Gospel Story Finder

Born in Salt Lake City, Utah, to Richard and Lena Sonntag, Elder Philip T. Sonntag grew up in Liberty Stake. “Of course, I don’t remember my coming into the world,” Elder Sonntag says, “but as other people have related it to me, the circumstances were quite remarkable. After my mother had had five children, she didn’t know whether it would be wise to have any more, so she petitioned the Lord for an answer. Later at Relief Society one day, the stake patriarch spoke. As he talked, he said that he was impressed that a sister there needed a blessing, adding that if that sister would come to him after the meeting, he would give her a blessing. The patriarch told my mother in the blessing that the Lord was pleased that she desired to have more children and that in doing so she would not feel the pains of childbirth nor suffer any difficulties. She had me and six more children and never suffered the usual pains of childbirth.
I had great parents. They instilled in us a love for the gospel. Mother was usually there to meet us whenever we came home. If part of the family had already had family prayer when some other family members returned, she would say, ‘Come, let’s have evening prayers,’ and we would pray together.
“My father was born in Germany. Later he came to America, met my mother, and joined the Church. Before the Great Depression, he ran several cafes. However, he lost them during the Depression, and there was just no other work available. As I look back on it, I don’t know how he managed as well as he did, but we never missed a meal.”
As each Sonntag child became old enough to get a job, he worked to help maintain the family. Elder Sonntag used to sell hot dogs and popcorn at ball games; he also worked at the growers’ market early in the mornings. “When any of us children brought home a dollar of earnings, Mother would have that child set aside a dime for tithing and a dime to keep or spend. The rest went toward family expenses.”
In Elder Sonntag’s ward a group of twelve boys his age played ball together and were good friends. They were also energetic and drove many Sunday School and Primary teachers away. Elder Sonntag relates that “the teachers all loved us, but they didn’t want to teach us. One, however, Sean Christensen, knew how to get through to us by teaching us a game that used our hands and kept us from hitting each other. Meanwhile, he would bear his testimony that God lives and that Jesus is the Christ.
“This teacher challenged us to go on missions. It meant a great deal to him to have ‘his boys’ be worthy to be missionaries, and Brother Christensen’s challenge greatly helped us to prepare.
“I had been taught to obey the Word of Wisdom, and I earnestly tried to obey it all my life. When I was married and a young bishop and the father of three children, my brother and I were involved in a serious car accident. I walked to get help for the other people in the accident, who were unconscious. By the time I got to the hospital myself, I’d lost a great deal of blood, and the doctors thought that I wouldn’t live. I asked the Lord to let me live to fulfill my responsibilities as husband, father, and bishop, and I heard a voice speaking, just as clearly as I might speak to you, say that because I had lived the Word of Wisdom all my life, I would ‘run and not be weary, and … walk and not faint’ [D&C 89:20] and that I would receive even more blessings. When my wife arrived at the hospital, someone suggested that she not go into my room because I looked so terrible. She asked, ‘Is he breathing?’ and went in anyway. She also received the same witness that I would live.”
Elder Sonntag wants the children of the Church to know that “it is a privilege to be a member of the Church and to live the commandments. The commandments are easy when you decide that you are going to keep them. The Word of Wisdom is not a hard thing—it is a blessing. It is within the power of each of you to determine what you want to be. There is no other you in the whole world. You are the only you; you are an individual. You alone can decide what you want to be and where you’re going to go. Choose the Lord’s way and live the gospel, for that will bring you the greatest happiness.”

Jason Smyth, a member of the Londonderry Branch, Belfast Northern Ireland Stake, never dreamed of becoming a star athlete. In fact, the Northern Ireland teen always considered himself an average sportsman, perhaps even more so because he suffers from Stargardt’s disease, a hereditary condition that has destroyed all but his peripheral vision.
However, at 16, Jason’s hidden talent emerged and a PE teacher encouraged him to attend a sprinting training day. Eighteen months later Jason qualified for the Junior Commonwealth Games in Australia. The competition would be a turning point in his life.
“It was there I began to understand and realize what this was all about. For training so little and to qualify already, I just kind of thought I would like to make a career out of this,” says Jason.
Now, three years later, Jason has made quite the career. He has won the 100m and 200m races at both the 2006 Paralympic Games in Holland and the 2005 European Paralympic Championships in Finland, setting record times for both races in each competition. He also holds the Junior Irish record times for the 60m (6.91 seconds) and the 100m (10.61 seconds) races.
Despite such success, as a 19-year-old, Jason heeded the prophet’s counsel and applied to serve a mission. But, because of his visual impairment, his application was denied. Jason graciously accepted the decision and also accepted a new challenge: to find other ways to serve.
Jason’s success as a sprinter has opened less conventional forms of missionary work.
“I now have an opportunity to be a missionary in a different way—through sprinting,” says Jason.
He has found that rather than knocking on doors, he can bring the Church out of obscurity by sprinting past finish lines and setting new records, all the while setting a good example.
Already, Jason’s success has created a buzz as others find out about the Mormon sprinter who doesn’t train on Sundays and also abstains from tea, coffee, alcohol, and drugs.
His success has made him the subject of several media-related publications—including Ireland’s biggest newspaper. Many mention his Mormon lifestyle.
“When they get to know me, they know the way I live my life is different,” Jason says.
Jason competes in both outdoor and indoor competitions, so he trains virtually all year. His practices usually last up to two hours and are twice a day.
Then there’s the travel. In the last three years, Jason has visited countries such as China, Finland, Portugal, Sweden, Holland, and Hungary. Last spring he spent time training at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.
With increased success, doors continue to open for Jason. Last year he received an Irish Sport Grant, which enabled him to employ a full-time coach and secure sponsorships.
With each success, Jason has to give more time and energy. He understands what is expected of him. “It is my career,” he says.
Though training and racing keep him busy, Jason makes sure that his free time is reserved for his family, which Jason says is the root of his success.
“My family had a big part to play in the start. They encouraged me to keep up sprinting and see how I do. They take me to training and watch me race,” he says.
In addition, Jason also finds strength in the Church.
Although the Church is relatively small in Northern Ireland, Jason has inherited Irish pioneer heritage. His grandparents were baptized in Ireland in 1957, and his parents have remained strong in their membership.
Jason continues to build on this heritage. Even though he was the only member in his school, he graduated from seminary through independent study. He also finds time to serve as a branch missionary.
He credits his strong testimony of the gospel to his family, especially his parents.
“My parents taught us by example the way to live our lives,” he says.
Jason also mentioned that attending Church activities and socializing with friends who lived the same principles are another source of strength for him. “People at my branch are very supportive of me,” Jason says. “They like seeing me do well.”
As for his future, Jason’s long-term goal is to qualify for the London Olympics in 2012. But for now, Jason just wants to secure a second consecutive championship at the 2008 Paralympics in Beijing and to qualify for the Under-23 Championships in Hungary this July.
Jason says that one of his greatest achievements so far is making a life out of something he enjoys. He has learned to be self-sufficient and feels he has matured through his experiences.
“Being able to travel the world and getting paid to run—for me, nothing is better,” he says.
For Jason, the experience has been a powerful lesson that with a lot of hard work and dedication, anyone can achieve their dreams. “You just have to work hard if you really want it—and enjoy it as well,” he says.
For more on serving despite challenges, read “Determined to Serve,” New Era, Mar. 2007, p. 48.

Suppose I find myself in a home built for me by a very generous landlord. It is a nice home. He encourages me to maintain and improve the home and gives me a number of instructions for making the home a nice place to live.

Over the years, I sometimes improve the home, but other times, through my negligence, I make it worse. One time, I flood the home when I fail to set the faucets to drip during a freeze. Another time, my kitchen catches fire because I fail to turn off a burner on the stove. A couple of times, I lose my temper and put my fist through a wall.

In each instance, the landlord forgives me and encourages me to pay a little closer attention to my home and to his instructions for making the home a joyful place to live. He does not charge me for the damage caused by my mistakes. Instead, sometimes he is patient while I figure out how to fix things on my own; sometimes he sends someone over to fix the problem; and, sometimes, I wake up and things are fixed in ways I don’t quite understand.

This same landlord happens to have a son who is quite wayward. The son is always up to no good and I don’t particularly like or respect him. One night, the landlord’s son, as a prank, sets fire to the shed attached to the back of my house. The fire gets out of control and the entire house burns down. I lose the home. I lose all of my possessions, including some particularly valuable possessions that I can’t replace, such as photos and heirlooms.

I’m angry and distraught. I want the no good son to pay. I want him to fix things and to make me whole. A part of me knows he can't really make it better. He may not have the resources to rebuild the house, and even if he could rebuild the house, he can't retrieve the photos and heirlooms. And that makes me even angrier.

As I sit in anger, the landlord comes to visit me. He reminds me that he has promised to take care of me. He promises me that he is willing to rebuild my house. In fact, he says that he will do more than that. He will replace my house with a castle and then give me all that he himself has. He says that this might take a while but he promises it will happen.

What’s the catch? I say.

Here are the conditions, he says. First, you need to put your faith in me and trust that I really will build you that castle and restore all that you have lost. Second, you need to continue to work on implementing the instructions I gave you about keeping up your house. Finally, you need to forgive my arsonist son, just as I have forgiven you all these many years.

One of the especially happy times in my life happened when I was 17 years old. My friends and I went to a fireside where the speaker taught us about our Savior’s love. He told us that we could have confidence in the Savior, that He would lead us, that He would be there for us, that our faith in Him could increase and we could feel greater happiness than we had ever known.
But we needed to do something: We needed to choose to believe in the Savior and His love, we needed to ask for His help, and then we needed to practice thinking about Him all through the day.
The speaker suggested that to help us remember to think about the Savior, we could listen to the school bell that rang often during the day. Each time we heard the bell, we were to say a silent prayer, even with our eyes open, even walking down the hall. We could thank our Heavenly Father for our blessings, especially for our Savior. We could tell Him of our love and ask for His help. He taught us that in just a few seconds, many times during the day, we could practice thinking about our Heavenly Father and the Savior.
There was something else: The speaker suggested that almost immediately we move from praying for ourselves to praying for someone else—a friend, a teacher, a stranger—and asking Heavenly Father to bless that person.
He also warned us that although all of this might seem awkward at first, if we chose to try, we could truly be filled with His love, our faith really would grow, and we would feel joy.
That sounded wonderful to me. I decided to try.
I could not believe how many times the bell rang each day! When I heard it, I stopped. “Heavenly Father, thank you. Please bless me and bless Dorene. I know she’s having struggles.” It was awkward at first, but soon I found myself thinking about Heavenly Father and the Savior not only when the bell rang but many times during the day. I remember walking across a muddy field one morning and seeing a tiny yellow flower. It was probably a weed, but to me it was beautiful, and I felt that He had created it just for me. I loved Him so much. My faith had increased, and I was happy.

One of my brothers is a physician. During earlier years in medical school he was assigned to study anatomy in companionship with an agnostic. Their education eventually required that the two of them carefully examine and dissect a cadaver. They studied the incredibly complex, yet harmonious systems of the body: the lymphatic, skeletal, circulatory, waste elimination, reproductive, neurological and immune systems. They noted the body’s power to correct its own deficiencies, and to send healing antibodies to the place of injury or infection. They learned of over 150 trillion cells within the body. If set end-to-end, they would encircle the earth over 200 times. Today they would learn of over one billion miles of DNA in one human body. They learned of a brain bathed in fluid which continually receives signals from 130 million light receptors in the eyes, 24,000 hearing receptors in the ears, 10,000 taste buds, and hundreds of thousands of receptors in the skin, with specialized commission to recognize touch, vibration, cold, heat and pain. My brother and his friend became silent as they contemplated the miracle they were examining. Sensing the moment was right, my brother challenged: “Coincidence is a marvelous thing, isn’t it?” The agnostic responded, “You win.”

Sweat beads up on Bret Rasmussen’s forehead and drips down his face. He pauses in the brilliant sunshine and wipes his face on his sleeve, then hoists a stack of six folded wooden chairs. A few rows away, Brian Herr and his dad carry tables two at a time and set them up. They move steadily in the afternoon heat, staying just a little ahead of the group cutting white plastic and taping it to the tables as covers.
Bret and Brian are Boy Scouts, and they are part of a ward effort to benefit the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra. Twice a week, all summer, the youth of the Noblesville Indiana Ward labor in the hot sun. They carry dozens of tables and chairs to the base of a long grassy hill in preparation for a symphony concert. Sweat, Scouts, and symphony—an unlikely trio? What brings them together?
It all started when the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra began outdoor summer performances at Conner Prairie Pioneer Settlement, a restored 1836 village. The first few years, all concertgoers sat on lawn chairs or blankets on the grass. Later, Symphony on the Prairie organizers offered reserved tables and chairs near the stage for a higher price. But who would set up a hundred tables and a thousand chairs twice a week? The symphony looked for a service group, and that’s where LDS Boy Scout troop 596 came in.
They are not alone. Scout leaders, families, and friends all lend a hand. “It’s a time to see friends and get to know new people,” says Emily Runyan, whose brother Chris is a Scout. “Those of us who aren’t in the troop can still be an example of service to others.”
Missy Wardwell feels that her work at Conner Prairie changed her attitude towards service. She used to feel it was a duty, “but I found this was fun because I chose to come. It was great to work on something important.”
People notice the unity between youth and adults in the Noblesville Ward. Jennifer Rasmussen attributes it to what happens when teachers and leaders labor alongside the youth. “Before,” Jennifer says, “you only saw them on Sunday. But working together is a bonding experience.”
Jennifer also points out the benefits for new or quiet kids in the ward. “These youth get to know people and become comfortable working together, whereas otherwise they might have taken years to open up. They get invited to stay and join us in other activities.”
Missy points out another benefit. “In the summer, sometimes school friends call and invite me to a party. I know what kind of party it will be. It’s security for me to have another place to go that is good and fun and social.”
The LDS youth finish and settle down on the hill with cool drinks and snacks. With their service comes a bonus—they can stay and hear the symphony concert for free. As the sun lingers near the edge of the concert shell, thousands of concertgoers arrive. Sometimes 10,000 people throng the grounds on a symphony night. After the sun goes down, the scattered lights of hundreds of tiny citronella candles flicker like caged fireflies.
“I never thought the kids would stay for the program,” says Rich Armstrong of the Scout committee. “I could see youth using lots of outdoor energy, but I didn’t expect them to be interested in symphony music.”
“I had never heard a symphony orchestra before,” says Brennan Wood. “But the more you hear symphony music, the more you understand it.”
Trent Wardwell agrees. “This has given me a better appreciation for what goes into producing symphony music. Hours before the concert, while we are putting up chairs and tables, the symphony workers have to set up their sound system and prepare the stage, just for a short, two-hour show.”
The concert is finished. A few fireworks light the sky over the orchestra shell, and the LDS youth scramble up from their places. Swarming down the hill, they start folding chairs, clearing tables, and carrying them back to storage. Now that it is cooler, demonstrations of strength take place. Austin Armstrong carries eight chairs at once. Brennan staggers under 13. Jamie Ketring and Jennifer tote one table between them, but Jon Foote hoists one above his head and carries it alone.
The final tarpaulin is tugged up and over a mountain of chairs. It is time to go home.
The thoughts of all the youth are echoed by Emily Runyan. “My main memory of summers is our work at Conner Prairie.”

Mother couldn’t help noticing the serious, thoughtful look on Eric’s face as they drove home from church. “How was Primary today, Eric?”
“Fine.”
“What did you learn today?” Mother asked.
“We talked about choosing the right in our class, and Sharing Time was about temples.”
“I can’t think of anything more special to talk about than temples,” Mother cheerfully replied. But she noticed that the faraway look was still in Eric’s eyes as they pulled into the driveway. “After you change your clothes, would you please help me set the table for dinner?” she asked.
As they were setting the table, Eric asked, “You and Dad were married in the temple, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So that means I’m sealed to you for eternity?”
“Right again,” Mother replied.
“I won’t get to go inside the temple until I’m grown up, will I?”
Mother reminded Eric that his brother, Nathan, who was twelve and a deacon, had gone to the temple the month before and had been baptized for the dead, and how he, Eric, could do that, too, when he was twelve and held the Aaronic Priesthood. She also told him that when he was nineteen and ordained an elder, he could go through the temple for his own endowments before leaving on his mission.
Eric smiled at Mother, “I’m really looking forward to doing both of those things, but it’s not the same as what Joey did. When Sister Jones asked today in Sharing Time if anyone had a special experience to tell about the temple, Joey told about the missionaries teaching his family and about their baptism. He said that a year after they were baptized, they went to the temple as a family and were sealed together. He told about how beautiful the temple is inside and about how special it was to be dressed all in white and kneel down by the altar with his mom and dad and brothers and sisters.
“Mom, that sounds so exciting! I wish I had a story about the temple that I could share.”
Mother’s eyes sparkled. “You do, Eric. I’ll tell you all about it after dinner.”
Mother always fixed someone’s favorite dinner on Sunday, and of course the best part was dessert. Today, though, Eric was anxious for a different kind of after-dinner treat. It made his day when his older sister, Angie, and Dad volunteered to clean up the dishes so that Mother could tell him the special temple story right away.
They went to the family room, and Mother pulled her book of remembrance from a shelf and turned to a picture of a man with white hair and a white beard. She told Eric, “Welcome Chapman was my grandmother’s grandfather. While still a young man, Welcome heard rumors of a Joseph Smith, who was living in western New York, and who claimed to have a golden book that was given to him by an angel, and to have had visions and revelations. He also claimed that he had seen Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father. He said that They had instructed him to organize a new church.
“After thinking a lot about it, Welcome decided to find out for himself whether what he’d heard was true. Against the wishes of his parents, he saddled his horse and rode two hundred miles to New York.
“When he found the Prophet Joseph Smith,” Mother continued, “he discovered that they were about the same age. Welcome heard a complete account of all that had happened to Joseph, including how he obtained and translated the records on the golden plates, and was very much impressed with the Prophet and his wonderful experiences.
“He stayed two weeks at the home of the Prophet, learning all he could of the gospel. Convinced that this was the true religion, Welcome was baptized. Because of his activities in the Church and the esteem Joseph Smith had for him, he was made one of the Prophet’s bodyguards.”
“Wow!” Eric exclaimed. “He had an important job, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Mother said, “but sometimes it was dangerous, not only for him but for his family. One time while he was away on guard duty, a mob went to their home and told his wife that if there was anything in the house that she wanted, to get it out before they burned the house down. Sick at heart, she got everything out while the mob looked on. The cupboard was so heavy that she couldn’t move it alone, so one of the men helped her get it out. Then, while she and the children watched, the mobbers burned the house to the ground.
“Welcome and his family passed through many of the trials, persecutions, and other hardships that fell upon the Church and its members at that time.”
Eric had heard stories about the pioneers before, but he had never imagined that his very own grandparents had been some of them. It was exciting to picture Grandpa Welcome with the Prophet Joseph Smith. He also felt bad for their losing their home and having been treated cruelly. But he wondered what Mother told him had to do with the temple.
“You see,” she continued, “Welcome was a stonecutter, so when he was living in Kirtland, he was called to cut stone for the Kirtland Temple. Later, when the Saints were building the Nauvoo Temple, he cut stone for it. And it was in the Nauvoo Temple that many Saints, including Welcome, received their endowments.
“The Saints were driven out of Nauvoo in the early spring of 1846, and they began their long trek westward. Welcome and his family spent the first winter at Winter Quarters. That next spring, Welcome was appointed captain over the fourth company, which arrived at the Salt Lake Valley in the late summer of 1847.
“In 1849, Chief Walker, the Ute Indian chief, met in council with President Brigham Young. He requested the Mormon leader to send colonists to settle on their land. Welcome and his family went to help settle the town of Manti in the Sanpete Valley.
“On July 27, 1854, Welcome was sustained as the Manti Stake president. That afternoon, as they were baptizing some settlers who had been converted, a large crowd gathered. Among them was Chief Walker and many of his people. Welcome asked the chief if any of his people would like to be baptized. The chief replied that he did not know but would ask them. That day many Indians were baptized there.
“After serving as Manti Stake president for eight years, Welcome was called by President Young on a mission to cut stone for the Salt Lake Temple, which he did until he was seventy-five years old.”
Eric looked up at the picture on the wall of the Salt Lake Temple with a new feeling of reverence. He felt proud that one of his ancestors had cut stone for the beautiful temple. He also felt proud as he thought of the good and faithful life Welcome had lived.
Eric gave Mother a big hug and kiss and thanked her for telling him about Grandpa Welcome. “You know, Mom, not only do I have a temple story to share, but I also have a neat Grandpa that I didn’t know about before. I want to live my life like Grandpa Welcome did and do what Jesus wants me to do so I can go to the temple someday too.”

We’ll be there, Linus. We’ll share your lonely vigil in that ever-so-sincere pumpkin patch. We’ll wait with you and hope with you and almost believe with you. But the Great Pumpkin won’t appear. He can’t. He always spends Halloween with the Hales family in Vestal, New York.
He doesn’t rise from among the vines though. He hides slyly in the mounds of orange-yellow globes at one of the several nearby pumpkin farms, and the Haleses have to come search for him.
Today they’re at Jackson’s Pumpkin Farm in Campville. The open-air pumpkin market is decorated with pumpkin animals, pumpkin people, pumpkin houses. Pumpkins lie all about in great glowing heaps.
Holly, age 14, rolls out a huge, round, golden pumpkin and looks at it critically. It’s beautiful, but it’s not the one. Stephen, age 11-going-on-deacon, studies an elongated pretender with a touch of green in its yellow skin. It would make a fine jack-o’-lantern, but it’s not the Hales family pumpkin.
Dad and Mom rummage about in the towering stacks of autumn gold. Lots of wonderful pumpkins here, but not the one-and-only-authentic-no-doubt-about-it-can’t-miss-right pumpkin.
They take their time. It’s not something they want to be wrong about. It is Kristin who finally finds it—Kristin Lehtinen and her brother Duane, ages 14 and 11. It’s hiding under an obese, presumptuous fruit that’s trying to pass itself off as the perfect pumpkin.
The judges gather around and confer. They examine the candidate from all angles. Yes, this is it! If it’s not the Great Pumpkin, it’s certainly a great pumpkin.
Kristin and Duane are the heroes of the day. They’ve saved the family from the unthinkable disaster of taking home the wrong official Halloween pumpkin.
If you’re wondering why the heroes are not Haleses, it’s because the Haleses and the Lehtinens are good friends who often do things together. Today, October 12, the Lehtinens have joined the Haleses for a Columbus Day family home evening activity. And thank heavens they have!
And that brings us back to the family home afternoon in October. After buying their pumpkins, the Haleses and the Lehtinens moved on to their favorite cider mill for a jug of fresh-pressed cider and a bag of crisp, juicy apples. The local apples are justly renowned, and cider squeezed from them is the sweetest, tangiest nectar this side of heaven. A frothy cider toast is one family tradition the Haleses will drink to at the drop of a cup.
Trailing the deep fragrance of apples, they next drove to the farm of Brother and Sister Hogan to get some cornstalks. Then they went home to make great jack-o’-lanterns out of their great pumpkins.
They decorated their front door and porch with pumpkins, gourds, and cornstalks. Up and down the streets around them, people were doing the same. It’s a tradition the whole town shares. Ghosts appeared in neighborhood windows, and monsters emerged from the shrubs.
It was starting to look like another traditional Hales Halloween, and that suited everyone just fine. Because in the Hales home, family traditions are a family tradition.

My mother died in March, not from the arthritis that she had fought for several years but from pneumonia. I didn’t even know someone could get pneumonia that way. I mean she hardly ever left our home.
They say the hardest time to get through is the first Christmas after something like that happens. I guess that’s true. It’s like a complicated puzzle somebody gives you that you never wanted. You work on it hour after hour but never solve it. My thoughts keep going back to last Christmas—sorting through each detail, measuring each gesture, weighing every word. Lately I’ve been trying to remember what I gave her for Christmas, but I can’t. But I do remember what she gave me.
Arthritis is a slow disease. From day to day there doesn’t seem to be any change. I don’t even know exactly when it began, maybe four or five years ago. During that time it took my mother’s hands and deformed the joints, and bent her neck so she couldn’t hold her head erect, and weakened her knees so she couldn’t walk.
At first Dad and I had hope about getting her well. They’re doing lots of research, we thought, and any time they might find a cure. Besides, there were always people talking about a relative who ate sunflower seeds or drank goat’s milk and was cured.
“I wouldn’t mind being sick,” my mother would say, “if I could look pretty at the same time.” She was pretty once. Sometimes I look at my parents’ picture taken outside the Salt Lake Temple when they were married. My mother looks so young in the picture. My dad has dark hair and is still lean. Of course, now he’s lost most of his hair and put on a little weight around the belt.
There’s something strange about that picture. All over the temple grounds, except on the sidewalk where it’s been shoveled, there is newly fallen snow. But my mother in her white wedding gown is holding a large bunch of lilac blossoms in her arms. It must have been a late spring snowstorm that came after the lilacs had bloomed. I wish I had asked her about the lilacs.
After the disease started to win, my mother had Dad take down the mirror in the hall so she wouldn’t see herself when we wheeled her from the bedroom into the living room. She weighed less than 90 pounds.
My mother was a good musician. She was in charge of the ward choir as far back as I can remember. She also played piano in Primary. When anyone wanted a special number in sacrament meeting, they would call her up and she’d arrange it. Every Christmas she would get music together for a special presentation in church. But a year before she died, she had to ask to be released because of the arthritis.
Last year at this time I was a senior in high school. Kara Erickson and I went together to most of the ward activities. We weren’t really going steady, but in our ward there weren’t many others our age, and besides we liked each other.
One Wednesday near Christmas at Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women activity night, they turned the time over to Sister Robbins. She and her husband had just moved from Utah, where they had both been going to school.
“The bishop has asked me to be in charge of a special youth vocal number for the program before Christmas. What do you want to sing?”
There were a few groans from the Scouts.
“‘Silent Night,’” one of the Beehive girls said.
“That’s too slow,” someone else complained.
“Yea, something that doesn’t drag.”
“Christmas is such a happy time. Let’s do something with some life to it, like ‘Deck the Halls.’”
I got up and walked out into the hall and waited for them to finish singing so I could go to class. Somehow I felt depressed that they would have Christmas music without my mother there to help.
Later I drove Kara home.
There’s something you should know about Kara. She’s really beautiful and smart and everything, but in high school she didn’t get asked out as much as you’d expect. One day in early morning seminary when we were 16, we were talking about dating. She told the class that she had decided she wasn’t going to date nonmembers and she wasn’t going to kiss any guy until she was sure she loved him enough to marry him. Some of the kids in the class thought that was dumb about not kissing. But she wouldn’t change her mind.
There aren’t that many LDS guys in our small Montana town. By the time we were both seniors, I was the only one dating her, although we never decided to go steady.
After we had been dating for a long time, guys at school would come up to me and ask, “You mean you’ve never even kissed her once?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe it. That’s not normal.”
Of course, I would have liked to kiss her. But sometimes I wonder if we weren’t closer that way. I mean we talked a lot. And I began to see how lucky the guy would be who did marry her.
But that night I wasn’t very good company. We pulled up in front of her house and stopped.
“Steve, Sister Robbins was asking about you. Why didn’t you stay for the practice?”
“I didn’t feel like singing.”
“She really needs you; she only has two others singing bass.”
“I won’t sing.”
“She’s got some arrangements of things they did at BYU. She says it’s going to be the best ever.”
“It was the best when my mother led the singing.”
Another thing about Kara and me—we ended our dates with prayer. We didn’t tell anybody about that; they would have really laughed about that.
We got two weeks vacation from school for Christmas. At the same time the lady who stayed with my mother during the day asked for time off to visit her sister in Kansas. My dad asked me if I would stay home during the days of my vacation to help out my mother.
Each day of the vacation seemed much like the one before. When she woke up I would lift her out of bed into the wheelchair. I helped her wash up, getting the washcloth wet with warm water, putting soap on it, and handing it to her. When she was finished, I would rinse it out, let her get the soap off, and hand her a towel.
Eventually we got to the kitchen, and I fixed her something to eat. After breakfast I’d get her some aspirin and a Darvon. Then I wheeled her into the living room and turned on the TV. It didn’t really matter what was on. Just anything to take her mind off the pain. About 11:00 the mail came. At noon I fixed her lunch. In the afternoon she tried to walk. I’d stand beside her and hold onto her, and she’d put one foot a couple of inches in front of the other and slowly move forward. After going a couple of feet she’d be exhausted, and I would put her on the couch so she could rest.
Thursday before Christmas she had an appointment with the doctor. My dad came home from work early. He moved the car into the driveway, opening the right front door. Then he came inside and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the car.
As he began to slide her into the front seat, he stumbled a little. Her legs hit the door post.
“You clumsy!” she screamed at him. “Can’t you see you’re hurting me?”
On the way to the doctor my mother cried, first from the pain, and then because she’d said that to my dad. But he understood how it was for her.
When we got home after the appointment, Dad carried my mother into the bedroom and let her rest. Then he had to go back to work.
I turned on the TV. There was something secure about sitting there. It was as if I could plug my mind into it and let it guide me so I’d never have to remember my mother screaming with pain.
Later I went to our bookshelf and looked a long time at my parents’ wedding picture. I wondered what my dad would have done if somehow before the wedding he had been told that 20 years later that young girl beside him would turn brittle. And I wondered what disease might lay locked up inside Kara—or myself.
That night I had to get away, so I took Kara to the movies. The movie was as depressing as the day had been. After the movie I took her right home. As soon as the car stopped I opened the door and went around to the other side to let her out.
“Aren’t we going to pray together tonight?”
“Don’t ask that tonight. Just go inside.”
“Steve, please.”
“Okay,” I said harshly. “Will you offer it?”
She knew I felt rotten, and she was trying to help. “Could we kneel? We could go in the backyard by the trees.”
“Whatever you say,” I said angrily. We walked out into her backyard.
When we got to the place, isolated by some trees, she knelt down. I stood there looking at her, unable to make myself kneel down.
“I can’t, Kara. You go ahead.”
“Why can’t you pray?”
“God doesn’t listen to me anymore,” I said with bitterness.
“He loves you, Steve.”
“No, not me. The only thing I’ve ever asked him recently is that my mother would get better. Kara, she’s getting worse. But you go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. Pray for good health for your family. God listens to you.”
“Don’t say those things,” she said, hurt and disappointed.
“Well go ahead and pray if you want to pray!” I yelled at her.
She began to cry. After a few minutes that seemed a hundred years in which I couldn’t seem to force myself to move or help her, I finally broke loose and helped her to her feet. I took a tissue and wiped away the tears that I had caused.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you,” I said.
“I know. It’s not easy for you at home.”
We walked into the front yard. The Christmas tree lights glowed delicately from the living room window. I could see Kara’s mother busy sewing a dress.
“Merry Christmas,” I said grimly. “Are there really people on the earth who have a merry Christmas? I’m so afraid of Christmas this year. I wish I could take a pill and go to sleep and not wake up until January.”
“Steve, if you would sing with us Sunday, it would be good for you.”
“No, the words would choke me. My mother used to do so much in music that it’d haunt me. You go ahead. I’m sure it will be fine. Just don’t ask me to sing.”
Friday morning was the same as Thursday morning. The TV was showing a lot of movies about Christmas. I saw White Christmas with Bing Crosby three times that week.
In the afternoon my mother slept for about an hour. When she woke up, I got her a glass of milk with brewer’s yeast in it.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Three o’clock.”
“Can you change it to channel four?”
I got up and changed the channel. There was a documentary on fish farms in the South.
“Are you sure you’re on channel four? It’s supposed to be Search for Tomorrow.”
“It’s the right channel. Do you want me to leave it there?”
“If they say they’re going to show something at a certain time, why don’t they show it?”
“I don’t know. What do you want me to do?”
“Change over to channel seven,” she said.
“Do you want that?” I asked, looking at a program on French cooking.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said numbly. “Turn back to channel four, but turn the volume down so we’ll know if Search for Tomorrow comes on. Do you think I should take some aspirin? What time is it?”
“A little after three.”
“I guess I’ll wait so they’ll be still working when your dad comes home. Can you put me on the wheelchair and roll me out by the window?”
I pushed her next to our picture window. “Still no snow,” she said, looking out at the grays and browns. “It doesn’t seem much like Christmas, does it?”
“No.”
“A few years ago I’d be busy now getting ready for the musical program on Sunday. Do you remember when we sang parts from the Messiah? We invited the whole town. One year we had the Primary children sing the whole program. Once we even had a string quartet. I wonder if anyone in the ward remembers that.”
I said that they did, although people move in and out in our ward so fast that I doubted if very many people were still here that were here then.
“I’ve been away for so long. I don’t even know the people in the choir now. Have you met Sister Robbins? Kara’s mother told me she’s the choir leader now. I bet they’ll be singing this Sunday. Will you tell me how it goes?”
“I’m not going.”
“Steve, you’ve never missed before.”
“I’ll go to Livingston for church, but I’m not going to our ward. Don’t ask me to do it. I wish it were over.”
“What’s wrong?”
“When they sing, I’ll be sad that you’re not up there singing. In the talks someone will get up and say what great blessings he’s received. Well, we live the gospel, and you’re sick. Where are our blessings?”
“Steve, I’ve never heard you talk like that.”
“It’s just Christmas. I’ll be okay after it’s over.”
I know that really bothered her. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it. I guess if I had known she was going to die in a few months, I would have held my tongue. But I didn’t know that.
I sat down, turned up the TV, and tried to plug my mind into its security.
After a few minutes, during a commercial, I got up and rolled her back to her chair. I got her an aspirin, a Darvon pill, and a glass of water and then sat down and watched Lucy.
After Lucy there was the Brady Bunch.
“Steve, turn the TV off.”
I turned it off.
“Do you remember when we used to make special cookies for Christmas? Why don’t you and I make some now? We’ll surprise your dad when he comes home. It’ll be just like it used to be.”
I rolled her into the kitchen. She seemed excited about making the cookies. She told me what to do, helping me find the recipe, telling me where the cookie cutters were so we could make Christmas trees, Santa. Clauses, and stars. She said she’d cut out the shapes after we’d finished with the dough.
I started on the recipe, adding each ingredient as it was listed.
“A cup of sugar,” I read, going to the cupboard.
“That’s not enough.”
“It says one cup.”
“I changed the recipe. I put in more sugar.”
“How much more?”
“I can’t remember.”
“How about if I put in a cup and follow the recipe?”
“It won’t taste the same as it did on other Christmases.”
Nothing about this Christmas is going to be the same, I thought to myself.
After I finished mixing the cookie dough, I put down some waxed paper on the table and rolled the dough out.
My mother wanted to help with the cookies to please Dad. She picked up one of the cookie cutters and placed it on the dough and pressed. Although she made an indentation in the dough, she couldn’t seem to push hard enough to actually cut out the shape. She tried it again. I wanted to help her, but she wanted to do it herself so Dad would be proud.
Suddenly she just quit. “I can’t do it. I can’t do anything. There’s nothing I can do. I’m no good to anyone.”
I picked up the dough, ran with it to the disposal, and got rid of it.
I pushed her back to the living room. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t use her hands very well to stop them, and so they streamed down and fell from her face.
We turned on the TV and sat there silently watching a documentary on raising African violets. After that we watched Password.
“Steve, I don’t want to watch any more TV.” I turned it off.
“What is this disease doing to us?” she asked. “You asked where our blessings were. Don’t you know?”
“I want you to be well. That’s all I want. Why can’t God hear me?”
“I used to wonder that too. He hears us. But if he rewarded everyone who loved him with good health and everyone who disobeyed him with sickness, who wouldn’t follow him? But then there would be no free agency. The glory of the gospel is that even in pain we can maintain our faith. This is not going to defeat me. I’m going to fight it all the way. And someday I’ll walk.”
I looked at her weak legs, feeling she’d never walk, and said weakly, “Sure you will.”
“I will. If not here in this life then in the next. I’ve memorized a scripture. ‘For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’
“I’ll see him. I’ll stand. I’ll walk again. Because of the Savior I’ll stand.”
She’d never talked to me like that before.
“Steve, when I dream in the night, I dream I’m walking. I’ll walk again. Your dad and I have been through the temple; we’ve tried to do the best we could. I want so much to stand someday beside your father and be with him in the celestial kingdom, not with this deformed body, but with a body that can stand tall and walk. That hope is one of my greatest blessings. Don’t you understand?”
I nodded my head.
“Can we have a prayer before your dad comes home so he won’t have to bear any more burden than he has already?”
“I can’t pray, Mom. I don’t even know what to ask for anymore.”
“Please, son, honor your priesthood.”
“Father in heaven, please help us get through Christmas with some happiness. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My dad came home about 5:00. I helped him cook supper. After that we took out our plastic tree, assembled it, and put a few ornaments on it. We put our presents under the tree. Then we sat down and watched TV.
About 8:00 we heard some car doors slam, and in a minute our doorbell rang. My dad opened the door.
It was Sister Robbins, Kara, and a bunch of kids from church.
“Could I talk to your wife?” Sister Robbins asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you like this, but we need your help. We’re supposed to put on a part for the Christmas program Sunday, and I’m afraid I’ve gotten in over my head. The kids told me you used to do this all the time. I was wondering if you’d mind listening to us and giving your suggestions.”
They got around the piano and began to sing. When they finished, my mother gave some ideas to help it. We sang another song. You should have seen my mother. The body was deformed, the old pale robe hiding weak and spindly arms and legs. But her eyes came alive. She listened and helped with such enthusiasm. Before long she had us singing parts.
I’ve found out since then that Sister Robbins is really a good musician. I’m not sure she needed as much help as she said she did. That night she asked my mother about every little thing. My mother lit up. The more she helped, the more spirit came into her face.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Sister Robbins said at one point.
“Well, remember, I’ve had 20 years working on choirs.”
While they talked I went into the kitchen. Kara was talking to my dad while they both set out plates and glasses.
“Your dad says you’re becoming quite a help in the kitchen.”
“He’ll make somebody a fine husband,” my dad said with a grin. “After his mission, that is,” he added.
Kara set out a fresh batch of Christmas cookies she had made that afternoon. She had planned the whole thing with Sister Robbins. She was the way in which Heavenly Father answered my prayer.
We had cookies and milk. After that we sang more Christmas songs. My mother led us with nods of her head.
Of course, I sang with the choir that Sunday. My dad brought my mother to Church long enough to partake of the sacrament and listen to the musical numbers, and then the pain got too bad for her, and he had to take her home.
When I remember my mother, I can’t altogether forget the pain she had nor forget the savage way arthritis dealt with her. That’s a part of my life.
My thoughts often go back to the picture of her as a young bride holding those lilacs in the midst of all that snow. At the same time I remember her saying, “I’ll stand. I’ll walk again. Because of the Savior I’ll stand!”
That’s what she gave me for our last Christmas. Somehow I think that is what she would want me to remember.

On April 1, the paper mill was temporarily shut down. I was reading a pamphlet called The Plan of Salvation when I began to feel a certainty that what I was reading was true. The Holy Ghost was bearing witness, making everything clear to me. I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that the Church was true. I was crying. I had found something so precious. I wanted to tell my co-workers, but they would not understand. I went home early and found Karen at my home. “I know that the plan of salvation is true,” I told her, “and I want to be baptized.” She arranged for the missionaries to teach me.
The following day, I had my first discussion with Elder Johnson and Elder Barangan. I had such a strong desire to be baptized that I went to their home very early the next morning. When I told them of my desire, Elder Johnson told me that to be baptized I must obey the Word of Wisdom and attend church. I said, “I started obeying the Word of Wisdom when I saw the filmstrip, and I have attended the church several times.” They taught me three more discussions. Then on Easter Sunday, 7 April 1985, I was baptized. I felt that this was the very moment I had waited for since I was born.
That day was also Fast Sunday. I fasted, shared my testimony in sacrament meeting, and paid my tithing for the first time. After sharing my testimony, I had an even stronger conviction that I had made the right decision. I felt complete—no longer drifting, but with sure direction. I know that the Spirit bore witness to me.
Since my baptism, I have served a mission and have been an ordinance worker in the Manila Philippines Temple.
I feel so blessed to have the gospel in my life. I know that the Book of Mormon I rescued from the trash is the book that rescued me.

It was a beautiful autumn day. At school, I was determined to finish all my work so that I wouldn’t have any homework that night. Mom picked me up from school for a special day of shopping with birthday money I had received.
As we drove away from the school parking lot, she started explaining what had happened in America. She told me that there had been four terrible plane crashes and that many people had been killed. I started to cry. I asked, “Is there anything we can do to help?” She said that people were stranded all over the United States because all the planes that were flying at the time of the crashes had to make emergency landings at the nearest airports. She said, “We can still do the shopping, as we planned, or we could go to the airport and see if there is anyone who needs a place to stay. It’s your choice.”
My stomach had started hurting, and I had been scared. But when she said that, I immediately felt the Holy Ghost quiet my fears. I told Mom, “I have two words for you—we’re going!” We quickly printed a sign, then headed for the airport forty miles (64 km) away.
We were happy that we did. We brought home a Marine who was on his way back to his base in San Diego, California. He had just been home in Kalamazoo, Michigan, after completing boot camp. He joined us that night for family prayer. I was, and am, grateful that Heavenly Father helped me to make the right choice that day.

As a different example, I remember one of my children voicing what probably all were thinking, "Dad, why do we always have to help Sister Pearson with her fire wood?" A few weeks ago, my son, the one who had presented this question to me when he was a young man, who is now serving as Young Men President in his branch, hand dug a grave for a deceased member of their branch with the help of his twelve-year-old son and the young men of the branch. I'm so proud of the man, the husband and father, my son has become. His son questioned him why they needed to dig a grave. Every calling, every service, every supposed sacrifice has repaid itself ten times over to our family in the quest for our eternal star.

I will never forget a lesson that my dear wife, Sister Mutombo, taught me on the first day of our marriage. I remember that Sunday as if it was yesterday. We had no food in our home and no money to buy food. As a newly married husband, I truly wanted to provide for my new wife, but I had no means to do so. I felt very alone.
I looked at my wife lying on the mattress that we had put on the floor because we had no money for a bed. She was exhausted and hungry. I decided to visit a good friend of mine to find a solution to my trial. I left my wife alone in our small two-square-meter room and went to see my friend. He told me that he had no money to help me but gave me one dollar to use for transportation to get home. I saw this as an answer to many sincere prayers to my Heavenly Father, asking for His help and support. I decided to walk home and use the dollar to buy food for my wife because that is the only money I had.
On the way back home, I used the dollar to buy a small piece of meat and some bread and put it in a black plastic bag. I was so excited that I now had food to give to my wife and walked home quickly. It was after 9 p.m. when I got home, and my dear Nathalie was tired, exhausted, hungry, and probably wondering about her future. Can you imagine going without food on your first day of married life? When I arrived home, I proudly presented food to my wife, saying, “darling, I got some food for you, please wake up.”
She woke up and took the plastic bag and saw the piece of meat and bread. She asked, “where did you find the money to buy this food?”
I told her. She looked at me and asked an unexpected question. “Have you paid tithing on the one dollar you received?”
I replied, “Nathalie, this is just one dollar, do you think we need to pay tithing on it?”
She took the piece of meat and bread that I brought home to her, put it back in the bag and said that she would not eat the bread of a man who does not remember his covenant with God. I weep when I remember this experience. I repented immediately and promised my wife that never ever again would I make such a poor choice. She taught me what it means to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ who keeps his covenants with God. I have since found great joy in paying an honest and full tithing. As President Russell M. Nelson said, the Church was not any different because I paid a full tithe, however becoming a full-tithe payer changed me as my faith in my Savior Jesus Christ increased.

One family wrote saying that their dad made a deal with them that if each of the five children would each earn a specified amount for snowmobiles, then their dad would pay for the rest. After the Perpetual Education Fund was announced, they had a family council and talked about sacrifice and how richly they had been blessed. Together they decided to make a contribution to the Fund and forego the snowmobiles. The letter was accompanied by a sizeable check--the equivalent of five snowmobiles.

A week later my mother died. How would it be in a motherless home, without the encouraging look of a proud mother to push us along when times got rough? I thought mothers were always supposed to be there. Who was going to teach me all the things mothers are supposed to teach their daughters? Who was I going to have those special talks with? Why did it have to be my mother?
My father knew it was up to him. It must have been like a building falling on him to have all the responsibility of raising the family. After losing the woman he loved so dearly, he had to be strong to set the example for his family. He did. I remember him standing there and asking us if we understood about paradise and heaven. We all hesitated, as if a nod of approval to his question was an approval for her to die, but then with great effort he told us she was gone. My father’s a big man, but he was even bigger then, when I knew that inside his heart was broken and he was full of loneliness.

Let me tell you of one last example of another young man. We’ll also call him Raymond. I think the family of this young man exemplifies the love, confidence, and trust that must exist in family relationships.

Raymond found himself quite ill as he was serving his mission in a distant land. He had many digestive problems and the mission president was considering sending him home due to his poor health. To compound his problems, one day, while out walking, he found himself with a severe pain in his left foot. He couldn’t even walk to the discussion he and his companion had planned. They went to the doctor who said, “It’s just arthritis caused by the damp weather. If you’ll stay off your foot for two or three days the pain will pass.”

The young man did so. He also had a priesthood blessing, but nothing happened. He was a district leader at the time, and his district had just begun to baptize in a city where there had not been baptisms for some time. He could not understand how the Lord could allow him to remain down for those days when his district was just beginning to have success.

A week went by, two weeks, three weeks, a month in bed. He was still incapacitated with no change in the pain in his foot. Finally, he was taken to the mission home in the capital city where more suitable medical facilities were found.

An X-ray was taken. One of the bones in his foot had been fractured or broken and had then grown back together incorrectly. The doctors talked of either breaking the bone again or giving him some special electrical treatments that were supposed to fuse the bone correctly, but it would take another month. He was down again, going for treatments twice a day. The treatments didn’t make any difference. This problem, on top of his other medical problems, had him somewhat discouraged, and again the consideration came to send him home.

One morning, after nearly three months, he stepped out of bed to find absolutely no pain in his foot. He stepped on the foot gently, then stamped on it, then ran with his companion for a mile that morning, totally healed. With great joy he returned immediately to the field to work.

Two more weeks went by. A letter arrived from home that said, “Dear son,” and then followed a paragraph or two of chastisement for not having told his family about his ailments in the mission field. They indicated that they had learned of his problems from another missionary, a friend of his, who had written home. In great love they wrote, “We have begun a fast and constant prayer for you as a family. We also have placed your name on the temple prayer list and hope that it might be of help to you.”

As he tearfully read the letter and examined his journal, he found that the day that he had risen from his bed healed was the very day the letter had been written, the very day his family began praying and exercising faith for their distant son.

How could that be, across 7,000 miles? I suppose no man knows, but the reality of the power of faith cannot be denied.

To become consistently charitable is a lifelong quest, but each act of love changes us and those who offer it. Let me tell you the story of a young woman I met recently. Alicia, as a teenager, had drifted far from the Church, but later she felt stirrings to return. She often visited her grandfather in a retirement home on Sundays. On one of those days she decided to attend the Latter-day Saint meetings there. She opened the door and found a Relief Society meeting, but no empty seats. As she was about to leave, a woman motioned to her and scooted over to make room for her on her chair. Alicia said: “I wondered what the woman would think of me. I was covered with body piercings, and I smelled of smoke. But she didn’t seem to mind; she simply made a place for me at her side.”
Alicia, heartened by this woman’s charity, returned to activity. She has served a mission and is now sharing that same kind of love with other women. The elderly sister who shared her chair understood that there is a place for every woman in Relief Society. Sisters, we gather for strength, but we bring with us all our weaknesses and imperfections.
Alicia told me something I will never forget. She said: “I only do one thing for myself when I go to church: I take the sacrament for me. The rest of the time I watch for others who need me, and I try to help and nurture them.”

My middle name, Fawn, comes from my great-grandmother Fawn Treva DeFord. I knew little about her until a temple trip last November. As part of the Young Women celebration “Turning Hearts to the Family,” the youth in my ward found ancestors who needed their temple work done. I chose Fawn because she was my dad’s favorite grandmother. My dad was excited about my choice, and he began telling me stories about my great-grandma. He even found some of her artwork for me to see.
Besides researching family names, I also had to get ready spiritually to attend the temple. I tried to work on being a better person, and I repented when I made mistakes. I wrote in my journal often about my preparation. Finally November came, and I was ready. Since this was my first time doing baptisms for the dead, I was a little nervous. But as soon as I entered the temple I felt a warm, peaceful feeling. And as I was baptized for my great-grandma, I felt as if she were there, thanking me for giving her the blessings of the gospel.

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.

Lee W. Johnson, who was at the time Cubmaster of Pack 218, rescued his brother from underneath a fallen haystack. “My brother was covered by a haystack four feet deep and about 20 feet square. Where do you dig? In my mind a voice said, ‘Over here.’ I dug to within six inches of my unconscious brother, and the voice said, ‘Throw the pitch fork away.’ And there he was. You have to give somebody besides myself credit for something like that.” Brother Johnson is in the Benson Ward, Benson Utah Stake.