Gospel Story Finder

It was Friday night and football season at my high school. As drum major of the marching band, I was having a great time cheering with the band and directing stand tunes. Then things changed drastically when I heard a desperate cry: “Get help! Jeff has stopped breathing!”
I found Jeff, a tuba player, lying across a bleacher, slipping in and out of consciousness and gasping for breath. Suddenly the all-important football game faded from significance. My number-one priority was to get help for Jeff. Paramedics arrived, and it wasn’t until after Jeff was safely on his way to the hospital that I even thought about checking the scoreboard.
After the game I realized that too many times in my own life I have allowed myself to get so involved in a fun yet unimportant event of life that I failed to recognize someone’s spiritual cry for help. During the football game it bothered me to watch Jeff struggle for breath and hear the cheers and laughter of fans that had no idea that anything was wrong.

By 1889, just 10 years after the restored gospel arrived in central Mexico, Church leaders had felt prompted to shift the Church’s limited resources to establishing colonies in northern Mexico. The members near Mexico City, about 1,000 miles (1,600 km) from the colonies, felt like sheep without a shepherd as missionaries left for the north. Though still surrounded by her family, Desideria knew that they would have to practice the gospel in isolation. This meant she would never have the benefit of joining the Relief Society or of receiving temple blessings while alive.
But she recognized that the Lord knew her. Through His servants, the Lord had manifested His desire to minister one by one to His flock. Because of her dream, the priesthood blessing, and the Book of Mormon, Desideria could testify of her absolute assurance that God cared for her spiritual and temporal needs. Though this knowledge did not prevent trials and challenges from occurring in her life, it did give her the confidence that the Lord would always ease her burdens.
In 1903, missionaries returned to southern Mexico for the first time since 1886. They met with José, who summed up Desideria’s endurance to the end and legacy of faith by saying that both his wife and his mother “died in full faith of Mormonism” and that he had “hope of dying in Mormonism.”7

My brethren and sisters, last Sunday as I sat in my study thinking of what I might say on this occasion, I received a phone call telling me that Staff Sergeant James W. Cawley of the U.S. Marines had been killed somewhere in Iraq. He was 41 years of age, leaving behind a wife and two small children.
Twenty years ago Elder Cawley was a missionary of the Church in Japan. Like so many others, he had grown up in the Church, had played as a schoolboy, had passed the sacrament as a deacon, and had been found worthy to serve a mission to teach the gospel of peace to the people of Japan. He returned home, served in the Marines, married, became a policeman, and was then recalled to active military duty, to which he responded without hesitation.
His life, his mission, his military service, his death seem to represent the contradictions of the peace of the gospel and the tides of war.

“Why don’t you ever come with us?” the girl shouted. “Don’t you want to be a part of our group?”
It was the end of spring, and school was almost out. During breaks we played soccer outside, and I was the goalkeeper. As goalkeeper I was used to dodging and blocking oncoming attacks from the field. However, this game was different because I had to dodge and block attacks coming from the sidelines too.
In between the offensive assaults of the other team, I was being interrogated by a couple of girls in my class who were standing on the side of the field. To avoid their questioning, I would have welcomed the other team over for a free shooting contest, but I was not having much luck that day.
“So why don’t you ever come to our parties?” she continued. “Don’t you want to have a little fun?”
“A little fun!” I thought. Being at a party with my classmates, playing silly games, and feeling forced into uncomfortable situations was not my idea of fun. I’d rather stay at home.
“We’re all trying to get to know one another, and you are never there,” came another attack from the sideline.
“That’s right!” I said. And I would have explained why if I felt she and the others really wanted to understand. But I doubted it. How could they? I was the only Latter-day Saint in my school, and none of them understood much about the Church or its standards.
“Don’t you like any of the girls in our class?” she asked.
“It’s not about not liking them,” I said. “I’d just feel uncomfortable.”
“But why?” she poked.
My team had just lost the ball, and all the guys were now running in my direction.
“Why would you feel uncomfortable?” she poked again.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion as my eyes focused on the approaching ball. Her voice was the only thing I heard, and the constant “why,” “why” kept echoing in my head. My opponent was clear for the shot, and I could see that the ball was going to hit me hard. But I was ready. He kicked the ball, which bounced off my hands with a loud slap. “Yes! Another assault successfully frustrated,” I thought, grinning. I grabbed the ball and threw it down the field to my teammates and then turned to face my other opponents.
“So?” she said.
My heart was still racing from the excitement of the game. “The reason I’m not coming to your parties is …” I started, then paused, thinking for a moment.
“Is?” she repeated a little anxiously.
I looked down the field again to see the opposition approaching fast. My heart picked up a couple of beats, and I knew I had to finish what I started to say. “Is because I am saving myself for someone special!” I blurted out.
“What!” she exclaimed.
My opponents were upon me, and my attention was again fixed on the game. The ball whistled through the air, penetrating my defenses. The other team cheered, while the girls stood there laughing.
“Saving yourself for someone,” she said, giggling. “So what is her name?”
I felt embarrassed. Although I didn’t have anyone special in mind, I still knew that one day I would meet my future wife, and I needed to be worthy to take her to the temple. That’s why I didn’t go to their parties.
My hands still tingled and my heart continued to race as I walked home later, yet there was a slight grin on my face. I might have suffered humiliation on the field that day; however, I walked away feeling victorious.

One of the great examples of mercy in our time was extended by the Prophet Joseph to W. W. Phelps during the troubles of the Saints in the state of Missouri. Elder Phelps fell into apostasy. After suffering buffetings, on June 29, 1840, while in Dayton, Ohio, W. W. Phelps wrote to the Prophet Joseph:
“I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed. … I will repent and live, and ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me, yea, it is bigger and better than all Babylon. …
“… I have done wrong and I am sorry. … I have not walked along with my friends according to my holy anointing. I ask forgiveness in the name of Jesus Christ of all the Saints, for I will do right, God helping me. I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet.”
To this the Prophet Joseph replied:
“It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough … , was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. One with whom we had oft taken sweet counsel together, and enjoyed many refreshing seasons from the Lord—‘had it been an enemy, we could have borne it.’ …
“However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive. … And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, … and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.
“Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. …
“‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
“‘For friends at first, are friends again at last.’
“Yours as ever, Joseph Smith, Jun.”
W. W. Phelps remained true and faithful and wrote the words to the marvelous hymn “Praise to the Man,” affirming his great love and admiration for the Prophet Joseph:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.

My mom and dad disagreed on how to decorate their home at Christmastime. My dad was color-blind, so to him red, green, and brown all looked similar and dull. However, the color blue looked bright and beautiful. He was also a big fan of Brigham Young University football, whose school colors include blue.
Since blue was his favorite color, he wanted to put up blue lights. But my mom said blue was not a Christmas color, so every year Dad neatly hung strings of red, green, and white Christmas lights along their roof. To tease Mom, he replaced one of the bulbs with a bright blue one. If you looked closely, you would see one blue bulb among the red, green, and white lights.
Every year the blue bulb shone from a different location. Sometimes it hid around the corner where no one would notice it, but sometimes he put it over the garage or the front porch. It was a fun game between Mom and Dad.
One year, Dad unexpectedly passed away two days before Christmas. At his funeral, the story was told of the one blue bulb he would hang every year. The following night, my mom looked out the window. Across the street, shining among the white lights above her neighbor’s porch, was one blue light. Within a few days, many neighbors and friends added blue bulbs to their strings of Christmas lights. Some even decorated whole trees in blue.
I’m grateful that my mom’s friends and neighbors showed their love for her by decorating with blue lights. They helped me know what it means to “mourn with those that mourn; … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). I’m grateful that Heavenly Father gave us the gift of His Son. Because of Jesus Christ, I will see my dad again.

Lauren had just finished her nightly prayer and started to get into bed when she noticed the hat. Chuckling, she picked it up from the desk chair where Sarah had left it. It was just like Sarah to forget her hat. She was always forgetting things.

Lauren put Sarah’s hat next to her own on the dresser. The two were identical, except that Lauren’s was slightly larger. They had bought the hats together at the first of the summer and had worn them all summer long. It was hard to believe that school would be starting next week. But there were still a few days left, and they had spent the afternoon planning just how to spend every minute until school started.

Sarah and Lauren had been best friends since before kindergarten. They had been in the same class every year in school. They both had red hair, brown eyes, and freckles. They both loved peppermint ice cream, the color lavender, the same books, the same games, the same music, and the same people. Everywhere one went, the other wanted to go, too. They were almost inseparable.

As Lauren turned again to get into bed, Mom came into her room. Lauren’s smile faded when she saw her mom’s face. Something was very wrong.

“Lauren, I have something very hard to tell you,” Mom said, sitting next to Lauren on the bed. “This evening Sarah was out riding her bike with her brother. She was hit by a car.”

“Hit by a car! Was she hurt? Where is she now—in the hospital? I have to go see her right now!”

“Sweetheart, Sarah died instantly. I’m sorry.”

“Died! She can’t have! I was with her all day long. She left her hat here. We’re going swimming tomorrow morning. Then bike riding, then …” Tears streamed down Lauren’s face, and she shook all over. Her mind kept racing on: Sarah can’t be dead! We’re going to be in the same class next week. We’re going to wear lookalike outfits the first day.

Mom held Lauren tightly as she sobbed. When the sobs quieted, Mom said, “I know how sad and hurt you feel right now. It always hurts a lot when you lose someone you love. This is a very hard time for you. But remember that Sarah is surely happy in the spirit world. She loved Heavenly Father very much.”

“It’s not fair!” Lauren cried. “It’s not fair at all! Why should Sarah have to die? She’s too good—why couldn’t some bad person die? She’s just eleven years old—why couldn’t Heavenly Father take some old person who was ready to die?”

“I know it doesn’t seem fair, and we may never understand in this life. But we can’t change what has already happened. And we must learn, somehow, to accept it.”

Lauren cried herself to sleep that night. She cried all the next day too. She cried not only for Sarah, but for herself. She didn’t know how she could go on living without her best friend. How could she go to school without Sarah? She wondered if Sarah was missing her as much as she missed Sarah. Where was heaven, anyway? What was it like? Would Sarah have a best friend there, too? A thousand more questions kept going around in Lauren’s mind.

The night before Sarah’s funeral, Lauren suddenly became very frightened. She had never been to a funeral before. What was it going to be like? What would happen? Would it be scary? She didn’t want anyone to put her best friend into the ground and just leave her. The tears and sobs started again, even harder than before.

As Lauren sobbed, she felt Mom’s arms around her. “Mom, what is it going to be like tomorrow at the funeral? What will happen? Does it hurt to be buried?”

Mom was quiet at first, looking as though she couldn’t quite put her thoughts into words. Then she smiled through her own tears and said, “You wait here. I’ll be right back.” A minute later she came back carrying a package of photographs.

“Lauren, Dad picked these up from the camera shop today.” She handed Lauren a package of photos.

Lauren looked at the one on top, and there gazing back at her was Sarah. Sarah was smiling and waving. Lauren looked back at Mom.

“These are the photos we took of you and Sarah at our picnic last month, remember?”

Of course Lauren did. How could she ever forget such a fun day?

She studied each photo. There were Sarah and she splashing in the creek with their pant legs rolled up. There they were climbing like monkeys in an old oak tree. How did Sarah keep her hat on when she was hanging by her knees in the tree? Lauren wondered as she looked at that photo. She started to laugh when she saw Sarah pulling one of her funny faces in the last photo. It felt so good to laugh again. For just a moment she forgot that Sarah had died.

“These photos aren’t actually Sarah, are they?” Mom asked. “They’re just likenesses. Even after a photo is taken of a person, that person goes on living. The likeness is left for others to see. Well, sort of like these photos, Sarah’s earthly body is left, but the real Sarah is living still. Unlike a photograph, her body will be buried, so you won’t be able to see it after tomorrow, but Sarah has gone on without her earthly body for a while. I want you to remember that tomorrow and always, Lauren.”

Mom went on to explain what the funeral would be like the next day. It helped Lauren to know what to expect. Although there wouldn’t be anything spooky or scary, she was still a little afraid. It helped to know that her parents would be with her.

Beautiful music was playing softly as Lauren and her parents entered the meetinghouse the next day. Lauren’s stomach felt empty and strange as they walked into the chapel. There were lots of people. Everyone looked so sad. Lauren fought back the tears as they walked to the front of the chapel, where Sarah’s family sat. Lauren held Mom’s hand tightly as she went up to Sarah’s mother, who had always seemed almost like a mom. When Sarah’s mother saw Lauren, she bent down and hugged Lauren close for a long while. When she stood up, Lauren saw tears and pain in her eyes.

“I thought you might like to have this photo of Sarah,” Lauren said, handing her one of the new photos. Sarah’s mother’s face lit up with a smile as she studied the photo.

“Thank you, Lauren. Thank you so much.”

Lauren and her parents sat down then. All through the funeral, Lauren saw Sarah’s mother looking down at her photo. As she looked at it, a small smile would cross her face. Lauren knew that the photo was helping Sarah’s mother remember that she and Sarah would be together again someday.

Lauren knew that Sarah was still her best friend. She would miss Sarah, but she was sure that Sarah was happy in the spirit world.

Carlos was excited for Christmas. This year there was something different in his home. A large tree made of shiny green paper was attached to the door.
Mom, why is there a tree on the door?
We’re going to do something a little different for Christmas this year.
Carlos wondered what would be different. His sister, Araceli, and his little brother, Diego, wondered too.
I made these paper ornaments for the tree. Each day we will write something about Jesus Christ on an ornament and then put it on the tree. By Christmas Eve, the whole tree will be covered!
Carlos liked that idea. Araceli ran to the ornaments and grabbed a red pencil.
Jesus was baptized.
That’s a good one. Can I write that Jesus did many miracles?
That would be perfect. You both have great ideas!
Every night after dinner, Araceli and Carlos made another ornament and put it on the tree. Diego helped by saying, “I love Jesus!”
When it was hard to think of more ideas, they looked in the scriptures. Carlos didn’t know there were so many verses about Jesus!
On Christmas Eve the whole family sang songs and read the ornaments they had put on the tree. Carlos was happy he knew so much about Jesus. He was all ready for Christmas.

James Arrington, the character actor and returned missionary who portrays Brother Brigham, said, “I first got the idea of doing somebody after seeing a one-man show on Will Rogers. I loved it! Right then I decided our people are great enough to have something done about them. I saw other one-man shows—Clarence Darrow, Harry Truman, Mark Twain—on TV and on stage, and wished somebody would write a script I could use. Then I thought, ‘Hey, I could write the script!’”
After concluding that Brigham Young would be a suitable subject for that type of theater, James went to work. For two years he gathered all the information he could find on the pioneer prophet. The more he learned about the colonizer, the more he grew to appreciate Brigham Young.
“Because of the hostile 19th-century press, Brigham was one of the most misunderstood men of his day, but his people loved him because of his kindness, his sweetness, and his humor,” James said.
The 20th-century version of Brigham, which will begin a national tour in February, has captivated audiences throughout the Intermountain West. On stage he reads letters, reminisces, carries on one-way conversations, and tells of his association with Joseph Smith.
“I want to shout hallelujah every time I think I ever knew Joseph Smith,” he tells his audience.
He then quickly points out that he had been a member for some time before he met Joseph. He recalls one occasion when he defended the prophet’s character, although he had yet to know him. At that time, he said, “I do not know Joseph Smith. I have never met him. I do not know his private character. I do not care anything about that for I never embrace any man in my faith. But the Book of Mormon and the revelations and the doctrine that have come through the Prophet Joseph Smith will save you and me and the whole world.”
Brigham then recounts a mission to Canada he served at his own expense. He traveled more than 2,000 miles on foot. “That shows the depth of his conviction,” James said.
Brigham Young also tells of his and Heber Kimball’s journey to Kirtland where they first met the Prophet of the restoration. He also comments on his subsequent missionary calls. “He traveled every summer on missions,” James added. “His mission to England, the one most Saints remember, did not come until after he had led the Saints out of Missouri and into Commerce, Illinois. Joseph later joined them when he and several companions escaped their captors in Missouri.”
Through missionary work Brigham’s self-confidence increased. He also learned principles of Church administration. This growth of confidence is revealed in the letters of Brigham to Joseph Smith.
“At first while on his England mission, he kept asking what he should do next. As the months progressed he began more and more to tell the Prophet what he had done and was planning to do,” said James.
“Brigham is one of the nation’s greatest men of letters. The Church Historical Department has more than 30,000 pages of letters on file. We don’t know how many were lost. These letters include messages to his family, advice to his children, communication with national leaders, and directives to Church officials.”
Remembered as an apostle and prophet and a colonizer, Brigham proudly tells his modern audiences that he is a skilled craftsman. “He specialized in carpentry, house painting, and glass glazing,” James noted.
“I’ve always felt that much of the happiness in this life comes from having something worthy to do and doing it well,” Brigham states. On occasion, the historical Brigham urged the Saints to habits of thrift and orderliness. He reported that he could go into his shop on the middle of a dark night and without any light locate whatever tool or item he needed.
Although his present-day performance is peppered with good humor, Brigham has moments of solemness. He tells the audience of the time he was stumping for Joseph Smith’s candidacy as president of the United States in 1844 and learned of the martyrdom in Illinois. He was in New York when he received notice of the assassination. “My first thought was whether Joseph had taken the keys to the kingdom with him. Then bringing my hand down on my knee I told them, ‘No, the keys of the kingdom are right here in the Church.’”
He then recounts that he and others of the Twelve who were then back east returned promptly to Nauvoo where they halted Sidney Rigdon’s effort to wrest control of the Church and proclaim himself guardian of the Saints and spokesman for Joseph.
The 20th-century Brigham intersperses historical accounts with interviews with his secretary, George Watt, and with members of the Church. James explained, “Brigham’s office was always open to any member of the Church and to outsiders. He called it interviewing and found a valuable means of correcting false concepts about himself and about the Church.”
Of such visits by nonmembers, Brigham says, “Though sometimes disagreeable, they are a valuable means of correcting false notions and extending courtesies to which the person, in some cases, is probably entirely unworthy.”
Naturally modest, Brigham never mentions the hundreds of communities settled under his direction, the beginnings of the vast sugar beet industry, nor the origin of Intermountain West drama under his urging. Instead, he passes by these major accomplishments, which have brought fame to him and to the Church, to remind the audience that he was also a painter-glazier.

Illustrations by Jim Madsen
“The Lord my shepherd is …” Music swirled around Jane Elizabeth Manning, but she couldn’t focus on the words. She was looking at her hands, deep in thought.
She had joined the Presbyterian church a year ago. But she still felt like something was missing. I’m searching for something more, she thought. But what could that be?
After the church meeting ended, Jane drifted outside with the rest of the congregation. The leaves were beginning to turn red and gold. Sunlight glinted off the nearby Norwalk River.
“A traveling missionary has come to town,” a man was saying. “He’s a Mormon, and he says God is speaking to prophets again.”
Jane stopped to listen. Could this be what she was searching for?
“Prophets?” another man scoffed. “Like from the Bible? Who would go listen to such a message?”
“I would!” Jane blurted out. A few people turned to stare at her, including the pastor. Jane felt her cheeks grow warm.
The pastor frowned. “I don’t think you should go hear him. It’s foolishness, that’s what. Do you understand?” When she said nothing, he nodded and moved to speak with someone else. Jane watched him leave and then hurried home.
Home wasn’t where Mamma and her brothers and sisters lived. It was at the Fitches’ farm. She had gone to live there as a servant when she was just six years old. Every day she worked hard, helping Mrs. Fitch with the washing, ironing, and cooking. She usually got up before the sun. She built the fire, kneaded bread, and churned the butter. Whenever she could, she went to visit her own family.
A few days later, Jane was still thinking about the missionary while she was hanging up Mr. Fitch’s shirts to dry. The clothes flapped in the brisk breeze.
The pastor had told her not her to go, and yet … she needed to. She needed to see if this Mormon could help her find the truth she was searching for. By the time she finished hanging the clothes, she had made up her mind. She would go to the meeting, no matter what anyone else said.
On Sunday, Jane woke at dawn, put on her nicest dress, and walked alone to the meeting hall. She quietly slipped onto a wooden bench at the back of the hall. Jane smiled when she saw how many people were there. It seemed she was not the only one looking for something more!
The room quieted when Elder Wandell stood. The next hour passed quickly as he spoke about the Book of Mormon and a prophet named Joseph. He said people could be baptized by immersion, just as Christ was. And he talked about the Saints gathering to a faraway city called Nauvoo. By the end of the meeting, Jane’s heart felt so full she could hardly breathe.
That night, Jane visited her family.
“And what did you think of the missionary’s message?” her mother asked when Jane explained how she had spent her Sunday.
“I am fully convinced he presented the true gospel,” Jane said. “I must embrace it. I am going to be baptized next Sunday.”
“Baptized? You’re joining another church?” her brother, Isaac, asked, pulling up a chair.
“Yes! It’s what I’ve been searching for. It’s true.”
Isaac could tell she was serious. “So what happens next?” he asked quietly. “What will you do after you’re baptized?”
“I’ll gather with the Saints,” Jane said. “I’m going to Nauvoo.”
To be continued …

My neighbor came across the street and said, “Hey, guess what we’re doing for youth conference? We get to build two barns.”
I grunted. “Two barns? Thrill city. Whoever came up with that dumb idea? Youth conferences are supposed to be fun.”
“We’ll have fun working.”
“Get real,” I told him. “I have a hard time cleaning my room.”
Maybe the adults thought I was Laman or Lemuel at the next stake dance committee meeting. I asked them, “Whatever happened to white river rafting for youth conference? Do you really expect us to get up at 5:00 A.M. on the first three days of our summer vacation?” One of the girls on the committee decided she wouldn’t go as she’d wreck her fingernails. She threatened to organize something for her own ward. None of our complaining did any good. The stake youth leaders stuck to their plan.
A fierce hailstorm pelted Duvall, Washington, the night before the conference. “Bummer, now they’ll have to cancel our exciting barn building extravaganza,” I said sarcastically.
Miraculously, the weather cleared, and I found myself standing with 180 kids in carpenter aprons, pockets full of nails and wearing a T-shirt that read, “You Love Who You Serve.”
We were given the choice of helping to build a barn/shed or a barn/house. I picked the barn/shed. It sounded easier. We banged nails. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t awful. Ward Roney, the to-be-owner of the barn/shed was a sturdy man, weathered by long hours on the tractor. He told me his favorite sound was the belch a cow makes when she’s in a warm shed eating hay. His old shed blew down in a bad storm, and the insurance wouldn’t pay to replace it. He was either brave or foolish to let a bunch of teenagers build his shed. Surely he realized we’d never finish the huge thing. If we could do it, one observer noted, it’d be an Amish barn raising by Mormons for Catholics.
Brother Beecham, the builder in charge of our shed, held the American Homes world record for the fastest home framed. The old record stood at 36 hours, and Beecham’s crew accomplished it in four. I got a kick out of watching him stroll across thin high timbers like they were sidewalks. With the construction boom in Seattle, I knew Brother Beecham was passing up a lot of money to teach us.
Normally, when I work I look at my watch every five minutes. Before I knew it, the walls were up, and we were ready for a crane to position the giant trusses of the roof. But there was no crane. Instead of machine power, we’d use muscle power, and some of the muscles were mine. The ground crew strained to position one truss. Then three of us on the roof pulled up the point with a rope as the ground crew hoisted. We cheered when the truss was securely nailed into place. What a team. Up there, 30 feet off the ground, a great sense of brotherhood developed between the “roof crew.” It was great up there. It was fun. I really developed a closeness to all of them as we worked and sweat and hammered our thumbs hour after hour.
The first day some of the girls were afraid to hit the nails on the head. By the second day they were mean. They’d developed aim and aggression in their hammering. Unfortunately, the girls used their new skills on the boys at the pie eating contest, which turned into a pie throwing war.
Meanwhile the people at the barn/house site made decent progress on the first floor. They were laboring for an LDS family of eight who’d used their savings to drill a well that turned out to be dry. The Dazey family was packed into a small trailer. They’d obtained a small, portable sawmill and cut logs into lumber. Building their barn/house was a dream come true. One of my friends who worked on the site said, “We were digging a ditch for the septic system. After a few hours, it got to where I started taking pride in the ditch and I thought the straight sides were kind of pretty. I’ve never felt that way about a ditch before.”
I added a word to the theme, “You Love Who You Serve.” I thought it should also say, “You Love Who You Serve With.” I didn’t know 75 percent of the people the first morning. We’d lived in the same stake for years and never spoken to each other. On a construction site, you have no choice. You have to say to the person next to you, “Grab the end of that board.” “Watch your head!” “Help me nail this down.” And people were great. If you asked them for an 18-foot board they got it. True, the physical structures were impressive, but even better were the structures built between each other.
There were lag times when there was no work for me, and I thought I’d have fun if I had nothing to do. But I really amazed myself. It got so I wanted to work.
Mr. Roney told us the quality of our work was A-1, top-notch. The look on his face as this place went up taught me I’m happiest when making someone else happy.
It appeared that there was no way we could finish two such big projects in just three days. We poured on the steam. At first a few people hung around the first-aid station and in the hay, drinking pop. But even the “resters” helped when the TV and newspaper reporters came out with their cameras. We wanted to work through dinner, but after a half hour, the adults made us come down. Funny, I’ve never refused food before. Dusk was stealing precious light. There were just a few things left to do. Thirty of us stayed to finish instead of going back to the city to clean up for the dance.
That evening we had a victory celebration! We danced in a barn we had built, and it didn’t fall down. After seeing each other at our worst for three days, our appearance mattered very little. The last day we had a testimony meeting in the barn/house, and 200 people sat on benches on the top floor. The sun streamed into the room, bathing everyone in the warm blond reflection of new wood. I thought, “We built this; we really did it.” We had saved the Dazey’s and Roney’s more than $20,000.00 in labor costs.
When the sacrament came to me, I thought of Jesus Christ in a whole new way. He was a carpenter. I remembered working along with my friends and feeling something. I glanced around. It wasn’t just my friends; the Savior was there too.
When I’m 82 I’m going to take my grandkids out to Duvall, Washington. I’ll hobble out to “my barn” and whap it good and hard with my cane to demonstrate how sturdy it is. And I’ll say, “This is the barn my friends and I built at youth conference in 1986. I don’t know what’s wrong with these young whippersnappers today. Why don’t they do something worthwhile?”
Following the barn raising, we asked ourselves, “What made the difference? Why did this youth conference work when other years we came up short? Why did one of our young men feel confident enough to build a shed for his grandfather? Why did the stake dance committee youth say, “Let’s do the same thing next year!” Why had we spent so much in previous years when this year’s costs were cut by one-half? Here are a few guidelines we followed that we feel made the difference.
1. Prayerfully decide on an activity.
In the beginning, a counselor in the stake Young Women presidency was given the assignment of prayerfully searching six years of New Era magazines for youth conference ideas. As she studied, she reflected on the flashy and expensive activities our youth had planned in the past. They seemed so unsatisfied, always wanting more and bigger the next year. She came to the realization that our stake could no longer compete with the world’s standards of fun and entertainment. It was chilling to speculate on a conference as dramatically different as a service project.
Coincidentally, when the adult specialists were called they had independently focused on the same idea as the Young Women counselor—a barn raising.
2. Prayerfully select specialists.
The Tanners were a new couple in the stake. No one was aware that he was a builder. Their expertise was crucial when setbacks developed. The manufacturer of the trusses wouldn’t assemble and deliver until three days after youth conference. Brother Tanner knew how to apply just the right pressure to get the trusses there on time. The plans for the barn/house were submitted with the standard load of 40 pounds per square foot, but the city said the structure had to have the barn specifications of 120 pounds per square foot. Five days before construction was to commence, Brother Tanner had to scrap the blueprints and completely redo the engineering, foundation, etc. He and another builder burned midnight oil to get the plans back to the city. Since no plans were approved, he couldn’t get the trusses. What a mess. It was a miracle to finally have everything approved and ready and be able to begin the projects. The Tanners started a new business and moved out of the stake soon after youth conference. They were there when we needed them most.
3. Prayerfully locate recipients.
The Roney’s are prominent members of the Catholic faith and the community. It was possible they might not accept help. Sometimes it is harder to receive than to give. When the high councilor approached Mr. Roney and suggested rebuilding his fallen barn, he was overwhelmed. A few minutes later he said, “I knew the Mormons took care of their own, but I had no idea they’d extend the help to others.” The Roney family showed profound appreciation toward us, allowing their daughter to attend girls’ camp, encouraging the stake to hold functions at their farm, and setting up a scholarship fund for our youth.
4. If the event is newsworthy, involve the media.
When the TV and newspapers were informed about the barn raisings, they said they’d send someone out for a few minutes. Although reluctant at first, the reporters were so impressed they stayed for up to three hours. Favorable segments appeared in newspapers and on local newscasts.
5. Publicize and recruit.
Getting the first registrations for the conference was like pulling bent nails. Then the committee held a fireside to drum up enthusiasm. One young man who put up a bit of a struggle when we tried to recruit him completely surprised us with his enthusiasm. The builders showed him what needed to be done, and he caught on like a pro. He worked up such an appetite that when we saw him in the chow line he held a plate loaded with vegetables. The Young Women counselor said, “Todd, I’m amazed you eat so many vegetables.” He turned to show his other plate of food. And this was only his first time through the line. It really touched us to see Todd, a young man with so much going for him, sit down with another boy who felt like he was somewhat of an outcast. The lonely boy had been struggling all day until Todd showed him the way to use his hammer and worked with him. Working side by side, the youth not only established bonds between themselves but with the adults as well. It was worth any effort to encourage each person to attend.
6. Meet often.
The committee met every two weeks from March to mid-June. We needed the meetings to try to tie down all the loose ends because so many unexpected ends unravel—like the T-shirts that weren’t ready, or the huge barbecues we borrowed which turned our hotdogs into charcoal strips, still frozen on the inside. The greased pig contest slipped away from us. The piglets were raised on a concrete floor. When released, they would only root in the grass and refused to run. The kids stood aching for action, but what’s the challenge in tackling a pig sniffing the ground?
7. Plan evening diversions.
After the games and climbing the greased pole, the bonfire featured an original song by Allen and Leony Hunt. The lyrics grew on us like muscles as we hammered:
“You love who you serve who you love,
Like a ripple in a pond it goes on and on,
We follow in the footsteps of the one who showed us how
To love who you serve who you love.”

I can still remember my mother speaking softly to me one Saturday afternoon when, as a little boy, I asked her for permission to do something I thought was perfectly reasonable and which she knew was dangerous. I still am amazed at the power she was granted—I believe from the Lord—to turn me around with so few words. As I remember them, they were, “Oh, I suppose you could do that. But the choice is yours.” The only warning was in the emphasis she put on the words could and choice. Yet that was enough for me.

Her power to warn with so few words sprang from three things I knew about her. First, I knew she loved me. Second, I knew she had already done what she wanted me to do and been blessed by it. And third, she had conveyed to me her sure testimony that the choice I had to make was so important that the Lord would tell me what to do if I asked Him. Love, example, and testimony: those were keys that day, and they have been whenever I have been blessed to hear and then heed the warning of a servant of the Lord.

When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
As we encourage missionaries to do, I had saved money and sold personal belongings to pay my own way as best I could. I thought I had enough money, but I wasn’t sure how it would be in the final months of my mission. With that question on my mind, I nevertheless blissfully left my family for the greatest experience anyone could hope to have. I loved my mission as I am sure no young man has ever loved one before or since.
Then I returned home just as my parents were called to serve a mission of their own. What would I do now? How in the world could I pay for a college education? How could I possibly pay for board and room? And how could I realize the great dream of my heart, to marry the breathtakingly perfect Patricia Terry? I don’t mind admitting that I was discouraged and frightened.
Hesitantly I went to the local bank and asked the manager, a family friend, how much was in my account. He looked surprised and said, “Why, Jeff, it’s all in your account. Didn’t they tell you? Your parents wanted to do what little they could to help you get started when you got home. They didn’t withdraw a cent during your mission. I supposed that you knew.”
Well, I didn’t know. What I do know is that my dad, a self-educated accountant, a “bookkeeper” as they were called in our little town, with very few clients, probably never wore a new suit or a new shirt or a new pair of shoes for two years so his son could have all of those for his mission. Furthermore, what I did not know but then came to know was that my mother, who had never worked out of the home in her married life, took a job at a local department store so that my mission expenses could be met. And not one word of that was ever conveyed to me on my mission. Not a single word was said regarding any of it. How many fathers in this Church have done exactly what my father did? And how many mothers, in these difficult economic times, are still doing what my mother did?
My father has been gone for 34 years, so like President Faust, I will have to wait to fully thank him on the other side. But my sweet mother, who turns 95 next week, is happily watching this broadcast today at her home in St. George, so it’s not too late to thank her. To you, Mom and Dad, and to all the moms and dads and families and faithful people everywhere, I thank you for sacrificing for your children (and for other people’s children!), for wanting so much to give them advantages you never had, for wanting so much to give them the happiest life you could provide.

Amy Roberts, 15, of the Warwick Ward, Perth Dianella Stake, is a descendant of the Nyunghas, the original inhabitants of the southwest part of Western Australia. Aboriginals make up less than 2 percent of the Australian population. Amy has received recognition for the play she wrote, entitled The Bird, which is based on themes from aboriginal folklore, combined with gospel teachings.
“By combining the two, I can pass on to other teenagers messages about strengthening family ties, obeying the Word of Wisdom, and maintaining spiritual values to overcome the pressures of living in the world today,” Amy says. The Aboriginal Youth Theater Group of Western Australia is planning on producing Amy’s play sometime this year.
Amy is a Theater Arts student at Girrawheen Senior High, a Perth performing arts school. In addition to her award-winning theatric skills, she gets high marks in English and art, is a basketball referee, and coaches a team of 10–12-year-old boys.
What most people don’t know about Amy is that she was born hearing impaired. This has not kept her from full participation in just about anything she chooses. Amy is currently studying for university entrance exams, and is planning a career as an anthropologist.

Old Jerusalem.
Narrow streets—barely wider than alleys—are crowded with people from all over the world: tourists in shorts and sunglasses, priests wearing vestments of various religious orders, young soldiers carrying machine guns, Jewish men and boys wearing skullcaps, and Arabs in flowing robes and shepherd headwear. Some women are dressed in shawls and veils; others are wearing business suits. Little children are darting through the crowd.
As we make our way through the souk (marketplace), the sound of bargaining is everywhere. And the choices are overwhelming. Shopkeepers advertise their goods by lining them out in the street in front of their stores. Wicker baskets are filled with nuts, fruits, and vegetables. Long embroidered dresses hang from overhead. Shelves are filled with religious statues carved from olive wood. There are rows and rows of brass cookware, copper and silver trays, glazed Armenian ceramics, and Persian jugs. And there is an endless array of gold and silver jewelry, sheepskin and leather coats, and exotic oriental rugs.
Someone is making falafel (a fried mixture of spicy ground vegetables); someone else is roasting shish kebab; the smell of fresh bread mingles with the aroma of strange spices. Merchants stand at their doors and invite us inside. Music from various cultures blares from radios.
My wife, Mary, and I stop in a small shop that sells religious items significant to Christians, Jews, and Muslims. As we browse, the shopkeeper—a short, thin Arab man—explains the meaning and use of several items. And he tells us about the Koran.
We decide on our purchase and begin the expected ritual of bargaining on the price. Hoping we’ve settled on a fair amount, we hand the man several crisp, new bills.
He counts them out and surprises us by handing one back.
“You gave me too much,” he explains. The new bills had stuck together. We had overpaid him.
“Thank you,” Mary says. “We appreciate your honesty.”
“Oh, I’m not being honest for you,” the man replies. “I’m being honest for me and my household. I will not buy food for my family with dishonest money!”
As we return to the noisy, crowded street, we realize that we got more than we bargained for—the memory of an Arab friend who wouldn’t sell himself for a crisp, new dollar bill.

Growing up with muscular dystrophy, I had serious doubts about whether having a family would ever happen for me. Would I find someone who could see past my disability? And if I did, what kind of father would I be? I hoped for life as a husband and father; I just didn’t know if I would get it.
And then it happened: marriage, followed two years later by the wonderful news that we were having a baby. A year and a half later, more great news came: a second child was on the way.
And just like that, I was married with two kids—daughters, no less, which was crazy because even when I dared dream of having a family, for some reason I always pictured sons—yet further proof that I had no clue of what lay ahead of me.
But I “trust[ed] in the Lord with all [my] heart” (Proverbs 3:5). Put differently, I rolled with it.
I rolled with it when my sweetheart, Casey, went into labor and said, “It’s time,” and I about passed out. I rolled with it when the nurse held our brand-new baby girl in front of me and said, “She’s yours now,” and I gave Isabelle a kiss on the forehead. I rolled with it and shaved my facial hair when my scratchy kisses made her cry. And I even rolled with it when, while I was holding her on my lap, her dirty diaper gave out—fatherhood can be messy.
Being able to roll with it—to adapt—has been a key to any successes I’ve had as a dad and in life. I’ve gone from crawling to walking to running to getting weaker to slowing down to losing the ability to walk and using a wheelchair. At each phase, to make it work I’ve had to adapt to my circumstances and play to the abilities Heavenly Father has given me. It’s an important part of fatherhood.
Turns out, without even knowing it, I’ve been training to be a great dad my whole life!
We Are All in the Process
“You see, we’re all on a journey. … We are all in the process of becoming who we will one day be. Fathers and [children] can play a critical role in helping each other become the best that they can be.”
President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “Fathers and Sons: A Remarkable Relationship,” Liahona, Nov. 2009, 47.
Why do I know so much about lambs, dolphins, mermaids, dolls, book characters, cross-country running, and musicals? Because those are the things my youngest daughter, Sammy, has been interested in over the past 14 years! Find out what your kids are into and get into it too.
President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, said, “Find your own best way to connect,” creating a one-on-one relationship with each child as part of our fatherly stewardship. 1
I’ve never tossed my girls in the air. I’ve never pushed them on a swing, jumped into a pool with them, or spotted them in the gym.
But they’ve screamed for joy on the back of my wheelchair as I did wheelies through our neighborhood, climbed me like a ladder to reach goodies on the top shelf, and enjoyed incredible front-row parking with me their entire lives.
We all have different abilities. Figure out what you can do with your kids and then do it!
Being a dad has been and continues to be the joy of my life.
My girls have an amazing understanding of my physical limitations. We’ve never really had to detail what Daddy can or cannot physically do. They’ve always just seemed to know. Even when they were toddlers, I would ask them to grab something for me, and they’d place it right in my hand. When Casey would ask for something, they’d toss it to her or hold it near her so she’d have to reach out for it.
Being a dad has been and continues to be the joy of my life.
When I’m being the best version of myself, I love my girls the way God loves them—personally and completely. But I’m not perfect. When I’m not centered in God’s love, patience wanes, tempers flare, and feelings get hurt. Like I said before, I’m a work in progress.
Dads come from all walks of life and have different strengths and weaknesses. But thanks to the love, grace, and mercies of an all-loving Heavenly Father and our Savior, Jesus Christ, we can all be empowered to be exactly who and what our children need us to be.
I know our Heavenly Father will endow each of us with the strength needed to be the best dad we can be. When we seek His help and direction, blessings will follow and, come what may, we’ll have the ability to roll with it.

Illustrated by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
1. Matt: Let’s play pioneers.
Mandy: OK. The tree house can be our covered wagon.
2. Mandy: There’s a herd of buffalo!
Matt: I’ll drive the oxen around them.
Mandy: We’d better pray for help too.
3. Mandy: There’s a river ahead!
Matt: We’ll cross it.
Mandy: It looks deep. Let’s say a prayer first.
4. Mandy: There’s a band of Indians!
Matt: We’ll make friends with them.
Mandy: Let’s pray that they’ll trust us.
5. Mandy: It’s time to make camp.
Matt: I’ll gather firewood, and you can fetch water.
Mandy: First, let’s thank Heavenly Father for a safe journey.
6. Matt: Boy, pioneers must have prayed a lot.
Mandy: Pioneers were smart people.

It’s difficult to work eight hours a day in the extreme conditions of a desert in the same two-by-two-foot hole of dirt with someone from a completely different cultural and religious background without coming to know and appreciate his uniqueness. The gospel suddenly became more significant to me as I realized the contrasting way of life it offers. As I sat with my equally tired and thirsty German, Israeli, Indian, or Dutch brother who had dumped those last hundred buckets I had filled, and he thanked me for the drink from my canteen, the words of the Savior filled my mind: “Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again: But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.” (John 4:13–14.)

Several days before our ward was scheduled to travel to the Aba Nigeria Temple, the bishop called and asked me to lead our group. I agreed, and on the morning of our trip, we offered a prayer and boarded a bus to begin our journey.
On our way, we sang hymns. Joy beyond measure filled the air. We were making good time on our 10-hour journey, but just before noon, our bus developed a problem none of us could fix.
I ran to a nearby petrol station and found an attendant. I asked if she could direct me to a mechanic.
Without delay, she called two mechanics. They soon arrived and got to work. They discovered that the fan belt was defective. They worked for hours until they had exhausted all their knowledge. Then they called another mechanic.
He appeared confident when he arrived and said sarcastically, “What’s wrong with the fan belt that you could not fix?”
He worked for a while and then said, “What has happened here is beyond ordinary.” He picked up his tools and left. The other mechanics continued to search for a solution, but our situation seemed hopeless.
I turned to my fellow Saints and saw sadness on almost every face. As I thought about what to do next, a thought came to me: “Have you prayed over the problem?”
Immediately, I called the group together. We stood in a circle and prayed to our Heavenly Father to give the mechanics the knowledge they lacked. In less than five minutes, one of the mechanics came to see me.
“We have done it!” he said, beaming.
We rejoiced and thanked the Lord. I soon noticed that the other mechanic looked discouraged. I tried to congratulate him, but he said, “Are you congratulating me for taking six hours to fix one fan belt? I fixed two fan belts before I came here. What happened here is beyond explanation.”
I told him God had intervened following our prayer.
“You prayed over it?” he asked.
“Yes, about five minutes ago.”
“Oh, that is wonderful of you!” he said.
I paid the mechanics and they left. We all entered the bus and continued our journey. We finally reached the temple several hours later, grateful that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

Daniel Baker of the Republic Branch, Colville Washington Stake, was awarded a medal and certificate from the Boy Scouts of America for his action in saving his younger brother’s life.

Dan’s two-year-old brother was choking on a piece of carrot and was unable to breathe. Dan, an Eagle Scout, used the Heimlich maneuver that he had learned in Scouts to help his brother.

In high school, Dan served as the student body vice-president, junior class president, and as president of his seminary class. He also received awards for being the outstanding history student and choir member of his school.

In his branch, Dan served as president of his priests quorum. In his spare time he enjoys hunting and fishing.