Gospel Story Finder

In closing, there is a story told by President Kimball. I wish I had it here to quote verbatim, but I shall have to do it from memory and pray that I will not mutilate it too much. He said, in substance, “I went to visit a friend. He met me at the airport. ‘How do you like my car?’ he said as he showed me his luxurious limousine. On the way from the airport to his home, he stopped the car, we got out, and he said, ‘See all this? From the mountains on the right hand over to the river on the left—it’s all mine.’” The way Brother Kimball said “mine” made you feel the covetousness that man had in his possessions. Then they proceeded to his home, which was truly a palace. President Kimball said, “I spoke at his funeral not long ago. They buried him in a piece of land the length of a tall man and the width of a heavy man, and as I returned from the cemetery I observed the cattle in the field, seemingly unaware that there had been a change of ownership.”

Let me tell you a short story about my Grandfather, Jean Marcel Joly, that happened during WWII. He was a tail gunner. He was placed in a crammed gunnery position behind the tail section of a B-26 Marauder Bomber. He was captured in 1941 by the German army and was assigned to be a cook for them. The German army took one of the best restaurants in the region in the city of Meau. The restaurant was called La Sirene. The German army made that place their headquarters. Yes, the German army still acknowledged the superiority of French cuisine.

During this period, Jean was married to my Grandma Rose. Soon, Jean became a father. Sadly, however, their first infant boy died. And my grandparents had neither money, nor possessions of their own. A German general was moved with compassion for my grandparents and provided the necessities for a proper burial. This family story surprises me. It surprises me because French history taught us as children that the German army was the bitter enemy. And enemies are not supposed to be nice. But the enemy had shown deep compassion for my family. I like to believe that in this context, the German general avoided misplaced enmity.

In 1997, I was serving as the President of the Europe North Area of the Church and was living in England. Elder Monte J. Brough, then of the Presidency of the Seventy and the Executive Director of the Family History Department, was assigned to come to England and together we were charged to go to the Public Records Office in London and there discuss our Church's work with the 1851 British census. We needed to show them what had been accomplished and also conduct some negotiations for some future Family History research work that we, as a Church, wished to do.

Elder Brough demonstrated how to access these data on the CDs that our people had produced. He then asked the several professional English genealogists present if any of them had an ancestor living in 1851 in any of the counties where the census had taken place. None could think of anyone to search for.

Elder Brough had anticipated such an event and so he said that he knew of a man living in England at that time. His name was Isaac Haight, incidentally a great uncle of Elder David B. Haight then a member of the Twelve. The name was entered into the computer and sure enough, it was in the data base. He was identified as an American missionary living in lodgings in the city of Birmingham. Again, Elder Brough asked if anyone had a name that they would like to search. Again, there was no response. I had not seen the data before, but remembered that my great-great grandparents, John and Mary Godsall, should have been living there at that time. I therefore asked that their names be searched and immediately, they were identified. I knew with certainty that these were my ancestors because as I looked at their children, I was able to identify my great grandmother, Susannah, who later was to become a pioneer traveling in the wagon train that accompanied the Martin handcart company.

Not only did I find their names, I learned that my great-great grandfather was a leather worker, something I didn't know, and also the address where they lived in Birmingham, just a few miles from where I was then living. In addition, I learned that there was a missionary lodger living in their home. His name was Isaac Haight! I am sure that our British friends thought that this was orchestrated. I do believe it was arranged for us to learn these things, but it was not done by Elder Brough or by me.

I visited the address we found in the census information and the old, old house was still standing. In the Church records at our English headquarters, I was able to find much about my ancestors' service in the Church before they emigrated to America in the 1850s that I had never known. Again, my heart has been turned to the fathers as the scriptures foretold.

The stake president, Sonny Purcell, was driving his car when he saw the enormous wave coming far out at sea. He honked his horn and stopped children on the road walking to school and warned them to run for higher ground and safety as fast as they could. The children followed his instruction. He frantically drove, reached his four-year-old daughter, put her in the car, and then tried to get to his mother. Before he could reach his mother, the wall of water picked up his car and swept it over 100 yards (91 m), where it lodged in a tree. He scrambled to secure his daughter on top of the car and then swam to rescue his mother, who was clinging to a branch of another tree near their house. With great effort he swam with her to the car and safety. Many were not as fortunate. They did not have time to get to higher ground and safety. Many lost their lives, particularly the young and the elderly.

That adult programmer began emerging at an early age. According to his mother, Marian, Doug learned how to use a screwdriver at two and started taking apart anything he could get his hands on. “Including an attempt at his dad’s car,” Marian said. “The problem was he couldn’t always put the things he took apart back together.”
By five Doug put down the screwdriver in favor of the Johnson’s home computer. His father, Lynn, also a computer programmer, showed him how to get going, but Doug needed little direction. Over the years Lynn kept his eye on his son and began to show him how he could use his interest and talent. Doug’s first job in programming was with his dad. When he was 12, Doug wrote a complex system for a major law firm while his dad installed the computer hardware.
At 14 Doug was writing his own software and had formed his own computer company, Maximum Output Software, to market and sell his products. At an age when most young people are only thinking about getting a part-time job, Doug was writing his own software and doing programming work for engineering and shipping/receiving firms.
One of his clients, Angelo Mourino, the owner of a Houston air freight company, said he hired three other professional, adult programmers before Doug. None of them could do the job he needed. Word had surfaced about this 14-year-old whiz kid. Angelo said he was skeptical, but ready to try anything.
“One guy I had hired before Doug had taken six months just to figure out he couldn’t do the job,” Angelo said. “Doug finished the project in about two or three weeks.” While going to high school!
At 17 Doug has a long list of credits behind him which include captaining his high school computer team to top awards in state competitions, serving as the president of a prominent Houston computer club (Doug is also the youngest of the 100-plus members), maintaining a 4.0 GPA in his schoolwork. The list goes on.
But, as Doug is quick to point out, there’s more to him than computers and an aptitude at schoolwork. He’s just a normal LDS kid and with normal outside interests. He’s working on his Eagle Scout Award. He likes music and works occasionally as a deejay at stake dances in Houston and, with a friend, writes funny rap songs about the Church. He has attended early-morning seminary for three years and will graduate this spring.
And he has some normal 17-year-old challenges. He’s shy and has trouble meeting people; he’s shorter than average and isn’t too good in sports; and, believe it or not, he’s a procrastinator.
But he faces those challenges, and others, like he faces the computer—by again keeping his goals in mind and doing what he knows is right. When friends invite him to drinking parties, he turns the invitations down and explains why he doesn’t want to go. When he is asked tough questions about his religion, Doug answers with faith and a solid understanding of the scriptures he has gained through church and seminary study. If people try to get him to use his computer knowledge for illegal gain, he refuses without hesitation.
He thanks his family and the Church for keeping him on the right path.
“The gospel has kept me away from drugs and alcohol, but it has also given me a direction. When I leave home I know how I should live, how I should raise a family. The computer can’t be everything. I’d like to be successful at it, but I won’t ever do anything illegal.”
Brent Rawson, Doug’s bishop in the Champion’s Ward of the Cypress Texas Stake, said he recently called Doug as the ward computer specialist and had him devise a computer program that would allow the bishopric to keep track of members, ward callings (and how long each person has been serving), home and visiting teaching, who spoke in sacrament meeting (and when), and so on. Bishop Rawson can now review, within seconds, any detail of his ward’s business.
“He has been a big help to me,” Bishop Rawson said. “A calling like this needs great maturity and he has that, along with lots of leadership ability. From a bishop’s point of view he is a very spiritual young man with a lot of potential.”
Also, Doug’s computer skills have helped him in other aspects of his Church development. Half of all his earnings go into savings for his mission and for four years at Brigham Young University, where he plans to further his computer programming studies. Plus, Doug hopes that his computer company will one day be productive enough to allow him to support a family.
The clicking has stopped. Whatever Doug was working on is finished. He shows you what he’s created, but his manner is matter-of-fact. After all, as Doug will tell you, it doesn’t take a genius to do this. The computer does what it’s told. Doug tries to do the same—live the principles he’s been taught, do what his parents and church leaders advise.
As Doug Johnson will tell you—life, and computers, can be simple if you have the right attitude.

But let me contrast the difference in the approach of the Donner party with that of a band of Mormon pioneers crossing the Atlantic. William Clayton sailed from England to America in 1840 with a host of new converts. You know his name, for he later wrote the classic hymn “Come, Come Ye Saints.” The words are a testimony of his understanding of adversity as part of the eternal plan. After arriving in Nauvoo, Clayton wrote home to his fellow Saints in England and said:

We have sometimes almost suffocated with heat . . . sometimes almost froze with cold. We have had to sleep on boards instead of feathers, and on boxes which was worse. We have had our clothes wet through without the privilege of drying them or changing them. We have had to sleep out-of-doors in very severe weather. Don’t suppose for a moment that all will be peace and ease. . . . These are days of tribulation and we must endure our portion. [And then he continued,] If you will be faithful you have nothing to fear from the journey. The Lord will take care of his saints. [William Clayton, letter from Commerce, 10 December 1840, Church Archives]

On July 27, 1943, Flora received a phone call from her husband. He was in Salt Lake City, Utah, preparing to return from a business trip with their son Reed. She was at their home near Washington, D.C., about 2,000 miles (3,200 km) away. After a sleepless night full of prayer and tears, he telephoned to let her know that the previous day he had been called to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
The news did not surprise Flora. She “had had a strong impression that something of magnitude would happen on [her husband’s] trip.”10 She expressed confidence in Ezra, and her words had a calming effect on him. He later recalled: “It was reassuring to talk to her. She has always shown more faith in me than I have myself.”11

I met Anthony a long time ago. We had just moved into the area. I went to this new school and started to make friends. Anthony was one of them. We were maybe six or seven years old. It’s funny to think about that, now that I am 26.
We were playing a game called Pog. It’s a game we play in France—I don’t know if it’s played elsewhere. While we were playing, Anthony tried to swipe one or two of my game pieces. Suddenly, we started to fight. Our teacher had to pull us apart. After that, I think we appreciated each other more. We started doing things together—playing video games, skateboarding, and cycling. Little by little, we began to spend more and more time together.
My mother always wanted our family to pray. It was part of our practice at home. Same thing with reading scriptures too. These things were ingrained in us. One night I slept over at Anthony’s place. As I prayed before bed, Anthony saw me and asked what I was doing. I don’t remember what I said exactly; I just remember we were in his room and we talked about prayer.
Anthony came a few times to my house, and he saw us read the scriptures, ask a blessing before eating, and pray as a family. He saw us sing hymns together too. I asked him once or twice to come to church. I must have seen from his reaction that he wasn’t too excited about the idea of coming to church. I told myself, “Well that’s it, I guess, and it’s too bad, but we’ll just continue to be buddies.”
Anthony:
At first I was a little distant about the Church. I didn’t understand much, and I was a bit afraid to speak with Cayo about how his family gathered together for prayer. So in the beginning I didn’t respond to invitations. But little by little, I felt good. I felt in my heart that Cayo’s family was different from other families.
Cayo:
Eventually we both moved on to other things. We lost track of each other several times over the years, but we would always bump into each other again. When we were teenagers, we became close friends again.
Anthony:
I could see that Cayo was different from my other friends. We all do dumb things as we’re growing up, but Cayo helped me choose a good path.
Cayo:
Anthony started to come to church with my family. Then things evolved naturally, the missionaries spent a lot of time with us, and Anthony became quite familiar with the Church. He knew what prayer was, he knew the hymns, he knew all that—he was just not a member.
Anthony:
From age 8 to age 18, I reflected a lot about getting baptized. But it took me a long time because I had a lot of things I needed to change in my life, even though I tried to live good principles.
At the age of 18, I met the missionaries in Cayo’s home. The missionaries taught me the lessons to prepare me for baptism. They helped me, and their message touched my heart. During this time, my mother and my little sister were introduced to the missionaries. They were baptized a few months before I was. I was baptized on March 10, 2007.
Cayo:
It took the time that it took, more than 10 years, but finally he was baptized.
It’s interesting to see how the Lord does things. After that, I went on a mission in France and we wrote to each other. Now we’re going to be separated because Anthony just became a gendarme [policeman], and he will leave to work for two to five years in Guyana, but I’m sure we’re going to stay in touch.
Anthony:
Since I joined the Church, I do what is required to stay on the strait path and to share the gospel with those around me. It’s something that’s very simple, but the gospel can be difficult for others to accept and to live. As members of the Church, we are truly different from others.
Other members of my family had trouble seeing why my mother, my sister, and I get ready for church every Sunday. I get dressed in my suit and leave at 8:30 to be to church by 9:00, and I often stay until 3:00 in the afternoon because of my calling. I enjoy visiting with other members and finding out what’s going on in their lives. I like being able to participate with the members; it’s exceptional. It’s important to have people around us who are members, to have unity, and to feel like we’re strengthening each other.
Cayo:
I believe the Lord does everything He can so we can truly, honestly, and deeply change. Becoming a Latter-day Saint and a disciple of Christ is not just a question of deciding to adopt certain attitudes; it is to witness a profound change in ourselves. I saw that change in Anthony.
Anthony:
Knowing I have a Heavenly Father comforts me. It also comforts me to know that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to die for us—for me.
But, in any case, I know it’s true. I also know the scriptures are true. The Book of Mormon is true. I’m convinced of it. The Church is true. We have a true prophet, Thomas S. Monson. The Twelve Apostles are truly called of God.
That’s something I didn’t understand before, and I think that, even today, I don’t understand it completely. It’s very powerful and it’s unique as an emotion.
Cayo Sopi (left) and Anthony Linat (right) walk through their neighborhood in the suburbs of Paris, France. They have been friends since childhood.
“As we got to be closer friends, I could see that Cayo was different from my other friends,” Anthony remembers. Over time, Cayo’s example helped Anthony to become more interested in the restored gospel.
Cayo and Anthony plan on staying in touch after Anthony moves to Guyana.
“Since I joined the Church,” Anthony says, “I do what is required to stay on the strait path and to share the gospel with those around me.” Sharing the gospel is “something that’s very simple,” he says.
Cayo remains grateful for the opportunity he had to share the gospel with his friend. “I believe the Lord does everything He can so we can truly, honestly, and deeply change,” Cayo says. “I saw that change in Anthony.”
Anthony says finding the gospel has been a blessing in his life. “Knowing I have a Heavenly Father comforts me,” he says. “It also comforts me to know that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ.”
“It’s interesting to see how the Lord does things,” Cayo says. It took more than 10 years for Anthony to be baptized, but in that time, Anthony gained a strong testimony.

For our family, Christmas begins in October. Each year my mother puts up our artificial tree and strings the lights around it the weekend before Halloween. This is her way of reminding herself the holiday season is near and she needs to prepare for it.
My family is rather small, consisting of my mother, my younger brother, and myself. Being divorced, my mother has had to work very hard for the little we have. Christmas had never been a festive occasion in our home. We never had very much. Sometimes my brother and I would feel embarrassed as we compared our few presents to the many our friends received. Everyone else always seemed to have so much more than we did.
A few years ago, after my mother put up the Christmas tree, she turned to where my brother and I were silently watching and delivered her annual speech, which always contained the same ideas.
“Well, kids,” she would say, “this year is going to be a really hard Christmas. I’m sorry I can’t give you very much.” Once again we accepted the fact that Christmas that year would be another poor one.
Within a week of her talk with us, there was a knock at our door. It was two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They taught our family, we were eventually converted, and in early December we were baptized.
Christmas that year could have been the worst. My mother was working 16 hours a day, and I was baby-sitting whenever I could to try to help. Even so, we just barely had enough money for our family to survive. We were really feeling down, and our mood affected everything we did. My brother and my mother started to argue more than they usually did. I was ill, so I was not in a good mood either. I didn’t want Christmas to come that year. There seemed to be no Christmas cheer in our house.
This soon changed. On the night of December 23, someone knocked on our door. When my mother answered it, nobody was there, but on our doorstep were two large boxes. They were filled with food, treats, and even presents! Who did this? Our home was filled with excitement as we wondered who our mystery friends were.
The next morning Howard, an elderly man who lived across the street from us, came to our door. We were surprised to see him because the only time he had ever come over before was to complain about our barking dog. He asked my mother if he could come inside. When my mother let him into the house, he started crying. When we tried to find what was wrong, he shouted through his tears, “It’s Christmas and people are dying!” After he calmed down we learned of his wife’s death several years before at Christmastime. Then he told us his grandson had been killed in a recent plane crash. We invited him to spend Christmas Eve with us. He came back later with a cake to share.
I will always remember that Christmas Eve. Howard came over and some of the ward members also came to visit, bringing their Christmas cheer. Our last visitors of the evening were the missionaries who had baptized our family two weeks before. They gave me a gift. It was a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price. I read, amazed by some of the revelations Joseph Smith had received. As I read, I knew immediately it was true. It was that Christmas Eve that I gained my testimony of the truthfulness of these volumes of scripture. I felt the Spirit very strongly that night. I went to bed feeling I was the happiest person on earth.
I awoke the next morning, knowing there would be no presents from Santa. I wondered why this was my favorite Christmas. Why had it been so good when our family had almost nothing?
Tears filled my eyes as I realized how foolish I had been. I didn’t have less than my friends; I had more. I had a knowledge of the meaning of Christmas. I knew I had a Heavenly Father and Savior who loved me.
That Christmas, at age 15, I realized what Christmas was really about. It is not how many presents you receive or how much you have that makes a good Christmas. It is loving others, having the knowledge that you are loved, and having a testimony of Jesus Christ. It is a holiday to celebrate His birth and life.
Our family tree still goes up in October. It is a reminder that the holiday season is near. However, instead of reminding me of all the money we have to save or the presents we need to buy, it reminds me of that special Christmas, the Christmas I received the greatest gift of all.

You know from studying Church history that we have tried to live as one in a variety of settings. A story from one of those tries, in Orderville, Utah, gives us a clue as to why it is so hard.
Orderville was founded in 1870 and 1871 by people who wanted to live the united order; in 1875 they began the order. They built housing units in a square, with a common dining hall. They built a storehouse, shoe shop, bakery, blacksmith shop, tannery, schoolhouse, sheep shed, and woolen factory. They grew and made nearly everything they needed, from soap to trousers. They had carpenters, midwives, teachers, artists, and musicians. They produced enough surplus that they could sell it in neighboring towns for cash: with that they built up a capital fund to buy more land and equipment.
The population rose to seven hundred people. One hundred and fifty of them gave Orderville a special advantage: they had come to Orderville from the mission on the Muddy River, where they had nearly starved. When those who had been called to the Muddy were released, they were in near destitution. Twenty-four of those families went to Long Valley, founded Orderville, and pledged all they had to the Lord. They didn’t have much, but their poverty may have been their greatest contribution. Their having almost nothing provided a basis for future comparison that might have guaranteed gratitude: any food or clothing or housing that came to them in Orderville would be treasure compared to their privation on the Muddy mission.
But time passed, the railroad came, and a mining boom put cash in the hands of people in the neighboring towns. They could buy imported clothes, and they did. The people in Orderville were living better than they had in years, but the memory of poverty on the Muddy had faded. They now focused on what was in the next town. And so they felt old-fashioned and deprived.
One ingenious boy acted on the discontent he felt when he was denied a new pair of pants from the Orderville factory because his were not worn out yet. He secretly gathered the docked lambs’ tails from the spring crop. He sheared the wool from them and stored it in sacks. Then, when he was sent with a load of wool to sell in Nephi, he took his sacks along and exchanged them for a pair of store pants. He created a sensation when he wore the new-style pants to the next dance.
The president of the order asked him what he had done. The boy gave an honest answer. So they called him into a meeting and told him to bring the pants. They commended him for his initiative, pointed out that the pants really belonged to the order, and took them. But they told him this: the pants would be taken apart, used as a pattern, and henceforth Orderville pants would have the new store-bought style. And he would get the first pair.
That did not quite end the pants rebellion. Orders for new pants soon swamped the tailoring department. When the orders were denied because pants weren’t yet worn out, boys began slipping into the shed where the grinding wheel was housed. Soon, pants began to wear out quickly. The elders gave in, sent a load of wool out to trade for cloth, and the new-style pants were produced for everyone.
You know that isn’t a happy ending. There were many challenges Orderville faced in the ten years they lived the order there. One of them they never really conquered. It was the problem of not remembering. That is a problem we must solve, too.

It’s been just over a year now since my parents and I joined the Church, and it hasn’t been an easy time for us.
We were taught by two of the finest missionaries and gained a strong testimony. But when we decided to be baptized, people told us we would be lost and end up in hell. We were told we were no good. We received a great deal of persecution. I lost all the friends I had at my old church, which I’d been attending for eleven years. I had done a lot of baby-tending and when I changed churches, the parents of the children I used to care for told me that they would never hire me to care for their children again, that I was a bad influence, and that they never wanted me in their home again.
That all hurt me very badly. I was harassed at school, and when I came home, there would be pamphlets against the Church in the mailbox and threatening phone calls.
The threats against us almost postponed our baptism. When my father received one the day we were to be baptized, he nearly canceled the baptism. But we went through with it.
And you know what? I’m really glad we did. I told my mom that I didn’t care if I lost all my friends. Yes, it hurt a great deal, but I knew that Jesus Christ had died for my sins. He had been beaten, spit on, and stabbed, and had had thorns put on his head. My troubles didn’t seem so bad in comparison.
I still get criticism about joining the Church, but Jesus Christ has helped me pull through. I have my baby-tending jobs back, and we no longer receive any more threats. I have found truly beautiful new friends in my ward, where there is a great deal of love, friendship, and caring. I would go through all the hardships again and face even more. I thank Heavenly Father so very much for bringing me into the true Church.

Vienna. What a magnificent, historic city, but what a huge place in which to be looking for a missionary companion! Elder Thomas Biesinger, age 39, just off the train from Germany, looked in vain for Elder Paul Hammer, who was to arrive by train about the same time. November 25, 1883. 5:30 A.M. He waited in the railroad restaurant until daylight, then walked outside the station and from an elevation looked out at the Austrian capital. He was awestruck as he thought about his difficult mission, and in his mind he conversed with Vienna:
“Thou City of Vienna, thou boasteth thyself as being one of the proudest cities of the East and the beauties of thy gardens and parks are perhaps not excelled in the world. Thou also containeth many ancient relics amongst the abode of a monarch who sways his proud sceptre over a dominion containing nearly forty millions of inhabitants.”
Vienna, he recalled, had 20 years before expelled one of the most noble and intelligent Apostles of the Restoration, Orson Pratt. “Again God has extended his mercy unto thee,” he warned Vienna in his mind, “and has inspired his servant the prophet to send to thee other messengers. One of these has just entered the city, though much inferior in wisdom and intelligence to the one thou rejected.” The lonely elder then prayed for God to have mercy on Austria, to “soften the heart of the emperor and officers of the land, that thy servants may be permitted to stay and [be] given liberty to search for the honest in heart.”
His prayer, however, would require decades for fulfillment. For Austria-Hungary, an empire old and mighty, was not a land of freedom. In order to keep its different states and nationalities from breaking away, a police state prevented anyone from preaching new ideas, political or religious.
He rented an inexpensive room with cooking facilities, then checked with the Vienna police to see if his companion had registered with them. No sign of him. Because Elder Hammer was the senior companion, Eider Biesinger did not start his actual missionary labors yet, except to enter into conversations with people he met as he went back and forth to the railway station. They finally found each other on December 3 and discovered that for a week they both had been living in different quarters on the very same street!

Finally, the ongoing Relief Society learning opportunities will be effective in the lives of sisters to the degree that learning and teaching are by the Spirit. Let me tell you of a sister who helped me appreciate teaching by the Spirit.
She was an older woman, one of many immigrants who had been able to come only as far as New York City on the way to Zion. She had not had great opportunity for learning and was having difficulty adjusting to a new culture. We were the only two in our department at stake leadership meeting one night.
The board member asked us each to describe how we prepared our lessons. I had been trained as a teacher and could say some things about lesson plans and objectives; but this lovely sister, haltingly, in a language newly learned, spoke of how she studied the material and then got on her knees and asked the Lord what in that lesson she should stress for the sisters of her ward, and she said, “He always directs me.” As I heard her speak and experienced the sweetness of her spirit, I felt sure that he did, because she taught me what I needed to hear. Though it has been many years since that night in Manhattan, I have never forgotten her nor her message.

Rebecca Swanston, a 12-year-old member of the Mt. Zion Baptist Church, had a speaking part in this year’s program. She participated with two LDS boys, Jean Gonzalez and Jason Godwin. Rebecca’s lines were about the lives of prominent African Americans and their contributions to society. Rebecca will remember those important facts, but she will also remember her new friends.

“I probably wouldn’t know Jason and Jean if we hadn’t done this program,” she says. “We’ve had a great time. I can’t wait for next year’s Black history program.”

When I was in Primary, my brother was a toddler, and my sister was a baby. My mother was very busy taking care of them during the day, so when I came home from school, I helped her. I put my brother in the stroller and walked around the block with him, again and again. We talked about the beautiful world together and looked at the birds, bugs, and our neighbors’ pets. It was a small thing, but it made a big difference! It helped my mom feel happy and rested. It helped my whole family. It was a way of helping like Jesus wants us to help.

The desire to help another, the quest for the lost sheep, may not always yield success at once. On occasion progress is slow—even indiscernible. Such was the experience of my longtime friend Gil Warner. He was serving as a newly called bishop when “Douglas,” a member of his ward, transgressed and was deprived of his Church membership. Father was saddened; Mother was totally devastated. Douglas soon thereafter moved from the state. The years hurried by, but Bishop Warner, now a member of a high council, never ceased to wonder what had become of Douglas.
In 1975, I attended the stake conference of the Parleys stake and held a priesthood leadership meeting early on the Sunday morning. I spoke of the Church discipline system and the need to labor earnestly and lovingly to rescue any who had strayed. Gil Warner asked to speak and then outlined the story of Douglas. He concluded with the question, “Who has the responsibility to work with Douglas and bring him back to Church membership?” Gil advised me later that my response to his question was direct and given without hesitation: “It is your responsibility, Gil, for you were his bishop, and he knew you cared.”
Unbeknownst to Gil Warner, Douglas’s mother had, the previous week, fasted and prayed that a man would be raised up to help save her son. Gil discovered this when he felt prompted to call her to report his determination to be of help.
Gil began his odyssey of redemption. Douglas was contacted by him. Old times, happy times, were remembered. Testimony was expressed, love was conveyed, and confidence instilled. The pace was excruciatingly slow. Discouragement frequently entered the scene; but, step by step, Douglas made headway. At long last prayers were answered, efforts rewarded, and victory attained. Douglas was approved for baptism.
The baptismal date was set, family members gathered, and former bishop Gil Warner flew to Seattle for the occasion. Can we appreciate the supreme joy felt by Bishop Warner as he, dressed in white, stood with Douglas in water waist deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words, “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost” (D&C 20:73).
He that was lost was found. A 26-year mission, marked by love and pursued with determination, had been successfully completed. Gil Warner said to me, “This was one of the greatest days of my life. I know the joy promised by the Lord when He declared, ‘And if it so be that you should labor all your days … and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!’” (D&C 18:15).
Were the Lord to say to Gil Warner today, as He said to Adam’s son long years ago, “Where is Douglas, thy brother?” Bishop Warner could reply, “I am my brother’s keeper, Lord. Behold Douglas, Thy son.”

I grew up in Salt Lake City, Utah, and at the age of 16, my dad received a job transfer to Miami, Florida. I had to leave my friends, my school, and everything I knew and move to the other side of the United States. The weather was different, the culture was different; I felt like a fish out of water. My first day of school in Miami was one of the scariest days of my life. Here I was in another state, and I didn’t know anyone but my family, and they weren’t there to help me. I was alone and scared, but I remember praying to make it through each class and each day. Just so you know, I didn’t have a cell phone back then to just text my friends back home. The only way to call them was by long distance, which was expensive, so I couldn’t call my friends very often. We also didn’t have Facebook to just reach out and see what people were doing. It was a very hard time in my life. Slowly, day by day, I made new friends and Miami became my new home. In fact, after high school, I met the love of my life, and we were married and all three of our boys were born in Miami.

A few years ago, Alice E. Smith, of Yuba City, California, wrote of a faith-promoting experience in finding a record of her great-grandfather’s death. She and her husband were returning from their annual trip to visit their daughter who lived near Seattle, Washington. Although Sister Smith knew how much her husband disliked making stops during their return journey, she asked him if they could stop briefly at a cemetery to see if there were any record of her great-grandfather’s death. She was surprised and delighted when he readily agreed to the side trip in a little town along the Columbia River.
On a hunch they drove to the nearest of three cemeteries, parked in the middle of an older section, and started to search. Within ten minutes, their youngest daughter called, “Here’s a Bailey. I think this is the one!”
With a can of water and a rag from the car, her husband carefully began to scrub away the years’ accumulation of moss, revealing the name, dates in full, and a little inscription: Note the significance of the inscription: Here’s my heart, O take and seal it; Seal it for thy courts above. Surely it was heaven-sent help that had brought them to this message from her devout Methodist ancestor to the family today.
Another family member was able to identify the inscription, taken from the old hymn “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”3 The divine message of that hymn will sing in the hearts of an expanding family forevermore. The word sealing will take on greater significance.

I bought the first one several years ago in a drugstore in Alexandria, Virginia. At 77 cents it was the least pretentious bound notebook I could find. At the time, I didn’t know I was starting a journal, I only knew I needed a place to organize my thoughts.
Before then, I had written ideas on any convenient scrap of paper—on the backs of tithing slips, on church programs, in small spaces on calendars. As I lost those bits of paper, I lost my only record of my best insights. The time had come to make them more lasting.
From the time I learned to write till I was about 18 years old I had kept diaries, but the small, hand-size pages didn’t allow for long entries. And the word diary on the front seemed too lofty, like the record an explorer would keep of an Antarctic exploration. I wrote only the activities of my life in them, never my thoughts. (A typical entry: “Today I almost failed my history test, but tonight Mike in my French class called me.”)
There was little emotional substance to those entries, but at least there were entries. Regrettably, as I attended college, I became “too busy” to keep a diary.
Therefore, when I bought the 77 cent notebook, I was just tired of losing those insights that would make good Sunday School talks. As I wrote in that first notebook, I was fascinated by how easily words came. I began looking forward to writing in my notebook at night. Sometimes during the day I would write myself a note about ideas to record that night. Some mornings I awoke before dawn and wrote fervently for five minutes or even an hour, undisturbed by the need to get up and get dressed. Some nights I wrote several entries; some nights I wrote none.
I liked the inexpensive notebooks because I wasn’t afraid to make mistakes in them, or to write about the mistakes I made in living. I began setting aside time to write. I wrote in the same place—sitting on the sofa, by the lamp. I recorded in the margins events that were significant, such as a new car or the date of my cat’s vaccinations. The actual writing space was used to record my reactions to the day, my observations and conclusions.
It was only when I went back to the drugstore several months later to buy another notebook that I realized I was keeping a journal. I decided to give the series of notebooks a name: Janet. The first volume, Janet I, hadn’t exactly assumed journal form, since I had dated few entries, and none mentioned daily activities and impressions. As I realized I was keeping a journal, I modified the format so that I would at least know what day each entry was written.
It became interesting, too, to note where I was each day I wrote. No matter where I went—on trips or to stay with nearby friends—I found that I was the same person, with the same personality.
When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of discussion with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend.
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgement. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were good.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet fights Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with the discovery of living “… for the Lord gives unto the faithful line upon line, precept upon precept to try you and prove you herewith.” (see D&C 98:12). Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was cruel to me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, at each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant friend, on a bookshelf or in a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but that is only part of the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic artwork, though it is rough.
The Janet series is vigorously continuing in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages.

After months of planning, the young men of the Barnstaple Branch, Plymouth England Stake, left for their camp three days early. No, they didn’t read their calendars wrong. They decided that, instead of taking the usual car ride, they and their Young Men president would walk the 65 miles (105 km) to camp in stormy weather. The hike took the young men along roads, paths, and rugged Dartmoor countryside.
The trek was such a success that the stalwart hikers decided to do it again some months later. This time they walked the 130 miles (209 km) from Young Men’s camp in Redruth, arriving home in Bideford six days later. Needless to say, most of the young men have completed the Duty to God hiking requirements.