Gospel Story Finder

From the early years of our marriage, President Wheelwright's involvement at work, in the community, and with the Church have placed large demands on his time and energy. Our children and I learned early on to postpone eating dinner because he wasn't home when we expected; we muddled through math assignments and even science projects because he was at a Pack Meeting or Court of Honor; we eventually even grew accustomed to sitting without him during Sacrament meetings because he was either on the stand or visiting one of the other wards in our stake.
But all of these sacrifices paled in comparison to his business travel away from home. From the beginning, his profession required frequent travel related to case writing, research, consulting, teaching, and speaking engagements, at some periods averaging two or three days per week. He was a Frequent Flyer before most airlines even had miles programs!
With these responsibilities, and especially his travel schedule, came hard decisions about how he was going to fulfill his goal of being a loving, committed, and involved husband and father. After much consideration, he decided that one way he could spend more meaningful time with each of his children was to take them with him on his business trips. He usually knew his schedule far in advance so at the beginning of each school year we would have a special Family Home Evening where he would lay out his travel plans and invite each child to accompany him on one trip. Let me give you a few examples of these memorable one-on-one adventures.
One year, our six-year-old son, Matt, went with Dad to Chicago. We had good friends there who could care for him in the morning while Dad worked; in the afternoon, father and son visited the fantastic Transportation Museum and other exiting places in Chicago.
One of our daughters remembers joining her dad on a short visit to Corning, New York, where she accompanied him on a fascinating tour of a glass plant. She still recalls the glass animals she saw being made there!
On an extra special occasion, two of our teenage daughters agreed to share their annual "business trip" and accompany Dad to Tokyo and Hong Kong! While he was busy teaching, they entertained each other in the hotel but the rest of the time the three of them explored the Orient together, making some incredible memories.
One of the best parts about this special family tradition, though, is that, honestly, the kids really didn't care where they got to go with Dad! What was far more important was the time they had alone with him. They loved flying on airplanes together, and eating at nice restaurants together, and exploring big cities or small towns or even noisy, bustling factories together. Without exception, these annual adventures were anxiously awaited and greatly cherished. In the final years of his professional work, he had a bit more freedom to pick and choose from professional travel opportunities. It seemed a little unfair that this luxury came just as our children began leaving home to start families of their own. They were growing up too fast, and he felt more and more torn between accepting exciting assignments and being home with our shrinking family. One evening, he came home from work and told me what he had taped to his telephone that day. It was a simple, hand-written note that read, "Would I rather do this than spend time with my family?" From that day forward he turned down about 90% of those intriguing requests that would have taken him unnecessarily away from us. Of course, the kids made sure he kept enough business trips for each of them to accompany him once a year.
Now that we're empty nesters, he always asks me to travel with him! I know that I am invited wherever and whenever he goes. Just as he convinced each of our children over all those years of annual business trips, he has convinced me that there is no one in the world he would rather be with than me!

While growing up, I saw how hard my father worked to provide for our family. He was a very thrifty person. We didn’t own a home until my father could pay cash for it, and because he didn’t believe in buying on credit, we simply walked everywhere until he could afford to buy a car for our family. He owned a retail furniture store in Cedar City, Utah, and we were expected to work there. The only problem was that my father didn’t pay us to work in his store. When we were kids, I thought the reason was because he was a tightwad. It was only later that I realized that he wanted us to learn about the value of work.

Many times we don’t comprehend the meaning of the ordinances of the temple in their fulness until after we have known affliction or passed through experiences that could have been extremely sad without the knowledge of the plan of salvation.
When my wife and I had only been married a year and a half, she was ready to deliver our first baby. We had decided that she would have the baby in the Chihuahua colonies, where she had been born. At that time I was working in Mexico City, and we decided that she would be there a month ahead of the delivery date. I was planning to join her later.
The delivery date arrived. I was at work when I received a call from my father-in-law. The news was good: “Octaviano, your wife has given birth, and you now have a little daughter who is beautiful.” So, in my happiness, I began to announce this to my friends and partners at work, who in turn asked me for chocolates to celebrate the birth of my little one.
The next day I began to give out chocolates throughout the four floors of our office building. When I reached the second floor, I received another call from my father-in-law. This time the news was different: “Octaviano, your wife is fine, but your daughter has passed away. The funeral will be today, and you don’t have time to come. What are you going to do?” I asked to speak with Rosa, my wife, and then asked her if she was OK. She replied that she was fine, depending on how I was feeling. Then we talked about the plan of salvation, remembering this scripture:
“And I also beheld that all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven” (D&C 137:10).
I asked her, “Do you believe that?” And she said, “Yes, I do.” Then I replied, “We should be happy then. I love you. And if you are OK with that, I’ll take my vacation in two weeks, spend some time with you, and return back together to Mexico.”
We knew that one day we would be reunited with our daughter because we were sealed by the power of the priesthood in the temple. We ended the telephone call, and I resumed giving out the chocolates in my office building.
Seeing me do this, one of my co-workers was surprised and asked me how I could do this after such terrible news. I answered, “If you have three hours, I can explain to you why I am not feeling too sad and about my knowledge of what happens after death.” He didn’t have three hours at that moment but did later. We ended up talking for four hours. He accepted the gospel and, together with his mother and brother, was baptized into the Church after receiving the discussions.
I know that thanks to the power of godliness manifested in the ordinances of the temple, I will now be able to know my daughter. I will embrace her, and we will be with her for eternity, just as we are now with our three surviving children.

A few years ago, just before Easter weekend, it rained all week long. I had been in Benin, West Africa, but was coming home to spend Easter in Togo. It didn’t rain on Saturday, the day I arrived, but that night it began raining again.
I knew that church started at 9:00 a.m. on Sunday, but because it had been raining so much and I’d only just arrived, I decided that was too early for me.
I thought to myself, “I’ll go a little bit late to church and get there at 10:00 a.m.” Then I went to see my brother. “Instead of going to church at 9:00,” I told him, “let’s go over to that patch of land on the side of my house.”
When we arrived, we noticed that the ground was nice and wet from all the rain. I thought, “It’s Sunday, and we’re waiting until 10:00 to go to church. Why not plant some beans before we go?”
So my brother and I planted a little patch of land that was about 65 square feet (6 m2). Then we went to church, an hour late. The next day we went to a nearby town where I had another plot of land. There we planted corn and more beans.
Two months later when I returned home again, I went to check that little patch of land next to my house. It was empty except for a little clump of weeds that I tripped over as I walked into the field. “Oh, yeah,” I said to myself, “we planted beans here on Easter Sunday!”
Out of all the seeds we sowed, the only thing that grew was a clump of weeds. The beans and corn we planted in the other field the Monday after Easter, however, grew just fine. Since that time everything we have planted in the patch of land next to my house has grown normally.
I hadn’t kept the Sabbath day holy that Easter Sunday, and I tripped over a clump of weeds to remind me that I hadn’t. Since then, I have remembered that I can’t just do whatever I feel like doing on the Lord’s day. Instead, I always remember to keep the Sabbath day holy.

That comfort came to my husband the night our furniture business, which was our livelihood, burned to the ground. For me, it took place again during my years of doctoral studies. Through a food or water contamination, both my husband and our next-door neighbor contracted infectious hepatitis. Our neighbor was pregnant, so she was hospitalized. As Relief Society president, I was responsible to find someone to help care for her young children left at home. But no one wanted children who had been exposed to hepatitis. I brought them to my home to be with my own four children during the day while the neighbor’s husband was at work. All went reasonably well until I had to go to a class in Salt Lake City. I checked with my good friend who ran the day-care center that my own two youngest attended to see if it could accommodate the extra children. My friend graciously agreed. When I got home and picked up the children, I happened to notice one of the neighbor children’s eyes—the whites had turned yellow. As the spread of the illness was confirmed, I called the day-care center with the bad news. My friend then called the parents of the other children who had been at the center so they could get a shot of gamma as a preventative. Panic ensued. Within a day or so, the day-care center (with my friend’s much-needed income) was closed down by the board of health. When I heard this news, I was devastated. The pressure of caring for a very sick husband, my own—plus extra—children, going to school, and fulfilling my Relief Society responsibilities in addition to the terrible guilt I felt about the day-care incident drove me sobbing to my knees. Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling of love and peace flowed over me, beginning at the top of my head and covering me like a cloak. “Everything will be all right,” the Spirit whispered. And, of course, everything did work out—not without more difficult moments, but I never again despaired.

In contrast, consider the attitude of the students who write me about violations of the Code of Honor. About once a month or more frequently, I receive a letter from a student confessing that he or she has plagiarized or cheated on work at Brigham Young University. Some of these letters are from the mission field or from young men or women who are or are soon to be called upon missions. They say, “I have something on my conscience that I wish to clear. In Course 100 I cheated, or I plagiarized a paper. Here is the information. I am ready to take my punishment, a reduction in grade or a loss of credit, whatever it is. But I wish to get on the path of growth.” And with love and understanding, rejoicing that someone has turned a corner on a dishonest, sinful, and degrading act, we consult with the teachers involved and assist these students in a spirit of mercy and justice, as best we are able.

As a young man, I developed the idea that if I took care of the Lord’s business, he would take care of me. I’m not sure where I learned such an unsubstantiated idea, but it appealed to me, so I followed it faithfully for a number of years. It provided the comfortable insulation I wanted to shield me from the necessity of being cautious and careful. It allowed me to make excuses for minor business mishaps, problems at home, and even major catastrophes. “Surely the Lord is testing me,” I remarked when a business venture failed. “Satan is really after us,” I observed when contention threatened my family.

Because I felt the Lord would always take care of me, I felt no need to “study it out in [my] mind” (D&C 9:8) before asking God. I felt a quick little prayer would do. I often said, “Father, I’ve done my best to serve you, now I ask that you bless me in this endeavor.” I felt that if I magnified my Church calling, God wouldn’t let me lose my family—that if I put God first, I’d never want financially. I did not understand that by following such a procedure, I was yielding to the spirit of the temptation given to the Savior by Satan: “If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down: for it is written, He shall give his angels charge concerning thee: and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.” (Matt. 4:6.)

Finally, as more “tests” came my way, complete with frustration and disappointment, I began to examine my careless attitude. I began to study the scriptures and to prayerfully examine my responsibility for my affairs. The evidence overwhelmingly suggested that God wants us to work out our own plans and actions, always seeking his confirmation that our course is right. A relationship with God is not an alternative to personal effort. It is, rather, a guide along the stairway of growth and understanding, a stairway which we must climb through our own personal exertion. As I adopted this new approach, I ordered and took responsibility for my life.

Kirsten, our second child, was born about 30 years ago after a difficult pregnancy. Immediately after her birth the doctors discovered a serious cardiac defect. Kirsten was quickly transferred to the intensive care unit of the children’s hospital. Laying his hands on her tiny body in the incubator, my husband gave her the first priesthood blessing of her life—a welcome gift for her arrival on this earth.
During the following days I often stood in front of the glass window looking into intensive care and watched as this little girl struggled for her life. We were not even allowed to touch her, and we did not know what to wish for her.
When I was discharged from the hospital without my baby, my husband and I had the desire to go to the temple. We could do nothing physically for our little Kirsten. We had to trust the Lord and the physicians. At that time the nearest temple was in Switzerland, far from our home in Hamburg, but we felt we had to gather strength there for the unknown future. We applied all of our faith in behalf of our daughter.
In the meantime the doctors diagnosed a rare cardiac defect they were not able to operate on at that time. The life expectancy of patients with this condition was very limited. But five weeks later we were able to take our little Kirsten home. While her body may have been suffering, her spirit was cheerful and willing to learn, and we could tell that she enjoyed living in our family and loved her older brother very much.
When Kirsten was four her condition deteriorated, and she became weaker and weaker. After praying, fasting, and visiting the temple, we decided upon surgery in a cardiac center in Munich, where doctors had recently repaired a complicated condition like Kirsten’s. Doctors actually had to change everything in the heart—make the ventricles smaller, close holes, and repair both valves. It was a genuine work of art. We were very worried about Kirsten, and our whole ward joined us in praying for her.
The doctors operated on Kirsten on May 21, 1980, and when she had gotten over the worst and was transferred from intensive care to another unit, we were full of confidence. Then a terrible thing happened. A tiny blood clot loosened from a repaired heart valve, settled in the brain, and within a few minutes caused a complete paralysis of her right side and a loss of speech. Kirsten’s eyes were full of fear and sadness. This was very difficult for us. I still see my husband and me standing in a phone booth in Munich, desperately calling our bishop. Within the next few days we received comforting letters from many ward members. Fasting also gave us renewed strength to encourage Kirsten and accept this affliction.
The following years were filled with therapies, and we rejoiced in every little bit of progress. When it was time for Kirsten to start school, her health was sufficient for her to attend a regular elementary school. She developed fabulous coping strategies with her left, usable hand. Her right leg became stronger, and she learned how to swim, bike, and ride horses. She rejoiced in her life. If a child laughed at her somewhat peculiar walk, I simply showed him or her pictures of Kirsten’s life, and the laughter turned into admiration.
Kirsten received much love from her grandparents and other relatives, and the ward fellowshipped her. In turn, she showed her joy in the gospel to everyone she met and has been the one in our family who has brought the most friends into the Church.
After graduating from high school Kirsten diligently completed training to be an industry saleswoman and also obtained her driver’s license. With her slightly converted car she could be more self-reliant, and she was able to participate in young single adult conferences and fulfill stake callings. In 1999 she took a year off to serve a Church-service mission in the Frankfurt temple.
Kirsten loves children and finds a special closeness to them. Her niece, nephew, and Primary children love her very much. She is an example for us, showing that one does not have to become bitter because of severe adversity, but that one can radiate cheerfulness.
In 2003 a very loving young man came into Kirsten’s life and became more and more important to her. He is a returned missionary who grew up in a faithful Latter-day Saint family. In August 2004 he and Kirsten were sealed in the Frankfurt temple. They are now mastering life’s challenges together.
Two of our children have physical impairments. You do not wish it, but if it happens, you have to accept it wholeheartedly, learn, and fight through the difficulties. You develop a keen ear for the promptings of the Holy Spirit. Our Father in Heaven knows which afflictions we need here on earth if we are to grow. I have often comforted my children with the words, “You will have these physical impairments only while you live on this earth, and mortality is very short compared to eternity.”

I had an extremely frightening experience several years ago while flying from Reno, Nevada, to San Rafael, California, with a friend in his twin-engine Aztec airplane.
When we left Reno, the weather was a little cloudy, and my friend was somewhat worried about it. Because of his concern, we landed at the Lake Tahoe airport to get a second report on the weather. It did not indicate that the weather was too bad, so we continued our flight to San Rafael.
Our destination was an airport in the northern part of San Francisco Bay. As we approached the Bay area, the clouds became increasingly low and dense. We tried to stay under the clouds so we could see the water and thus keep our bearings visually. But suddenly we flew into very dense clouds and could see nothing.
When you fly into such clouds, you become totally disoriented. You do not know whether you are flying straight, sideways, or upside down. You lose your sense of forward motion, and it takes a few minutes for the pilot to orient himself from visual flying to instrument flying. At 180 miles an hour, you move a long distance in that few minutes and can get into serious trouble very quickly. Unfortunately, my friend had not flown entirely on instruments for two years.
My friend struggled intensely and was near the point of panic as he tried to recall all that he had learned about instrument flying. I knew very little about instrument flying, so I could not help him. All I could do was put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to take a deep breath and get hold of himself. The only instrument that I could read was the altimeter. I said, “We are now at 500 feet. Don’t make any quick moves; just think it out, and you can pull us through.”
It seemed an eternity before he finally made radio contact with Hamilton Air Force Base. He said to them, “I am in trouble; please help me.” The air traffic controllers had us on their radar screen and immediately began to help my friend regain control of the plane. They told us where we were and started to give us instructions to help guide us to safety.
When my friend heard the voice from Hamilton Tower, he regained a sense of confidence that enabled him to gain control. But he knew that the plane was completely out of control and that our chances of pulling out of this danger were marginal. We could easily go the wrong way. The foothills, buildings, towers, and bridges were not far away. At one time we dropped to only 200 feet, and must have been flying upside down at one time because the maps and other items in the visor above my head fell into my lap.
At the peak of this crisis, an instant replay of my entire life flashed through my mind. I thought of my wife, my seven children, my parents, my business partners, the 37 priests whom I was the adviser to, and many other things. I prayed fervently all through this crisis and made a commitment more deep and more sincere than ever before in my life. I began, “Heavenly Father, guide us out of this thick, dense cloud, and help my friend remember all he knows about instrument flying.” And then I said, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy priesthood, bless my friend that he might regain control.” My prayer continued. I committed to Heavenly Father that if he would help us, I would place my life in his hands. I promised him that I would be what he wanted me to be.
Finally, we saw the lights on the runway. The white line in the center of the runway was a most welcome sight.

A certain man, desiring to enjoy the beauties of nature, went for a woodland stroll by the side of a clear, flowing river. Deep in thought about the magnificence of God’s handiwork, he didn’t see the tree roots jutting out near the water’s edge. He stumbled and fell headlong into the river. The water was deep, and the man couldn’t swim! He cried out. But who will hear me? he wondered as the water engulfed him in darkness. He surfaced and shouted again, but his hopes dimmed as he sank for the second time. His call was much weaker as he rose one more time, and he thought, No one can hear me now!
But someone did hear his cries, dived into the water, and brought him safely to the bank.
When the drowning man recovered, he looked up into the face of his rescuer and said, “Oh, thank you! Thank you for saving me. What can I do to show my love and appreciation?”
His rescuer smiled and said: “There are some things that you can do for me,” and he taught him lovingly and carefully.
Then a sad thing happened. Although the man who had been saved lived, his rescuer died as a result of his exertion during the rescue. Despite his sorrow, the survivor had a contented feeling, for he knew what to do to show his love and gratitude for his savior.
So it is with us. Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, died that we might live. We know what we should do, for He has told us: “If ye love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).
There is nothing more precious to me than my testimony of Jesus Christ. I have a witness that He is my Savior and Redeemer, the Only Begotten Son of the Eternal Father. I know that Heavenly Father so loved us, “so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16).

Several years ago, my aunt and uncle’s grandson died at eight-and-a-half months old. The situation surrounding his death caused feelings of unimaginable loss, intense anger, and paralyzing pain. My aunt and uncle hadn’t been sealed in the temple nor had the baby’s parents. I wondered how they would get through this experience without the comfort and blessing of knowing he was sealed to their family for eternity. But because my aunt had established personal habits of prayer, scripture study, and temple attendance, she was prepared to declare, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”[9]

The following year, many wonderful things occurred. Their daughter found a worthy and loving man who took her to the temple. My uncle was the proxy for his grandson as this baby was sealed to his family. In addition, my aunt, uncle, and their children were sealed as an eternal family. In the temple, my aunt learned that when death takes us from this world, it’s our covenants that bring us back together. They are now bound together eternally from child to parent to grandparent. The difficulty of losing this child was replaced by the joy and promise of eternity together.

Upon reflecting on her experiences, my aunt said, “I am a different person because of what I’ve been through, and I never want to forget it. It’s not what we go through in life that matters. It’s who we turn to for understanding, peace, and comfort, and allowing the Savior to make us better than we are.”

She learned it’s important to forgive others. For a while, Wiew had a problem with her leg and couldn’t participate in some of the school activities. Because she couldn’t spend as much time with her best friend, the best friend started being better friends with another girl. One day Wiew smiled at her best friend, but her friend did not smile back. Wiew was hurt, and the next day she asked the girl why she wasn’t her friend anymore. The best friend replied, “Oh, I didn’t see you!” Wiew forgave her friend and didn’t feel sad anymore.

When students come to me overwhelmed with life or studies, I often ask the question “When was the last time you took 20 minutes out of your day to do something that brings you joy?” And by joy I don’t mean excessive social media or streaming binges! Often, they respond with reasons why they are too busy. At that point, I invite them to go for a walk, a run, choose something that they enjoy doing for 30 minutes, and to return.

Students generally return relaxed. One student actually began making rice bags and giving them to people. He liked to sew and found that sewing combined with the service helped him relax and feel joy. Interestingly, when people participate in service or other “happiness enhancing strategies,” life satisfaction increases. [23]

“Fred Astaire was an iconic actor, dancer, and singer of American cinema. He starred in dozens of Broadway and Hollywood shows. One of his early auditions was evaluated with these words: ‘Can’t act. Slightly bald. Can dance a little.’
“Hardly a glowing report!
“Through persistence and hard work, he developed his abilities until he became one of the greatest performers of all time—known for his ‘elegance, grace, originality, and precision.’”

The first day of school was like most first days. We were standing around saying hello to those we had not seen since spring, noticing new clothes, and watching each other in case someone wanted a date. We lived in a small town in southeast Idaho. Our high school was not large compared to many. Six hundred students are probably too many for everyone to know each other well, but it was possible to know nearly everyone’s name because we had gone to school with each other for years. I was the student body president, and, like others, I was looking forward to the year because we were going to have good football and basketball teams. It was my last year.
While we were talking, a large bus pulled up in front of the school. Soon some students that no one knew stepped off. Of course, the rest of us wanted to know what was going on. After asking around we learned that the school district had decided to bring in about 40 students from Swan Valley, a lovely small town about 50 miles from the school. None of us stepped forward to say hello to them as they came off the bus. They stood in two or three small groups until the bell rang. I can still remember the looks of uncertainty on their faces.
It was not long until jokes began to circulate about the “Swan Valley kids,” jokes that made fun of their style of dress, speech, and other mannerisms. Few of us thought much about this situation because we were all busy doing the things we had planned for. We were known and were “in”; they were unknown and were “out.” There were dances, games, dates, and many other activities, and it was easy to forget about how 40 students might feel being strangers. They were not included on dance committees or ball teams or in student clubs. Everything had been organized the previous year, and there were few opportunities. Besides, most of them never came to the dances or games. I assumed it was because they had to travel too far and simply chose not to.
One day that winter I had been meeting with two students in the faculty lounge regarding student discipline. The meeting had just ended and I was about to leave when the door opened and a girl entered. She asked if I would talk with her. Nodding my agreement I sat back to listen.
Her name was April, and she was my age. She had lived in my home town for a few years. She was a member of my ward, rode on the same school bus I did, and although she was not a member of my circle of friends, we had been to many of the same activities. She had one of those bubbly personalities which some thought was a little too much at times. She was just insecure and talked fast to let off some of the tension she felt.
She was of average height, slender, with dark hair and blue eyes. Few of us came from wealthy families, and she was no exception. But her clothes were always clean, and she kept herself neat and well groomed. I can see her in my mind’s eye standing on the corner waiting for the bus as we approached from the other direction. She had a ready smile for everyone and sometimes she visited with the other kids who were waiting at the corner. But often she stood alone and then sat alone on the bus as we rode to school. She sometimes made attempts to start a conversation or join one that was going on. Often she was met with a chilly reception, suggesting that she was not yet a full-fledged member of the group.
That year in senior English we had been assigned to write an in-class paper on “A Person I Admire.” I sat at the end of the same row as April. When it was time to turn the papers in, the teacher asked if I would gather those from the students in my row. As I placed the papers in the pile on the teacher’s desk, I noticed, to my surprise, that April had written about me.
My reaction indicates how truly insecure I was about friendship. Instead of feeling flattered, I was embarrassed. I suppose I was worried about what my buddies would say and how they would tease me if they knew April admired me. So I was glad that no one but the teacher had seen those papers. Several days passed, and then came the conversation in the faculty lounge.
She started talking as soon as she sat down, and she started crying too. She said she did not have any friends. I weakly asked, “What about Jackie, or Phyllis?” They were her sometime companions and were Laurels in our ward. “Oh,” she replied, “they are all right, but they are not really close friends.”
I don’t remember much else of the conversation except that she cried most of the time. It was a hard cry. I could have recognized this was something that I could have done something about. Today, I better understand the loneliness, the disappointment, and the bone-aching unhappiness when there are no friends and we do not belong anywhere. But then, I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure what to do with all the emotion in that room, and the thought even crossed my mind that if the guys saw us together alone, they would really get on me.
I tried to listen to her and even made some suggestions, but they were not very useful. She arose after several minutes of conversation. It must have seemed useless to her. Turning at the door, with tears still flowing, she said, “I am going to get friends any way I can.” After she left, the bell rang and I went to my next class.
We had a pep assembly that afternoon, and since it was my responsibility to conduct it, my mind turned that direction and to the game our team had that evening. The incident in the faculty room was forgotten. Forgotten at least until one Sunday morning a few weeks later.
It was early in the morning when the Laurel teacher came. I was returning from feeding my father’s cattle when she found me, a strained look on her face. “April has had a serious accident and is in the hospital. A group of us are going to see her after church today, and we want you to come.” I agreed, thinking the accident must not have been too serious if we were going to visit her. Her teacher explained that she had been out the night before with a boy who had become drunk and hit a semitrailer. The small car he was driving provided little protection, and he was killed instantly. April had survived the accident but was in critical condition.
I changed clothes and went to priesthood meeting. It was held in the morning, followed by Sunday School, and sacrament meeting was later in the afternoon. After priesthood meeting a few of us were talking about April and telling what we each knew about the accident. You see, April was not the type of girl who would ordinarily date a boy who drank, and yet she had and she was hurt badly. As we were talking, the Laurel teacher came into the room, grim faced, and whispered, “April died a little while ago.” There was much soberness in our ward that day.
The next day at school there was a lot of talk about what had happened. Some knew April; many didn’t. I don’t think anyone was as affected as I was. I went through my classes not knowing what to say or feel or do. That evening, April’s father called. He said he knew that April admired me and asked if I would consent to be a pall bearer at the funeral.
Two days later I sat by myself in the old wooden choir seats, looking down at April’s family and relatives in the audience. They mourned her loss, something I had not had to do with any of my family. It was easy to see how much they cared for her. Their collective grief made them seem as if they were closing, circling, defending themselves against any other possibility of pain.
The funeral ended. With the other pall bearers I carried the casket to the hearse and joined them in a car for the ride to the cemetery. In a short ceremony the grave was dedicated, and the speaker tried to comfort April’s parents. The crowd milled around for a moment, then started to move toward their cars. They walked a few steps but stopped as they heard the sounds of the casket being lowered into the grave. April’s mother broke from the comforting touch of her husband, turned to face the grave, and began sobbing aloud. She walked toward the grave until her legs gave way and she fell to her knees. “My baby! My baby! Don’t take my baby!” The sorrow and agony in her voice made everyone turn. She was pleading through her cries that somehow she would not be separated from her daughter.
It had all happened so quickly that no one had reached her, but then her husband gathered her in his arms, raised her up though she was weak and had difficulty standing. The other family members quickly gathered, giving support while they escorted her to a car. That scene is clearly and lastingly implanted in my memory. Even incidental details—the hour of the day, the weather, the color of clothing, the style of cars—are stored in my mind.
I went to school the next day and found that a student council meeting had been scheduled. I had been so concerned about other things I had forgotten it. We talked about the funeral; nothing else seemed important. We talked about what we had done or not done for her that could have motivated her to seek out the people she was with on the night of the accident. During this discussion I recognized that she, and perhaps many others like her, might look happy on the outside and yet feel very lonely. It occurred to us that the students from Swan Valley might feel as she did. The discussion turned to what we could do for them and should have done weeks earlier. We tried to find several ways to involve every person. We committed ourselves to learn all their names and to say hello to them—a very simple thing really, but one so important to those who are new or who feel left out.
Pretty soon there was a change in our school. There were no new kids or old kids. There were just kids, all of us together. Later I remember being at a basketball game one Friday evening. I noticed one student after another enter the door. With their parents, they were driving 50 miles each way to attend a basketball game at their school, just to belong, just to be a part of what everyone else was doing. As they walked over to find seats, I saw them greeted by other students. People moved over along the benches to make room. They were smiling at one another as they removed coats and settled in for what would be a fun and exciting game.
I think of April whenever I hear about a group of Beehives cliquing together and leaving someone out, or a teachers quorum failing to include a new member. I occasionally hear of adults who are no wiser and do not want some individuals to belong to their group. I have had other conversations like the one with April. I have been able to recognize the deep and enormous need we all have to belong. It is so easy to say hello, to ask a question, to invite someone who is shy to dance. It is not difficult to remember every member of a quorum or class and make certain each is welcomed. Everyone can make a new ward member feel welcome and give a small amount of warmth. It only takes a bit of courage to let the person know they are welcome. Everyone benefits. In all of it, we discover that in the Lord’s eternal family, everyone belongs and is wanted.

I would like to pay tribute to my angel mother, who for many years prayed that a husband would become active, that he would recognize his sonship to God, and that he would accept the priesthood. As a little boy, I walked through those many years with my mother’s sustaining hand at church, finally seeing my father receive a testimony by the power of the Holy Ghost. I honor him tonight, and I love him and respect him. He has been my friend, for he has taken me into his confidence. He has taught me how to work, and how to love, and how not to be judgmental. I am grateful for my father and my mother.

The Young Women program allowed the youth council to decide what they wanted to do, and Anahei Chung, the class president, proposed: “We decided to reach to all members of our group and so invited all of our young women to prepare pizzas and pies and then take them to less active members.”
Tetinia Teriirere, Young Women president, said: “Our goal was three pizzas and three pies but in the end we made 12 pizzas and seven pies as the enthusiasm of the young women was infectious.” After enjoying some pizzas and pies that day, each young woman also received either a pizza or a pie to take home. Some of them chose to share what they received.
Tetinia continued, “One of them offered her pizza to the missionary sisters, others gave them to young women in less-active families. They were so happy to interact again, and it was really good to meet again and share with others.”

Hold an “iron-in” to raise money for a missionary? That’s what the young people of the Blacktown Ward, Sydney Australia Parramatta Stake, did for 74 hours to raise money for a ward member who was called to the France Toulouse Mission. They worked through the night to get their work done (and enjoyed several stacks of steaming pancakes that were donated to the cause), raising over $200. Additional happy results of the activity were the smiling mothers of the stake holding their empty ironing baskets.

In 1980, I was a fourteen year-old kid living in Moses Lake, Washington. May 18th of that year was a Sunday. At about 10:00 that Sunday morning, my dad noticed an enormous bank of very strange clouds approaching from the west. Soon the whole family was in the front yard, taking pictures and describing to one another those very unusual clouds. Oddly, the clouds kept moving, but it didn’t start raining.
It didn’t rain because those clouds were not what they appeared to be. A phone call from a neighbor informed us that 150 miles to the west, Mount Saint Helens had erupted. We were looking at a volcanic ash cloud. As those now ominous clouds approached the eastern horizon, it became increasingly and dramatically dark. Although it was not yet noon, there was soon only a thin line of daylight left in the east. When the falling ash blocked out all the light of the sun and even the lights of the closest houses, a pleasant spring morning became sudden, unnatural night.

Let me take you back to my hometown. When we left Moses Lake a few minutes ago, an ash cloud had turned a spring morning into frightening darkness. Throughout a very long night, volcanic ash fell from the sky. We awoke to a hazy, completely grey world in which everything was smothered in several inches of pulverized stone. The cloud was gone, but months of work to remove the ash from lawns, roofs, and roads lay ahead of us. It was long, hard, and gritty work. There was much to do to return things to something like a normal condition, but please note that it didn’t stay dark forever. The sun came up on a different and damaged world, but the sun came up.
You may even now find yourself in the shadow of your own frightening ash cloud. If you do, please remember that you can chase that darkness away with the light of truth. I promise you that the sun can come up again in your world too. However, when the light returns, don’t be surprised to find that there is long, hard, and gritty work yet to do. The exhausting work we had to do to deal with tons and tons of volcanic ash took its toll primarily on our arms and backs. As you struggle to recover from the fallout of darkness in your life, you will find yourself laboring primarily with your knees and your heart.

As you know, the Brethren used to announce in general conference the names of those who had been called on missions. Not only was this the way friends and neighbors learned of the call, more often than not it was the way the missionary learned of it as well. One such prospect was Eli H. Pierce. A railroad man by trade, he had not been very faithful in Church meetings—“even had my inclinations led in that direction, which I frankly confess they did not,” he admitted. His mind had been given totally to what he demurely calls “temporalities.” He said he had never read more than a few pages of scripture in his life and that he had spoken to only one public gathering (an effort which he says was no credit to himself or those who heard him). He used the vernacular of the railroad and the barroom with a finesse born of long practice. He bought cigars wholesale—a thousand at a time—and he regularly lost his paycheck playing pool. Then this classic understatement: “Nature never endowed me with a superabundance of religious sentiment; my spirituality was not high and probably even a little below average.”

Well, the Lord knew what Eli Pierce was, and he knew something else. He knew what I’m pleading for today. He knew what Eli Pierce could become. When the call came that October 5 in 1875, Eli wasn’t even in the Tabernacle. He was out working on one of the railroad lines. A fellow employee, once recovered from the shock of it all, ran out to telegraph the startling news. Brother Pierce writes, “At the very moment this intelligence was being flashed over the wires, I was sitting lazily thrown back in an office rocking chair, my feet on the desk, reading a novel and simultaneously sucking on an old Dutch pipe just to vary the monotony of cigar smoking.” (For my friends in the English Department I would just hasten to add that the novel reading was probably a more serious transgression than the pipe smoking.)

He goes on. “As soon as I had been informed of what had taken place, I threw the novel in the waste basket, the pipe in a corner [and have never touched either to this hour]. I sent in my resignation . . . to take effect at once, in order that I might have time for study and preparation. I then started into town to buy [scripture].”

Then these stirring words:
Remarkable as it may seem, and has since appeared to me, a thought of disregarding the call, or of refusing to comply with the requirement, never once entered my mind. The only question I asked—and I asked it a thousand times—was: “How can I accomplish this mission? How can I, who am so shamefully ignorant and untaught in doctrine, do honor to God and justice to the souls of men, and merit the trust reposed in me by the Priesthood?”

With such genuine humility fostering resolution rather than defeating it, Eli Pierce fulfilled a remarkable mission. His journal could appropriately close on a completely renovated life with this one line: “Throughout our entire mission we were greatly blessed.”