Gospel Story Finder

It sometimes seemed to Adam that not learning the piano was harder than learning it would be. But any struggle, no matter how difficult, would be worth the effort if it proved to his parents that piano lessons were a waste of time.
Now, martial arts lessons—those would be worthwhile. What if he was waylaid on the way home from school by bullies? What if he woke up one day to find himself trapped in some foul dungeon? How would he escape if he hadn’t learned tae kwon do*?
Or, if he had to learn an instrument, drums might possibly be cool enough. Instead he was subjected to Mrs. Turner’s endless urging to “make your fingers like tiny hammers.” Ugh!
So he purposely stumbled over the keys and acted as if he didn’t hear the jangling chords. He had to say one thing for Mrs. Turner—she was patient. She would pat her big white hair and attempt to smile. “That was a good try, dear.”
As for Mom and Dad, they were more determined than he had expected. He’d been taking unwanted lessons for two years. Weren’t they tired of hearing him pound away for half an hour every day but Sunday?
Tick-tick-tick sounded the clock. Three more minutes and practice time would be over.
His little sister, Sarah Kate, clumped her skates down on the bench next to him. “Will you roller-blade with me? Mom says I can’t go down the street by myself.”
“Nope,” Adam said. “I gotta finish practicing.” He brought his hands down with a crash.
“That sounds horrible!” Sarah Kate yelped.
Adam grinned. “Yeah.”
With a sigh, Sarah Kate left him.
Adam’s hands were in midair when the timer buzzed. He slammed down the lid of the piano and raced to the computer to play a game.
When he heard the missionaries’ voices, Adam deserted his game. He liked the elders. Sometimes they threw his football to him, or they played games with him and Sarah Kate. They were fun to tease too. Today, they were sitting at the table with Mom, helping her work on a Primary Sharing Time activity.
“Want to play ball?” Adam asked.
“Not now,” Elder Gilmore said. “Your mom needs us to cut out these circles.”
Adam tried to snatch Elder Presley’s name tag, but Elder Presley wasn’t in a teasing mood. He covered the tag with his hand, so Adam messed up his hair, instead. When that didn’t work, Adam plopped down into a chair. “I could cut some out too.”
Mom smiled. “Good! If you all do that, I can plan the music.” Mom was the Primary president, which in their tiny branch meant she was also the chorister, the secretary, and any teacher who didn’t show up.
Adam wrinkled his nose. “Primary music’s boring ’cause we always have to sing what’s on those tapes.”
Mom shook her head. “We’re lucky to have the tapes. Every day I pray that the elders will baptize someone who can play the piano.”
“We’ll work on it,” Elder Presley said. “You be on the lookout too.”
“I am,” Mom said. “I gave Adam’s piano teacher a Book of Mormon. She’s a wonderful woman, besides being musical. I invited her to church last week, but she didn’t come.”
Adam was unusually quiet as he cut out circles. When he finished, he agreed to skate with Sarah Kate. They skated a long way, but he hardly spoke a word. The rhythmic glide was good for thinking.
At his piano lesson the next week, he pulled out the Children’s Songbook. “Could you help me learn some of these?” he asked Mrs. Turner.
She flipped through the pages. “This is a wonderful book. Where did you get it?”
“It’s our church’s children’s songbook.”
“I don’t know about your learning these songs, though. I’m afraid they’re harder than the ones you’re already having trouble with.”
“I’ll learn them,” Adam said confidently. “I want to work on this one first.” He pointed to “Called to Serve.” It was one of his favorites.
Mrs. Turner shrugged. “All right. But you’ll really have to practice hard.”
“I will,” Adam said. “And can I do it here? Right after school? I kind of want to surprise my mom on Sunday.”
Mrs. Turner agreed, and all that week Adam practiced at her house. He worked on “Called to Serve” for an hour every day. Each night he prayed for help, and by Saturday the notes came fairly readily to his fingers.
On Sunday morning in Primary, Mom started to turn on the tape recorder. Adam stopped her. “I can play ‘Called to Serve’ on page 174.”
He sat down at the piano. There was a shivery feeling in his stomach. How had he thought he could play in front of everybody?
His eyes wandered over the children’s and teachers’ faces—and saw Mrs. Turner! She sat on the last row, a smile on her face!
He gave her a flickery grin and sent up a swift, silent prayer. He felt calmer as his fingers began to play the familiar notes.

When I was seven years old, I promised the Lord that, if given the opportunity, I would preach the gospel throughout the world. At that time I regularly attended the Baptist Church with my family. I did not understand many things. For example, I didn’t know why only the pastor and his assistants were allowed to speak. I felt everyone should have the opportunity to share his or her feelings and beliefs. However, my family and our church helped me gain a love and appreciation for Jesus Christ and for the scriptures.
As I was growing up, my family lived less than five minutes from the Washington D.C. Temple. The temple fascinated me as a young boy, and I always wanted to enter. But my father assured me, “It won’t be part of your life. Don’t ever worry about that building.”
Every day I would watch my father study the Bible intensely. I knew my father was a man of God, and I began to pose many questions. He would always tell me to read the Bible and find out for myself.
A decade later I was serving as a United States Marine security guard for the American Embassy in the Republic of Djibouti, a small country in northeast Africa. I decided to search for the truth, so I read the Bible cover to cover. As I grew closer to God, I realized the Bible was the true word of God. I did not have to rely on the testimony of my father. But I felt I still did not have the whole truth, and I longed to know why I felt compelled never to drink, smoke, or swear and to remain morally clean. Why did I always strive to obey the commandments?
After 15 months I was reassigned to the American Embassy in Pretoria, South Africa. I was selected as the first Black Marine security guard ever to serve in South Africa. In each place I was assigned, I was handpicked because of my standards. Interestingly, U.S. president Bill Clinton phoned to ask me to accept the South Africa assignment. Those were some of the reasons I received many recognitions and awards.
In South Africa I met the Cleverlys, who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The mother of the family invited me to their home at various times. She always told me about young adult activities, but I could never attend due to my job schedule. Then she invited me to attend church, and I accepted. But before Sunday came, I had three nights of duty. I went downstairs to the embassy library where there was a computer with a huge search capacity. I just typed in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. All kinds of information came up, and I read for eight hours the first night, eight hours the second night, and eight hours the third night. What I looked at most of all was what Latter-day Saints believed and how they applied it in their lives. Did they live according to what they had established as laws or standards of the Church?
The week preceding my visit to church, I had a dream. I was sitting at a table, and there were two young men with white short-sleeved shirts and black name tags. They were sitting at the sides of a table, and I was seated at the head. When I woke up, I didn’t think much about the dream.
The first time I walked into a Latter-day Saint meeting, I knew there was something different about this church. It happened to be the first Sunday of the month, which meant the members had an opportunity to stand and bear testimony. Now this is the true order of church, I thought.
I was introduced to two missionaries. One of the young men was one of those in my dream, the exact person. Sister Cleverly invited the missionaries and me to her home for dinner. She placed us at the table exactly as my dream had predicted. The missionaries began teaching me.
Later, when I learned the principle of baptism for the dead, I thought it amazing that one could go to a sacred place and do these things for people who had passed away. I thought about my two grandfathers and my grandmother who had passed away. That’s when I started to feel the Holy Ghost. The teachings sounded right to me.
We got to the next principle, which was about families, and I realized I had always known that was true. When I heard about eternal families, I told the missionaries, “I knew this existed.”
Then the missionaries taught me about the Word of Wisdom, and it was then I made a discovery. It felt as if my soul unfolded, and I shed a sort of shell and a new person came out. I felt like I was floating off the ground. I had always lived the Word of Wisdom, and I had wanted to know why I was the way I was. No one had ever had the answer for me. But the Lord did, and I learned that answer through the missionaries and the discussions. I knew everything they had taught me previously was true and everything they would teach me would be true. I had never felt the Spirit so strongly reading the scriptures as when I read Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–21. I knew it was true. I always knew my body was important, and I knew it was never to be defiled.
From this point forward, I began to experience mixed emotions about becoming a member of the Church. I was concerned about my father’s opinion and his reaction to my decision.
During the sixth discussion, I received the message that I had an incoming call from my father. The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was indeed my dad.
He said, “Your mother informed me you’ve made a decision to join the Latter-day Saints.”
I said yes.
He said, “I’m here to prevent that from happening.”
And I said, “You know what, Dad? I love you and you’ll always be my dad. You’ve done a great job with me. But I’m 22. I’m a man now, and these decisions are for my family and my future. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and will continue to do for me, but this is my decision. I’m going to do it, and I know the Lord wants me to do this.”
My dad wasn’t very happy when he hung up the phone. Immediately I got on my knees and asked the Lord to help me see and understand that what I was going to do was correct. I was thousands of kilometers from home. I was all alone, and nothing was going right. Only when I was with the missionaries did I feel good. At that moment the Spirit testified to me that it was the Lord’s will and that the Lord wanted me to be baptized. A very clear voice said, “You are to do the Lord’s will. You are to follow His example.” Then I knew. I never looked back after that. I was baptized on 12 October 1995.
It was a year to the day of my baptism, 12 October 1996, that I entered the Washington D.C. Temple to be endowed in preparation for serving full time in the Spain Madrid Mission.
During the first year of my mission, my parents were not supportive of my missionary service. The Lord revealed to me while I was on my mission that my family was fine and they would be taken care of. Then things changed all of a sudden. The last six to eight months of my mission, my family was very supportive. They said they were receiving blessings, and they knew it was because of my mission.
After I returned from my mission, I stayed with my family for three weeks before leaving to enter Brigham Young University. Before school started my father visited me, meeting my friends and seeing Salt Lake City. When I took him to the airport, he embraced me and said, “Out of all 46 years of my life, never ever have I felt more love or the Spirit of God in my home than when you were home the last few weeks. I know we owe it to the service you gave in Spain for two years.”

For a long period after I converted to the gospel, I didn’t have a clear answer to the question “Why am I given trials?” I understood the part of the plan of salvation that says we will be tested. However, in reality, when it came to this question, I did not have a conviction that was powerful enough to adequately answer it. But there came a time in my life when I too experienced a major trial.
When I was 30 years old, I was visiting the Nagoya mission as part of my work. After the meeting, the mission president kindly arranged for the elders to drive me to the airport. However, as we reached the intersection at the bottom of a long hill, a large truck came barreling down from behind us at great speed. It rammed into the rear of our car and propelled it forward more than 70 feet (20 m). The terrifying part of all of this was there was no driver. The rear of our car was compacted to half its original size. Fortunately, both the elders and I survived.
However, on the following day, I began experiencing pain in my neck and shoulders and developed a severe headache. From that day, I couldn’t sleep and I was forced to live each day with both physical and mental pain. I prayed to God to please heal my pain, but these symptoms lingered on for about 10 years.
At this time, feelings of doubt also began creeping into my mind, and I wondered, “Why do I have to suffer this much pain?” However, even though the kind of healing I sought was not granted, I strove to be faithful in keeping God’s commandments. I continued to pray that I would be able to resolve the questions I had about my trials.
There came a time when I found myself struggling with a few additional personal issues, and I was agitated because I did not know how to cope with this new trial. I was praying for an answer. But I didn’t receive an answer right away. So I went and talked with a trusted Church leader.
As we were talking, with love in his voice, he said, “Brother Aoyagi, isn’t your purpose for being on this earth to experience this trial? Isn’t it to accept all the trials of this life for what they are and then leave the rest up to the Lord? Don’t you think that this problem will be resolved when we are resurrected?”
When I heard these words, I felt the Spirit of the Lord very strongly. I had heard this doctrine countless times, but the eyes of my understanding had never been opened to the extent they were at this time. I understood this was the answer that I had been seeking from the Lord in my prayers. I was able to clearly comprehend our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and understand anew this important principle.
Let’s now consider that rear-end collision in Nagoya. I could have died in that accident. Nevertheless, through the Lord’s grace, I miraculously survived. And I know that my sufferings were for my learning and for my growth. Heavenly Father schooled me to temper my impatience, to develop empathy, and to comfort those who are suffering. When I realized this, my heart was filled with feelings of thankfulness toward my Heavenly Father for this trial.

We don’t know whether any children actually went along on the late-night caroling party. But the grandma in the story—Lettice Rushton—was a real person, and she and some of her family and neighbors actually did sing for the Prophet Joseph Smith on Christmas morning, 1843.
The mother of 10 children, Lettice Rushton became blind from cataracts five years before she was baptized. She was one of thousands of British converts who listened eagerly to the missionaries and immigrated with their families to Nauvoo to join the Saints.
The Prophet Joseph Smith recorded that at 1:00 on Christmas morning, 1843, Lettice Rushton and her family and neighbors gathered under his window and began singing, “which caused a thrill of pleasure to run through my soul.” The music so moved him that he “felt to thank … Heavenly Father for their visit, and blessed them in the name of the Lord.” (See History of the Church, 6:134.)

Throughout my teenage years growing up in Ireland I was a lapsed or inactive Catholic. I stopped going to mass and seldom attended a religion class at school after I reached the age of 12. I always believed my Heavenly Father and my Savior were real people, and I didn’t view them the way my religion taught. I liked to pray to Heavenly Father in my own words rather than reciting set prayers. I prayed for guidance and truth.
On one of the rare occasions when I sat through a religion class, the nun who was teaching us spent the class talking about other churches, including The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She said that we should draw our own conclusions about them and find our niche. She is still a great friend of mine.
One day, when I was on the bus on my way home from work, I started to learn the truth. My friend Elaine’s brother, Liam, got onto the bus that day and, being a friendly type of person, sat beside me and started to talk to me. I offered him a cigarette. He said he didn’t smoke. He could have stopped there, but he didn’t. He told me why he didn’t smoke. He had joined the LDS church.
Liam told me a lot about the LDS church that day, and I was impressed. I was also impressed at the change it had made in his life. I wanted to know more. Unfortunately, Liam left two days later to work in Canada. So I waited and prayed and prayed and waited.
Roughly two months later, as I sat watching TV on a sunny May evening, out of the corner of my eye I saw two missionaries pass by my house on the street. I had no idea they were LDS. I just felt the urge to talk to them. I asked my mom if I could bring them in and ran to the door to call them. They were totally shocked! They hadn’t had an investigator for months, and here was one tracting them.
I totally wrecked their door approach. They walked up to me and said, “We’d like to share a brief message with …”
“Come in,” I said before they could finish.
They did and they taught me a spiritual first lesson. At the end of the discussion, I knew they spoke the truth. I loved hearing about Joseph Smith. I, too, had prayed for truth. I hadn’t had a vision, but like Joseph Smith, I had found the true church. I debated about asking if I could possibly join their church. During the second discussion, they challenged me to be baptised. I challenged them to stop me!
I had one problem. I had heard people talking about gaining a spiritual witness. I have to admit my prayers had racing stripes on them. I used to pray and hop straight into bed, put on some music, and go to sleep. The missionaries told me to pray and wait for an answer. That’s what I did. One night I prayed and didn’t close my prayer. I stayed on my knees waiting. Then I sat on the side of my bed waiting. Then I woke up at about 5:00 A.M. with an urge to read the Book of Mormon. I opened the book and began reading Alma 32 about faith. It was my answer! [Alma 32]
Of course, it wasn’t all easy sailing. My mom threw a fit when I told her, and the family stopped speaking to me. My mom even threatened to throw me out unless I “lost” the Mormons. I was scared of losing my family, and they knew it, so they put on the pressure. I knew the Church was true, so I took my chances on their love for me. My dad and mom and sister did everything they could to stop me from leaving the house on the day I chose to be baptised. But I left after trying once more to make them understand.
On the way to the church, I shook like a leaf and cried and cried. I was still shaking when I stepped into the font, but when I heard Elder Gooch say the words, “Ashley Catherine Moran, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ … ,” I forgot all my problems. Later, when I was confirmed a member of the Church and received the Holy Ghost, I lost all my fear and entered into the straight and narrow path.
My family still loves me. They have even befriended some members. I want them to know true happiness, to know as I do, that they are children of God. I am happier than I have ever been. I know who I am and I know that God lives. I love my Savior, and Joseph Smith is a prophet. We have a prophet on the earth today, and if I follow his counsel I will stay close to my Father in Heaven. The Book of Mormon is scripture for this last dispensation. It’s all true!

I know a young woman who grew up in President Spencer W. Kimball’s ward. She had a fervent testimony of his calling, but while she was on her mission, President Kimball died. This young missionary worried about testifying of a prophet she didn’t know. One evening as she prayed for newly sustained President Ezra Taft Benson, she was immediately flooded with the warmth of the Spirit, and she gained a new testimony. “The Lord knew I needed to know,” she said, “and he knew I would share that witness in the conversion of others.” Sisters, this can happen for you!

My great-great-grandmother Eliza Cusworth was born in England in 1824 and married Joseph Burton in 1846. They lived happily for a few years and had two children, Joseph and Martha. In 1849 two LDS missionaries came to the area, and both Eliza and Joseph listened to them, gained testimonies of the gospel, and were baptized. The counsel of the prophet at that time was for the Saints to migrate to Utah. Joseph and Eliza started saving so that they could make the journey.

Joseph was employed as a carrier delivering goods from the depot to various stores. While lifting at work he broke a blood vessel, which resulted in his death a short time later. His dying request to Eliza was for her to migrate to Utah so she could do their temple work and raise their children among the Saints in Zion. Eliza promised him she would do this.

Understandably, both Eliza’s and Joseph’s families discouraged her from making what they said was “a foolish journey.” Eliza’s mother said that if Eliza would stay with them, they would take care of her and her children, and she would want for nothing. Joseph’s family offered to give her any amount of money if she would stay in England. It was a difficult decision for Eliza. However, she had made a promise to her dying husband, and she knew the gospel was true, so she chose to go.

In the spring of 1856, at age 32, Eliza packed her trunks and embarked on the 6,000-mile journey with Joseph and Martha, her two children. They went by train to Liverpool, England, and boarded the shipHorizon on May 25, 1856. During the voyage Eliza suffered from severe seasickness. It got so bad that for about 10 days she was unable even to care for her children. The Horizon landed in Boston on June 30, 1856, and then Eliza and her children traveled by boat and train to Iowa City, Iowa, where the railway ended. She had planned to join a wagon train at Iowa City; however, upon arrival she discovered that they were too late—the last of the wagon trains had already gone. She had no choice but to wait for handcarts to be made. When the handcarts were ready, the travelers were told they would have to leave most of their belongings behind, as they could bring only necessities on the handcarts. Eliza’s trunks contained many of her valuable possessions—silverware, linen, bedsheets, and clothing. Most of it had to be left behind.

Eliza joined the Martin Handcart Company, which left Iowa City on July 30, 1856, for the 1,300-mile trek to Salt Lake City. She pulled the handcart, little seven-year-old Joseph walked and helped her pull the cart part of the time, and four-year-old Martha rode in the handcart. During the first part of the journey everyone got along quite well. At night many would gather around the campfires after supper and sing songs such as “Come, Come, Ye Saints.” However, travel was slower than expected because they had to stop frequently to repair the hurriedly made handcarts.

The days wore on, and the members of the company tried to encourage one another. Often the only fuel available was buffalo chips with which they made fires to do their cooking and dry their clothing. After a while their food began to run low. Sometimes the men were able to kill buffalo, but after the company’s store of salt gave out, the meat often made them sick. Toward the latter part of their journey, the food was almost gone, and rations were reduced to one-fourth pound of flour per person per day. The season was getting late and the nights were cold—their clothing was thin, and they had little bedding. In their weakened condition, many became discouraged and wondered if they would ever reach the Salt Lake Valley.

When the company reached Devil’s Gate, they ran out of food entirely. At some ranchers’ cabins they tried to buy food, but the ranchers could sell them only some pelts of deer and mountain sheep that were dry and old. After soaking them and scraping off the hair, they cooked them into a soup that was thickened with their last remaining flour. Eating this helped relieve their hunger for a time.

Eliza waded across the Sweetwater River three times in one evening. First, she took little Joseph across on her back. When she reached the other side, Joseph was so frightened that he wouldn’t stay by himself and tried to follow her back. Eliza had to tie him to a nearby tree while she went back to get Martha. Then she had to go back a third time to get her handcart. She spent part of the night in freezing weather drying her clothes over the fire.

An early winter storm struck as the group was plodding its way along the Sweetwater River about 50 miles north of what is now Rawlins, Wyoming. The company waded through an icy stream and sought shelter in a nearby cove. Using frying pans and tin plates, they cleared the snow away as best they could and pitched their tents beside a tiny spring. As the desperate Saints huddled together in the cove, everyone hoped and prayed that they could survive until help arrived.

Brigham Young heard that the handcart company was marooned in the snow and sent rescuers with teams and food to assist them. More than one-fourth of the 500 members of the Martin Handcart Company perished, and many more would have died had Brigham Young not sent the rescuers. Eliza and her two children suffered greatly, but somehow they made it, arriving in the Salt Lake Valley on November 30, 1856.

When Eliza reached the Salt Lake Valley, she inquired about William Cusworth, a cousin who had gone to Utah earlier in the season in a wagon train and with whom she intended to make her home for a while. She learned that he had become discouraged and had taken his family back to Iowa. She and her children were taken to the home of Isaac Leney, where they received care for a few weeks. Little Joseph lost two of his toes because his feet had been frozen.

They eventually settled in Pleasant Grove, where Eliza met and married Nathan Staker, a widower with several children. Eliza and Nathan moved to Mount Pleasant, where they helped pioneer Sanpete County. In addition to Joseph and Martha, Eliza had four children with Nathan Staker: three daughters and one son. Eliza raised her children and was a faithful Latter-day Saint all of her life, dying at age 90.

By any objective standard it was foolish for her, a single mother with two young children, to attempt the 6,000-mile journey by boat, train, and handcart. Why did she do it? Because she wanted to keep a promise she had made to her husband. As I look back on her decision 153 years later, I believe she did the right thing. She was able to make it safely, have her and Joseph’s temple work done, and raise their children in Zion. Because she was true to the promises she made to her husband and to God, I and her other descendants have been blessed beyond measure. I am confident that she and her husband Joseph are now together. I bless her name and am proud to call her my great-great-grandmother. One day when I meet her, I will embrace her and thank her for having the courage and humility to keep a promise to her husband and to follow the counsel of a prophet.

I think of what occurred in this Tabernacle 140 years ago this Sunday. I spoke of it from this pulpit some years back, but I wish to mention it again as we bring to a close this conference.
I take you back to the general conference of October 1856. On Saturday of that conference Franklin D. Richards and a handful of associates arrived in the valley. They had traveled from Winter Quarters with strong teams and light wagons and had been able to make good time. Brother Richards immediately sought out President Young. He reported that there were hundreds of men, women, and children scattered over the long trail from Scottsbluff to this valley. Most of them were pulling handcarts. They were accompanied by two wagon trains which had been assigned to assist them. They had reached the area of the last crossing of the North Platte River. Ahead of them lay a trail that was uphill all the way to the Continental Divide with many, many miles beyond that. They were in desperate trouble. Winter had come early. Snow-laden winds were howling across the highlands of what is now western Nebraska and Wyoming. Our people were hungry, their carts and their wagons were breaking down, their oxen dying. The people themselves were dying. All of them would perish unless they were rescued.
I think President Young did not sleep that night. I think visions of those destitute, freezing, dying people paraded through his mind.
The next morning he came to the old Tabernacle which stood on this square. He said to the people:
“I will now give this people the subject and the text for the Elders who may speak. … It is this. … Many of our brethren and sisters are on the plains with handcarts, and probably many are now seven hundred miles from this place, and they must be brought here, we must send assistance to them. The text will be, ‘to get them here.’
“That is my religion; that is the dictation of the Holy Ghost that I possess. It is to save the people. …
“I shall call upon the Bishops this day. I shall not wait until tomorrow, nor until the next day, for 60 good mule teams and 12 or 15 wagons. I do not want to send oxen. I want good horses and mules. They are in this Territory, and we must have them. Also 12 tons of flour and 40 good teamsters, besides those that drive the teams. …
“I will tell you all that your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the Celestial Kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains” (in LeRoy R. Hafen and Ann W. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion [1960], 120–21).
That afternoon, food, bedding, and clothing in great quantities were assembled by the women.
The next morning, horses were shod and wagons were repaired and loaded.
The following morning, Tuesday, 16 mule teams pulled out and headed eastward. By the end of October there were 250 teams on the road to give relief.
Wonderful sermons have been preached from this pulpit, my brethren and sisters. But none has been more eloquent than that spoken by President Young in those circumstances.

How can we develop a good attitude of cooperation? One wise stake president counseled priesthood and Relief Society leaders to determine their actions by asking, “What would the Savior do?” rather than “What has been done before?” With this idea in mind, ward leaders examined their “policies” in working together. Several ward “traditions” came under examination—the first, when the ward budget was presented for approval to the men in priesthood meeting, but not to the women in Relief Society.
“Would the Savior do that?” priesthood leaders wondered. They decided that he wouldn’t, and then they consulted the General Handbook of Instructions, which indicates that proposed budgets should be discussed with all ward members in a special meeting. That tradition was changed, and the sisters in the ward are much more supportive of ward activities now that they are included in the planning.

Many suffering Saints have shared with me how they felt God’s love during their trials. I vividly recall my own experience at one point in my cancer battle when the doctors had not yet diagnosed the cause of some severe pain. I sat with my wife, intending to offer a routine blessing on our lunch. Instead, all I could do was simply weep, “Heavenly Father, please help me. I am so sick.” For the next 20 to 30 seconds, I was encircled in His love. I was given no reason for my illness, no indication of the ultimate outcome, and no relief from the pain. I just felt of His pure love, and that was and is enough.

Christian loves his grandmother very much and visits her every Sunday afternoon. “He is very special to me,” she says. “He is always obedient and kind.” She recalls an incident that happened several years ago, while she was tending Christian and Itzel. A pot on the stove exploded. Seeing Itzel’s fiery-red face, Sister Chavarín thought that her granddaughter had been badly burned, so she threw cold water on her. Christian calmly explained that his little sister wasn’t burned at all. Her face was bright red because she had gotten into her mother’s makeup.

Once I was asked to meet an older couple returning to the Church. They had been taught the gospel by their parents. After their marriage, they left the Church. Now, 50 years later, they were returning. I remember the husband coming into the office pulling an oxygen tank. They expressed regret at not having remained faithful. I told them of our happiness because of their return, assuring them of the Lord’s welcoming arms to those who repent. The elderly man responded, “We know this, Brother Andersen. But our sadness is that our children and grandchildren do not have the blessings of the gospel. We are back, but we are back alone.”

COVID-19 and lockdowns have prevented the youth of the Church in Aylesbury Ward from meeting in person. The ward’s youth council held an online meeting and prepared an online calendar of weekly events for the youth of the ward.
One such recent event was timed to coincide with the Church’s celebration, during the month of October, of ancestors.
Most of the youth had never tried indexing, so a member of the Young Women’s presidency, who had some experience, taught the youth how to index while meeting on Zoom. Each youth, and each leader, logged on to their FamilySearch account, opened a batch of indexing files and was instructed on how to convert handwritten pages into computer-readable form.
While each youth worked through their page of names, they would send a screenshot to their leaders whenever they encountered a problem, at the same time talking and encouraging each other, and helping solve each other’s problems via the Zoom call.
Within an hour, a dozen youth and leaders successfully indexed more than 200 names, while helping to plant the blessings of family history into the hearts of the next generation.

One day in my dance class, my teacher told us that we would have to wear bikinis for our costumes in an upcoming performance. I felt very bad inside. My mother and Primary teachers have taught me that Heavenly Father likes us to dress modestly. I asked my dance teacher if I could wear something else instead. She told me that I had to dress like the other girls or I could not be in the dance.
I looked down at my CTR ring that I always wear to remind me to choose the right. I knew what I had to do. I told my teacher that if I had to wear the bikini, I would not be able to be in the dance. She got angry and told me that I couldn’t drop out now because they would have to redo all the formations. I said I was sorry but I had to do what Jesus would want me to do.
It was a very hard decision to make, but I felt good afterward. When I told my mom about it later, she was very proud of me. She talked to the director of my dance studio and they decided that the costumes could be changed. I am very happy that I chose the right.

One day we were told they were going to have a youth conference in the Junior Sunday School room. The leaders asked if it could be fixed up a little special, so we really went to work. We washed all the windows and woodwork, scrubbed and polished the floor, and even sent the curtains out to be cleaned. Everything just sparkled. After the meeting was over I asked Ace if they were pleased. He said, “Well, one of the counselors in the bishopric asked if we couldn’t be a little more careful about dusting the chairs.” They had needed extra chairs for the large crowd, so someone had brought them from the construction area! We had a good laugh, realizing for the first time that it was not the things we did that were noticed but the things we didn’t do.

Meanwhile, Brother Coppin had also contacted the mission headquarters in Geneva. In May I received a telephone call from a full-time missionary, Elder Bishop, who told me that there was a chapel nearby in Clermont and gave me the telephone number of the missionaries there. I called the missionaries that very evening, and we met the next day at the chapel. The door to the gospel was opening for me.
The following Sunday, I attended meetings at the chapel and arranged to receive the missionary discussions from a missionary couple, Brother and Sister Bair of Provo, Utah. I was baptized on 24 July 1990.
My joy in becoming a member of the Church grew as I attended the Swiss Temple and worked in the family history center in my branch. Then, in September 1994, on a trip to the United States and Canada, I met Elder Card and his wife, who served as proxies as I was sealed to my parents in the Alberta Temple. The eternal union of my parents’ family had begun.
For many years I had searched for the church that would fulfill my spiritual needs and unite me with my loved ones who had passed on. Now, in a miraculous way, I had received the blessings of the temple and was able to share those blessings with my loved ones.

Twenty years ago, in a terrible car accident, Brother Herb Gellert lost three precious people in his life - his wife, his daughter, and his wife's dear mother. At fault was the driver of the other vehicle, a young man, not a member of the Church, who had been drinking alcohol to celebrate the birth of his first baby. Herb was faced with a choice of acting out the immediate natural feelings of vindictive rage, or he could offer some kind of forgiveness. He chose the latter and in the process short-circuited the languishing misery of his own broken heart. In fact, he ended up in the home of the guilty driver, embracing him and giving him a priesthood blessing to help him overcome his own suffering and guilt for what he had done. Herb was in our home last week to give me his own write up of that experience, a testimony of the miracle of forgiveness.

But I remember a story told to me long ago, far from here, by a sad voice. I remember it not because it was unique but because I have heard the same story told, again and again, about waiting or failing to wait. The details vary, but not the feeling of drama.

She said it happened on a summer Saturday afternoon. She was tired. Tired of being single. Tired of trying to be a faithful Latter-day Saint. Not so much tired of being kind and virtuous as tired of nothing good seeming to come of it. She’d not had a date in months.

She saw no prospect of even becoming friends with, let alone marrying, a man who shared her faith and ideals. In frustration she found herself deciding something. She decided that afternoon, consciously, that years of good works and restraint had produced too little and promised no more. She said to herself almost aloud, “Oh, what’s the use?”

The phone rang. It was a man’s voice, a man she knew. He lived in the same apartment building. He’d asked her out before. She’d refused because she was sure he’d expect her to compromise her standards she’d preserved at great effort. But, almost as if directed by a scriptwriter, he called at that instant.

She didn’t say, “Yes.” She said, “I’ll think about it.” She thought about it. He called again. And finally, she repeated to herself, “Oh, what’s the use?” She went. She found she had been right about his intentions. And in a choice about time and about waiting or not waiting, her life changed. So, she will never know what might have been ahead on the path she decided wasn’t worth the price; she knew quickly the other one was uphill, and a hard climb.

The Book of Mormon brought me a great desire to be accepted of the Lord. One night, my newborn daughter awakened me. I fed her, and she soon fell asleep, but I was left awake in the stillness of the night. I thought of the changes in my life and the many things that still needed to be changed. My thoughts were drawn to God, and I prayed, remembering the words of the Lamanite king who cried, “O God, … wilt thou make thyself known unto me, and I will give away all my sins to know thee.” (Alma 22:18.)
One by one, the Lord showed me my weaknesses. In the early hours of the morning, I received a sweet assurance, which I recorded in my journal and have pondered many times: “I am your Father. Your Father!”

“I can’t believe people go to work this early,” someone says, watching the lonely headlights of a car appear and then quietly disappear down the streets of the still-sleeping town. It is dark, early-morning dark, in the church parking lot. The coolness of the early hour inspires thoughts of sleep and warm beds rather than the day of work ahead, but work is what everyone has come out to do. After all, this is no ordinary Saturday morning; it is the beginning of the second annual Wood Run.
In the lumberjack country of Oregon or the thick pine forests of Washington, a project to cut and stack timber would raise no eyebrows. But when youth from Kanab, Utah, decide to hold an annual Wood Run, eyebrows are raised. The surrounding countryside poses some problems. The sage-covered flatlands, dry gulleys, and beautiful but barren red bluffs that characterize the small southern Utah community make it easy to wonder how far you would have to travel to find lumber, especially enough to satisfy this eager group.
The Wood Run originated when the Young Women of the Kanab Second Ward said they could stack and haul more wood than the Young Men could. And just one year ago, in the first official Wood Run, they proved it.
This year, as they stand waiting in the church parking lot, the young men say things will be different.
As the last cars pull in and the sun begins to rise, the dark shapes in the parking lot take on identity, and a spirit of competition begins to whisper through the crowd. In the new light the Laurel and Beehive advisers look around and confer.
“Do they have more people than we do?”
“I think so.”
“We’re outnumbered!”
“Well,” concludes Charlene Swapp, Beehive adviser, “there are more boys this year, but we’ll still beat them.”
The girls seem to agree. “Are we going to whop ’em?” asks the Young Women’s president, Jo Anne Goodfellow. “Yeah!” comes the resounding chorus from a group of enthusiastic young women.
The men are not in agreement, however. Loral Linton, teachers quorum adviser, stands by, listening to the boasts with a knowing smile on his face. “We’ll get even this year,” he says smugly.
This attitude seems to prevail among the young men and has resulted in a slight alteration of the event’s original name. Among themselves the event has become known as the Revenge of the Wood Run.
Soon everyone in the parking lot has piled into cars and trucks to head for the Kaibab National Forest to make good their claims of victory.
“That’s where we’re going,” someone says, pointing to a smooth, flat-topped hill of purplish hue that rises in the distance across the border into Arizona. “That’s the Kaibab.”
“That’s the Kaibab?”
The words of a lifelong resident, a man who homesteaded his own land out here and really knows the area, come to mind. “Kaibab is Indian for mountain lying down,’” he’d said, looking off in that direction and adjusting his cowboy hat.
Well, the Indians were right.
From this distance the level swell on the horizon hardly resembles the picture that the word mountain conjures up. Where are the jagged cliffs, the snow-capped peaks, the single vertical summit rising up to pierce the clouds?
It’s hard to believe that this level mountain stretches out to form the towering north and south rims of the Grand Canyon. And harder still to believe that it provides enough wood to keep one of the largest sawmills in Utah and Arizona in business.
But as the caravan of cars and trucks works its way closer to the Kaibab, the sage-covered plains give way, almost imperceptibly at first, to hills sprinkled with pine. The caravan climbs higher, and the air becomes cooler. Sparse pine becomes forest. Suddenly you’re a believer.
After bumping over dusty dirt roads, the caravan stops, and everyone climbs out. Instructions are brief. “Women stack on the right side of the road and men on the left. Three chain saws to a team. The winner is whoever stacks and loads the most wood onto the trucks before lunch.” Within minutes chain saws are buzzing, chips of wood and sawdust fly, and the strong scent of freshly cut pine fills the air.
“This is all waste wood that loggers have left piled up,” says Bishop Jack Frost, referring to the large, unkempt piles of wood and brush that are being cut into with a vengeance.
The young women have quickly formed a log-passing brigade, and from what looks like just a pile of brush come the beginnings of what will soon be a healthy-sized stack of clean, much-needed wood. According to Bishop Frost, the cutting and stacking are just the beginning of the project. Once the wood is taken home, it must be split and then delivered throughout the winter to those that need it for fuel.
Last year Mary Jo Morrison and her daughter Jodi received some wood from the project. “Normally, we would have had to buy the wood,” says Mary Jo. “I was very appreciative. It was not just logs, either. The wood was cut, and split, and ready to burn. I work full-time, but this year Jodi is able to go up and help. Those kids work hard.”
“It gives you a good feeling to be doing something for people who can’t go up and chop the wood themselves,” says Jodi, a first-year Beehive.
Although much of this year’s Wood Run still lies ahead, for now everyone seems intent on gathering as much wood as they can. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best service project I’ve ever been on,” says Bishop Frost. “The kids all get a sense of usefulness out of it. They feel like they’ve accomplished something. And they have. It’s hard work to gather this much wood.”
Nobody would argue with him on that point. Across the road and farther up from where the girls are working, the young men are diving into their pile of wood in a less organized but equally effective manner. As soon as the chain saw has rendered a log into chopping size blocks, the blocks are thrown onto a pile and then loaded onto a truck.
Echoing the bishop’s feelings, Chad Goodfellow, teachers quorum president, says that the Wood Run is a better service project than most he’s been on. “There’s a lot done here. This is an activity, but it also does some good for everybody else.” He’s right. By the time the project is over, nearly everyone in the ward will have had the opportunity to take part in helping others.
And their help doesn’t go unappreciated. “I’m a widow, and usually I’ve bought my wood,” says Nedra Baughman, who received some wood last year. She was surprised one day to find a truck and some of the youth from the ward in front of her home. “There they were, two unloading the wood, some splitting it and others stacking it,” she says. “I was overwhelmed. It makes you feel humble and very grateful.”
With this kind of response awaiting their work, the workers find the day goes quickly.
Before long the trucks begin to fill with wood, and lookouts are sent to spy on the opposing team. Extra sweatshirts or jackets are laid aside or tied around waists as the morning’s cool edge melts into afternoon.
The log-passing brigade formed by the young women continues to function but at a slightly slower pace—slow enough, anyway, to allow a good sawdust fight and accommodate plenty of laughter and talking.
“It’s very hard work,” says Shelley Allen, a Mia Maid and veteran worker from the previous year, “but it’s fun when you’re all working together. And when you take the wood to people’s houses, they like it. That’s the neat part.”
Jamie Leavitt, Beehive president, shakes some clinging bits of sawdust from her hair and agrees that delivering the wood to people who need it really does make all the hard work worthwhile.
Of course, hard work or not, none of the young men is so tired that he can resist climbing the sides of the huge diesel truck to scale the mountain of wood it holds and shout claims of victory to those below.
The deadline that seemed years away while the workers were standing sleepily in the cool morning dark at the church parking lot has arrived. It is time to declare a winner.
The noisy crowd gathers. Dusty gloves are dropped to the ground and then joined for a rest by their equally dusty wearers. Examining the cuts and scrapes on her uncovered arms, one young woman suggests that the winners be determined by comparing the number of scratches on the arms of the opposing teams. Seeing the dirt embedded in the young women’s shirts and ground into the knees of their jeans, someone else suggests the winners be judged by the amount of dirt they’ve accumulated. If dirt is the criterion, the young women are certainly the day’s winners!
Although some claim the wood got heavier as the day wore on and some reactions to getting up so early were not always positive, the young people feel good about the work they’ve done.
“This has really been fun,” says Andy Compas, first assistant in the priests quorum. “Last year I got to deliver the wood, but I didn’t get to come out here.” For Andy, as for most of the youth, the real magic of the project is in the delivery of the wood. “Just to see their faces when we took it to them,” he says of the year before. “They couldn’t tell us how much they appreciated it.”
For Dan Allen, who operated a chain saw, the day’s experience is nothing new. He works for a logging company, so the cutting, stacking, and hauling of the wood are all part of a normal day’s work to him. The difference seems to lie in giving up an otherwise free day to help someone else. “It’s a lot more fun to cut and stack wood when you’re doing it as a service for someone else,” he says.
Most of the day’s work is done now, and everyone takes advantage of the free time to relax. Well, almost everyone.
What may prove to be the toughest job of the day is still waiting. It belongs to Bishop Frost, who must judge the work and come up with a winning team. Both sides feel they’ve won.
“I don’t know if you dare judge,” counsels one adviser. But drawing on the wisdom and the example of Solomon, the bishop thinks it over and makes his decision.
In an odd twist guaranteed to satisfy both teams, the bishop declares the young men to be the official winners, but before any cheers can be raised, the bishop gives the young women the honor of having worked the hardest. It seems to work.
Lunch is cleared away, jackets and gloves are retrieved from tree stumps, and everyone gathers for one last picture by the side of the huge diesel truck. The edge of competition so evident earlier that morning in the church parking lot has faded. They are friends.
After all, everyone here knows what the real meaning of the project is. They know it goes beyond the difficulty of rising early, stacking wood, and loading trucks. They know it even goes beyond the momentary thrill of victory. The work may give a sense of accomplishment and the competition may provide some fun, but everyone who participates knows it is the giving that makes it all worthwhile.