Gospel Story Finder

On June 6, 1944, Hyrum Shumway, a young second lieutenant in the United States Army, went ashore at Omaha Beach as part of the D-day invasion. He made it safely through the landing, but on July 27, as part of the Allied advance, he was severely injured by an exploding anti-tank mine. In an instant, his life and future medical career had been dramatically impacted. Following multiple surgeries, which helped him recover from most of his serious injuries, Brother Shumway never did regain his sight. How would he respond?
Following three years in a rehabilitation hospital, he returned home to Lovell, Wyoming. He knew that his dream of becoming a medical doctor was no longer possible, but he was determined to move ahead, get married, and support a family.
He eventually found work in Baltimore, Maryland, as a rehab counselor and employment specialist for the blind. In his own rehabilitation process, he had learned that the blind are capable of much more than he had realized, and during his eight years in this position, he placed more blind people into employment than any other counselor in the nation.
Now confident in his ability to provide for a family, Hyrum proposed to his sweetheart by telling her, “If you will read the mail, sort the socks, and drive the car, I can do the rest.” They were soon sealed in the Salt Lake Temple and ultimately blessed with eight children.
In 1954 the Shumways returned to Wyoming, where Brother Shumway worked for 32 years as the State Director of Education for the Deaf and Blind. During that time, he served for seven years as bishop of the Cheyenne First Ward and, later, 17 years as stake patriarch. Following his retirement, Brother and Sister Shumway also served as a senior couple in the London England South Mission.
Hyrum Shumway passed away in March 2011, leaving behind a legacy of faith and trust in the Lord, even under trying conditions, to his large posterity of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
Hyrum Shumway’s life may have been changed by war, but he never doubted his divine nature and eternal potential. Like him, we are spirit sons and daughters of God, and we “accepted His plan by which [we] could obtain a physical body and gain earthly experience to progress toward perfection and ultimately realize [our] divine destiny as heirs of eternal life.” No amount of change, trial, or opposition can alter that eternal course—only our choices, as we exercise our agency.

Our prophet is also a good example of someone who looked with his spiritual eyes, felt and understood with his heart, and then helped. President Gordon B. Hinckley was only twenty years old when his mother died. He had younger brothers and sisters at home, and everyone in the family was very sad. Ramona was sixteen and about to graduate from high school. She had no dress for that special occasion, and she thought nobody noticed. But her older brother Gordon saw her need, understood how she felt, and helped. Using some money he had saved for graduate school, he bought her a new dress. His kindness made her feel loved.

Heavenly Father knows our individual journeys are not easy. We are faced every day with situations that require courage and strength. A recent story in the Church News affirms this truth:
““A teacher in a high school a few months ago began her instruction one day by asking students who supported a political issue to stand on one side of the room, while those who opposed it were instructed to stand on the other side.
““After students had formed their sides, the teacher took her stance on the opposing side. Singling out one young woman on the side of the supporters, the teacher commenced an attack on her and the other classmates for their views.
““The young woman, who was a Mia Maid in her ward, absorbed the assault that criticized her beliefs.
““[She remained] calm in the face of a public attack leveled by someone in authority” (“What Youth Need,” Church News, Mar. 6, 2010, 16).
This young woman showed remarkable courage on her own battlefield, which on this day happened to be her school classroom. Wherever you are and whatever you may face, I hope you will take advantage of the guides found in the book of Joshua so that you can trust in the Lord’s promise: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest” (Joshua 1:9).
I want to leave you with my testimony that Heavenly Father knows and loves each of you. If you turn to Him, He will not fail you! He will bless you with the strength and the courage you will need to complete your journey back to Him. I am grateful for the scriptures and for powerful examples like the prophet Joshua. I am grateful for President Monson, who strives to lead us safely back to our Heavenly Father. I pray that, like the children of Israel, we will all enter our “land of promise” and find rest in the blessings of the Lord. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

María Isabel Parra de Uribe of the Villas de La Hacienda Ward, México City México Tepalcapa Stake, tells of an experience common to many who have sought blessings of healing. Five months pregnant, she was suffering intense pain. Tests showed she needed surgery immediately, and she was told she might lose her baby.
“My husband and I were confused,” she says. “We didn’t know whether to have the surgery or not. We decided to ask God if surgery was the right choice. After our prayer, we felt peaceful and calm.
“While I was waiting to be taken to the operating room, my husband gave me a priesthood blessing. When it was over, we felt not only calm but certain our baby would survive.
“After I came out of surgery, a nurse said, ‘Everything is all right. Your baby is fine.’ I smiled to myself, realizing, I already knew.”
The power of godliness had been manifest in her life.

In high school. After my mission I wasn’t accepted to a university, so I studied on my own. I read lots of books. I visited Europe to study the stained-glass windows of famous cathedrals. I stared at one window in Czechoslovakia for an hour! It was inspiring. I promised myself that someday I would try to make a window that beautiful. Now I get to make stained-glass windows for temples around the world.

The faith of the Korean Saints grew constantly but was often tested. Brother Chun Nak Seo, who after his baptism joined the army to fulfill his military duty, recalled some trying times: “During the three years of military service, my faith and testimony were tested. One day the company commander was drunk and brought a lot of liquor and pressed it on the company members. Because my colleagues knew that I was LDS, they always emptied the cup for me. But on that evening, the drunken commander was watching me carefully and commanded me to drink from the cup. I said that I didn’t drink alcohol, but he ordered me to do so. But I disobeyed again. He took out his pistol and aimed at me and ordered me to drink. Everyone was holding his breath and watching. I once again clearly said, ‘I do not drink alcohol, sir.’ I felt that moment was very long. He finally said, ‘I give up’ and put down the pistol. Everyone sighed with relief and came back to the barracks. The next morning, the company commander came to me and apologized for what he had done the previous night. Later he used to come to me to get advice on personal matters.”6
Brother Chun served as a full-time missionary in Korea and later as a bishop of the Alameda Ward in Maryland, USA.

Ada was cold. Sleepily she snuggled closer to Roy and wished that the wind wouldn’t whip through the canvas of the wagon.
“Where’s Papa?” her little brother mumbled.
“Mama said he’d come for us soon,” Ada answered, sliding her arms around his middle.
“Are we going to go down the hole, too,” Roy wanted to know, “like all the other wagons?”
Ada thought of the hole in the rock that Papa and the other men on the mission had worked on for six weeks. Papa said that going down the cliff to the river was the only way to the San Juan mission, and since Heavenly Father and the prophet wanted them to go, they would do it, even if it meant sliding 1,800 feet (550 m) down a steep road. “Papa said so,” she said.
“Ada? Roy?”
“Papa!” Ada ran and threw her arms around her papa’s neck. “Are we going down the hole?”
“Yes, we are, and by ourselves, too,” Papa said, letting them go and stepping back. Ada could hear him muttering as he moved around the wagon, hitching up the horses. “There I was helping them across the river and not one of them came back to help bring my wagon down!”
“I can help!” Roy called out from his bed.
“Just hang on,” Mama told him. She scrambled into the wagon with the baby.
Ada listened to the horses’ feet, sharp on the bare rock where the snow had blown clear or had been worn away by the other wagons.
“Easy, boy, easy.” The wagon lurched to a stop.
Ada heard the chains rattle. Papa was chaining the back wheels so that they could not roll. That would help keep the wagon from going too fast. Even so, a funny, scary tickle started in her belly. The road down the cliff was as steep as the roof of a house. Skinny, too. Part of it was only a place where holes had been drilled into the rock, wooden stakes pounded in, and brush and dirt piled on top. If it didn’t work, the wagon might slip off and tumble to the river that was only a silver thread at the bottom of the gorge.
None of the other 82 wagons had fallen, but each had been held back by as many as 10 men. Ada had seen them straining with all their might, grunting and panting white steam into the cold air.
“Come on, Ada,” Mama called. She gathered a pile of quilts and lifted the three children from the wagon bed. “I am going to help Papa get the wagon down.”
“All by yourself?”
Mama nodded.
Ada shivered. Out in the wind, the cold was worse. This was the rockiest, driest, coldest place Ada had ever seen. Since October, when they had left Cedar City, she had been dirty and thirsty. Now it was almost the end of January. She wondered if they would ever get to Montezuma, the new town.
Papa was looking down the hole-in-the-rock. He kept shaking his head. Ada couldn’t hear what he and Mama were talking about, but Mama had on her “stubborn look,” which meant that Mama would do whatever she decided was best.
Ada hugged her shawl tighter around her. Pretty soon Mama came back to where the children waited and spread the quilts right on the snow.
“Sit here, Roy,” she said. Roy sat, and Mama put the baby in his arms. Even if he was only three years old, Roy was good at holding Baby George. “Hold little brother till Papa comes for you. Now, Ada, sit by your brothers and say a little prayer.”
Ada wanted to be brave, but she felt like crying and hanging onto Mama’s skirts. But she was five, a big girl, and so she sat and let Mama tuck the quilt over her legs.
“Don’t move, dears,” Mama told them. “Don’t even stand up. As soon as we get the wagon down, Papa will come back for you!”
The scary tickle in Ada’s belly got worse. She tilted her head back and stared up at Papa, his face red from the cold and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Will you come back, Papa?”
He nodded and turned his head aside. But she saw that he was crying. Papa crying! But he said that he’d come back, so Ada knew he would.
“Then I’m not afraid!” she said. “We’ll stay here with God till you and Mama get the wagon down.” Ada bowed her head. “Father in heaven, bless me and Roy and Baby George until our father comes back.”
When Ada looked up again, Papa was on the wagon seat. Mama stood behind the wagon with Old Ned, the spare horse, who was tied to the back of the wagon to help slow it down. She wrapped Ned’s reins round and round her hands.
“Giddap!” Papa clucked. The horses lunged forward, and the wagon lurched through the hole. Mama ran behind, dragging on the reins so hard that she was leaning backward. Then the wagon, Old Ned, and Mama dropped out of sight.
Faintly Ada heard rattling. Then it was so quiet that her ears buzzed, and when she swallowed, it sounded loud.
“Ada?” Roy whispered. “Where’d they go?”
“Down to the river, I guess.”
“Oh.”
A gust of wind swirled the powdery snow and whipped it across the children, stinging their faces. Roy stuck out his bottom lip and snuffed.
Ada thought hard. Mama had told them to stay still, but if Roy started crying, then Baby George might, too, and Ada didn’t know what to do. Yes, she did!
“It will be all right,” she said to Roy. “Papa said he would be back. And we said a prayer, didn’t we? Heavenly Father and Jesus know that we are in the snow, and They will keep us safe.”
They waited a long time. Ada wiggled her toes to keep them warm. Roy rubbed his red nose on his shoulder and sniffed. They waited some more.
Finally Ada couldn’t wait anymore. She didn’t stand up, but she tilted her head back and called, “Papa! Papa!”
From far away she heard Papa yelling, “Coming, Ada!”
“He’s coming! Listen!” She told Roy.
He nodded happily. “Papa!”
“Ada!” Papa’s voice was louder now. And then she saw his hat through the hole-in-the-rock, and then his face, and then all of him striding through the snow to where they waited.
“God stayed with us,” Ada told him when he knelt on one knee next to them.
Roy piped up. “The baby’s gone to sleep, and my arm feels like it’s ‘most broke.”
Papa smiled a little, then scooped up Baby George in one arm and Roy in his other.
“Come on, Ada,” he said. “Hang on to my pockets while we walk down.”
Ada stood and hooked her hands in Papa’s back pockets. She had to take long steps to keep up, but it was fun bouncing along behind him. “Where’s Mama?”
“Down with the wagon. Old Ned fell, and so did Mama. The wagon dragged them part of the way down, but I think they will both be all right.” He stopped to adjust the boys in his arms. Ada peered around him at the slanted, rocky path. She shivered and closed her eyes.
The first part, they sat down and slid. Then they walked as close to the wall of the canyon as they could. It made Ada dizzy to look down, so she concentrated on Papa’s back. Where the road was filled in, the ground felt spongy. Papa said that the horses didn’t like walking on it, either. The very end of the road was sandy. Ada’s feet slid and sank in. At last the ground evened out.
“We made it,” Papa told her. “My wife and children are the bravest pioneers in the Church.”
Letting go of Papa’s pockets, she turned and looked back up to the hole-in-the-rock at the edge of the sky. How had they gotten down safely? Ada knew. “God helped us.”

I was introduced to the Church in the beginning of 2018. I loved learning from the missionaries, and when they told me about the importance of family history and temple work, I wasn’t surprised. I already knew that there was something important about learning about and serving family members who had gone before.
Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles explained:
“Family history and temple work is not only for the dead but blesses the living as well. …
“… This is far more than an encouraged hobby, because the ordinances of salvation are necessary for all of God’s children.”1
In hearing this, I was excited to keep learning about the gospel and to eventually do temple work for my ancestors and connect with them more.
On November 1, 2018, my family and I visited my grandma’s memorial. I had known her well all my life, and I missed her since she had passed away. I was still learning about the Church at the time, and I was pretty positive that my grandma would have disagreed with and discouraged my interest in the Church if she were alive. She had been very traditional in her religion.
So I was surprised when, while standing in front of her grave and praying for her, I got the distinct impression that she already knew the truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I felt that she was proud of me because I had the opportunity to live my life according to the Savior’s example.
I was stunned.
The missionaries had recently taught me that those who are on the other side of the veil have opportunities to learn about the gospel if they didn’t have a chance to learn about it on the earth (see Doctrine and Covenants 138:22–24). Somehow I knew my grandma had been taught these truths and was ready to accept the gospel. I knew she needed my help to get her temple work done.
And to do that work, I needed to get baptized myself.
I had been contemplating if I truly wanted to become a member of the Church of Jesus Christ for a while. And it was this experience at my grandma’s grave that led me to finally set up a baptismal date with the missionaries.

Daily study of the scriptures is another important family activity. I remember when my son was seven years old. He was taking a shower one night during a storm when we lost the power in our home. My wife called to him and told him to hurry to finish his shower and to then take a candle and come slowly downstairs for our family prayer. She warned him to be careful to not drop the candle on the carpet because it could start a fire and the house could burn down. Several minutes later he came down the stairs struggling to hold the candle in one hand, and with his other arm he was carrying his scriptures. His mother asked him why he was bringing his scriptures. His answer to her was “Mom, if the house burns down, I must save my scriptures!” We knew that our efforts to help him to love the scriptures had been planted in his heart forever.

I didn’t know what to do. President Ezra Taft Benson said that we should all read the Book of Mormon, but it isn’t that easy. My mom and dad think that since I’m only five years old, I’m too young to have a Book of Mormon of my own. Since I don’t have my own Book of Mormon, I decided to borrow one.
The first thing I did was look for my father’s Book of Mormon. I was climbing on a chair to get it from the top shelf when Dad came into the room.
“What are you doing, Melissa?” he asked.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Dad got his book and sat down in a chair with me on his lap and showed me the picture of Nephi stretching out his hand, and the one with Abinadi standing before King Noah, and even the one of Jesus coming down from heaven. Then he closed the book, gave me a hug, and lifted me off his lap.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
He opened his Book of Mormon to one of the front pages. “See this yellow spot?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“That’s mustard from your last hot dog. See this brown smudge on page 229?”
I nodded.
“That’s from your chocolate ice cream cone.”
“Oh.”
“See these last two pages that won’t come apart, even when I shake them?”
“Yes.”
“Strawberry jam.”
Dad put his Book of Mormon back on the shelf and walked away. I decided that I would have to borrow someone else’s.
I went up to my brother’s room. It’s full of all kinds of things, but I looked around until I found his Book of Mormon in the bottom drawer of his dresser. It’s a small one with tiny print and a real leather cover, and it has his name written in gold on the front. Ryan says that he’s saving it to take on his mission. I was just opening it when he came into the room. When he saw me, his eyes got wide. He rushed over and grabbed it from my hand.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
“Leave it alone!” he shouted, flipping it open. “Look at this!”
“It looks like a crayon mark,” I said.
He turned to another place. “And this!”
“It looks like someone accidentally tore the page,” I said.
He closed the book and put it back in his dresser drawer. I slipped quietly from the room.
I went to my own bedroom and huddled in a corner. After a while my nine-year-old sister came in. What’s wrong, Melissa?” Gina asked me.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Gina smiled and patted my head.
“You can read mine,” she said. I watched her look around the room until she found her Book of Mormon hidden under a pile of blankets. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. It was a big one, with large print.
“Thank you,” I said. I sat down on my bed and opened it. I looked at the words really hard, but I still couldn’t read them. I squinted at the page. I turned the book upside down. I lay on my back and lifted the book above me in the air, but it was no use. No matter what I did, I couldn’t read the Book of Mormon like the prophet told us to. I closed it and put it beside my pillow. Maybe the prophet hadn’t meant for five-year-olds to read it.
That night my mother came up to my room to tuck me into bed. She leaned over and kissed me and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then she looked around the room for my bedtime storybook. Mom looked in the toy box and under the bed, and while she was still searching, I remembered Gina’s Book of Mormon.
“What about this book, Mom?” I asked.
She picked it up. She looked at me, then at the book, then back at me again. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” I said.
She opened it to the first page.
“I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents,” she began.
It was better than my story book any day.

When I decided to go to the temple, it meant that I committed to following the Ten Commandments and the rules and regulations of the Church. But I also knew that I would get lot of blessings if I went to the temple. My goal in life is to return to live with Heavenly Father.
Nepali people can’t afford to go to the temple again and again, but with help from the Temple Patron Assistance Fund, I was able to go at least once.
I had to arrange time off of work and arrange things financially at home to be able to go. My wife is not a member of the Church, so she could not go. It was difficult for me to leave her alone at home.
Getting a passport was not a problem, but there were concerns about getting needed visas for travel. (No visa was needed to enter the Philippines, but depending on the route of travel and airlines, visas might be needed. The group ended up traveling through Malaysia. It was not the direct route, but no visa was needed.)
Getting an airline ticket proved difficult. The less expensive flights didn’t have enough seats available for our group of ten. But we finally made it to the temple.
When I saw the angel Moroni on the top of the temple, I felt peace, happiness and comfort. There were several housekeeping things we had to do before we entered the temple. We had to check into patron housing and go to the distribution center to buy garments. We had to eat meals and dress in our best clothes. At last we were ready to go inside the temple. I was so excited and felt more and more happiness as we did all we needed to do to be ready to go inside. Once there, we all changed into white clothing. I saw many people from different countries, but we were all dressed in white. I felt like I was I heaven. I felt so peaceful inside.
I want to go to the temple again.

One day at work, I had to leave for a few hours to take care of some important errands for my mother. I went to the office in the morning and told a colleague that I would be absent in the afternoon. During a break she whispered to me, “I can help you with the time clock.”
“No, thanks,” I said.
As I left the office to catch the bus, my friend followed me to the time clock. She said quietly, “Why don’t you clock in for the afternoon period, and then I’ll punch your time card when I go home?”
Before I could utter a word, she added, “Look, our salary is below minimum wage, so it would be OK to do this. It’s just a small amount. Besides, we are not the only ones who do it.”
I began to consider what she had said. She had some good points, and I knew she had good intentions. But this was not what I had been taught in the Church.
Gathering all my strength and resolve, I told her softly, “My friend, the Lord is good, and if He blesses us, we can receive from Him more than that amount.”
She left and was somewhat annoyed with me for rejecting her offer. While I walked to the bus stop, I worried about how small my paycheck would be. I knew we would have to forego buying some food the following month.
As I walked, I remembered the words of one of the hymns: “Be honest in your heart; and God will love and bless you and help to you impart.”1 A phrase from another hymn came to my mind: “Choose the right! And God will bless you evermore.”2
These lines strengthened my decision not to give in to temptation but to trust in the Lord’s promises.
Three years have passed since that incident, and I now have a new job. The Lord has definitely blessed me. It took time, but the promise of the hymns indeed came true, and I can feel that many blessings will continue to come to me as I continue to choose the right. I am grateful for the hymns, which give me courage to hold on to that which is right in the sight of God.

Let me give you an example of how important it is to put first things first if you are to be successful in life. As a boy I was raised on a farm, where I remained until I went away to school. I had observed how a farmer on one side of the road was very successful, while one on the other side was almost a failure as a farmer. What made the difference? They received the same amount of sunshine and rain. They planted the same kind of seeds. But one had beautiful and bounteous crops, while the other had no harvest or a poor one.

I observed that the successful farmer worked at his job. He would do his plowing, discing, harrowing, seeding, and harvesting in the proper season and at the proper time, while his neighbor was procrastinating, or off hunting and fishing while the work was still to be done. We must learn to set our priorities straight. No one can be successful in his line of work unless he works at it in the proper season and plays in the proper season.

This kind of ministering strengthened one sister who moved far away from home when her husband started graduate school. With no working phone and a small baby to care for, she felt disoriented in the new location, totally lost and alone. Without advance notice, a Relief Society sister came to the door bringing a little pair of shoes for the baby, put the two of them into her car, and took them to find the grocery store. The grateful sister reported, “She was my lifeline!”

With the birth of each of their four children, Richard and Jennifer Fisher have felt an intense responsibility to rear them in righteousness and help them return to their heavenly parents. To see one of those children surrender his life to drugs and alcohol has been almost more than they can bear. The heartache, they say, is indescribable.
“There’s such an overwhelming feeling of failure,” says Sister Fisher. “I review every day from the time he was born and ask myself what happened. What did we do wrong? What did we do differently with him than with the other children? And of course we can’t find any answers.
“I have felt a sense of failure to the Church family, too, not just to my own. At first I felt unworthy to serve in my Church calling and I asked to be released. When something appears in the paper about my son’s problems with the law, I think, how can I be an effective missionary?”
Those words describe the darkest periods of Sister Fisher’s struggle, intervals that recur less often now that her son has largely withdrawn from cocaine and other drugs, though he continues to use alcohol. The intensity of her distress also has diminished as she has learned not to blame herself but to see her son as a child of God with divine agency. He himself has reassured her many times that his choices are his own and that she was, indeed, a good and loving mother.
The Fishers found they could draw on their ward’s love and fellowship without reserve. “I told the ward in testimony meeting that I needed the ward members to join in prayer for my son, and I got a tremendous response. They have written notes and have made extra effort to speak to Jason when he attends church.”
Jason himself says he considered suicide but didn’t proceed with it because he knew of the love that others had for him. He has told his parents that their prayers and those of ward members protected him and that his life was spared because of it.
For Sister Fisher, the fruits of her faith have not yet fully materialized, and she realizes her son may never turn entirely away from his chosen way of living. Still, she refuses to give up.
“I will never cease to have hope. Never.”

Several months ago, a stake president and I visited a sister in his stake and her young adult son. After years away from the Church, wandering difficult and unfriendly paths, she had returned. During our visit, we asked her why she had come back.

“I had made a mess of my life,” she said, “and I knew where I needed to be.”

I then asked her what she had learned in her journey.

With some emotion, she shared that she had learned that she needed to attend church long enough to break the habit of not coming and that she needed to stay until it was where she wanted to be. Her return was not easy, but as she exercised faith in the Father’s plan, she felt the Spirit return.

And then she added, “I have learned for myself that God is good and that His ways are better than mine.”

Our family were the only Latter-day Saints in our town of 60,000 people. We did our best to live the gospel. I felt the Spirit often, and I never really doubted that the Church was true. But while serving in the military, I felt a strong desire to know for myself that the Book of Mormon is true. So I went to a private place and did just as the Book of Mormon counsels (see Moroni 10:4–5). I asked God. And I received a witness—a spiritual feeling of warmth, comfort, peace, and great happiness that I shall never forget.

Brother Pace met his future wife, Anne Marie Langeland, while the two were second-grade classmates in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. Later, while attending different high schools in the city, they reconnected during a combined seminary activity. They wrote each other for the next few years as she accompanied her family to Norway, where her father presided over the Norway Oslo Mission, and while Brother Pace served in the Spain Madrid Mission. They were married in the Salt Lake Temple on November 21, 1978, and are the parents of seven children.

“We left off last night at the beginning of Mosiah, remember?” Dad said.
During family scripture study, everyone usually had a turn to read. Nine-year-old Elise read from the Book of Mormon very well. Braydon was six and needed just a little help. Josh sat on Dad’s lap, and Dad whispered a few words for Josh to repeat.
It was Mom’s turn first tonight. After Mom read, Elise began reading with Mosiah 2:6:
“‘And they pitched their tents round about the temple, every man having his tent with the door thereof towards the temple, that thereby they might remain in their tents and hear the words which King Benjamin should speak unto them.’”
Elise stopped reading. She didn’t turn the page even though everyone else did. Dad looked at her as if to say, “Go on, honey.” A big smile came over Elise’s face.
“Dad, was King Benjamin kind of like a prophet?” she asked.
“Yes. We read the other night that he was a holy man who reigned over his people in righteousness.”
“Mom and Dad, do you think since tomorrow is general conference, we could pretend to be King Benjamin’s people and make a tent to listen to the prophets on TV?” Before her parents could answer, Elise was excitedly dancing around the room.
“Yeah!” Braydon said, brightening.
Josh crawled off Dad’s lap to skip with Elise.
Mom and Dad looked at each other. “Do you mean a tent made of tables and blankets and chairs?” Mom asked.
“Yes, a really big tent,” Elise said. “But there has to be a door to watch conference on TV.”
“Hmm,” Mom said. “We need to be listening to conference, not playing and making noise.”
Elise sat down.
“We could pretend it was hard to hear and we’d have to be really quiet to listen,” Braydon said.
“Just like the people trying to hear King Benjamin from the tower,” Elise added. “We promise we’ll be quiet and listen.”
“We could even call it a ‘reverence tent,’” Braydon said.
“Our conference reverence tent!” Elise beamed.
“That’s starting to sound like a fun idea,” Dad said.
“Hurray!” Josh cheered.
“Let’s get some things ready tonight,” Mom said.
After scripture study, Dad, Elise, Braydon, and Josh got busy setting up the “reverence tent.” They started with the long table that was used for big family dinners. They added the card table, some chairs, and lots of blankets, and connected it all to the couch. There was plenty of room inside for snacks and supplies for taking notes.
Most importantly, there was a big wide-open door facing the TV so the children could hear and watch general conference.
Elise, Braydon, and Josh helped color a sign that read “Reverence Tent.” “It’s to remind us to be quiet and listen, Dad,” Braydon said as they pinned it onto the blankets.
“Let’s bring in our scriptures,” Elise suggested.
“Great idea,” Braydon said.
They crawled in to look around. “Mom,” Braydon called, “come and see!”
“Wow!” Mom said as she came into the room. Mom had been busy gathering last year’s conference Ensigns, notebooks, scissors, glue sticks, pens, and crayons. She took out the General Authority charts from the old Ensigns and said that during conference Elise and Braydon could cut out and glue onto their notes the picture of the person who was speaking.
“I’ll help Braydon take notes,” Elise volunteered.
“And I’ll help Josh color a picture of the prophet,” Braydon said, smiling at Josh.
“I’m really excited about the talks,” Elise said.
“And the music,” Braydon added.
“General conference will bring a wonderful spirit into our home,” Mom said.
“This is going to be a great conference,” Dad agreed. “I know the Spirit will speak to each of us as we listen.”

William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew but became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk slung over his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over Rhysog Mountain? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair with a bit of wave in it. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair with a bit of wave in it, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved the most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away two of my sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that day only a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen Tad” (that’s Welsh for Father), and across the valley came the plaintive call of the cuckoo. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the thrush will sing a joyful tune. Aye, my Tad, it’s a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first LDS funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the hearse with a pair of black horses.
It was less than a mile to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the hearse. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on Rhysog Mountain. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my sons’ letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from son number two read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a 12-year-old cannot stay sad very long. “Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a bit of wave.”