Gospel Story Finder

“Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel was in the hospital recovering from open-heart surgery when he was visited by his five-year-old grandson. As the little boy looked into his grandfather’s eyes, he saw his pain. ‘Grandpa,’ he asked, ‘if I loved you more, would you [hurt less]?’ [in Elie Wiesel, Open Heart, trans. Marion Wiesel (2012), 70]. Today I ask a similar question of each of us: ‘If we love the Savior more, will we suffer less?’ …
“As the Savior’s latter-day disciples, we come unto Him by loving and serving God’s children. As we do, we may not be able to avoid tribulation, affliction, and suffering in the flesh, but we will suffer less spiritually. Even in our trials we can experience joy and peace.
“Our Christian love and service naturally begin in the home. …
“As we follow Jesus Christ, His love motivates us to support each other on our mortal journey. We cannot do it alone. …
“‘Teach[ing] one another the doctrine of the kingdom’ [D&C 88:77] is a way to love and serve each other. …
“I testify that the Savior’s true posture toward us is the one posed by the outstretched arms of Thorvaldsen’s statue Christus. He continues to stretch forth His hands, beckoning, ‘Come, follow me.’ We follow Him by loving and serving one another and keeping His commandments.”
Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

Let me provide some examples of what I mean. In my biblical studies, I often encountered strong arguments for Isaiah being written by two or three different people. As a Latter-day Saint, I do not have a problem with the idea that someone may have changed or added to the biblical text. In fact, we are sure that they did. Some of these arguments about Isaiah’s authorship were based on a refusal to admit that Isaiah could actually foretell the future, which was not at all convincing to me. However, some arguments were based on extensive theories and models intricately built up over years of scholarship based on the ideas of what themes were salient in Israelite culture at various periods of time. These latter ideas seemed quite compelling to me as they tried to demonstrate that the later chapters of Isaiah were actually written after the Jews had been carried captive into Babylon, long after Isaiah had died.

Fortunately, as a Latter-day Saint, I had an additional source of information I could consult regarding this matter. The Book of Mormon quotes Isaiah as written on the Brass Plates, plates that were created before the Jews were taken to Babylon. I can still remember opening my Book of Mormon to see if there were any passages from this so called “second Isaiah” in the Book of Mormon. There were. At that point, I found myself with a choice. I knew, based on revelation I had personally received, that the Book of Mormon was both inspired writing and that it was what it claimed to be — a record of an ancient people who really existed and really did the things they said they did. I could now either continue to believe what I had come to know through revelation, or I could believe what made sense based on an academic model. I decided that revelation was a more trustworthy source of knowledge and that I would need to suspend my judgment on the academic model while I further investigated to see which aspects of it were worthwhile and which were not. It did not take long to see a number of problems with the intricate academic model, which had been based on historical themes, and at this point, I would say that a large share of academia has abandoned at least much of that model. Even recent and compelling scholarship has demonstrated some problems with the assumptions that led to those conclusions about Isaiah. Furthermore, some other very persuasive explanations for why there are some thematic differences between various portions of Isaiah have also come forth. At this point, both my academic avenue of learning and my revelatory avenue of learning are in harmony with each other. If they were not, I would still choose revelation as being more trustworthy.

My little sister, Becki, was only four, and one of those rare people who fear nothing. She was strong, curious, and independent. I often wished she were different, because one of my big-sister fantasies was to rescue her. Little could I know that my daydream would come true that summer afternoon.
I was ten. Our family was traveling from California to Salt Lake City, Utah, on vacation. About halfway there was the city of St. George, Utah, where we decided to stay overnight. Daddy chose a motel with a pool, and it was only a matter of minutes to my first delicious leap into the cool water. I loved to swim, even though my best effort was a clumsy dog paddle.
I was lounging in a big inner tube, pretending that I was a glamorous movie star at a Hollywood party, when I heard a shout from my sister. “Watch, Daddy!”
I rolled over in the water, with one arm still wrapped securely around the inner tube. Becki was lying “through” a smaller tube, splashing her arms and legs like crazy. I knew she thought that she was really swimming. Daddy called encouragement from his deck chair.
Just then Becki’s tube slipped down her wriggling body and scooted several feet behind her. She was in the deepest end of the pool.
I started to kick furiously, pushing my own inner tube in front of me, hoping I could get it to her before she sank. It was only a few feet, but it seemed ages before the tube was finally within her reach. In my desperation to kick fast enough, I hadn’t wasted any breath calling for help, but I knew that Dad was there and would help me if I needed it.
Becki lunged wildly at the inner tube. To my horror, her sudden attack jarred it from my own grasp and sent it skittering out of reach.
Suddenly I felt Becki’s tiny but steely fingers clutch at my neck. She was kicking and thrashing like a miniature hurricane, making it impossible for me to see through the water she was churning up. I felt my mouth fill with water, and I realized that with Becki’s weight around my neck, I was now struggling beneath the surface.
As her grip tightened chokingly, the thrashing lessened. In a flash of clarity, I understood that Becki trusted me to save her now. Here was the chance I’d always wanted. But it was nothing like I’d imagined! With a sickening panic, I thought, I’m not good enough to save anybody! I can’t swim well enough, and I can’t even breathe myself!
I could see the surface of the water just an inch or two beyond my face. Every thought stood clearly in my mind, while my body acted almost independently at racing speed. I had been kicking for all I was worth, trying desperately to get my face out of the water, at the same time holding Becki’s head in the air.
Meanwhile I wondered about Daddy. I knew that he was right there, and yet he hadn’t come into the pool to help us. Was he going to just sit there watching while both of us were about to drown? I remembered that not only was Dad a super swimmer but he had learned lifesaving skills in the Navy. Why didn’t he do something?
Although I was now swallowing water, I kept kicking. I didn’t try to loosen Becki’s trusting hug. I knew that she was depending on me. I still wanted to save her, even if I died trying.
That was my final, foggy thought as her grip suddenly relaxed and my head bobbed up to see Daddy lifting her out of the pool. I’d managed to reach the pool’s side with all my frantic kicking. Gasping, I grabbed hold of the edge. I was dizzy, relieved, and weak.
“Good girl, Linda,” Daddy said, smiling down at me. “You saved your little sister!”
I stared at him. He squatted down to me, his expression full of emotions I couldn’t read. Reaching under my arms, he hauled me into that special hug that only a dad can give. Hugging back weakly, I still struggled to breathe normally. Finally I pushed away to ask the question burning inside: “Why didn’t you help me? I almost couldn’t do it! I nearly drowned both of us!”
Daddy shook his head. “I could see you, remember? You were moving toward the side of the pool the whole time. I knew that you would make it.”
He must have seen my unbelief and shock, because he continued, “You were doing fine! You did fine!” He patted my shoulder, then turned away to watch Becki, who was already heading back into the water.

Inspired by a New Era article, “An Author Card for Cindie” (May ’81), Bradley Jenkins of Monte Sereno, California, chose to document the tombstone inscriptions of the Madronia Cemetery as his Eagle project.
Bradley organized the efforts of 33 other people to help in carrying out his project. He organized groups to record the epitaphs on each stone. He then enlisted the help of a computer to organize the names alphabetically. Upon completing his project, Bradley donated copies of his book-length report to local libraries and historical societies as well as to the cemetery and to the Genealogical Library in Salt Lake City.

One occurred on a farm somewhere in the central part of Kansas. The people there had what they called Pole Pond. Pole Pond was a large pond, and it was fairly deep. They put a pole out to mark the drop-off so that the children in the community who couldn’t swim very well wouldn’t go out over their heads. As the children were swimming one day, one of the boys got a little too far out, went around the pole, and all of a sudden had stepped off of the drop-off point. He was in water over his head. A farmer walking nearby heard the rest of the boys yelling for help. He ran as quickly as he could and saw the boy drowning. Although unable to swim, he went out into the water and with his mighty arm threw the boy back into shallow water. He himself, in water over his head, drowned. During the next week, the boys and the youth in the community talked about nothing else except this brave man who had gladly given his life in an instant. I believe the man of Christ would do just exactly that.

Toby opened the apartment door and stepped inside quietly. Carefully he folded his collapsible snow shovel and propped it against the wall so that it could drip on the throw rug. Then he knelt to remove his boots. As he unzipped them, his grandpa lifted his head from the pillow on the sofa bed and smiled sleepily.
“Done with your papers already, Son? It’s not even light out yet.”
Toby hung his things on the coatrack. “It’s almost seven o’clock, Gramps. Mom left for the restaurant an hour ago.”
“It must be going to snow some, then,” Grandpa mumbled. “It still seems dark.”
“You’re right, the snow is already flurrying again,” Toby replied as he went into the kitchen. “I’ll make us some oatmeal.”
It wasn’t long until Toby set a steaming bowl of oatmeal on the bedside table; then he propped another pillow behind Grandpa’s head.
“I thought that your mother was supposed to be off today.”
“She was,” Toby replied, “but she’s filling in for Martha.” He moved a footstool closer to the sofa. “Mom’ll be home by eleven, Gramps. Will you be OK till then?”
“Just leave me a book and the remote control for the TV,” Grandpa replied, “and I’ll be fine.”
Toby scooped up a spoonful of warm oatmeal, then aimed it at Grandpa’s mouth.
“Going down to the Center this morning?”
Toby nodded. “Miss Wiggins said that they’re sending someone out from the Village Observer to take pictures and do a story on our gymnastics group.”
Grandpa’s eyes sparkled. “So you’ll have your picture in the paper! Well, that’s something—a celebrity!”
Toby grinned. “I’m no celebrity, Gramps. Just part of the gang.”
Grandpa was dozing when Toby left. As he reached the second floor landing of their apartment building, Mrs. Brindle opened her door. “Would you mind, Toby?” she asked hopefully.
Toby shrugged and took the bag of garbage that she held out to him. “Nope. Do you need anything from the store while I’m out?” he asked.
“Not today, Toby,” she said. “But thanks for asking … and for taking down my garbage.”
“No trouble,” Toby said as he hurried down the stairs.
When Toby reached the Center, he knew that he was the first one there, because the snow hadn’t been broken by anyone’s footprints. He unfolded his snow shovel and began clearing a path. Shovelful by shovelful he worked alone, until a little gray station wagon chugged up and parked in the empty parking lot behind the old building.
Miss Wiggins jumped out and came toward Toby with a cheerful grin, a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck. “You’re always doing something, aren’t you, Toby?” she said as she put an arm around his shoulders and swept him along with her to the door. “You must be getting wet and tired! How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” Toby replied.
Miss Wiggins jangled her keys, searching for the right one. “Well, I can see that you’ve been here long enough to shovel a lot of snow. Where did you get that handy little folding shovel?”
Toby grinned proudly. “Gramps gave it to me for Christmas.”
She unlocked the door and swung it open. “That’s a really neat gift. Brrr,” she added as they stepped inside the huge empty room. “It’s colder in here than outside!”
“I’ll turn up the thermostat,” Toby offered.
She grinned and pointed at a blob of oatmeal on his sweatshirt. “I see you fed your grandfather oatmeal this morning.”
Toby looked down, then tried to wipe it off. “Sorry,” he mumbled self-consciously.
“Don’t be,” she said happily. “Helping others is always visible in one way or another, and helping others seems to be a habit with you.” She blew into her cupped hands and shivered.
“Wait a minute, and I’ll help you get the mats down,” Toby called as he hurried to the thermostat on the wall.
The other gymnasts began to arrive, and soon everyone was busy working out on the balance beams, the mats, the horses, or the overhead rings. When Miss Wiggins called for a break, they all sat around a long wooden table, eating cookies and drinking juice. They talked excitedly about what they’d do for the newspaper reporter.
“I thought that we could make a pyramid,” Miss Wiggins suggested. “That would be an impressive shot, don’t you think? And that way everyone could be in the same picture.”
“I should be on top,” Nancy Matthews said. “That’s an important position, don’t you think so, Miss Wiggins?”
“Well, you are one of the lightest,” she agreed.
“Well!” Brian Cramer snapped. “That’s not the most important position! If Calvin, Marty, Toby, and I didn’t hold everyone up, there wouldn’t be a top. We’re the most important because we’re the strongest and we hold everyone else up!”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Carol and Jan chorused. “If it weren’t for us—”
Miss Wiggins laughed and waved her arms. “Wait a minute, all of you! What’s the sudden interest in who’s the most important? In a pyramid, everyone’s important! It takes a team effort to make a pyramid. You can’t have a top without a base and a middle, so quit arguing.” Miss Wiggins shook her head and added, “The city started this program as a learning experience in cooperation. But now I’m not sure that you know what the word means!”
Carol frowned, then screwed her mouth up at one end. “It means working together,” she said.
“That’s right,” Miss Wiggins replied. “It doesn’t mean fighting over who comes first. In Heavenly Father’s eyes, the one who puts everyone else ahead of himself is first! So if you’re done with your snacks, let’s get back to work!”
The kids tossed their empty cartons toward the trash can. A lot of them missed the target, and the cartons landed on the floor. Toby dropped his juice container into the can, then deposited those that had missed the can as well. The others were already busy at the mats, so they didn’t even notice, but Miss Wiggins did. As Toby hurried to join the others, Miss Wiggins watched him coming and met him with a smile.
As he neared her, she reached out and rumpled his hair gently. “You’re a good kid, Toby,” she said quietly.
“Thanks, Miss Wiggins,” Toby said.

When I was enrolled here in 1970, it was my opportunity to be a senior resident on the top floor of the Rigby Hall on the north end. As a senior resident, I had a room all to myself. One night as we met as a ward, our stake president spoke to us. He challenged us to pray for 15 minutes that night in our personal prayer. He asked us to actually have a clock where we could see it to help us keep track of how long we had prayed. After we had prayed as long as we could, if we looked up and the 15 minutes hadn't expired, he encouraged us to continue praying and to repeat the process until we had prayed for a full 15 minutes. I accepted his challenge. Please know that I was a returned missionary at this time. I started to pray--I prayed everything that had ever come to mind in previous prayers and then said everything I could remember my parents saying in our family prayers. It felt like 30 minutes had passed. I hesitantly looked up at the clock--surprisingly, only 5 minutes had gone by. So, I prayed longer, trying to think of more to speak with our Heavenly Father about that hadn't been said. I looked up again only to discover I had 7 minutes to go. Finally, the prayer began to come from the deepest parts of my soul and tears began to stream down my face. The reason for the challenge from our stake president became clear--humility and reverence had replaced the oftimes casual, brief and superficial prayers that had become too common in my life. I learned a great lesson that night--for prayer to get past the ceiling, reverence and sincerity are required and as we pray in this fervent manner, we will begin to grow in reverence and in our ability to communicate with the Lord. Please don't think I'm suggesting that you try this 15 minute experiment. But, you may want to consider assessing the genuineness of your prayers and your connection to the Almighty.

While serving as bishop a number of years ago, I became alarmed by the number of young people who came to me, frightened and confused, thinking their parents were not in love and were even heading for divorce because of family disagreements. Because I knew the parents well and knew they were deeply in love, I explained to their children that while this was unpleasant, it was sometimes a part of marriage and did not mean the family was about to disintegrate.

The other roommate I mention is Terrel Bird, who now lives in St. George, Utah. I first met Terrel as we attended high school together in Pocatello, Idaho. Although we played basketball together, our friendship came as I observed his spiritual maturity. He would openly share spiritual insights he was having and principles of life he was reading about and learning. I was surprised to hear these things from a seventeen-year-old. We decided to room together at BYU.

In those days we didn’t have computers; we had typewriters. Terrel would take scriptures that were meaningful to him and quotations that instilled character, type them, and then store them in a small box so he could draw from them frequently. It was not uncommon for him to have more than a thousand scriptures and quotations, many of which he would memorize. Although I was working—cleaning the library every morning from four to seven—and carrying a full load of classes, in watching Terrel, I began to build my own file box.

Here is one of the quotes I still remember from almost fifty years ago:
Mind is the Master power that moulds and makes,
And Man is Mind, and evermore he takes
The tool of Thought, and, shaping what he wills,
Brings forth a thousand joys, a thousand ills:—
He thinks in secret, and it comes to pass:
Environment is but his looking-glass.25

I also remember, of course, powerful scriptures like this one:
I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:
And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.26

Terrel helped me put into my mind as a freshman at BYU words of scripture and words of wisdom that have influenced me all of my life. I thank Reid Robison and Terrel Bird for caring about me spiritually at a time when it made a difference.

I was born and raised in Marin County, California—at that time the fifth-wealthiest county in the nation. Living just north of San Francisco, I grew up literally surrounded by great mists, since on most days a heavy, dark fog rolled in off the Pacific Ocean.

My parents raised me in the Episcopal Church. I was baptized by Father Ewald, my dad’s adoptive father. My godmother was my mom’s best friend, a wonderful Jewish woman named Ann, and my godfather was my Uncle Gene, who became an Episcopal priest. From age nine to twelve I served as an altar boy.

However, I stopped attending church at age twelve and spent my youth playing sports. I cared nothing for books or schooling, only for baseball, basketball, tennis—and girls. I lived the superficial and worldly life typical of teens in that time and place.

My dad was a police officer and my mom an office manager, so we had only moderate means. But I spent my youth surrounded by spacious designer homes, expensive cars, exclusive tennis clubs, and well-dressed wealthy people living the so-called good life of parties, vacations, and the partaking of substances that brought ephemeral pleasures. I aspired to have all this. My goals were to play professional tennis and teach at a fancy tennis club. In other words, I wanted to live in the great and spacious building.

Meanwhile, one of my mother’s coworkers, Mrs. LoDonna Leininger, shared a copy of the Book of Mormon with Mom. Mom did not read the book but put it on the top shelf of her bookcase in the living room.

One day, at the end of November 1977, when I was nearly nineteen and was a freshman at the local junior college, I was at home relaxing and watching TV. Then I had what was—for me—a most unusual thought: since I was now a college student, I should perhaps try to become an “educated person” and actually read a book not assigned by a teacher. I went over to Mom’s bookcase. My eyes were drawn to a blue paperback book in the left-hand corner of the top shelf. I had a strong feeling that I should read that book.

So I reached up and took the Book of Mormon down and began to read. From the first verse I experienced a strange, powerful, and wonderful feeling, kind of like shivers up and down my spine. I thought a window must be open, so I checked the windows for a draft. After about twenty minutes of reading, I had to leave for work.

When I got home that night, I had that same strong feeling to read the Book of Mormon. So I brought it up to my room, sat at my desk, and read. I read through the night until about six in the morning, repeatedly experiencing this strange, strong feeling. The next day I read for a few more hours.

That evening when I came home from work, I was very tired and looking forward to sleep. But again I had the strong feeling that I should read the Book of Mormon. So I sat at my desk and again read through the night. I had many questions: Could these things really be true? Could God really exist? I came to 3 Nephi 11 and was deeply impressed with all that Jesus said and did.

At about 5 a.m. I was out of energy, sore all over, and nodding off to sleep. At about twenty pages from the end of the book, I decided that I would get some sleep and finish the book later. Then I had an overwhelming feeling and a very clear thought to finish the book now.

At the same time, I felt renewed energy, and the soreness disappeared. So I stayed in the chair and continued reading. I came to some verses that Mrs. Leininger had marked. She had underlined the verses in red pen, highlighted them with a yellow highlighter, and written in the margin in all caps, “Very important verses. Read these carefully!”

So I carefully read these marked verses—yes, they were Moroni 10:3–5—that included the invitation “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true.”6 I had never prayed from my heart before, although as a kid in church I had knelt and recited written prayers from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. So I knelt at the side of my bed and, with faith in the Jesus Christ I had read about in the Book of Mormon, I asked God to forgive my sins and asked if the Book of Mormon was true.

It is not possible for me to adequately express what then happened, but I will try. I felt the same type of wonderful spiritual feelings I had felt since I first began reading the Book of Mormon but at an incredibly intensified level of power and depth. It was as if a river of pure water rushed through me, washing away all my sins. It was also like a ­raging fire purged away my old self. I felt completely clean and like an entirely new person.

Not only was there great power, but the depth of love I felt surpasses my ability to express it. I felt that although I did not know God, God knew me perfectly. And although God knew me ­perfectly—with all my sinfulness, pride, vanity, and selfishness—He still loved me perfectly. Likewise, the sure knowledge that the Book of Mormon was the word of God was seared into my soul.

I was changed in a profound way. I no longer wanted to be what I was and do what I was doing. I wanted only to do what God wanted me to do. I wanted only to love and serve others and tell them about Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. In my mind’s eye I saw glimpses of myself teaching various people and groups about Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. I somehow knew that this would be my future.

I climbed into bed but felt more wide awake and filled with enthusiasm than I ever had in my life. As I lay in my bed thinking about what had just happened, I heard Mom downstairs getting ready for work. I went down and told her I had read the Book of Mormon that her coworker Mrs. Leininger had given her. I asked if she would ask Mrs. Leininger to call me and answer some questions that I had about the book.

Mrs. Leininger called that evening, and we spoke for about three hours. She invited me to come to a “special church meeting” the next day, and I accepted.

I was ten years old when my grandfather, Elder Melvin J. Ballard, died. Grandfather Ballard was an Apostle. As a young boy, I didn’t fully appreciate what it meant to be an Apostle, but I understood that he was a great missionary.
While my grandmother was expecting her first child, Grandfather Ballard was called on a mission in the United States. He was sent to the Midwest, and he provided music at missionary meetings at which he, Brother B. H. Roberts, and Brother George Pyper taught the gospel. When Brother Roberts and Brother Pyper went back to Salt Lake City, Utah, Grandfather was left alone in Illinois. He was discouraged and lonely. He missed his wife and his firstborn son—my father—who was born after he left. Then he came across the hymn “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go.”* He had a beautiful baritone voice, and he sang that hymn often.
When he became a member of the Council of the Twelve, he was put in charge of the Music Committee of the Church. When the hymnbook was updated in 1927, he saw to it that “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go” was included. I think that this hymn has the greatest missionary message of any of our hymns. It has affected my life much the same as it did my grandfather’s. My commitment to go wherever the Lord wants me to go has taken me to almost every corner of the earth. As a General Authority, I have visited Africa, Asia, Europe, Latin America, the United States, Canada, and Russia. Truly the commitment to be a missionary has prepared me for a lifetime of service to the Lord.

Rose Floyd, his sister-in-law. When I was around sixteen and cars and girls were very important to me, she called me in from the street one day. She was so excited that I could hardly wait to see what she wanted to show me. It was a painting—it cost as much as a new car! Arnold Friberg had painted it. She had me sit in a chair and just look at it. I did for awhile. I returned on several subsequent occasions. I came to conclude that the painting was worth it, worth even more than a new car. She helped me to understand much more about the real priorities in life.

After I graduated from high school, the bishop called me into his office. “I want you to prepare for a mission,” he said. He looked me in the eyes, and the word prepare was there.
At supper I told my parents and saw the light in their eyes. “If you decide to go, we will support you in every way.”
There was no pressure. As usual the decision must be mine.
At the mission home in Salt Lake City, the General Authority who set me apart placed his hands upon my head and called me by name. Then, as if he were looking into the windows of my life, he said, “As of this moment, all of your sins are forgiven you.”
I served my mission and am now married to a wonderful woman. We have a little boy and have already started a missionary fund for him. I am sure that as he grows older there will be times when he will say, “Okay, dad, okay.” I will understand, and I will pray for the faith and understanding of my own dad and mother.

When I went to Sunday School class that day my teacher was giving out red leather Bibles to some of the children who had 100 percent attendance for a year. I wanted one of those Bibles so bad I could hardly stand it, but there was no way I could get one now. I’d be gone in less than a month.
After class I went up to the front of the room just to look at the one beautiful book that was left. As I reached up to touch it, the teacher turned around from cleaning the blackboard and looked at me.
“You’re moving away, aren’t you, Dora?” she said.
I nodded my head.
“I’ll miss you in my class. I can tell when I see you listening that you are very close to our Heavenly Father.”
I nodded. She was right. I was close to Him. I knew He understood me even when no one else did.
“Would you like to have that Bible to take with you?” she asked kindly.
I bobbed my head up and down so fast I could feel my curls bouncing. She handed me the book, and I hugged it to me.
I reached up and kissed her cheek and skipped from the room, so happy I wanted to sing.
“Thank You, oh, thank You,” I murmured, glancing heavenward.

“When we left Germany, the country was in the midst of skyrocketing inflation; a million marks wouldn’t even buy a loaf of bread. Upon arriving in America, we found it in the throes of the Depression. My father’s professional skills as a tool and die maker were in short demand, and he couldn’t find work. My mother, however, was able to find housework. Because she was an extremely good cook, she also was able to get a job with a German salad-making company. She worked hard just to put food on the table for us. Then Dad got a job as a maintenance man, and I helped him during much of my growing-up years. We would go early in the morning to about fourteen or fifteen different buildings and shovel coal into the furnaces.
“Because we had to work hard, we developed strength. My brother and I participated in basketball, baseball, football, tennis, table tennis, and swimming and became quite good. Our classmates began to accept us more readily. Our family still enjoys sports together.
“My father was the oldest of eleven children, and he was the only one who accepted the gospel. Some of our children who have gone on missions to Germany have testified to my relatives, but none of them have yet accepted the gospel.
“I was born in a land that is now behind the Iron Curtain. Probably one of my choicest experiences was to be at the dedication ceremony of the Freiberg Temple. The temple is very near the place where I was born. It was a soul-stirring experience to see my own people waving white handkerchiefs to President Gordon B. Hinckley and Elder Thomas S. Monson as the bus pulled away at the conclusion of the dedication.
“My suggestion to children is this: Live each day so that the Holy Ghost will be your constant companion. Serving the Savior will bring abundant blessings to you, and family ties will be made stronger and homes will be more heavenly. Sustain your leaders and follow their counsel.”

I have a friend who chose not to serve a mission because of some personal struggles. Years later, he felt puzzled and disheartened every time he read a line in his patriarchal blessing that said he would have the opportunity to serve a mission. He felt like he had messed up what God had in store for him and was often filled with shame and uncertainty about the future.

But as he prayerfully pondered this situation, he realized that the key word in his patriarchal blessing was opportunity. Heavenly Father invites us to obey Him and to choose good opportunities throughout all seasons of life.

My friend may not have served a mission, but he has deepened his faith in Christ and his willingness to act on opportunities and callings given to Him. And he has found joy and fulfillment in making good decisions and allowing God to guide him.

It was almost pajama time when Mom poked her head into the living room. “Quick—get your coats on!” she said, smiling.
Alan and Terry looked at each other. “It’s dark out. Don’t we have to go to bed?”
“Bed? When the moon rises and the night calls? Don’t be silly!” Mom laughed as she bundled them into coats.
Keys jangled in their father’s hand as the family hurried outside. Their breath left hazy trails overhead as they ran to the car through the autumn night, frost tickling their noses. The moon was like a huge golden apple that followed the car as it wove down winding roads to the sleepy town below.
“Where are we going?” Terry asked.
Dad’s cheery whistle from the front seat and Mom’s chuckle was their answer.
They stopped at the town park, streaked by moonlight through half-bare trees. The breeze rustled branches, shifting the silver-edged shadows of ancient maples.
Dad and Mom leaped out of the car, giggling, and scurried among the trees.
The empty park beckoned to Alan and Terry. They stepped out, and the ground rustled with maple leaves—knee-high in places.
Where were their parents?
They heard footsteps; then a shower of leaves broke over both children—skittering down jackets and clinging to hair.
“Gotcha!”
A shout of laughter, and a sudden glimpse of Mom and Dad—running hand in hand. Ducking behind a maple tree.
“Follow me!” Alan cried, scooping up an armload of crisp ammunition. He chased the laughter, Terry at his heels, her arms filled with the fall harvest.
They split up and circled the tree.
“Hah!”
Leaves flew.
Flying footsteps crunched.
High laughter joined low, rising to be captured by half-gloved tree limbs. The night exploded as silver light caught reds, oranges, and yellows flung into the air. Shadows gathered and scattered everywhere. New leaves tacked to the ground to be tennis-shoe tromped, then hand-tossed.
Mom chased Alan chased Terry chased Dad chased Mom.
Caught in crisp clouds of captured leaves.
Then, at last, leaves no longer flew but were heaped high, reaching skyward. Mom, Dad, Alan, Terry fell and rolled into parent-pile, child-pile, family-pile.
Corn-flake crunch.
Crinkle.
Crackle.
Chuckle.
Rustle.
Rest.
The golden moon was sliced in half by a cloud.
Yawn.
The family wound their way to the car, still chirping their delight, and tumbled inside.
Crunch, rustle.
Captured leaf-bits complained from coat collars and pants pockets, from ponytails and tennis shoes.
The car grew quiet as it slithered up the hill through the cozy-darkening night.
Home.

Last summer my wife and I had the pleasure of backpacking in the High Uintas with our oldest son, Justin, and three of his friends. We had a wonderful time fishing, camping, and simply observing God’s creations. Of course a large portion of the trip involved hiking.
As many of you know, hikers or backpackers encounter a variety of trail conditions. On any given trek, flat, straight, and easy to locate trail segments can quickly become steep, rocky, and obscure.
When trails become difficult to find, considerate hikers often place markers on the path to map the way for those who follow. These markers are built by stacking several rocks to form what is called a cairn. Cairns are spaced so that a hiker standing near one can readily see the next. By walking from cairn to cairn, a backpacker can successfully traverse the previously unseen path and reach the goal.
Significantly, cairns only have meaning for those who recognize them for what they are. For some, cairns are nothing more than a pile of rocks. For others they are helpful markers on a trail. And yet for others, willing to examine in further detail, cairns can provide even more specific directions. For example, a stack of rocks with a small stone to the right of the stack indicates that the trail heads to the right. Similarly, a rock on the ground to the left of the cairn indicates that the trail heads to the left. A basic understanding of these structures makes it possible to obtain the final goal, but by being more informed about the nature of cairns, the journey can be made even smoother.
During our backpacking trip, each time my wife and I reached a cairn, we stopped to look for the next stack of rocks. When we didn’t immediately find it, a sense of being lost was quick to enter our minds, but that feeling instantly vanished when we located the next small, simple landmark.

To help us in our striving, God has given us role models and mentors. I want to share my feelings about one of mine, Elder Neal A. Maxwell. He constantly sought to submit his will to the will of the Father in his effort to become like God.
More than 20 years ago, he shared his feelings with me after he had just been diagnosed with cancer. He told me, “I want to be on the team, on this side [of the veil] or that side. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines. I want to play in the game.”13
Over the next few weeks, he was reluctant to ask God to heal him; he just wanted to do God’s will. His wife, Colleen, pointed out that Jesus’s first cry in the Garden of Gethsemane was “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” Only then did the Savior say, “Nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.”14 She encouraged Elder Maxwell to follow the Savior’s example, to ask for relief and then submit his will to God’s will, which he did.15
After suffering through extensive, debilitating treatments for nearly a year, he was totally and completely back “in the game.” He served for seven more years.
I had several assignments with him during those subsequent years. I felt his kindness, compassion, and love. I witnessed his increased spiritual refinement through his ongoing suffering and his continued service as he strove to become like the Savior.

On August 7, 2014, Hurricane Iselle approached and directly hit the Big Island. The Waikahe and Pahoa Wards of our Hilo Hawaii Stake were particularly hard hit. Miraculously, there were no reports of deaths or damages to homes. All missionaries were safe and accounted for. Church buildings in Hilo and Pahoa were used as shelters. Many homes and communities were cut off from access to power and communications due fallen trees blocking the roads. On Friday evening at 9:30 PM, we established communications and made a plan to serve. At 12:30 PM on Saturday, August 9, 2014, Member and non-member volunteers from around the island, including members from the Kona stake, separated into groups of eight to ten people at the Orchidland Chapel. There were two chainsaws per group. Volunteers then went throughout the streets in the community where trees had not yet been cleared and moved debris. At 4 PM, the service project came to an end. I witnessed firsthand what Relief Society General President Linda K. Burton phrased, “First observe, then serve.”5

I experienced two tender moments while serving the Puna Community and Saints that I would like to share. The first house we helped looked like a war zone. You could not see the front entrance into the house. It took us a couple of hours to remove debris and repair the walkway to the house of this widow. I was hot and sweaty and probably didn’t look like the stake president. At the conclusion of our service and as we said our good byes, this poor sister finally recognized that the stake president was there, all hot and sweaty from working in her yard. She was so touched and moved that her stake president would come to her house to help her. The depth of her emotion touched me deeply. The last house we visited was to an active sister and less-active brother, both in their later years. Their backyard was a tangle of broken albezia branches. The tree branches that fell had crushed their chain link fence as if it had been warm butter. With much effort, we cleaned every branch that had fallen into their yard. Upon our saying good bye, this less-active brother gave me the warmest hug. In his hug, I felt the sweet love of our Savior. It was a purifying experience that changed me for the better. I know that we have a loving Father in Heaven who wants us to move forward in our lives despite temporary and long-term hardship.