Gospel Story Finder

Changes in the Church’s educational structure this spring also include the announcement by the First Presidency of the retirement of President John L. Clarke of Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. President Clarke has been president of Ricks since 1944—27 years. His successor will be Dr. Henry B. Eyring, 37, presently associate professor at Stanford’s Graduate School of Business in Palo Alto, California. He will assume his duties July 1.
The retiring president at Ricks has indeed become an institution. When he came to the campus in 1944, the college consisted of two stone buildings, a small heating plant, and a lot of sagebrush on the beautiful, gently sloping hills of Rexburg. Registration at the school was about one hundred girls and eight boys.
Since that time the college has grown to become the largest Church-supported two-year college in America, with a studentbody of over five thousand representing every state in the union and twenty-six nations.
“Although Ricks was small when I came,” said President Clarke, “I loved it at first sight. I knew its great pioneering heritage and that it had great potential. But I could never have imagined what it has become and the prominence it presently holds.”
Randy Bird, Ricks student body president from Blackfoot, Idaho, said, “In working with President Clarke, one comes to feel keenly his great concern for students. He really loves and cares about people.”
David Bly, of Magrath, Alberta, Canada, editor of the campus newspaper, the Viking Scroll, said, “As is true of other Church schools, we have had no riots or demonstrations against the administration and no burning of buildings. Yet there is an atmosphere of awareness and academic freedom that has thrived under the confident leadership of this great man.”
Hugh C. Bennion, dean of faculty at Ricks, said, “President Clarke is an eternal optimist. He refuses to see faults in others, and consequently others are anxious to improve their efforts.”
President Clarke was formerly president of the Rexburg Stake.
After twenty-seven years as president of the college, he says, “It has been good—and Dr. Eyring will play another major role in the development of this great college and in the lives of thousands of Latter-day Saint students. May God richly bless them all.”

Each day at sunset, I sat on a rock looking out over the Pacific Ocean. I often imagined that on the other side of the water was our Heavenly Father’s temple, near which many of my brothers and sisters were living in happiness. I couldn’t help but weep, remembering the wonderful times I had had with my fellow Saints in the Saigon chapel.
From that day forth, our small branch awakened as if from a deep sleep. A presiding elder was chosen to lead us. We were able to communicate sometimes with the Church and other members through VASAA (Veterans Assisting Saints Abroad Association). I was finally given permission to leave Viet Nam. VASAA had helped to arrange with the Canadian and Vietnamese governments for my exit visa. My oldest son living in Toronto, Ontario, sponsored me.
Less than a year later, in March and April 1988, I was finally able to visit Salt Lake City for ten days and attend general conference. I met many friends, missionaries, and General Authorities. The first time I saw Temple Square I could not help but weep for my blessings. In the Tiger’s Den, it had been my greatest wish to see the temple. At last, I was able to receive my endowment in the Lord’s House.

In describing the last key to happiness, Elder Wirthlin told the story of one student in the graduating class, Emily Jensen. When Emily was 16, she was involved in a serious accident and lapsed into a coma. The accident and resulting coma changed her life. Emily, he said, had to relearn how to do everything—including how to eat, walk, and sit up.

By accomplishing her goal to graduate from college, Emily, Elder Wirthlin said, had demonstrated the fifth key to happiness: perseverance to the end. He said heroes are remembered because they persevere.

When my family heard the Dubai United Arab Emirates Temple announced in general conference in April 2020, our jaws dropped, and we just stared at each other in utter amazement. We were overjoyed that a temple will be coming to the Middle East! My heart is happy for the many members of the Church who live in that region. I am so grateful to the leaders of the UAE for allowing this holy house to stand among their holy houses—their beautiful mosques that dot the landscape. This is truly a significant and unforgettable time.

Years ago, our family attended a fair. We enjoyed the rides until it got dark. On our way to the car to go home, I put my hand in my pocket and realized that the keys to the car, the house, and my office were gone!

The fairgrounds were full of people, but we found a quiet spot (as quiet as you can find during a busy fair) and stood together to pray that the keys would be found. We then walked through the fair and looked for the missing keys.

As we moved along, we saw a policeman. We thought that maybe someone had found our keys and delivered them to him. We approached the policeman and asked, “We’ve lost our keys. Do you happen to have them?”

He asked if we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A bit confused by that question, I answered, “Yes.”

The policeman then asked me to describe the keys. I did so, and he told me that he had them.

“Why did you ask if we were members of the Church?” I asked as he handed me the keys.

“Because you have a vial of oil on your keychain,” he said. “My father has one just like it. He is a member of your church.”

Experiences like this have blessed our family to trust Heavenly Father and to know that the Savior is with us and will help us.

Singing was another challenge for President Grant. As a small child, he could not carry a tune. When he was 10, a music instructor tried to teach him the simplest song and finally gave up in despair. At age 26, when he became an Apostle, he asked Professor Sims if he could teach him how to sing. After listening to him, Professor Sims replied, “Yes, you can learn to sing, but I would like to be forty miles away while you are doing it.” This only challenged him to try harder.
President Grant one time said, “I have practiced on the ‘Doxology’ between three and four hundred times, and there are only four lines, and I cannot sing it yet.” It is reported that on a trip to Arizona with Elder Rudger Clawson and Elder J. Golden Kimball, President Grant “asked them if he could sing one hundred songs on the way. They thought he was joking and said, ‘Fine, go right ahead.’ After the first forty, they assured him if he sang the other sixty they would both have a nervous breakdown. He sang the other sixty.”
By practicing all of his life, he made some improvement in singing but perhaps not as much as in baseball and penmanship, which he mastered. President Grant had a favorite quotation from Ralph Waldo Emerson which he lived by: “That which we persist in doing becomes easier for us to do; not that the nature of the thing itself is changed, but that our power to do is increased.”

“Here are all the sego lily bulbs I could find today,” Shaquana said, carefully untying a pouch to reveal seventeen of the small roots. “They’re getting mighty scarce.”
“You did fine, dear,” her mother replied. “I’ll take them inside and get supper started. You go on out and help your pa with the watering.”
As Shaquana turned to go, her mother stopped her. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Quana.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Shaquana said, walking toward the field. When she saw that her mother had gone inside, her steps slowed and her shoulders drooped in weariness. She was hungry. Her bare feet were cracked and bleeding. Her dress was so threadbare that it wouldn’t take another washing.
Haven’t we suffered enough, Heavenly Father? she prayed silently. We’ve been mobbed. We crossed the country in a wagon. Ma lost two babies. We’ve done all that was asked of us, and yet now we’re facing a drought and everyone is so hungry. Please help us!
Seeing her father, Shaquana straightened her shoulder and tried to look strong.
“There you are,” her father said. “What kept you?”
“I had to go much farther for segos today, Pa.” She took a dipperful of water from the barrel and gently poured it on one of the plants. Each one had to be watered by hand so that not a single drop of precious water would be wasted. No one knew how bad the drought would be this spring of 1848.
“If this keeps up, are we going to make it?” she asked.
“God will provide, Shaquana,” Pa said. “We must have faith.”
“You, Ma, and the Elders all keep saying that, but things just get worse.”
Shaquana’s father patted her shoulder. “Yes, it is hard right now. Everyone is hungry, and clothes are wearing thin. We all need to muster as much faith as we can. Heavenly Father loves each of us. We’ve obeyed His commandments, and He will take care of us.”
Shaquana had always loved these talks with her father. He had such solid faith, no matter what trials came their way. Lately Shaquana’s faith had clashed head-on with her hunger and exhaustion.
As she was watering the last plant, she looked toward the foothills. The darkest cloud she’d ever seen was coming their way. “Look, Pa, rain’s on its way!”
Her father’s face paled as he looked at the dark mass moving quickly toward them. “That’s not rain! Go get your mother and some gunnysacks. Hurry!”
As Shaquana began to run, crickets descended from the sky in droves. She felt them squish under her feet.
“Ma, come quick!” she yelled when she was near enough to be heard over the deafening sound of the crickets. Grabbing some gunnysacks and sticks, she followed her mother back to the field, where they tried to beat the crickets off the crops.
Hour after hour they flailed at the insects, praying all the while for deliverance from them.
“How can we win?” Shaquana cried. “We kill some, and more take their place! It’s hopeless.”
“You go get something to eat and some rest, Quana,” Pa said. “You’ve worked long into the night. We can fight them again in the morning.”
Shaquana nodded and obeyed. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” she prayed before falling into exhausted slumber, “why aren’t we getting any help?”
Each day was the same. They beat back the crickets and prayed. Shaquana was so tired that at night she’d sob herself to sleep. I wish we’d never left our nice home back east and come here, she thought constantly.
They heard from the Elders that the crickets were infesting the entire Salt Lake Valley.
Sunday morning Shaquana slowly got out of bed. She dressed and picked up her gunnysack.
“Not today,” said Pa, “It’s the Sabbath. We’re going to church and hear Brother Charles C. Rich speak.”
“Church? Oh, Pa, I just can’t go sit in church as if all is well. I’m sorry—I just can’t.” Shaquana ran to her bed, flung herself across it, and sobbed.
Pa sat on the edge of her bed and patted her back. “That’s it, Quana, let it out. Maybe you should stay home today and sleep. I like the family in church together, but this once you stay and rest.”
After her parents left, she lay on her bed and prayed aloud, “Heavenly Father, why hast Thou forsaken us? I don’t understand anymore. I’m so hungry and tired, I just don’t …” Before she could finish, she was sound asleep.
She awoke with a start. A strange new cry had joined the whir of the crickets. She ran to the door. Everywhere she looked, there were seagulls!
“Now what?” she cried. Grabbing a gunnysack, she went out to meet this new menace, then stopped in mid-stride and stared. The seagulls were eating the crickets! They weren’t hurting the crops at all.
She quickly dropped to her knees. “Thank you, Heavenly Father!” she said over and over.
When her parents came home, she yelled, “Pa, Ma, look what happened! Heavenly Father sent the seagulls to eat the crickets. They gorge themselves, fly away, then come back for more!”
With tears of gratitude, she confessed, “Oh, Pa, I was so close to losing my faith! I was angry. I thought God had forsaken us. Now I feel ashamed.”
“A lot of folks felt the same as you,” Pa said. “The same things were being said by some at church. And now this miracle! You should write down what you’ve been through. It will help you in other times of trial. Everyone gets discouraged now and again. Sometimes our faith isn’t as strong as we’d like. Remembering the crickets and seagulls may help you get through other rough times that will surely come.”
Shaquana threw herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so glad you understand, Pa!”
He hugged her tight. “And I’m glad you found your faith again. If you water and nurture it as carefully as you have these crops, it will grow strong.”
“I will, Pa. I will.”

It has been many years, but I have not forgotten that as pilots in World War II we did not have the electronic equipment that we have today. Our hope in a storm was to follow a radio beam.
A steady signal, and you were on course. If you moved to one side of the steady signal, it would break up to a “dit-da,” the Morse code for the letter A.
If you strayed to the other side of the signal, the beam would break up into a “da-dit,” the Morse code signal for N.
In stormy weather there was always static and interference. But the life of many a pilot has depended on his hearing, above the roar of the engines and through all the static and interference, that sometimes weak signal from a distant airfield.

It was a wintry Sunday morning in northern New York. The temperature was several degrees below freezing. The walks were icy; roads were blocked with heavy snowdrifts. No one came to church that morning except the minister and an 89-year-old woman, who had hobbled ten blocks from where she lived.
Surprised at seeing her, the minister called her by name and asked: “How did you get here on such a stormy morning?”
“My heart gets here first,” was the cheerful reply, “and then it’s easy for the rest of me.” (Quote, January 26, 1973, p. 5.)

One New Year’s Eve I attended a party at which I met a Colorado State University alumnus. CSU had just creamed BYU in football, and I was able to name the BYU players that his team had mangled. He was so impressed that he asked me out. Football was certainly not part of my formal education, but I had become a more well-rounded and interesting person because of my exposure to athletics.

My wife, Sandy, and I are most thankful for the fact that the Lord allowed the birth and death of this little boy to be one of the most beautiful and spiritual family experiences we have been privileged to have since our marriage. The Lord made Patrick’s presence and even his death sweet to us, and we cherish not only the memory of Patrick himself, but also the memory of those few special and sacred days we spent together. At that time we studied as thoroughly as possible the doctrines and writings of the Church regarding little children who die. As parents and as a family we cannot express how grateful we are for those promises and the future they hold. I want to say that we do not as a family constantly think and talk about Patrick, but we make a conscious effort not to forget him, nor to forget the special family challenge and promise he has given us.

Our granddaughter Susie lives in an area where her classmates and teacher are not members of the Church, so she wanted to share with them the Articles of Faith. She decided to do this at a time scheduled for sharing something newsworthy. When this time came, eight-year-old Susie stood before her classmates and began, “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost” (A of F 1:1).

She continued, but when she got to the seventh article of faith, one classmate loudly complained, “This isn’t a current event!”
The teacher quickly responded, “Well, it’s news to me!”

Though in good health now, Elder Hales has suffered two heart attacks. At the general conference after his second heart attack, he said: “I’m happy for every day that I am here. I have felt a renewal of my willingness to consecrate everything I am and everything I have as repayment for all the good things that have happened in my life. I have a renewed appreciation for everybody and everything” (Ensign, May 1992, page 63).

Recently I listened to the words of a stalwart young teenager who told about how some young people in his school have not kept the standards of the Church and have used some of the destructive substances we have been warned against. Friends who know he is a Mormon have asked him why he doesn’t partake of these harmful things. He explained: “I am happy to know that I have not disappointed the Lord and dishonored the priesthood he has given me. Remember, you can lie to yourself, and you can lie to others, but you can never lie to the Lord. He knows what you are doing. … To help us along the way, a good guideline is to imagine that Jesus is right beside you all the time. Ask yourself, ‘Would Jesus be doing this?’ or ‘Would He get into this situation?’” (talk given by Brandon Williams, Alamosa Colorado Stake conference, 25 Aug. 1991).

I decided to practice my faith by praying and asking God for help and guidance. At first I didn’t realize the impact of my prayers, but after a few days I found that we had more peace at home.
But then my faith was challenged. My youngest brother was hurt and had to have immediate surgery, one of my friends was also hurt badly, and my mother got a sore throat with a high fever. All these horrible circumstances expelled the feelings of peace around me. I was very sad but continued to pray. My grandmother’s favorite poem came to mind, which says that God knows all things better than we do and that we should trust Him. So I started to practice my faith even more and do everything I could. Not much later my brother was able to leave the hospital. My friend was not hurt as badly as it had first appeared. My mother recovered.
Now when I pray for others, I pray with more focus and more faith than before. We should have faith in God, especially when believing in Him and His plans is hard, and never complain—because He knows best.
Jarom K., 18, Graz, Austria

I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Nigeria along with my parents when I was 10 years old. As I got older, I began helping the local missionaries in their work. It stunned me that often without college degrees, these missionaries were able to speak to all kinds of people, and they did so with power, authority, and conviction, and without fear.
Their example helped me realize that I wanted to serve a mission, but I also wanted to get a higher education. I had difficulty getting admitted into college, so I applied and submitted my mission papers around the same time. My admission letter and mission call arrived on the same day. I knew I wanted to go to college, but I chose to serve the Lord by going on a mission first.
Even though it was a sacrifice, serving a mission was worth putting college on hold. I learned many valuable skills—things like self-discipline, focus, communication, leadership, and reliance on the Lord. And everything I learned helped me in my schooling later. I will never regret putting the Lord first.

I was sure Heavenly Father had failed me. Or He had at least forgotten I existed.
I sat all alone at an empty table as the lunchroom around me buzzed with laughter and conversation. I was the new girl. And the first day of seventh grade is not an easy time to make friends.
I had prayed about the move to Texas, and I felt it was the right thing. But now here I was, alone with my mashed potatoes. All the comfort and reassurance I felt before were gone.
As the bell rang I remembered I had my peer mentorship class next—my last hope for getting into the “in” crowd. The counselor had told me that a lot of kids take the class to meet people and get involved—exactly what I was looking for. I hurried down the hall with new hope for my social life. I would finally have friends here.
“Welcome to class. Today you will each be assigned to a student with a special need or concern. Your job will be to help him or her throughout the year.” With that Mrs. Watson began running down the class roll, assigning each student to be a tutor or mentor. When she came to me she asked me to see her after class.
“Kevin is a special case. He needs a lot of help. It won’t be easy. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure!” How hard could it be?
The next day I met Kevin Mathison. He had no hands, no feet, and he controlled his electric wheelchair with a lever held in his mouth. I must admit that, when I saw him, I had less than Christlike feelings. I was afraid. Here I was, desperately looking for friends and popularity in this new place, and I was the one to be picked to help Kevin. Why couldn’t they get someone else to do it?
Kevin had a rare disease that was gradually deteriorating his skin and connective tissues. Although the counselor had talked with me briefly about his condition, I was not at all prepared for what I saw when we met. His arms, legs, and neck were bandaged, his hair was gone, and his face was badly scarred. Perhaps more shocking than all the rest, however, was Kevin’s smile—so bright and so genuine that his blue eyes sparkled with it.
I wish I could say that at that moment I put aside my selfish fears and saw Kevin for the incredible spirit he was, but unfortunately it took me most of that year to even feel comfortable with him. Though very lonely and disappointed, I stuck with Kevin. I helped him get to classes, complete assignments, and eat lunch. But, oh, how I dreaded those lunch hours I spent spoon-feeding Kevin while my classmates were chatting and laughing about clothes and guys. I felt I would never belong. And having to help Kevin around everywhere was certainly not helping.
As for Kevin, he was excited simply to have someone to talk to. His warm smile greeted me every morning. Throughout the year he told me all about his family and his favorite sports teams. I eventually found myself laughing and even enjoying our time together. The last day before Christmas break, Kevin came into class and asked me to open his bag for him. When I unzipped his bag, I found a small box wrapped in green paper.
“Open it. It’s for you.” He seemed more serious than usual as he watched me struggle to untie the bow. When I opened the box, a lump came to my throat. It was a small pin—a guardian angel.
“Thanks for being a friend, Jana,” Kevin said softly.
I couldn’t believe it. All this time I had been searching and praying for friends, and here he was right in front of me. Kevin didn’t give me the instant popularity I had wanted, but he did give me a lesson in service, friendship, and unconditional love that has been with me ever since.
Kevin Mathison died one month before he would have graduated. At our high school graduation ceremony, I stood with the rest of my class as an honorary diploma was awarded to his family. Tears streamed down my face as I silently thanked Kevin for the years of friendship and love he gave me. This young man, the sight of whom made me uncomfortable and afraid five years ago, had become beautiful—not because his appearance ever changed, but because he gave me better eyes with which to see.
I know Heavenly Father put Kevin and me together for a reason. I prayed to have friends, and the Lord showed me that first I had to be one. I still have Kevin’s pin in my room. It reminds me that if I look outside myself, I truly can be a guardian angel—or at least a friend.

Eventually a branch was formed in these new members’ village, and they needed a meetinghouse. Since there was no road to the village, the members carried all of the building materials the last two kilometers up the hill to the building site.

“Christian Villadsen! Are you one of us or one of them?” demanded Hans. His clenched fists hit against his pockets, bulging with stones. The other boys crouched beside Hans, glaring at Christian.
A cold shiver ran up Christian’s back. What’s happening? he wondered. What has become of our peaceful and friendly village? Now there seems to be only hatred and fear!
He hadn’t listened like Grandmother, but that didn’t make it right to hide like this, waiting to throw stones at two men whose only crime was preaching a new religion.
“Well?” His friends waited for an answer.
They were his only friends since Peter Sorensen had joined the Mormon church. Now, no one dared to be Peter’s friend.
Hans shoved a stone into Christian’s hand. “Stay and help drive away the devils or crawl home. But decide now.”
Christian dropped the stone as if it were fresh from the hearth fire. “I have chores to do,” he said, pushing through the bushes they were hiding behind.
“Beware, Christian, or you may suffer Peter Sorensen’s fate,” Hans called after him.
Christian hurried down the road so fast that he didn’t even stop to warn the two men he passed about the danger ahead. But he couldn’t hurry fast enough to shut out the sound of thudding stones or pained cries. And he couldn’t outrun his feelings of fear and shame.
As he passed the Sorensen farm, Christian turned his head so he couldn’t see the house’s broken windows, the burned barn, or the blackened fields that had been nearly ready for harvest. If the villagers discovered that Grandmother was listening to the Mormon preachers, this could happen to them also.
“Christian!” Peter Sorensen called.
Christian’s stomach churned with fear. What if someone sees me talking to Peter? he worried.
Peter’s face was swollen and dark with bruises, a warning from the villagers to anyone else who thought of listening to the Mormon preachers.
“I wanted you to know that we leave for America tomorrow,” Peter said, and his smile was warm and friendly as ever.
Christian was embarrassed. He couldn’t think of anything to say to Peter, who had always been his best friend.
“May you also find the happiness we have found, Christian.”
“Happiness?” Christian gasped in surprise. “Is it happiness to have your farm destroyed, to be mobbed by your neighbors, and to be driven from your homeland?”
Peter smiled. “It’s happiness to have found the true church of God. That’s worth giving up everything for.”
Christian shook his head. “Nothing is worth that,” he disagreed.
“You say that only because the truth hasn’t touched your heart yet. When it does, you’ll know what to do and you won’t be afraid. May the Lord bless you, Christian. I’ll always be your friend. Perhaps we’ll meet again soon.” Then Peter turned and limped slowly into the house.
If Grandmother doesn’t stop going to those Mormon meetings, the villagers will drive us away, too, thought Christian. Fear twisted his stomach again. “Certainly nothing is worth that!” he declared. And what if the missionaries are speaking lies, like hr. Dam, the priest, keeps saying? Christian wondered. And how can he be so sure?
As Christian approached his house, he was nearly knocked to the ground by hr. Dam, who came charging through the door like an angry bull. “Take care, fru Villadsen! Such talk is dangerous,” he shouted over his shoulder.
When he saw Christian, hr. Dam wagged a finger in his face. “If your grandmother doesn’t stop listening to those devil preachers, you, too, may awake to find your farm burning.”
“If you’ll tell me what lies these missionaries speak, perhaps I can convince Grandmother. Lies aren’t worth being persecuted for.”
“Smart boy,” said hr. Dam, nodding. “But do you really think I’d listen to their lies myself?”
“You’ve never heard them speak?”
“Of course not!”
“Then how do you know,” pursued Christian, “whether they speak lies or the truth?”
Hr. Dam’s face turned red with anger. “What a fool you are!” he shouted at Christian.
“Hr. Dam will tell the mob, and we’ll lose everything,” Christian told his grandmother later. “Certainly nothing is worth that.”
Grandmother smiled. “Finding the true church is worth that and much more. Tonight, at the fjord, I am going to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” she said.
“No! If the mob finds you …”
“We will pray,” Grandmother said calmly, “that they don’t.”
She wouldn’t listen to Christian’s pleadings to stay away from the Mormon meeting. In the end, he went with her, to help her escape if necessary. In the meantime, he decided, it won’t hurt me to listen to the missionaries, just enough to see if the words they speak are worth all the persecutions.
The night was clear, and a crisp breeze rippled the waters of the fjord as Christian and his grandmother crept quietly through the darkness to the meeting place. There, everyone lovingly greeted each other. Christian listened carefully to the missionaries, trying to find the lies that caused such hatred in the village. He could find none. When the baptisms began, Christian pushed forward for a better view.
Grandmother stepped into the waters to be baptized, and Christian felt a hand on his arm. Peter Sorensen was standing at his side. “I hoped we would meet again soon,” he said simply.
Then Grandmother was standing with others, while the fjord waters dripped from their clothing to form puddles on the ground. Her face was radiant with joy. “It is worth everything,” she said. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Christian felt so choked with emotion that he almost didn’t hear the angry voices and tramping feet moving up the road toward them. The beautiful, joyous feeling in his heart was shattered suddenly by fear. “Hurry, into the fields!” came the warning.
The group on the bank disappeared as quickly as it had gathered. Christian and Peter grabbed Grandmother and plunged into the fields, crouching to stay out of sight. Behind them, the enraged mob began its search. Closer and closer they came to where Christian, Grandmother, and Peter hid.
The mob was now so close that Christian could see their angry faces. The friends and neighbors they had known all their lives were now trying to destroy them. “Burn the fields,” cried hr. Dam, his face twisted with hatred. “That will drive them out.”
“We should have brought the dogs to hunt them down.” That was Hans speaking—their friend Hans—and his face was distorted with rage.
Christian looked at his grandmother and Peter beside him. They were afraid. He knew that. But their faces were beautifully peaceful and calm. There was no twisting, darkening hatred here, even though there was reason enough. Instead, the words of the missionaries had given them something that left no room for such feelings, something that even fear could not drive out.
And in his heart, though Christian was not quite ready to fully accept all that the missionaries said, he knew that he, too, had found something priceless. The truth is worth persecution, he decided.

“Another thing that I enjoyed as I was growing up was playing the piano. I studied it and played it in Church. In fact, my first calling was ward organist. I earned a music merit badge from Alvin A. Beesley, who ran a music store. He was the son of Ebeneezer Beesley, an early Church composer. Alvin Beesley was absolutely the most enthusiastic man that I have ever known. Before he signed my music merit badge, he said, ‘All right, George, I will pass you on the condition that you come and play in the Sunday School orchestra.’ I said that I would. Playing in that orchestra was a horrible experience because I didn’t know how to follow an orchestra leader. But Brother Beesley was so encouraging and so enthusiastic and so understanding with us that I suffered through it happily.”