa’s backyard. Then we’d pack all of the equipment in the back of Grandpa’s pickup truck and pull a canvas tarp over it. One of Grandpa’s neighbors, Mr. Dahlstrom, always peeped over the fence during our preparations. “So, Jess, looks like you plan to do some serious fishing this week,” he’d greet. “That we do, Henry, that we do,” Grandpa replied happily.
It took all morning and some of the afternoon to get everything ready, carefully organizing every fish hook, tent peg, and frying pan. We never took much food. “We’ll live off the land, by our wits,” Grandpa winked. When we finished packing, Grandpa always looked solemnly at his truck and pronounced final approval. “We are now ready to go fishing. To the mountains, gentlemen.”
After that, my father turned the truck around and parked it front first in the driveway. “To make our getaway even faster on Monday,” my father explained. “When it comes to fishing and your grandfather, every second counts.”
Sundays, of course, we went to church. Although it was the ward my father grew up in and most people there knew our family, Grandpa took special delight in introducing us to anyone within earshot. “This is my son Richard, and his son, Jason. You remember Richard from his days as a deacon here. He was the ornery one in the bunch, but he turned out all right somehow. Credit his mother for that, I suppose.
“Anyway, he and Jason have come this week to exact a fearsome toll on the fish of the nearby mountains. Next week, I’ll let you know who was victorious—the fish, or the fishermen,” Grandpa pledged.
Early on Monday, when the sky was still black, we’d arise. Grandma McClary always had a huge breakfast on the table for us. “Last decent meal you three will get until you come back,” she teased. After eating, we were off, three generations spanning 50 years, yet close enough to fit snugly on the seat of a pickup truck. Our destination: the Windmakers, their dark outline only now taking shape against the pink morning sky.
The excitement of those mornings still lingers: Grandpa’s unfailing good humor; all of us singing on the drive to the mountains, always very loud and off-key; the fragrance of a forest morning, fresh pine and dew; and the conversation between my father and grandfather, always about good friends, good memories, and good lives.
Ninety minutes into our drive, two tracks of dirt veered away from the main road. We followed the little road a few miles to a small meadow at the foot of a dozen large trees. It was there, with the stream close by, that we pitched camp.
“In the name of our honorable family, I christen thee Camp McClary!” Grandpa exulted while jamming a shovel into the ground.
It didn’t take long for us to set up camp, a tribute to Grandpa’s meticulous packing. After the tent was up and everything in place, we broke out our rods and reels and tugged on our waders. Soon we stood at the water’s edge, casting Grandpa’s hand-tied fishing flies into the riffles and pools.
We worked our way upstream, hopscotching from boulder to boulder, from one bank to the other. Most years the fishing was good, and when one of us caught a fish, the other two invariably let out a whoop. We kept only what we needed. “It would break your grandmother’s heart if we came back a few pounds heavier,” Grandpa said.
The best memories of all, though, are of Grandpa. He was tall, white-haired, and handsome. On our outings to the Windmakers, he always wore a tattered blue hat with a dozen fishing flies hooked to it. He called it his lucky cap, and said it was as important on those fishing trips as his rod and reel.
Late in the afternoon, we hiked back to our camp. Grandpa fried our trout in his homemade lemon butter. Nothing ever has tasted quite as good as those high mountain meals cooked over a campfire. For dessert, Grandpa always had a bag of gingersnap cookies, though I never saw him pack them. We’d sit on the edge of the creek, the three of us, eating cookies and going over the day’s adventures. When the breeze kicked down the canyon in the early evening, Grandpa would lean back and announce: “The Windmakers.”
Tuesdays and Wednesdays were spent fishing. When Thursday came, the truck was loaded, though not quite as carefully as the Saturday before. We drove back to Springvale, arriving about noon. Grandma treated us to a sumptuous lunch, and we took turns grumbling about how bad the food was on our trip. “We stared starvation right in the eye,” Grandpa dead panned. “But your meal here, Sarah, has brought us back from the edge.”
“We were so hungry that we almost forced ourselves to eat some of Dad’s cooking,” my father chimed in.
On Friday, Dad and I returned home. Grandma and Grandpa stood in their driveway, waving good-bye until we turned a corner and went out of sight. We got home a little tired, with some trout in our ice cooler and enough wild tales of our adventure to the Windmakers to last until next August.
I started accompanying my father on the trips to the Windmakers when I was five, and for a decade, the trips varied only slightly. Never did I think that things might someday change. Then, suddenly, they did.

I particularly remember a Primary teacher reading a story to us from the Improvement Era. I had the Historical Department find it for me, and I found it was worth repeating. The story was taken from the October 1928 Improvement Era and is about Creed Haymond, a young Mormon who applied and was accepted at the University of Pennsylvania. He was an athlete known for his speed, and because of the way he acted and participated, he was chosen to be the captain of the track team.
The annual meet of the Intercollegiate Association of Amateur Athletes of America was held at Harvard Stadium at the end of May of 1919. To Cambridge came the greatest college athletes—1,700 in all. In the tryouts, Penn had qualified 17 men. Cornell, their most feared rival that year, had qualified only 10. The Penn team was in position to be crowned the champions. The scores were made on the first five places—five for first, four for second, three for third, two for fourth, and one for fifth. Naturally, the team that qualified the most men had the greatest opportunity to win the meet.
The Penn coach was in high spirits the night before the meet. He made the rounds of his team members before he retired. He came into Creed’s room and said, “Creed, if we do our best tomorrow, we will run away with it.”
The coach hesitated. “Creed, I’m having the boys take a little sherry wine tonight. I want you to have some, just a little of course.”
“I won’t do it, Coach.”
“But, Creed, I’m not going to get you drunk. I know what you ‘Mormons’ believe. I’m giving you this as a tonic, just to put you all on your metal.”
“It won’t do me any good, Coach; I can’t take it.”
The coach replied, “Remember, Creed, you’re the captain of the team and our best point winner. Fourteen thousand students are looking to you personally to win this meet. If you fail us we’ll lose. I ought to know what is good for you.”
Creed knew that other coaches felt that a little wine was useful when men have trained muscles and nerves almost to the snapping point. He knew also that what the coach was asking him to do was against all that he had been taught from his early childhood. He looked his coach in the eye and said, “I won’t take it.”
The coach replied, “You’re a funny fellow, Creed. You won’t take tea at the training table. You have ideas of your own. Well, I’m going to let you do as you please.”
The coach then left the captain of the team in a state of extreme anxiety. Suppose he made a poor showing tomorrow. What could he say to his coach? He was going up against the fastest men in the world. Nothing less than his best would do. His stubbornness might lose the meet for Penn. His teammates were told what to do, and they had responded. They believed in their coach. What right did he have to disobey? There was only one reason. He had been taught all his life to obey the Word of Wisdom.
It was a critical hour in this young man’s life. With all the spiritual forces of his nature pressing in on him, he knelt down and earnestly asked the Lord to give him a testimony as to the source of this revelation that he had believed in and obeyed. Then he went to his bed and slept in sound slumber.
The next morning the coach came into his room and asked, “How are you feeling, Creed?”
“Fine,” the captain answered cheerfully.
“All of the other fellows are ill. I don’t know what’s the matter with them,” the coach said seriously.
“Maybe it’s the tonic you gave them, Coach.”
“Maybe so,” answered the coach.
Two o’clock found 20,000 spectators in their seats waiting for the meet to begin. As the events got under way, it was plain that something was wrong with the wonderful Penn team. Event after event, the Penn team performed well below what was expected of them. Some members were even too ill to participate.
The 100- and 220-yard dash were Creed’s races. The Penn team desperately needed him to win for them. He was up against the five fastest men in American colleges. As the men took their marks for the 100-yard dash and the pistol was shot, every man sprang forward into the air and touched the earth at a run—that is, all except one—Creed Haymond. The runner using the second lane in the trials—the lane that Creed was running in at this particular event—had kicked a hole for his toe an inch or two behind the spot where Haymond had just chosen for his. They didn’t use starting blocks in those days. With the tremendous thrust that Creed gave, the narrow wedge of earth broke through, and he came down on his knee behind the line.
He got up and tried to make up for the poor start. At 60 yards, he was last in the race. Then he seemed to fly past the fifth man, then the fourth, then the third, then the second. Close to the tape, heart bursting with strain, he swept into that climax with whirlwind swiftness and ran past the final man to victory.
Through some mistake in arrangements, the semifinals for the 220 were not completed until almost the close of the meet. With the same bad breaks that had followed the Penn team all day, Creed Haymond had been placed in the last qualifying heat for the 220-yard dash. Then, five minutes after winning it, he was called upon to start the final 220, the last event of the day. One of the other men who had run in an earlier heat rushed up to him. “Tell the starter you demand a rest before running again. You’re entitled to it under the rules. I’ve hardly caught my breath yet and I ran in the heat before yours.”
Creed went panting to the starter and begged for more time. The official said he would give him 10 minutes. But the crowd was clamoring for the final race to begin. Regretfully he called the men to their marks. Under ordinary conditions Creed would not have feared this race. He was probably the fastest man in the world at that distance, but yet he had already run three races that afternoon—one the heart-stopping 100-yard dash.
The starter ordered the breathless men to their marks, raised his pistol, and with a puff of smoke the race began. This time the Penn captain literally shot from his marks. Soon Creed emerged from the crowd and took the lead. He sprinted all the way up the field, and with a burst of speed and eight yards ahead of the nearest man, he broke the tape, winning the second race—the 220-yard dash.
Penn had lost the meet, but their captain had astounded the fans with his excellent runs.
At the end of that strange day, as Creed Haymond was going to bed, there suddenly came to his memory his question of the night before regarding the divinity of the Word of Wisdom. The procession of that peculiar series of events then passed before his mind—his teammates had taken wine and had failed; his abstinence had brought victories that even amazed himself. The sweet, simple assurance of the Spirit came to him: the Word of Wisdom is of God. (Adapted from Joseph J. Cannon, “Speed and the Spirit,” Improvement Era, Oct. 1928, 1001–7.)

Every time they saw Mehitabel, Grandpa’s friends challenged her with “Riddle me this!” and “Riddle me that!” But Mehitabel always came up with a clever answer. It began to look as though the whole summer would pass without Grandpa’s buying his friends a treat.
Then one day Mrs. Gray had a riddle poem for Mehitabel. “Riddle me this, Hitty, if you can,” she said. “Who are the people, and what is the poem the tale of?” Then she recited:
“One was in the dungeon;
One was in the street.
The lost one and the searcher—
How could they ever meet?”
Mehitabel knew at once that she was stumped. Oh, she knew that she had heard the story somewhere, But what was it about? she asked herself. And who was in the dungeon? The Little Lame Prince? No, he was in a tower, not a dungeon, and he wasn’t really lost. Robinson Crusoe? No, he was on an island, and no one was searching for him. The princess in Rumpelstiltskin? She wasn’t locked in a dungeon, and no one was searching for her, either.
Maybe it wasn’t a person, Mehitabel continued in her thoughts. Maybe it was an animal—or a thing. Yes! A thing! What does one search for? Gold? She sighed with relief. She may not have Mrs. Gray’s answer, but at least she had one. She turned to Grandpa’s friend and said. “The lost one in the dungeon was gold in a mine. The searcher was the miner who was trying to pan the gold from a stream.”
Grandpa chuckled. He had been worried for a minute, but Mehitabel had done it again.
However, Mrs. Gray said, “You’ve given a very good answer, Hitty, but I think even your grandpa will admit that the better answer comes from history.” She smiled at Mehitabel and said, “The one in the dungeon was King Richard the Lionhearted. The searcher was his minstrel, Blondel.”
Grandpa nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I know the story—King Richard was captured by the duke of Austria and locked in a castle on the Danube River. I’d forgotten that old story. You stumped her fair and square, Mrs. Gray. And I’m happy to pay up.”
Grandpa called to the ice-cream vendor and motioned for him to come over. “Let each of my friends choose the flavor of ice-cream cone he wants. The treat’s on me today!”
Carlos Sanchez wanted blueberry. Mrs. Gray asked for vanilla. Mr. Loomis’s favorite was cherry marshmallow. Grandpa said, “I’ll have peppermint. What about you, Mehitabel?”
Mehitabel looked hard at the ice-cream vendor. “I’ll have black mud,” she said.
“Mud!” shouted Grandpa.
“Mud?” yelled Grandpa’s friends.
The ice-cream vendor didn’t bat an eye. He took an empty cone and filled it with something that looked exactly like mud. Handing it to Mehitabel, he grinned and said, “I guessed your riddle, young lady. That’s licorice ice cream!”
Grandpa shook his head, chuckling. “That Mehitabel!”

When my daughter ‘Ofa, graduated from BYU–Hawaii few years ago, I asked her the question most parents ask their children when they graduate from college: “Now that you’re graduated, what are you going to do with your life?” She smiled with confidence and said, “What else do you expect? I came here to learn. Now I’m ready to serve. I’m going to serve a mission.” She served an honorable mission in the Auckland New Zealand Mission, and she is now attending BYU–Provo and serving faithfully in her YSA ward.

As he grew older, however, Hal discovered a major difference between himself and his father.
Henry Eyring encouraged his sons to study physics and to prepare for a career in the sciences. Hal dutifully majored in physics at the University of Utah, but one day when he asked his father for help with a complex mathematical problem, it became apparent to Henry that Hal did not share his passion.
“My father was at a blackboard we kept in the basement,” President Eyring recalls. “Suddenly he stopped. ‘Hal,’ he said, ‘we were working at this same kind of problem a week ago. You don’t seem to understand it any better now than you did then. Haven’t you been working on it?’ ”
Hal said he had not. He then admitted to his father that physics was not something he constantly thought about. His father paused a moment and then, in tender words that released his son to pursue his own professional passion, he said, “You ought to find something that you love so much that when you don’t have to think about anything, that’s what you think about.”

The after-school job. It can range from scooping ice cream to mowing lawns, and at one time or another, most people have one to earn spending money, or save for a mission or college education. But two teenagers in Logan, Utah, have found that monetary gain is not the only reward for working hard.
Using the local community center in Logan, Lynette and Nicole Sieger teach dance lessons to nearly 80 students each week—at no cost. That’s right, Lynette and Nicole put in long hours every week teaching, choreographing, and explaining for free.
“This job takes lots of patience, but I love it,” says 16-year-old Nicole, who teaches three or four ballet classes each afternoon. “I absolutely love dance,” she says.
Thirteen-year-old Lynette echoes those sentiments by saying, “I really love little kids. They’re just a lot of fun to be around.”
Both sisters also teach love and affection while they instruct their students on the finer points of tap and ballet. While one gives help and instruction, the other is never far away, holding a child on her lap or whispering words of encouragement.
The sisters learned to dance in Texas, where they lived until just a few years ago. When they moved to Logan, they taught the free classes as an audition for a teaching job at another dancing school. When the job fell through, the sisters decided to continue teaching their classes anyway, at no cost to the students.
“I think you really have to be disciplined to do it,” says Lynette. “But it really is worth it to pass along something to people who may not otherwise get the chance.”
Nicole sums up her feelings by saying, “I couldn’t do this if I didn’t think it was important. Helping others create something of beauty is one of the most important things I can do.”

Some years ago I worked in the Missionary Department of the Church. We were developing materials to help missionaries be better and do better. One of the General Authorities shared this experience about repentance:
“A little over a year ago, I had the privilege of interviewing a young man to go on a mission. Because he had committed a major transgression, it was necessary for him under then-existing policy to be interviewed by a General Authority. When the young man came in, I said, ‘Apparently there’s been a major transgression in your life, and that has necessitated this interview. Would you mind telling me what the problem was? What did you do?’
“He laughed and said, ‘Well, there isn’t anything I haven’t done.’ I said, ‘Well, let’s be more specific then. Have you … ?’ And then I began to probe with some very specific questions. The young man laughed again and said, ‘I told you; I’ve done everything.’
“I said, ‘How many times have you … ?’ He said very sarcastically, ‘Do you think I numbered them?’ I said, ‘I wish you could if you can’t.’ He said, again quite sarcastically, ‘Well, I can’t.’
“I said, ‘How about … ?’ And then I probed in another direction. He said, ‘I told you. I’ve done everything.’ I said, ‘Drugs?’ He said, ‘Yes,’ in a very haughty attitude. I said, ‘What makes you think you’re going on a mission then?’ He said, ‘I know I’m going. My patriarchal blessing says I’ll go on a mission, and I’ve repented. I haven’t done any of those things for this past year. I have repented, and I know I’m going on a mission.’
“I said, ‘My dear friend, I’m sorry, but you are not going on a mission. Do you think we could send you out with those clean, wholesome young men who have never violated the code? Do you think we could have you go out and boast and brag about your past? You haven’t repented; you have just stopped doing something.
“‘Sometime in your life you need to visit Gethsemane; and when you have been there, you’ll understand what repentance is. Only after you have suffered in some small degree as the Savior suffered in Gethsemane will you know what repentance is. The Savior has suffered in a way none of us understands for every transgression committed. How dare you laugh and jest and have a haughty attitude about your repentance? I’m sorry; you are not going on a mission.’
“He started to cry, and he cried for several minutes. I didn’t say a word. Finally, he said, ‘I guess that’s the first time I have cried since I was five years old.’ I said, ‘If you had cried like that the first time you were tempted to violate the moral code, you possibly would be going on a mission.’
“He left the office, and I think he felt I was really cruel. I explained to the bishop and the stake president that the boy could not go on a mission.”
About six months later the same General Authority returned to that city to speak in a lecture series held in the evening. When he finished, many young adults lined up to shake hands with him. As he shook hands one by one, he looked up and saw the young man that he had previously interviewed standing in the line about four back. The General Authority related the following:
“My mind quickly flashed back to our interview. I recalled his laughing and haughty attitude. I remembered how sarcastic he was. Pretty soon he was right in front of me. I was on the stand bending over, and as I reached down to shake his hand, I noticed a great change had taken place. He had tears in his eyes. He had almost a holy glow about his countenance. He took my hand in his and said, ‘I’ve been there; I’ve been to Gethsemane and back.’ I said, ‘I know. It shows in your face.’
“We can be forgiven for our transgressions, but we must understand that just to stop doing something is not repentance. If it had not been for the Savior and the miracle of forgiveness, this young man would have carried his transgressions throughout all eternity. We ought to love the Savior and serve Him for this reason and this reason alone” (adapted from Vaughn J. Featherstone, in Conference Report, Stockholm Sweden Area Conference 1974, 71–73).

During the time of the Korean War, a young man, Rhee Ho Nam, was pressed into a helping role by an American military unit involved in court martials. At the time, being dislocated from his regular way of life looked like a tragedy. Ho Nam, however, made the best of his challenges as did Joseph in ancient Egypt. He developed English as a second language. He carefully observed the things the American soldiers did, especially an LDS lieutenant who was “different” from his fellow soldiers and much admired by Ho Nam. They discussed things often. One day the lieutenant asked Ho Nam what the purpose of life was. Rhee Ho Nam could not answer, saying only that philosophers had struggled in vain with that question for centuries. Thereupon, the officer took out a plain sheet of paper and drew an outline of the plan of salvation. At that very moment, the Lord bore testimony through the power of his Spirit to Rhee Ho Nam’s heart that what the American had told him was true. Ho Nam studied, then joined the Church, keeping that piece of paper for years as a treasured reminder of that special moment.

The Korean War was soon over, but Ho Nam’s life in the Church had just begun. While in his thirties, Rhee Ho Nam became the first stake president of the first stake of the Church on the mainland of Asia. He is now serving with distinction as a mission president in Pusan, Korea, as an outstanding leader among his people. With special conviction, President Rhee teaches his missionaries and members to look with hope beyond what is to what may be! Sometimes within seeming tragedy there is opportunity!

The teachers quorum of the Tempe Arizona Sixth Ward went the extra mile for one of their ward members recently when they designated a private parking space for him in the church parking lot.

Brother Conrad Roskelley of their ward is confined to a wheelchair and drives a specially equipped car. A parking space near the church entrance was often hard for him to find, and the observant members of the teachers quorum recognized this. The youths went to work, obtained permission to mark a space reserved, and built a concrete ramp so Brother Roskelley could maneuver his chair up onto the sidewalk more easily.

The next week they surprised him by asking, “How come you didn’t park in your parking space?”

Some years ago, I met a remarkable family. Each member of the family had an unshakable testimony of the reality of the Resurrection. Each of the children had been born with a rare form of muscular dystrophy. The only daughter, Shanna, was then five years old. All of the children were intelligent and faith-filled.
We visited for a while, and the special spirit of that family filled my office and my heart. Then the parents asked if little Shanna could sing for me. She sang of a brighter future:
On a beautiful day that I dream about
In a world I would love to see,
Is a beautiful place where the sun comes out
And it shines in the sky for me.
On this beautiful winter’s morning,
If my wish could come true somehow,
Then the beautiful day that I dream about
Would be here and now.1
Eventually, Shanna passed away at age 14. At the funeral services, I spoke of the lovely song Shanna sang. I concluded with the thought: “Because our Savior died on Calvary, death has no hold upon any one of us. Shanna lives, whole and well, and for her that beautiful day she sang about is here and now.”

Perhaps my growing realization about a more productive learning relationship with Heavenly Father is what made me so impressed with President Marion G. Romney’s biography written by F. Burton Howard. President Romney, who served as a counselor to President Spencer W. Kimball, is a wonderful example of someone who asks faithful questions. I particularly want to share an account of how President Romney responded when his wife, Ida, suffered a stroke in early 1967. She lay in the hospital for weeks, giving no sign that she recognized President Romney when he visited.

During this period, following priesthood blessings, fasting, prayer, and, nevertheless, a continued worsening of Ida’s condition, President Romney’s response was one of great reticence to counsel the Lord. If his will was to take her, President Romney did not want to pray for something else. And yet he had said on numerous occasions about his wife, “She is the best part of me. I could never carry on alone” (F. Burton Howard, Marion G. Romney, His Life and Faith [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988], p. 140).

He searched the scriptures and fasted to develop his faith and learn how to demonstrate it to the Lord. He didn’t directly ask the Lord to heal his wife, though this was never far from his heart. Rather, he worried whether he had the right to ask for this blessing. He observed that the Lord hadn’t healed President McKay, who was very ill. “He hasn’t healed others who are in as great a need as I,” he said. “Who am I to ask for a blessing? Why should the Lord answer my prayers?”

He struggled with this internal conflict for some time, continuing to read, to pray, and to fast. One evening, shortly after returning from a visit to Ida in the hospital, where he had found her unchanged, he went to the Book of Mormon and began to read. He read in the book of Helaman about the prophet Nephi, who had been falsely condemned as he sought to teach the people. A particular passage in this account touched his heart more than he had ever felt before. The scripture read:
Blessed art thou, Nephi, for those things which thou hast done; for I have beheld how thou hast with unwearyingness declared the word, which I have given unto thee, unto this people. And thou hast not feared them, and hast not sought thine own life, but hast sought my will, and to keep my commandments.
And now, because thou hast done this with such unwearyingness, behold, I will bless thee forever; and I will make thee mighty in word and in deed, in faith and in works; yea, even that all things shall be done unto thee according to thy word, for thou shalt not ask that which is contrary to my will. [Helaman 10:4–5]
President Romney felt personal confirmation that the Lord accepted him. He
knew that by refusing to ask a special favor without first ascertaining the will of the Lord, he had unknowingly demonstrated the quality of his faith. . . .
With awe, [President Romney] fell to his knees. The scripture was the direct answer to many prayers. More than anything else he wanted to know the Lord’s will for Ida. He was willing to let her go; or, if need be, he would care for her in whatever condition the Lord wanted her to be in. As he concluded his prayer with the phrase “Thy will be done,” he seemed to feel or hear a voice which said, “It is not contrary to my will that Ida be healed.” [Howard, Romney, pp. 141–142]
Quickly he put on his coat and tie and went to the hospital. Arriving there at 3:00 a.m., he entered her room and placed his hands upon her head. She didn’t move or give any sign of recognition. He then invoked the power of the priesthood and pronounced a simple blessing upon her, uttering the
incredible promise that she would recover her health and mental powers and yet perform a great mission upon the earth.
Even though he did not doubt, [President Romney] was astonished to see Ida’s eyes open as he concluded the blessing. He sat down on the bed and listened to her frail voice ask, “For goodness’ sakes, Marion, what are you doing here?” In total surprise he responded, “Ida, how are you?” With a flash of humor which showed that she was not totally unaware of her circumstances, Ida Romney replied, “Compared to what, Marion? Compared to what?” [p. 142]
Thereafter, Ida recovered fully and miraculously.

As a young man I served a mission to Brazil. It was a marvelous experience. I have returned many times since then in my Church assignments. One of the wonders of the world in that great country is Iguaçú Falls. In the flood season, the volume of water spilling over the brink is the largest in the world. Every few minutes, millions of gallons of water cascade into the chasm below. One part of the falls, where the deluge is the heaviest, is called the Devil’s Throat.
Large rocks are situated just before the water rushes down into the Devil’s Throat. Some of the braver Brazilians used to take passengers in canoes to stand on those rocks and look down into the Devil’s Throat. The water above the falls is usually calm and slow-moving, and the atmosphere tranquil. Except for the roar of the water below, there was no way to anticipate the danger that lay just a few feet beyond. A sudden, unexpected current could have taken a canoe into the rushing waters, over the cliff, and down into the Devil’s Throat. While standing on a rock, a loss of footing or vertigo would have the same effect.
Spiritually, a Devil’s Throat is concealed beneath the deceptively calm tranquillity of our lives and the world in which we live. Each of you has to have the strength and integrity not to get too close to the Devil’s Throat. Bravado in the face of certain death, physical or spiritual, is foolhardy.
You will do well not to challenge some things in life. This is particularly so with the commandments of God. I am very grateful for the principle of repentance, for we all make mistakes. But it is far better to make the right choice in the first place. This can be applied to marriage. Too many marriages fail, but it really is much better to get it right the first time. A song in The Sound of Music says, “Let’s start at the very beginning.”2 If we are to understand the purpose of our lives, the beginning is indeed a very good place to start. Each of you is a son or daughter of God. We are created in His image and likeness. What does that do for us? It raises us up so we can live above the ugly and sordid things all around us. It does not mean that temptation is eliminated, but rather that the Lord gives us strength to overcome all things. This is one of the reasons why we believe in you.
We believe in you because we know you can be honest. A local television channel ran the story of a 10-year-old boy named Josh Bowers from West Jordan, Utah. He found a wallet that had $530 in it. Josh didn’t hesitate. He picked it up and took it to his mother. The wallet belonged to a mother of four, and the $530 was rent money she couldn’t live without.
Josh had some compelling reasons to keep the money. His father had recently been disabled on the job, so his family was living on Social Security. Then there were all the things Josh could have bought with the money. What he really wanted, as he said, was a new bike. But he knew the money was not his and that someone needed that money. The relieved young mother gave Josh $40 for returning the wallet and the money. Josh planned to use some of the money to get his old bike tire fixed. But an anonymous viewer, on hearing the story, had Josh pick out a brand-new bike “to reward him for being an honest guy.” He said: “Josh set an example that everybody should follow, and he looks happy.”3
We may not all get a shiny new bicycle as a reward for our honesty, but a feeling of goodness will shine within us for doing what we know is honest and true. Ultimately, we will receive an eternal reward.
We believe in you because we recognize your strength and capacity. As a boy working on a farm, I learned that all kinds of devices can give you power to do things you cannot accomplish with your own strength. In those days we had to move big boulders by hand. We would get a long pole and put the strong end of the pole under the rock we wanted to move. Then, resting the pole on a smaller rock close by the big rock, we would pull down on the small end of the pole, which would cause the big rock to move. The longer the pole, the more leverage and the easier it was to move the big rock.
We have progressed from poles to power machinery. Today you have computers with the Internet and e-mail to increase and expand your capacity. But you will need to gain certain skills to keep up with modern technology. For example, when I was in college we wrote papers by hand, but now they are expected to be typed, usually on a computer. Computers even have a spell checker! With the development of power machinery, the rise in technology, and better health habits, the world is getting more competitive. A 3.5 grade point average used to be worth an academic scholarship, but a higher GPA is needed today. Records in sports are now higher; this pushes achievement levels higher as well. So to achieve your potential, you will not only have to work hard, but you will also have to work smart to employ all the leverage you can.
The greatest leverage for good, however, is on the spiritual level. This will come as you use your spiritual gifts to enhance your natural gifts and abilities. This spiritual leverage can be diminished or even destroyed if you get too close to the Devil’s Throat. For example, I warn you against the dangers that lurk in the Internet, movies, and books, which lead away from your destiny. Daily study of the scriptures is an excellent way to keep your spirituality safe from the Devil’s Throat.
We believe in you because of your integrity. We not only know of your integrity, but people around the world are taking notice. A businesswoman based in Salt Lake City called a company in Virginia. After completing the business transaction, the owner asked her where she was from. On learning that it was Utah, he said, “What part of Utah?” I quote her account of what happened next:
“‘Salt Lake City,’ I responded.
“‘Salt Lake City? Well, you must be a Mormon,’ he stated matter-of-factly.
“‘Yes, I am,’ I said.
“‘I have two girls who work for me who are Mormons,’ he continued. ‘They’re the best employees I’ve ever had. Those two girls are only seniors in high school, but they keep my store cleaner than any of my other employees, and they treat my customers great. They’re really polite and pretty… you know, the “all-American” type.’
“He said, ‘Those two girls are amazing. Would you believe that they get up at 5:00 a.m. every morning and…’
“‘Go to seminary!’ I inserted.
“‘Well, I don’t know what it’s called,’ he continued. ‘But it’s some type of religious training. Then they go to school all day, and come work for me until 8:00 p.m. I don’t know how they do all of the things they do, but I’m sure impressed.’
“‘Would you believe that Mormon youth all over the world are going to early-morning seminary, five days a week?’ I asked.
“‘Well, that’s one thing I have to say for your church,’ he said. ‘You’re sure raising your children right. They’re the best.’”4
And you are the best. That is why we believe in you! As President Gordon B. Hinckley frequently says: “It all comes down to personal integrity.” Integrity is the value we set on ourselves. It is the fulfillment of the duty we owe ourselves. Complete and constant integrity is a great law of human conduct. Self-respect and dignity as sons and daughters of God should both advance your gifts and talents and act as a restraining influence.
Honorable men and women will personally commit to certain self-imposed expectations. They need no outside check or control. They are honorable in their inner core. Integrity is the light that shines from a disciplined conscience. It is the strength of duty within us. Moses gave the following counsel: “If a man vow a vow unto the Lord, or swear an oath to bind his soul with a bond; he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth” (Numbers 30:2).
Some things should never be done; some lines should never be crossed; vows should never be broken; some words should never be spoken; some thoughts should never be entertained. Membership in the Church requires that we measure up to certain standards. It isn’t easy. It demands much of us.
We believe in you because you choose to be chaste. The Lord gave us our bodies and along with them our passions. He does not expect us to stifle our passions, but rather to bridle them (see Alma 38:12), which means to channel them so that they can be used for the purposes He intended. As Elder Jeffrey R. Holland stated in the October 1998 general conference:
“Human intimacy is reserved for a married couple because it is the ultimate symbol of total union. …
“… If you persist in pursuing physical satisfaction without the sanction of heaven, you run the terrible risk of such spiritual, psychic damage that you may undermine both your longing for physical intimacy and your ability to give wholehearted devotion to a later, truer love.”5
It is so important to make decisions early about correct dating habits so that you can say, “I don’t know who I’ll marry yet, but I certainly know where.”6
It is also important to keep our minds clean and pure. While Elder Dallin H. Oaks was serving as president of Brigham Young University, he gave some excellent counsel regarding what we take into our minds:
“We are surrounded by the promotional literature of illicit sexual relations, on the printed page and on the screen. For your own good, avoid it. Pornographic or erotic stories and pictures are worse than filthy or polluted food. The body has defenses to rid itself of unwholesome food. With a few fatal exceptions bad food will only make you sick but do no permanent harm. In contrast, a person who feasts upon filthy stories or pornographic or erotic pictures and literature records them in this marvelous retrieval system we call a brain. The brain won’t vomit back filth. Once recorded, it will always remain subject to recall, flashing its perverted images across your mind and drawing you away from the wholesome things in life.”7
Another important fundamental is accountability, as President Hinckley stated in an interview on Larry King Live: “Let me say that I still believe that right is right, and wrong is wrong. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness. These aren’t suggestions, these are commandments.”8
It then follows that we are accountable for what we do—first to ourselves, then to our parents, and, most important, to God. We all carry a trust. We must ask ourselves, “What is success?” Is it achievement? Is it fame? Is it position? Is it dominion? The prophet Micah defined it very simply: “He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (Micah 6:8).
I am optimistic for you. Life presents great challenges and difficulties, but now is the most exciting time in the history of the world in which to live. There are greater opportunities to build the kingdom of God than ever before. There are more places to serve missions than ever before. You really can’t visualize the great blessings that await you. They are wonderful and exciting. Each of us is endowed with unique gifts, talents, and attributes. You can make a difference. You must make a difference. You are, as the Savior said, the light of the world.
We all face furious winds of evil and tides of the sordid not unlike the situation faced by the Jaredites as they traveled to the promised land. They were tossed upon the waves of the sea and “many times buried in the depths of the sea, because of the mountain waves which broke upon them, and also the great and terrible tempests which were caused by the fierceness of the wind” (Ether 6:6). But they were protected because “when they were buried in the deep there was no water that could hurt them, their vessels being tight like unto a dish” (Ether 6:7). In our time there are vessels that protect against these terrible spiritual tempests, and they are our temples, homes, quorums, wards, and stakes.
You are children of great promise. You have received the covenants of the Lord with His people. Be careful not to get too close to the Devil’s Throat. He would like to devour you. You must use the leverage of both technology and the Spirit of God to reach your potential. You must strive diligently to do this. We want to support you by believing in you rather than fearing for you. Though you may have ordinary ability and intelligence, by perseverance and hard work you can find happiness beyond your dreams and expectations. This will come about as you keep the commandments of the Lord.
I pray that the Lord will watch over you and keep you safe. I pray that the Lord will strengthen you in heart and soul to go forward in faith and courage.

Number five on President McKay's list: "he will have no interest in how you earned your living, but were you honest in your dealings." There is so much I could say about honesty, fairness, and avoiding sharp practices. I will leave that for another day. When I think of honesty, I think of my friend Oscar Wegner, now deceased. Let me tell you a story about him:

When I was with Brother Wegner, I always felt that I was in the presence of an elect man, one the Lord loved. At his funeral, his son Hart recounted his father's experience:

During World War II, the Wegner family was living in Breslau, East Germany, actually Silesia, at the time. They were members of the church. The Soviet armies were rapidly approaching and Brother Wegner made the decision to leave, which was an inspired decision. Many members of the church did not leave and they were subsequently destroyed along with their homes. He was the chief financial officer of a corporation. The money of the corporation and the food ration cards for its employees stayed behind in the safe when they fled, simply because it was not his to take! When the very structure of our nation crumbled, it was plain for everyone to see in late January 1945 that Germany would not survive. My father, (reports his son) made a house payment on the day before we fled, never to return, simply because the payment was due."

After finally getting to West Germany, having escaped East Germany under the most trying of circumstances, (Hart recounts an incredible tale of escape) he applied for immigration to America. Their names were placed on a long list. His son further recounts that when their names reached the top and they could have the long awaited immigration visas, his father, at 57 years of age, accepted a call to serve a mission. His sense of honesty would not allow him to ask for an early release, which he surely would have received. He had promised to serve the Lord for two years and two years the Lord should have. Oscar Wegner is what I think of when I think of honesty and integrity. Would I do the same? Would you?

Fast forward . . . I had graduated from BYU-Hawaii and was taking time off from school to earn money to go onto graduate school. I was working three jobs, but arranged to work after my meetings on Sundays. One day my father shared a story of soccer star in Tahiti, Erroll Bennett. “Errol was planning on joining the church, but there was one problem, all the soccer games were on Sundays and he knew by joining the church he would need to keep the Sabbath holy”. (4) He was famous and one of the brilliant soccer player in Tahiti. Although he was passionate about soccer it was more important to him to follow the Savior.

Errol made his decision, not to play on Sunday and to be baptized. To his surprise just a few days later the League made a change in the rules, that his club would not play any Sunday games instead games would be played during the week. (5) I thought, “Wow, that pretty amazing, but I’m no one important, if I told my boss that I could not work on Sunday, he would probably tell me to go find another job.” A few months went by, but that story stayed with me. I finally realized that it was not enough to only make my Sunday meetings, it was about embracing the Sabbath fully and keeping the commandments.

I came to the conclusion that I needed to trust the Lord and stop my Sunday job. The day came and I went into tell my boss that I was giving my two week resignation notice. He asked me why. I told him that I was grateful that they had arranged my work schedule around my church meetings, but it was important that I not work on Sundays. Then he asked me, “Could you work another day during the week if you have Sunday off?” A bit surprised by his question, I said, “Sure!” Then he asked, “Is that all?” I replied, “Yes.” He then said, “Okay, you have Sundays off. Your schedule will be adjusted.” I left the office stunned, but elated. I could not believe the outcome. I trusted in the Lord and “Wow!” It really was not that hard.

The children in Ryan’s new neighborhood were from all over the world: Australia, Canada, Egypt, England, India, Kuwait, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Scotland, the United States, and Vietnam.
Ryan had been amazed to meet people from so many places, but he noticed that sometimes children in the park played only with other children who spoke the same language. Ryan couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to play together, no matter where they were from or what language they spoke. Sometimes children from one country would be mean to children from another country. That made Ryan sad.
Ryan wondered what he could do, but it was hard to think of anything. He couldn’t just tell everyone to be friends—because they spoke so many different languages, they wouldn’t understand.
One day Ryan’s family took a walk down the street. Some of the boys who had been mean were outside. One of them was holding a soccer ball. Ryan liked to play soccer too. Getting up his courage, Ryan walked over to the boys. He knew a few words of their language, and they knew a little of his. Ryan and the boys started smiling and laughing as they tried out the different languages. Then Ryan pointed to the soccer ball. “Do you want to play soccer with me?” he asked slowly, hoping they would understand. He smiled extra big.
The boys looked at him, then at each other. They talked for a minute, but Ryan couldn’t understand the words. Then they looked back at Ryan and nodded. Ryan grinned, and they ran to the nearby park. Ryan waved to his friends who spoke English, and a little shyly they walked over. One boy set down the soccer ball, and the game began.
A while later Ryan took a quick break to run home for a drink of water.
“How’s it going out there?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Ryan said. “It’s like this, Mom. We’re all shoes!”
“Shoes?” Mom asked.
“Sure. We’re all different, but we all wear two shoes—and that’s all you need for soccer.”
“Good discovery,” Mom said. “You’re all children of Heavenly Father, and you’re more alike than you think.”
Ryan waved as he ran back out the door to play with his new friends.
After that day the children in the neighborhood went to the park every Thursday to play soccer together. It didn’t matter what languages they spoke or where they were from—they were all shoes, and that was enough.