Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, Brig Sorenson mapped out and recorded thousands of graves at the local cemetery for his Eagle project. Picking up where Brig left off, the stake arranged an ongoing service project to photograph the hundreds of gravestones in the cemetery for an Internet genealogy database.
“I’d never been in a graveyard before,” says Kirsten Barraclough. “But it was fun to see the names of all the people who died. It was nice to know you are serving others.”
“Some days I come to the cemetery and I feel really sad,” says Jessica McGuire, whose uncle and grandfather are buried there. “But this time I came and helped. It was a lovely feeling.”

One of the Siam elders, Elam Luddington, made it to Bangkok briefly but was persecuted by Christians and Buddhists and finally fled after 127 days in the country. His voyages home were frightening and life-threatening. The fourth Siam elder was Levi Savage, Jr. He spent most of his mission alone in Burma, where he learned to speak and write Burmese. On the way home from his mission, he joined with the Willie Handcart Company. It was Savage who warned that group not to go on because of the lateness of the date. Nevertheless, he went forward with that ill-fated company of emigrant pioneers and did his best to alleviate the suffering when it came.

A challenge faced by some families is how to reach and inspire young children during family home evening. Christine Carter of the Syracuse New York Stake writes: “I recently attended the temple to receive my own endowment, and I wanted to hold a family home evening about the importance of the temple. I had prepared well, but my six-year-old son, Tyler, was inattentive and disruptive. I felt discouraged and ready to cancel the lesson.
“Prompted by the Spirit, I looked my son in the eyes and asked him, ‘Do you know that attending the temple is the most important thing you need to do?’ The impact of those words was incredible. He was sobered and became interested in learning about the temple. We marveled over the pictures of the temples and wondered about the mansion Jesus Christ is preparing for our return to Him. We put together a puzzle of the temple and then did it again because we had so much fun. We sang ‘I Love to See the Temple.’ Later, Tyler decorated our hallway with pictures of different temples. He also decided to make a temple switch plate cover for the hall light, complete with his own drawing of the Salt Lake Temple. Now every time we turn on the light we can remember that the temple lights our way to return home to the Lord.
“I am so grateful that the Spirit guided me during our lesson and that I did not give up on teaching my son of the importance of the temple.”

In the summer of 1983, I was given an opportunity of which I had only previously dreamed.
When I was a young man, I had three passions. One was sports. I loved both watching and participating in football and track and field.
Another passion was the outdoors. I loved hiking, fishing, and hunting in the great outdoors.
The third was art. I loved to draw and at this point in my life was being introduced to oil painting. At that time, I was starting to think about a career which could involve all three passions.
My dream was to become an illustrator for a magazine or magazines, which would allow me to draw or paint athletes competing in various sporting events or wildlife and wildlife adventures . . . or both. That is where my dream opportunity comes into the story.
One of my best friends’ dads worked in the art department here at Ricks College. I had occasionally sought advice from Brother Robert Worrell about drawing and painting, but it wasn’t something that was ongoing or long lasting.
That summer, I was invited with my friend to spend some time up here on campus with Brother Worrell using the facilities to learn more about oil painting. For me, this was going to be an exceptional experience, especially since there was a real possibility that I would get to interact with, and hopefully learn from, my artistic idol Brother Leon Parson.
At that time, Brother Parson was not only a member of the art faculty here, but also an illustrator for Outdoor Life . . . kind of my dream job.
During that summer, I was able to learn, from Brother Parson and Brother Worrell, many wonderful things. I don’t know if I became any better as an artist that summer, but I started down a path, which over time, has helped me learn more about God.
After graduating from high school, I came here as an art student. I chose to major in illustration, where I was able to continue to be taught by Brother Parson.
During those first semesters, I was not only taught a lot about art, like color theory, light, contrast, observation and creativity, but Brother Parson was a master of teaching us about life and our relationship with our Heavenly Father. I loved all of it.
After a year of college, I then left on a mission to Bangkok, Thailand, where I was able devote myself to learning about God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ and to sharing that with the people of Thailand. That experience changed what I wanted to do with my life, but it also started me on a path of learning more about the character of God.
My change of direction in my life, coupled with a lot of art credits, led me to switch my major to art education and simultaneously take the classes in the seminary teaching pre-service program. That dual study of art and seminary teaching opened my eyes to the character of God in a way that I hadn’t studied or experienced before.

Suddenly Jody’s muscles tightened. From out of the sky darted Sir Lancelot, his satiny black plumage glinting in the sun like a feathery jewel.
Sir Lancelot was the name Jody had given the big raven the first time he had seen it, nearly six months before. Any bird that could appear so regal had to have an important name, he’d decided.
He stood and hurried to the rock where he’d laid the brass button, picked it up, and sat on the rock with it in his open hand. This time the bird would have to come to him for his prize.
Jody had come up to Raven’s Roost nearly every week since he had moved with his family to Tucker Springs, and he’d gotten to know Sir Lancelot quite well, at least from a distance. “If you want this button to add to your collection of shiny things, you’ll have to take it from my hand!” he told the bird.
The huge bird alighted on a limb of the scrub oak. He cocked his glossy black head and eyed the lustrous object. “Come on,” Jody encouraged.
The raven cawed noisily, his high, harsh cry echoing off the red rocks. At length, he hopped to the ground, advanced a step or two, and came to a stop.
“That’s the best you can do?” Jody questioned. “All right, but next time it’s all the way or nothing, understand?” He tossed the button a few feet in front of him. The raven, cawing at Jody and eyeing the treasure, stretched forward and plucked the button up in his long bill. Then he flew back to the limb.
He regarded the boy a moment, as if saying thanks. Then, just as Sir Lancelot was about to fly off with the precious gift, Jody heard a whizzing sound, followed by a soft thud. The raven toppled lifeless to the ground, the brass button rolling from his slack bill and disappearing into a crevice in the rocks.
For an instant Jody just stared, disbelieving. “Sir Lancelot!” he choked out. Then his attention turned to the direction of the sound.
Hollis Fletcher stepped out of the brushwood about a hundred yards away, a rock flipper in his hands. “I told you I’d get even, Farnsworth,” he sneered. “You should have dropped out of that spelling contest, like I told you. Outside of the Fourth of July and the county fair, it’s the biggest thing that happens around here. And I would have won.
“I’ve lived in Tucker Springs all my life,” Hollis went on. “Every time I earned a hundred on spelling at school, I rewarded myself with getting a new marble for my collection. I probably have the best marble collection in the whole state, but there aren’t any trophies for that, like there is for the spelling contest. I worked hard to win it—it wasn’t right for some nobody from nowhere to come into town and take the trophy that should have been mine. Especially some kid two years younger than I am.”
“I won fair and square,” Jody retorted through his tears, dropping to his knees beside the dead bird and touching its blood-spattered plumage. “Besides, you won the trophy in last year’s contest.”
“I could have had two, Farnsworth!” Hollis growled. “Around here, two is better than one, especially at my house. With one, it can be just luck. Nobody questions or forgets a two-time winner—especially my father! He would have given me a horse, Farnsworth, just like he did my brother for his two-year win at the county fair for his Jersey cows!”
Hollis turned and started down the path, then paused and burned a look over his shoulder at Jody. “Maybe now you’ll know how it feels to lose something.”
Jody scooped up a rock, jumped to his feet, and hurled it at Hollis’s retreating shape. “I hate you!” he screamed, his face twisting with grief and rage. “I hate you!”
Hollis turned back toward the screaming youth and smiled. “That’s good, Farnsworth. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
At home, Jody poured out the story to his father. “He killed Sir Lancelot to get back at me!” he sobbed. “Sir Lancelot was just a good old bird who didn’t do anything except make music.” Jody wiped at the tears that burned his eyes. “It wasn’t the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard, but it was music to me. I hate Hollis for what he did.”
His father sighed. “It was wrong what he did, Son, no doubt about it. But you can’t go around with all that hate in your heart. For one thing, it isn’t healthy; for another, it’s—”
Jody pulled away from his father. “I hate Hollis Fletcher, Dad. I wish he’d move away!”
In the weeks that followed, the resentment and bitterness in Jody Farnsworth’s heart grew.
“You can’t tell me that you’re happy, Jody,” his father commented one day as they walked down the dirt road toward Hennesey Lake, their fishing poles over their shoulders.
Jody didn’t look at his father. “Is it wrong for a kid not to be happy all the time?” he blurted, kicking at a pebble in the road. “Even Jesus got mad at the moneychangers in the temple. And when Lazarus died, He wept. Is it wrong to be like Him?”
“No,” his father returned, “but this is the first time we’ve gone fishing that you haven’t been happy.” After a long silence, his father continued. “You know, Jody, if harboring all that spite for Hollis was right and proper, you’d be feeling pretty good inside. But I’ve never seen you look so poorly.”
Jody’s eyes fired up like smoldering coals rekindled. “I’m just supposed to forget about what he did, is that it?”
“It would be hard to forget what happened,” Jody’s father admitted. “But you can forgive him for what he did.”
Jody’s eyes widened. “What? Forgive Hollis Fletcher for shooting Sir Lancelot? How am I supposed to do that?”
His father stopped and eyed the boy. “You have to want to. That makes it a whole lot easier.”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
Jody’s father set his fishing pole aside and squatted down to the boy’s level. “There are a lot of things in this life we don’t like doing that need doing. Your mother dreads wash day, especially in the middle of July. It’s a hot, exhausting, all-day job. But what do you think would happen if our clothes didn’t get cleaned on a regular basis? We’d go around looking and smelling like Amos Twigg’s cow barn. And last fall I dreaded having to shoot Jack. That old horse was in constant great pain, and nothing more could be done except put him out of his misery. It was the hardest thing I had to do in my life. But it needed doing. And that brings me to you, Jody.”
“Me?”
“For the past month you’ve been carrying around such poisonous thoughts that I worry about your soul.”
“I just can’t forgive him, Dad,” Jody said angrily.
Later that morning, as they sat fishing, Jody accidently snagged his finger on his hook while baiting his line. “Shall we leave that hook in your finger?” Jody’s father questioned.
“Of course not!” Jody winced, at the smart.
“Why not?”
“I want to get the hurt out so it will heal, of course.”
“It might be a good idea to let that other, bigger, hurt out, too, Jody.” His father helped dislodge the small hook from the boy’s finger, then dug in his fishing box for some ointment and applied it to Jody’s finger. “The best medicine for resentment is forgiveness. It lets out the poison so that the wound can heal.
“You know,” he added, “I was thinking about what you said earlier today about being like the Savior. There’s a lot to that. He loved everybody, didn’t He? Even His enemies. Don’t you suppose He was the best example of forgiveness, too, Jody?”
Jody’s eyes fell, then lifted. “You mean, while He hung suffering on the cross He forgave the soldiers who crucified Him?”
“Yes. And in Gethsemane He suffered for all our sins.”
Jody was silent a long spell. Then he stood up. “Can we go home now, Dad? There’s something I need to do. Something I want to do.”
Jody was halfway up the little rutted lane that led to the Fletcher farmhouse, when Hollis spotted him. Jody’s heart was pounding. He never imagined that something he wanted to do could be so hard.
Hollis met Jody a short distance from the house, his countenance as dark as a storm over the tablelands. “You came to tell my father what I did, didn’t you, Farnsworth?”
“No,” Jody answered. “I just came to tell you that I forgive you for what you did. I’m not saying it was right; I’m just saying that I don’t hate you.”
“What?”
“Staying mad isn’t going to change anything,” Jody said. “It just makes things worse.”
After an awkward silence, Hollis wondered aloud, “Why are you doing this?”
“It was just something that needed doing. Well,” Jody concluded after another uncomfortable silence, “I still have a few chores to finish up at home, so I guess I’d better be going. See you later.”
A few days later he returned to the mesa and searched the skies for another raven. “I know there are more of you up there somewhere,” he said out loud. “I don’t have any shiny stuff to give you—I’m all out—but—”
“I do,” a voice behind Jody said. Hollis stepped out of the brushwood. He pulled out a leather pouch he’d brought with him and displayed its contents to Jody. “Now we have a lot of shiny things to give those ravens!”
Jody stared at the multitude of shiny aggies, taws, glassies, cat’s eyes, and other bright-colored marbles. “Why are you doing this, Hollis?”
The older boy’s smile grew as big as Jody’s wonder. “It was just something that needed doing.”
Hollis set a bright yellow glassie on a rock, then sat next to Jody beneath the scrub oak, where the two boys waited and watched.

Some time ago a young girl came into my office. There was anger in her voice and hurt in her eyes. She came to tell me all the things she didn’t like about her mom. I listened and listened until she got it all out. It was a long list. There was silence. Then I asked, “Is there anything good about your mom?” I waited. I think she had refused to let her mind think in that direction until that moment. I asked, “Amy, how do you feel about your mom?”
She raised her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She is my mom; I love her.”
She had discovered love. Now, there is no magic formula. She still had to go home and work it out day by day, but she let go of the strife in her heart and she wanted to strive together with her mom. And that’s exactly what her mom had been praying for. Miracles can happen when we decide to work together. In Amy’s case, something of a miracle did happen.

Soon we began learning about the restored Church of Jesus Christ with the missionaries. I shed beautiful tears because I was so happy to be coming back to my Savior. I had no questions about what they taught us until we came to the Book of Mormon. I had a hard time believing anything about it. The missionaries, however, asked me to read the Book of Mormon and pray about it. I prayed sincerely every day for weeks to know if it was really the word of God, but I never read it.

After several weeks without an answer from God, I boarded a train for a trip to Stockholm. On the way, I pulled out the Book of Mormon and began to read.

I read the introduction and the Testimony of Three Witnesses and Eight Witnesses, and I read about Joseph Smith. I was reading it and reading it and reading it. By the time I got to Stockholm, I was crying, shivering, and covered with goosebumps. I felt overwhelmed with the Spirit of God. I knew from personal revelation who Joseph Smith truly was—that he was a prophet and a servant of God. I knew that the Lord had restored the gospel of Jesus Christ to the earth through him.

I then believed all that the missionaries had told me. Once I had read the Book of Mormon for myself, I knew it was true. I told the missionaries I wanted to be baptized. My husband brought our whole family to show their support for me.

I recently read the remarkable account of the life of the French writer Jacques Lusseyran.

At the age of seven, Jacques fell while at school, striking the corner of his teacher’s desk. The violent blow caused serious injury to his eyes, leaving him completely and permanently blind.

Jacques later wrote:
Being blind was not at all as I imagined it. . . . People . . . told me that to be blind meant not to see. Yet . . . I saw. Not at once, I admit. Not in the days immediately after the operation. . . .
. . . [But in time] I was aware of a radiance. . . . Light was there [along with joy].7

As Jacques grew, he acquired, because of his blindness, what he called a “sense of human beings.”8 This sense helped him see people through the tone of their voice.

This gift became vital when he was fifteen years old and the Nazi regime occupied Paris in June 1940. Although very young, he and his friends formed an underground resistance movement. The group chose Jacques to be their leader.

Of that time, Jacques wrote:
Every day, including Sunday, I got up . . . before it was light. The first thing I did was to kneel down and pray: “My God, give me the strength to keep my promises. . . . Now that twenty young men . . . are waiting for my orders, tell me what orders to give them. By myself I know how to do almost nothing, but if you will it I am capable of almost everything.”9

All who were nominated to join the movement had to first meet with “the blind man.”10 Jacques would listen not so much to their words as to their souls. In one year this organization of twenty grew to more than six hundred.

There was just one man he admitted to the movement of whom he was not absolutely sure, and it was that man who later betrayed them. Jacques and his companions were arrested by the Gestapo in 1943. They were shipped to Buchenwald with two thousand other Frenchmen. Only thirty of those two thousand were alive when the camp was liberated. Jacques was twenty years old.

Jacques had suffered through one of the darkest periods in modern history and had been on the brink of death. Nevertheless, he wrote:
I have not a single evil memory of those three hundred and thirty days of extreme wretchedness. I was carried by a hand. I was covered by a wing. . . . I [became] free now to help the others. . . .
I could try to show other people how to go about holding on to life. I could turn toward them the flow of light and joy which had grown so abundant in me.11

My mother, Mildred Bennion Eyring, grew up in the farming community of Granger, Utah, USA. One of her brothers, Roy, followed the family business of raising sheep. As a young man he spent many weeks away from home. Over time he became less interested in the Church. Eventually he moved to Idaho, USA, married, and had three children. He died at the age of 34 when his wife was 28 years old and their children were small.
Even though Roy’s little family was in Idaho and my mother had moved about 2,500 miles (4,025 km) to New Jersey, USA, she often wrote them letters of love and encouragement. My uncle’s family affectionately referred to my mother as “Aunt Mid.”
Years passed, and one day I received a phone call from one of my cousins. I was told that Roy’s widow had died. My cousin said, “Aunt Mid would want you to know.” Aunt Mid had long since passed away, but the family still felt her love and reached out to tell me.
I can still remember the love in the voice of my cousin who called and said, “Our mother has died, and Aunt Mid would want you to know.”
It is a blessing to live in the time when the promise of hearts turning is being fulfilled. Mildred Bennion Eyring felt that urge in her heart. She loved her brother’s family, and she reached out to them. They felt their hearts turn in love to Aunt Mid because they knew she loved them.

Heavenly Father certainly sends us things when we need them most! I’ve just said good-bye to my boyfriend prior to his departure on a mission, and I was missing him very much and writing him very miserable letters. Then the December New Era arrived with “The Way to a Missionary’s Mailbox,” which uplifted me so much, and I’m sure that his mission will now be much more successful because of it. My nonmember family also realizes this.
Susan AyerChristchurch, New Zealand

One night not too long ago, Joshua Mana, who would soon turn 18, was talking with his parents about the years their family spent in refugee camps.
“The camps are not where you would wish to live,” his father Fredrick said, “because of the hardship.”
The first camp was on the eastern border of the Democratic Republic of Congo. The family, fleeing war and genocide to the west, lived there for two years. Shelter was poor, food scarce, and illness common.
“That is where your brother Patric died when he was just 11 years old,” Fredrick said. “We were sad in that place.”
The second camp was south across the border, in Zambia.
“That’s where you were born,” his mother Esperance said. “We named you Joshua, like the righteous prophet in the Bible. To me you will always be Joshua, a gift from God, because even in the camps God was with us.”
In the second camp, life was no easier. “Sometimes we were able to find jobs, but only as volunteers,” Fredrick explained. “Maybe they gave you food, maybe a little bit of money at the end of the month. But in a refugee camp, even that is a lot. With a few friends, we worked together, and some were able to leave for France, Canada, and other countries.” And Joshua’s family—his mother and father, two older sisters, and himself—were able to move to a one-room apartment in Lusaka, where they scraped by.
“We knew there was a resettlement program,” Esperance said. “But we had no hope. People will take your application, but if you don’t have money to give them, they just trash it. We were poor. We were desperate. All we could do was pray.”
Photograph from Getty Images
“In the second camp, life was no easier. … We were poor. We were desperate. All we could do was pray.”
A friend in France kept writing letters and making appeals on their behalf. Then one day, after four years of waiting, their names showed up on a list of those approved for resettlement. It was a miracle!
There was just one catch. “We would be going directly to Salt Lake City, Utah, USA,” Esperance said. “We knew a little about big cities like New York, but we didn’t know Salt Lake City. ‘Are you sure this is in the USA?’ we asked. ‘Yes, yes,’ the official said. ‘Somewhere in USA.’”
“We didn’t expect any help when we got to Utah,” Fredrick said. “But that’s not what happened.”
“The first person we met made us feel welcome,” Esperance recalled. “She came with her family to visit our apartment. They saw how we ate, how we slept, what we worried about. It was the first time someone was concerned about how they could help.”
“She and her husband were like parents to us,” Fredrick said. “They helped us learn about the customs of this new country. They helped us find work.”
“We could tell they were Christians, and we were Christians, too,” Esperance said. “We asked if we could learn about their Church.”
And learn they did. Soon they were meeting regularly with the missionaries. “Each teaching made sense to us, especially what they called the great plan of happiness,” Esperance said. “I cried and cried when they told us we could be together as a family in eternity, and that we would see Patric again. We knew it was true.”
Fredrick and Esperance were baptized and confirmed. Joshua was baptized when he turned eight. And Joshua and Patric have been sealed to their parents, giving them the opportunity to be together when this life is through. Other family members are still learning about the gospel.
As a member of the Church, Joshua was particularly impressed with a certain group of young adults. “At first, I wasn’t sure what an ‘RM’ was. But the more I watched returned missionaries, and whenever I spent time around one of them, I knew I wanted to be one too,” he recalls.
Year after year, the returned missionaries impressed him. When he came of age, Joshua met with his bishop, submitted his application, and waited to receive his mission call.
“The more I watched returned missionaries … I knew I wanted to be one too.”
That’s when, one Sunday, half a dozen refugees who are returned missionaries—and also friends with Joshua—gathered in the cultural hall after church to counsel with him.
One of them, Madelaine Lamah, who served in the New York New York South Mission, said her mission motto was “Forever Changed.” She reminded Joshua that joining the Church changed his family’s life and that he would be an instrument of change for others as he shared the gospel with them.
Jean-Pierre Benimana, who served in the California Los Angeles Mission, reminded Joshua that “the happiest people on earth are those who live the gospel of Jesus Christ with all their hearts.”
The returned missionaries were refugees from countries like Burundi and Rwanda, in Africa, and Burma, in Asia. They have served in places like Los Angeles, California, and Birmingham, Alabama, in the USA, and in western African countries like Benin and Côte d’Ivoire. They were blessed to receive the gospel, and they were equally blessed to share it. Now they explained to Joshua that he was about to become a part of that legacy.
A few weeks later, a big, white envelope arrived in the mail. Another group gathered, this time at Fredrick and Esperance’s home. The group included family, LDS friends and neighbors, and some friends from other faiths.
Joshua, dressed in a white shirt and tie, stood up, opened the envelope, and read, “Dear Elder Mana: You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Brazil Porto Alegre South Mission …”
There were cheers, tears, hugs, but most of all, joy. Then there was a brief moment for Elder Mana to speak.
He quoted a scripture he has learned to love: “Freely ye have received, freely give” (Matthew 10:8).
Then he shared his testimony: “The gospel has changed my life so much because it helps me to know that Father in Heaven has a plan for us, and if we follow His commandments we can go back to Him again one day. Every day I follow the Holy Ghost. He prompts me what to do, because there’s lots of work that Father in Heaven needs me to do to build His kingdom.
“Being a missionary is part of that, as well. My purpose in going on a mission is to bring people to Christ and give them the gospel.”
It’s a testimony he will share freely, and often, with the people of Brazil.

William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew. He became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk on his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over the mountains out my window? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair that curled a little. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair that curled a little, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away my two sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that just a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen, Dad,” and across the valley came the plaintive call of a cuckoo bird. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the birds will sing joyful tunes. Oh, Dad, its a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first Latter-day Saint funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Mr. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the wagon with the casket with a pair of black horses.
It was only a short distance to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the wagon. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on the mountains. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my son’s letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from the second son read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a twelve-year-old cannot stay sad very long.
“Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a little curl to it.”

After 11 exciting years of working at that job, I was in a meeting one night with those developing an essential part of the nuclear power plant. My secretary came in and said, “There’s a man on the phone who says if I tell you his name you’ll come to the phone.”

I said, “What’s his name?”

She said, “Harold B. Lee.”

I said, “He’s right.” I took the phone call. Elder Lee, who later became President of the Church, asked if he could see me that very night. He was in New York City, and I was in Washington, D.C. I flew up to meet him, and we had an interview that led to my call to be a mission president.

The head of the program I was working for was Admiral Hyman Rickover, a hard-working, demanding individual. I knew him well enough that I felt I needed to tell him as soon as possible that I was being called. As I explained the mission call to him and that it would mean I would have to quit my job, he became rather upset. He said some unrepeatable things, broke the paper tray on his desk, and in the comments that followed clearly established two points:
“Scott, what you are doing in this defense program is so vital that it will take a year to replace you, so you can’t go. Second, if you do go, you are a traitor to your country.”

I said, “I can train my replacement in the two remaining months, and there won’t be any risk to the country.”

There was more conversation, and he finally said, “I never will talk to you again. I don’t want to see you again. You are finished, not only here, but don’t ever plan to work in the nuclear field again.”

I responded, “Admiral, you can bar me from the office, but unless you prevent me, I am going to turn this assignment over to another individual.”

True to his word, the admiral ceased to speak to me. When critical decisions had to be made, he would send a messenger, or I would communicate through a third party. He assigned an individual to take my responsibility, and I trained him.

It wasn’t going to be hard for me to leave; I knew I had been called as a mission president by the Lord. But I knew that my decision would affect others. In the Idaho Falls, Idaho, area were many members of the Church whose jobs depended upon working in the nuclear program. I didn’t want to cause them harm. I didn’t know what to do. My heart kept saying, “Is this going to turn out all right, or will somebody be innocently hurt who depends on our program for livelihood?”

As I prayed and pondered about it, I had a feeling about the hymn “Do What Is Right.” A line from the hymn would come to mind: “Do what is right; let the consequence follow.” Other words from the hymn were reinforcing such as “God will protect you; then do what is right!” (Hymns, no. 237).

My last day in the office I asked for an appointment with the admiral. His secretary gasped. I went with a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hand. He looked at me and said, “Sit down, Scott, what do you have? I have tried every way I can to force you to change. What is it you have?” There followed a very interesting, quiet conversation. There was more listening this time.

He said he would read the Book of Mormon. Then something happened I never thought would occur. He added, “When you come back from the mission, I want you to call me. There will be a job for you.”

Note this example taken from Elder F. Burton Howard’s biography of President Marion G. Romney. I quote Elder Howard generously in summarizing this story.
In 1967 Sister Romney suffered a serious stroke. The doctors told then–Elder Romney that the damage from the hemorrhage was severe. They offered to keep her alive by artificial means but did not recommend it. The family braced themselves for the worst. Brother Romney confided to those closest to him that in spite of his anguished, personal yearning for Ida’s restored health and continued companionship, above all he wanted “the Lord’s will to be done and to take what he needed to take without whimpering.”
As the days wore on, Sister Romney became less responsive. She had, of course, been administered to, but Elder Romney was “reluctant to counsel the Lord about the matter.” Because of his earlier unsuccessful experience of praying that he and Ida might have children, he knew that he could never ask in prayer for something which was not in harmony with the will of the Lord.
He fasted that he might know how to show the Lord that he had faith and that he would accept God’s will in their lives. He wanted to make sure that he had done all he could do. She continued to fail.
One evening in a particularly depressed state, with Ida unable to speak or recognize him, Brother Romney went home and turned as he always had to the scriptures in an effort to commune with the Lord. He picked up the Book of Mormon and continued where he had left off the night before.
He had been reading in the book of Helaman about the prophet Nephi, who had been falsely condemned and unfairly charged with sedition. Following a miraculous deliverance from his accusers, Nephi returned home pondering the things which he had experienced. As he did so he heard a voice.
Although Marion Romney had read that story many times before, it now struck him this night as a personal revelation. The words of the scripture so touched his heart that for the first time in weeks he felt he had tangible peace. It seemed as if the Lord was speaking directly to him. The scripture read:

Blessed art thou, . . . for those things which thou hast done. . . . And thou . . . hast not sought thine own life, but hast sought my will, and to keep my commandments.
And now, because thou hast done this . . . I will bless thee forever; and I will make thee mighty in word and in deed, in faith and in works; yea, even that all things shall be done unto thee according to thy word, for thou shalt not ask that which is contrary to my will. [Helaman 10:4–5]

There was the answer. He had sought only to know and obey the will of the Lord, and the Lord had spoken. He fell to his knees and poured out his heart, and as he concluded his prayer with the phrase, “Thy will be done,” he either felt or actually heard a voice which said, “It is not contrary to my will that Ida be healed.”

Brother Romney rose to his feet. It was past two o’clock in the morning, but he knew what he must do. Quickly he put on his tie and coat, then went out into the night to visit Ida in the hospital.

He arrived shortly before three o’clock. His wife’s condition was unchanged. She did not stir as he placed his hands upon her pale forehead. With undeviating faith, he invoked the power of the priesthood in her behalf. He pronounced a simple blessing and then uttered the incredible promise that she would recover her health and mental powers and yet perform a great mission upon the earth.

Even though he did not doubt, Elder Romney was astonished to see Ida’s eyes open as he concluded the blessing. Somewhat stunned by all that had happened, he sat down on the edge of the bed only to hear his wife’s frail voice for the first time in months. She said, “For goodness’ sake, Marion, what are you doing here?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He said, “Ida, how are you?” With that flash of humor so characteristic of both of them, she replied, “Compared to what, Marion? Compared to what?”

Ida Romney began her recovery from that very moment, soon left her hospital bed, and lived to see her husband sustained as a member of the First Presidency of the Church, “a great mission upon the earth” indeed (F. Burton Howard, Marion G. Romney: His Life and Faith [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988], pp. 137–42).

I remember one time when I was in the Marine Corps, stationed at Camp Pendleton in California. I left a decision to chance and almost found myself in a most unpleasant situation.
My buddies had been after me each weekend to go with them into the dance hall in Los Angeles to have a good time. Each weekend I was encouraged to go. After several weeks of turning them down, thinking that that was no place for me, I decided just once to leave it to chance and see how it would turn out.
I started with them towards this big dance hall in Los Angeles. We were riding the streetcar, and as it progressed from stop to stop, it was filling up with many young ladies. They were not the type I had ever been around before. They were extremely forward. I felt very uncomfortable around them. As they approached me, I adopted a tactic completely unknown to a marine. I retreated.
On the back row of the streetcar I found four young ladies whose appearance was entirely different. I asked them if they were going to the dance, and their reply was, “Yes, but not to the same one you are.” Then they said, “We are going to the Adams Ward to a Mormon dance. What do you know about the Mormon Church?” I was surprised, relieved, and willingly got off the streetcar with them, and had a most delightful evening at the Adams Ward. Have more confidence in yourself than allowing your decisions to happen just by chance.

Only a few weeks before the earthquake, another group of young adults was giving similar service across the Atlantic. The floods that swept through western Europe in July were the most severe in decades.
When the waters finally receded, one shopkeeper in the riverside district of Ahrweiler, Germany, surveyed the damage and was utterly overwhelmed. This humble man, a devout Catholic, whispered a prayer that God might send someone to help him. The very next morning, President Dan Hammon of the Germany Frankfurt Mission arrived on the street with a small band of missionaries wearing yellow Helping Hands vests. The water had reached up to 10 feet (3 m) on the shopkeeper’s walls, leaving behind a deep layer of mud. The volunteers shoveled out the mud, removed the carpet and drywall, and piled everything in the street for removal. The overjoyed shopkeeper worked alongside them for hours, amazed that the Lord had sent a group of His servants to answer his prayer—and within 24 hours!

A couple of months ago I was traveling to New York. While I was there I decided to take a trip to visit my brother who lives in Palmyra, New Jersey. I don't know how many of you have ever driven in Manhattan but it can be a frightening experience if you're not from the City. I decided to rent a GPS unit so that I could find my way out of the city and to the Holland tunnel which would lead my to the New Jersey turnpike. I put in the address of where I started and the address of where I wanted to end up. I was amazed that it told me how to get out of the parking garage and then on my way to the tunnel.
As I approached the tunnel the entrance was blocked and I had to find another way. As I drove past the entrance a friendly voice came on and said recalculating recalculating. I thought to myself hurry and recalculate because the people behind me are not very patient. I found my way through the tunnel and onto the New Jersey turnpike. Finally I got to the exit that would take me to Palmyra. As I was heading down the road I missed another turn, my friend spoke again, "recalculating, recalculating." I thought this was fun so I purposely missed a couple of more turns just to see if my voice would get me back on track. Well just like the GPS that recalculated my driving instructions, the scriptures help us to do the same and get safely to our designation.

Harlow Ward members in the St Albans Stake enjoyed a wonderful morning of outdoor service at a meadow nature reserve in Harlow town in October. Members of all ages, including teenagers and full-time missionaries, helped to rake, clear and dispose of grass cuttings. Their work allowed for the growth of a wild-flower meadow in the spring, which will add to the beauty of the area and improve its ecology.
Ward community outreach specialist, Edith Cells, who organised the activity, was delighted to receive feedback from Volunteer Conservation Coordinator, Andrew Tomlins, who said; “Your efforts have made it possible to mow almost the entire meadow – it is looking a lot more like it should at this time of year. If it was just our small group we would have done only a fraction of what was achieved.”
Andrew hopes the Church members will return in the spring to do more work. This is the second time the Harlow Ward has worked with Andrew on local conservation projects, and the members and missionaries are becoming known to Harlow Council’s parks department as a force for good in the town.

On another occasion we saw charity build a Zion community. In the mission field, one of our missionaries softened many hearts. His prize possession given to him from his father before he left on his mission was a superb yellow camera. It went missing. And because of some obvious clues, he was sure that it had been stolen from him by his companion. But the Elder at fault would not admit it, and it was creating a contentious spirit, not conducive to missionary work. Finally the owner of the yellow camera said to President Tanner, “I would like my companion to have the camera. I think he needs it much more than I do. Let’s move on as if none of this has happened.” His benevolent response was “not easily provoked,” the opposite of angry, harsh or mean, spreading a blanket of charity over and smothering the fire that had ignited. Can we at this university forgive wrongs that may unfairly be put upon us?

Recently I stopped at a grocery store to quickly pick up a few things for dinner. As I turned the corner, I came face to face with an older gentleman. I smiled, as I was relieved that we hadn’t collided. He smiled and said, “Thank you for your smile. I needed it.” I also needed his smile. Smile—it will make a difference for you and for others. What would life be like if we couldn’t give and receive smiles?