Gospel Story Finder

I should like to repeat a beautiful experience, which is very touching to me. I hope Bishop Featherstone won’t mind my mentioning him as the one about whom I am going to speak. This happened just after they moved here from their lovely home, where they had many friends and were very popular. He had come home after work and had gotten into his lounging clothes, and his young son, Joe, said, “Dad, I wish you would give me a special blessing so that I can adjust and feel at home and be happy here.”

His father went upstairs and changed his clothes. As he was coming down, his wife said, “Surely you are not going out tonight.” He said, “I am going to give someone a blessing.” And then he said, “Joe has asked for a special blessing, and I wanted to be dressed and ready to honor the priesthood and to show Joe the interest I have in him, and to make it possible for him to enjoy the blessings through the faith he has in me and the priesthood.”

Brethren, that is the spirit to have. And, of course, as he told his wife, you can naturally imagine what happened. She shed tears as she realized she had a husband, the father of her son, who would be an example and be so interested in him that he would be prepared to represent the Lord in the priesthood that he holds.

I really wanted to play the flute. I thought it was so feminine and romantic, like something you might play while sitting on a rock in a field of flowers. But my parents couldn’t afford any kind of instrument at that time, and I wanted to be in the junior high beginning band, mostly because my best friend, Lisa, was in it, playing the snare drum. The school owned some instruments that it loaned out, and Mr. North, the grumpy old band teacher, assigned me an old, dented French horn in a beat-up black case.
I really hated that thing. If it wasn’t enough to have my backpack full of books to carry home every night, I also had to carry that heavy French horn up the hill almost a mile to my house. It really embarrassed me to carry that big old black case. I kept thinking of the flute, and how the case would have fit right in my backpack.
Our family of eight lives on an old quiet street, and the neighbors take a lot of interest in us. Brother Legarde, two doors down, is our home teacher and a musician himself, so he was delighted the first time he saw me coming by with the French horn. He put down his leaf rake and came right over, full of questions.
“Erika, my dear,” he said. “Is that a French horn I see?”
I set it down on the sidewalk. You really can’t just walk on when Brother Legarde stops you.
“Yeah,” I said without enthusiasm.
“You’re playing it? You’re taking lessons?” he asked, his eyes shining.
“School band is all. And I’m still working on making a decent sound come out of it. It mostly screams in pain when I blow into it.”
He laughed. “It’s all in the lips. They have to get strong and firm, and that takes time. School band is nice. What chair are you?”
“Third.”
“And how many chairs?”
“Three.”
He smiled gently. “It takes time,” he said again. “I’ll be listening to you practice, waiting to hear a sound that’s not painful.”
I smiled, picked up the heavy beast, and trudged home.
I hated that horn a lot, and I can’t explain exactly why I didn’t just quit and transfer into cooking or something. But it’s like some unwritten rule in our family that once you start something, you have to see it through. So I practiced pretty regularly, and after a while, I could at least play most of the notes.
Brother Legarde always called out words of encouragement when I passed. “Keep working, Erika. It’s sounding better. I heard you practicing yesterday.” Things like that.
I especially hated cleaning the horn and its old brassy smell. But Mr. North inspected our instruments once a week, and if they weren’t clean, he docked our grades. And believe me, I needed all the points I could get. Mr. North glared at me a lot when my horn squeaked, and I don’t think he thought I had much talent, and he was right. I would kind of dump the horn into the case and buckle it up and watch with envy as the two flute players dismantled their shiny silver instruments and tucked them neatly into their velvet-lined cases.
On a Friday in October, Mr. North decided we should go outside with our instruments and practice marching in preparation for the Veterans’ Day parade in November. Our band met on the stage of the auditorium, so I picked up my horn, leaving the case by my chair, and walked along the edge of the stage, swinging my horn in what I see now was a very careless way, when suddenly it slipped out of my hand and fell all the way off the stage to the auditorium floor, landing with a loud, tinny bang.
The whole class, including Mr. North, stopped and looked at me. I jumped down off the stage, picked up the horn, and looked up into Mr. North’s stern face. “Let me see it,” he said. I handed the horn to him. “You’ve dented it.” I see now that this was a real mistake, but I started to laugh. The horn had so many dents in it you wouldn’t believe it. I climbed back up on the stage, and he handed the horn back to me.
“You’ll be responsible for getting this repaired,” he said. “And unless you do, you’ll receive a failing grade in band.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t laughing any more. In our family, nobody has ever come home with a failing grade. I walked out kind of soberly and tried to march and play at the same time, which wasn’t easy.
Afterwards, Lisa came over to me. “What are you going to do?” she said.
“Do I have a choice?” I said. “After school, I’m going to carry this beast over to Midtown Music and see if they can fix it.”
“Couldn’t you get your mom to take you?”
I strapped the horn in and snapped the case shut. “‘If you create the problem, you solve the problem.’ That’s what my mom always says. I think I’ll just take it over there myself. I’ll be paying for it out of my baby-sitting money, too.”
Lisa shook her head. “Your parents are so strict.”
“They’re really into character development, that’s all.”
At the music store, I stood looking around at flutes and recorders and thinking about that rock in the field of flowers while the man examined the horn. “I would have to remove all the dents leading up to your dent,” he said, running his knobby fingers along the bumpy horn. I couldn’t bypass all these other dents.”
“How much?”
“Sixty dollars.”
I gasped, told him I’d have to think about it, picked up the horn, put it in its case, and left.
For the rest of the week, I practiced playing and marching as best I could. And really, the dent didn’t hurt anything. But on Friday, Mr. North nailed me with his cold eyes and asked, “What about the instrument repair?” I told him I’d see what I could do over the weekend.
Friday night was Halloween, and Lisa and I had decided to go trick-or-treating one more time before leaving our childhood behind, just for a little while before we went over to the stake Mutual party.
At the Legardes’, Brother Legarde opened the door and pretended he didn’t know who we were, even though it was perfectly obvious. But instead of putting candy in my sack, he put a flat, wrapped thing that looked like a cassette tape. Sure enough, when I got home and opened it, it was a tape of Mozart’s Four Horn Concerti. I was pretty touched that Brother Legarde would give it to me. After the Mutual party I listened to it and could hear how nice a French horn could sound.
The next morning, Saturday, I thought about the little music store over on Redwood Road, kind of a dumpy place that’s been there forever. I lugged the horn off the bus and into Mozzie’s Music Store. Mr. Mozzie, grizzled and unkempt looking, smiled at me as I got the horn out and put it up on the counter. I explained how I just wanted the one dent removed. He looked at it for some time, turning it this way and that, pushing the valves up and down.
“It’s not a bad old horn,” he said. “It could be fixed up. But sure, if you want one dent out, we’ll take one dent out.”
“How much?”
“Four dollars and fifty cents.”
I felt so relieved when he said that, but something made me hesitate. “How much would you charge if you took out all the dents?” I asked.
He picked up the horn again, squinting at it and fingering the dents. “I could smooth this horn and shine it up and oil the valves for $35.”
“I’m going to think about it,” I said, and don’t ask me why, but I packed that thing up and got back on the bus and went home.
I lay on my bed and listened to the “Four Horn Concerti” again, and I began to see myself in that field of flowers. Not sitting on a rock, but marching around, under a radiant blue sky with wonderful haunting music coming out of a shining French horn.
Then I went over to the Legardes’ and knocked on the door. Brother Legarde answered as usual.
“Thank you for the tape,” I said. “I’ve listened to it quite a few times, and it’s really beautiful.”
“Good. You’re training your ear as well as your lips. The French horn is a beautiful instrument, played by many angels I’m sure. It suits you. Will you come in?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I wondered if I could rake your leaves and do a little cleaning up in the yard for five dollars. I need to get my horn repaired.”
“It’s broken?”
“Well, I dropped it and dented it.”
“Oh, by all means,” he said, coming out onto the porch. “Your instrument must be in the best possible condition. It needs to be treated with special care.”
I felt kind of shoddy and careless when he said that. So much for good character. But I did my best in his yard, even turned his compost pile a little after I put the leaves on it, which is not a pleasant job. He gave me ten dollars.
On Monday, I went right up to Mr. North. “I have two estimates on the horn. I’ll get it fixed this week.” He nodded and looked at me with almost friendliness, with a little respect anyway.
I told Mr. Mozzie that I guessed if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing right. He did a good job. It was shinier and better looking, and the valves didn’t stick. I cleaned the inside of the case with an old toothbrush, wiped off the outside, and carefully taped the corners. Mr. North warmed up a little, and by the time I was in the ninth grade and was first chair, he had even started smiling at me occasionally.
Now I play French horn in the high school marching band. I hold my head up high and get those notes out loud and clear, and the sun glints off the beautiful horn I got for Christmas last year. I keep it shined and clean at all times. I try to do the same for my character.

Unlike my friend who did not heed the direction to bail out, on another occasion one of my other fellow pilots did. He had made a mistake and glanced off the top of a mountain on a low-altitude bombing run. Although his F-4 Phantom II jet was destroyed, this pilot had pulled the yellow handle and bailed out while careening through the air, and he lived. Belief strong enough to apply his knowledge had saved this pilot.

Michael, oldest of the three, says, “In church, everybody talks about saving money for a mission, but because the wall was up, none of the younger people believed we would be able to go on missions.”

“My parents taught me to save money to go on a mission,” says Matthias, “and I did it, too. But I never really thought I’d be able to go.” His patriarchal blessing did say he would serve a mission, but he assumed it would be later in life. When he served as a stake missionary at the open house prior to the temple dedication, Matthias thought maybe that was the fulfillment of the blessing.

Then there was Peter, youngest of the sons. He knew something his brothers didn’t know. Peter received his patriarchal blessing in 1986, after the temple dedication. He talks about going to a small town on the Polish border, attending a small branch in a shabby rented building rich with the Spirit, and then going to the home of the patriarch.

“He told me that I would go on a full-time mission. I would serve in a different country and a different language, and it would be in my youth. I was crying, I felt so close to the Lord in that moment. Afterward, I read my patriarchal blessing every night. I prayed. And I started saving money for my mission. I knew I was going soon.”

Peter just didn’t know where he would be going. (He thought somehow it might be Russia, since he spoke that language fairly well.) And, for some reason, he shared his blessing with his parents but not his brothers. “I was kind of different in my family. I always said, ‘We’re going on a mission and it’s going to be great. We’re going to change things.’ My brother Matthias was skeptical. But I had my patriarchal blessing. I knew.”

Still, Peter didn’t know how it would happen. Also, he was the youngest. As far as he knew, he had been given a promise that his brothers hadn’t been given. So he kept quiet about it.

Then, not long before the hated wall came down, the East German government began to allow a few full-time missionaries in for the first time in 50 years. At the same time, a handful of East German missionaries were allowed out of the country to serve in other nations. For some reason, none of the Lehmanns were permitted to be part of that group.

But then came those November days that were replayed on TV screens all over the world. East Berliners sat atop the wall with hammers and iron bars, tearing apart a barrier that had already been undermined by faith and prayer.

Peter was the first to submit his mission papers. Matthias and Michael followed soon after. All three were called to missions in the United States: Michael in the Tennessee Nashville Mission; Matthias in the Idaho Boise Mission; and Peter in the Colorado Denver Mission.

They knew what it was like to become free. Now they were ready to help others tear down another kind of wall. Every conversion, every life changed, is another person set free spiritually. And that is the greatest freedom. Just ask the Lehmanns.

I was a junior in high school when Allison befriended me. She had moved from Boise, Idaho, that year, but to me it seemed she was from another planet. We sat next to each other in seminary, and I had never met a teenager who was so dedicated to her religion.
On the other hand, I was struggling with my testimony, slowly becoming inactive in Church and seminary activities. My parents were at a loss. They offered to answer any gospel questions I had, but I didn’t want their help. I wanted to find the truth on my own.
Despite our differences, Allison and I became good friends. We spent many weekend nights staying up late, lying on her trampoline. Sometimes I would bring up questions I had about the Church.
Her answers always made sense to me, and as our talks continued, the gospel began to make more sense to me, too. Still, there was one vital thing I lacked: the Spirit. It seemed the world always called to me much louder than the Spirit did.
One school day, I noticed Allison sitting on the floor in front of her locker. She was eating her lunch and wearing headphones. She looked up at me and smiled.
“What are you listening to?” I asked, trying to shout over the noise of the hallway. Lockers slammed. Students laughed and yelled. I wondered if she liked any of the same groups I liked.
“Listen and see,” she said.
I put on the headphones and suddenly the world melted away. The music played serenely. The singer sang of Christ, His life, His death, His love for us. This wasn’t what I had expected.
Amid the chaos, I felt peace enter my heart. I felt my Savior’s love.
I looked at Allison with tears in my eyes. I didn’t want to give back her head-phones. I wanted to keep that feeling forever. For a brief moment, I felt what it meant to be in the world but not of it.
It wasn’t a lightning strike, and I can’t say my life changed overnight. But that day, a seed began to grow in my heart. I had felt the Spirit, and I hungered to feel it again. As time went by, I gained a testimony that our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are there, and they love all of us so much. I now know that if I seek the Spirit and follow God’s plan, I can have the peace of the Holy Spirit with me always, and I can leave the chaos and confusion of the world behind.

I’ve been a member of the Church since I was born 15 years ago. The thing is, I never really knew if the Church was true or not. Sure I went to church every Sunday, but I still had unanswered questions. I began receiving the New Era when I was 12 but never really read through it. One night as I was wondering about the Church and all my unanswered questions, something told me to gather up all my dusty New Eras and read them. I read many stories and articles that made a lot of sense and seemed to point straight out at me. They were the answers to my questions.
Name WithheldCanada

Upon authorization by the First Presidency, I was privileged to dedicate the land of Hungary on Mt. Gellért in Budapest, Easter Sunday, 19 April 1987. Two days later, Elder Ringger and I met with the chairman of the Council of Religious Affairs, Imre Miklos. Our reception at first was a bit tense. It was clear that we were neither welcome nor wanted. Things were not going particularly well. But then I felt impressed to let this leader know that two days prior to this meeting, I had offered a special apostolic prayer for his country and for its people. As this was mentioned, his countenance changed. Now he was listening. A meeting planned for thirty minutes lasted an hour and a half. From that point forward, he became our friend and advocate. Several subsequent meetings were successfully held. Fourteen months later, Elder Ringger and I returned to Budapest for formal ceremonies with Mr. Miklos on 14 June 1988 that confirmed official recognition for the Church in Hungary.

In October 1989, the annual seminar for all European mission presidents and their partners was held in Budapest. President Thomas S. Monson and Sister Frances J. Monson joined us. On the very date of that seminar, October 17, the Hungarian Parliament changed the name of their country from the Hungarian People’s Republic to the Republic of Hungary. That country had now become a democracy.

A new mission was opened 1 July 1990, with James L. Wilde serving as president. Our chapel in Budapest was dedicated by President Monson, and several congregations are developing there and in other centers of strength.

Rafael Mateo and his son, Whalincon (known as “Whally”), paused in the darkness of a stormy afternoon and eyed the rushing waters of the rain-swollen river. Rafael, first counselor in the branch presidency, and Whally, the branch elders quorum president, were returning home after a Sunday full of meetings at their chapel in San José de Ocoa in the Dominican Republic.
They were already drenched from trudging through the downpour and crossing the flooded Río Ocoa that created a dangerous barrier between the chapel and their home. During the dry season, the 6-kilometer (4-mile) hike descending from the chapel on one side of the valley then up to their home on the heights of the other side usually takes an hour. But when the river floods during the rainy season, Rafael and his family have to take a three-hour, 15-kilometer (9-mile) detour to find a place where they can ford the river with some degree of safety.
Rafael had completed the journey countless times before. He had crossed the river every day for 12 years to get to work. Being called two months after his baptism to serve as branch president, a calling he held for six years, only increased the number of trips. After that it was a call as elders quorum president. Then he was called back into the branch presidency.
But familiarity with the river didn’t diminish its danger, and the swift water of the flooded rivers could be as deadly as the wide river they fed. Not long before, an overflowing river had swept a neighbor off his feet, killing him in a mad rush down its narrow course.
Father and son hesitated at the water’s edge; then Rafael stepped in. The river was not wide, but because it channeled so much water, it was cut surprisingly deep. The cold, swift water first pulled at his knees, then his waist, and soon swirled about his chest.
Rafael knew he was in trouble. The streambed was slippery and uneven, and the powerful current threatened to steal his footing. Halfway across, he used all his strength to stay upright, and he found himself powerless to move forward or backward.
Just when he thought he was too weak to fight the flood any longer, he felt a push from behind that thrust him toward the opposite bank. It wasn’t until after he had reached the other side that he realized his savior hadn’t been Whally, who was still on the opposite side.
He attributes his rescue to the power of the same Savior who has helped him survive the threatening pull of other trials, both physical and spiritual.
“I’ve had to throw myself many times into the river up to my chest in the service of the Lord,” says Brother Mateo. “But I feel a great debt to the Lord. He has given me not only the opportunity to serve Him but the endurance.”
Like King David, Brother Mateo knows the Savior “took me, he drew me out of many waters. He delivered me from my strong enemy” (Psalm 18:16–17).
That testimony has carried him through trials more subtle than, but just as real as, crossing the river that stormy afternoon with Whally.

Once when our children were young, I decided to test the Lord’s promise by paying our tithe, even though I didn’t know where we would get money to buy food. I didn’t mention our plight to anyone.
To my surprise, my parents soon came to visit, bringing with them enough meat, potatoes, and bread to last us a very long time. But this wasn’t all. Our oldest daughter had a work-study assignment at school. Her assigned workplace was a sandwich shop, and at the end of the week, she received permission to bring home sandwiches for the whole family!
“Now we just lack some fruit,” I thought to myself. And that afternoon, returning from biking, I saw a lady putting apples into a bag. “Would you like to have these?” she asked. Surprised, I said that I would like them very much indeed.
Just then our neighbor’s young son came by. When he saw the delicious apples, he asked, “Could I have just one?” I held the bag out to him, and he chose one. Thanking me, he hurried away, his eyes shining with happiness.
I thought afterward that the Lord must have wanted to test me too. When He had given so much to me and mine, would I also share with others? I did—and have tried to do so ever since.
Jytte Christiansen, Fredericia Ward, Aarhus Denmark Stake

A mission had been a great desire of mine since I was a child. But since I married young, I put the dream aside while we raised our children, hoping that my husband, Ben, and I might be called later in our lives.
That lifelong hope appeared to be crushed when Ben suffered a stroke at the age of fifty-four which took away his ability to speak, write, or read and paralyzed his left side. In spite of a miraculous recovery through the power of the priesthood, he was still handicapped in many ways when our bishop called us in twelve years later to interview us for a mission. The stroke had left Ben unable to speak properly, so that he had difficulty communicating with anyone except family members. Words just did not come out right, and he had not been able to pray vocally or even ask a blessing on our meals. His left arm had been amputated; his right leg was swollen and painful much of the time; and he was likely to get a heart attack when under tension.
Furthermore, our financial income was small—about as small and inadequate as we felt. But we had no misgivings about accepting the call. Ben felt that if the Lord needed him or wanted him, that was it.
Our stake president was not too sure about submitting the application to Church headquarters. However, the Missionary Department’s advice was, “Send in the papers, and we’ll let the Brethren make the decision.” I prayed fervently that there might be a place suited to us where we could help in building up the kingdom. A few weeks later, when our call came to serve in the southeastern United States, my joy was full. I knew without a doubt that my prayers had been answered.

When traveling on assignment in Africa I met many of our brothers and sisters who have very little in the way of this world's goods. Some families live in humble one or two room dwellings, eating mainly the food they grow and living a very simple life. But never have I heard more sincere and grateful prayers or met with happier people.

I have a clear memory of a training meeting in Kenya. A member of the Jinja Branch opened the meeting with prayer. He began each sentence by addressing Heavenly Father with the most sincere and simple expressions.

"Father, we thank thee we could all come to this meeting.Father, we thank thee we are strong enough to walk here.Father, we thank thee it did not rain so the roads are dry.Father, we thank thee for sending leaders to teach us.Father, we thank thee we have fresh water to drink for our bodies and our souls.Father, we thank thee we have received the truth from thy messengers."

This good brother went on for several minutes with the most sincere and happy expressions of thankfulness. He was not multiplying words but rather his heart was overflowing with gratitude and he joyfully expressed it. And it was clear to everyone present that he knew Heavenly Father was listening.

When Omer and his parents moved from Tijuana to Monterrey, they left behind family, friends, and a home they knew and loved. It was hard, but it was also exciting for Omer. One thing that wasn’t so exciting, however, was leaving behind a conveniently located temple in San Diego. Now a trip to the temple involves considerable travel.

“I really miss the temple,” says Omer. “Here you usually get only one chance a year to go to the Mexico City Temple. In Tijuana we would cross the border and go to San Diego on the first Saturday every month. The feeling in our family was always a little bit different, a little special on those days. The people in the temple always seemed glad to see us there. I know that it will be the same when the temple is here.”

His parents also recall that he was eager to help wherever he saw a need. When Todd was 13 years old, his mother underwent significant surgery as part of cancer treatment. Elder Christofferson’s father, who was with her at the hospital, learned that Todd had gathered his brothers to pray for their mother.
The surgery was successful, but it limited Sister Christofferson’s ability to complete some routine household tasks. Todd knew how much his mother loved homemade bread—and how difficult it would be for her to continue to make it. He asked his grandmother to teach him how to bake bread, and he made it regularly for his family until he left for college several years later.

Brother Hinckley and I served with President Kimball on the Missionary Executive Committee, so we were with him every Tuesday morning assigning missionaries, and the three of us had a very good camaraderie together.

One day he said to Brother Hinckley and me, “Is this the night where the parents are coming to visit with the mission presidents who are here for conference and we’re to have our offices ready for them?”

Brother Hinckley and I said, “Yes, it is, President.”

“Is your office ready, Tom?”

I said, “Yes, it is.”

“Is your office ready, Gordon?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Uh, will the two of you carry on with the meeting while I make my office ready?”

He carried a thick stack of papers and would thumb through them constantly until they were worn out on the edges, and he began to take care of cleaning up his office so it would be ready for the parents and missionaries. He emptied the files, put them in the closet, and then he moved everything off of his desk and moved it to his secretary’s desk. And then he picked up that big stack of papers he usually carried and threw it in his refrigerator. It was the only place left, so he refrigerated his notes! And then he said, “Now I’m ready!”

You had to love him. You had to love Spencer W. Kimball. You just had to.

It started out with my sister reminding me how old I was by telling this little account. She said, “Remember when you returned home from your mission and you were invited to a post-mission interview with Levi Edgar Young, one of the Presidents of the First Quorum of the Seventy?”
The number of missionaries in those days was so small that those returning were given an interview by a General Authority. As the interview concluded, I was instructed to go home and tell my stake president that I was to be ordained a seventy. Puffed with pride, I returned home and informed my stake president the instruction I had received. The stake president happened to be my father. He never acted on the instruction—I was never ordained a seventy.
This puzzled me, and I sought out my mother to inquire why my father had never acted on the instruction. My mother gave me some wise counsel. She said, “Don’t worry about it. He is your stake president, and he knows what calling is right for you.” A short time later I was called into the stake Young Men’s presidency, which led to an event where I met a beautiful young lady who soon became my wife. My sister had brought back a very pleasant memory. Then she startled me with this statement, “At last you’ve made it to the seventies.”

When I was a young boy, one of our neighbors had a herd of dairy cows. One of his cows died, leaving a newborn calf, which he gave to me. I took care of the calf, fed it, and raised it. The day my dad took it to the stockyards to be sold was a day of mixed emotions for me: I had grown attached to my calf, and yet I was looking forward to receiving the rewards of my labor. My only request was that the money I received from selling the calf be in silver dollars. I remember Dad coming home that night and dropping 20 silver dollars into my hands. Money was hard to come by, and I thought I had all the money in the world. I counted, admired, and polished each coin carefully. When Sunday came, I reluctantly put two shiny coins into my pocket to pay my tithing. As hard as it was to surrender my precious silver dollars to the bishop, I still remember now how good I felt being obedient to the Lord.
On the way home from church, my mother told me how proud she was of me. Then she said, “Your grandfather always told us children that if we would faithfully pay an honest tithing, the Lord would bless us and it would be the best investment that we could ever make.”

Let me begin by relating an obscure historical event, and then I will draw out some lessons that can be learned from this remote maritime misfortune.
In the early seventeenth century, Sweden was a world power. Sweden’s king, Gustav II Adolf, commissioned a warship that would be christened the Vasa. The ship represented a substantial outlay of resources, particularly the oak from which the vessel would be built. Oak was so valuable that cutting down an oak tree without authorization was a capital offense. Gustav Adolf closely oversaw the construction process, attempting to ensure that the Vasa would fully realize his expectations.
After construction had begun, Gustav Adolf ordered the Vasa to be made longer. Because the width supports had already been built from precious oak, the king directed the builders to increase the ship’s length without increasing its width. Although the shipwrights knew that doing so would compromise the Vasa’s seaworthiness, they were hesitant to tell the king something they knew he did not want to hear. They complied. Gustav Adolf also insisted that this ship have not simply the customary single deck of guns but cannons on three decks, with the heaviest cannons on the upper deck. Again, against their better judgment, the shipwrights complied.
Over the course of several years, shipwrights, carpenters, rope makers, and others worked diligently to build the Vasa. Over one thousand oak trees were used to complete the ship. It had sixty-four cannons and masts taller than 150 feet. To give the ship the opulence befitting a king’s flagship, several hundred gilded and painted sculptures were added.
On August 10, 1628, the Vasa began its maiden voyage. In view of countless spectators, the ship left its mooring directly below the royal castle in Stockholm. After being pulled along by anchors for the first several hundred feet, the Vasa left the shelter of the harbor. A stronger wind entered its sails, and the ship began to tip. The Vasa righted itself slightly, but only temporarily. Before long, as recorded by an observer, “she heeled right over and water gushed in through the gun ports until she slowly went to the bottom under sail, pennants and all.”1 The Vasa’s maiden voyage was about 4,200 feet.
The Vasa rested at the bottom of the Baltic Sea until it was recovered three centuries later in 1961. It was successfully raised from the seabed and towed back to Stockholm. Today the Vasa rests in a temperature- and humidity-controlled museum in Djurgården, an island in central Stockholm. I have a model of the ship in my office at Church headquarters as a reminder of several lessons that underlie its short, tragic history.
Despite the Vasa’s magnificent appearance, the ship was not seaworthy. The alterations in its construction resulted in it not having sufficient lateral stability to enable safe seafaring. Gustav Adolf’s desire for an extravagant status symbol ruined the design of what would have been a magnificent sailing vessel, the mightiest warship of its time. The shipbuilders’ reluctance to speak up—their fear of the king’s displeasure—deprived the king of their knowledge and insight. All involved lost sight of the goals of the enterprise: to protect Sweden and to promote its interests abroad. A ship that attempts to defy the laws of physics is simply a boat that won’t float.

Then came the time when we wondered what we should do in a strange land and a strange language. We heard them talk but did not know what they were saying. Finally someone came and told us in Danish to follow him. He took us to the old tithing yard. There were our boxes with our things in, both bedding and a little food. And there we stayed the next night.
During the day I thought I would go out and see the sights of Salt Lake City. It being summer time, the June apples were getting ripe, and I saw some apples which looked good to me. I could not ask for them; and if I should take an apple without asking for it, then it would be stealing as much as if I should take a dollar in money. But I saw a nice red apple lying under the fence, so I stooped down and took it and started off down the sidewalk. I had only taken a few steps when a man said, “Here, stop?” I thought he was speaking Norwegian for “stop” means the same in Norwegian. So, of course, I stopped.
But he went behind the house. I started off again, but I guess he saw me start. He looked round the housed and shouted “stop” again. I was frightened for I knew I had taken an apple without asking for it. I imagined he went to get a whip to beat me and I thought about what I would have gotten if I had been in Norway. But lo and behold, instead of that he had filled his hat with good, nice, red apples. I came back to the gate, and he handed me another apple and then another till I had my hands full. He told me something in English which I couldn’t understand. But he made signs to show me what he meant—to put them in my pockets, for I had large pockets in my coat. And he gave the whole hat full of apples to me.
It made such an impression on me that I never have forgotten. I had taken one, and instead of a beating he gave me a whole hatful. I have told you before I was rather bitter, but I am frank to say with this and the welcome to the festival the night before, the bitter feeling had all left me. It preached a better sermon than anything I could think of. A good act speaks louder than words.
I went back to the old tithing yard where I met my parents and brother and sisters. Of course I was so happy that I had some apples to give them. They wondered how I had got them. They knew I had no money to buy them with, and so they said, “You have been out stealing.” I said, “A man out in the city gave them to me.” They said there must be better people here in Utah than there were in Norway. I began to think so too.

During the message I delivered at general conference in October 1975, I felt prompted to direct my remarks to a little girl with long, blonde hair who was seated in the balcony of the Tabernacle. I called the attention of the audience to her and felt this small girl needed the message I had in mind.
At the conclusion of the session, I returned to my office and found waiting for me a young child by the name of Misti White, together with her grandparents and an aunt. As I greeted them, I recognized Misti as the one in the balcony to whom I had directed my remarks.
I learned that as her eighth birthday approached, she was in a quandary concerning whether or not to be baptized. She felt she would like to be baptized, and her grandparents, with whom she lived, wanted her to be baptized, but her less-active mother suggested she wait until she was 18 years of age to make the decision. Misti had told her grandparents, “If we go to conference, maybe Heavenly Father will let me know what I should do.”
As we continued our visit after the session, Misti’s grandmother said to me, “I think Misti has something she would like to tell you.” This sweet young girl said, “Brother Monson, while you were speaking in conference, you answered my question. I want to be baptized!”
The family returned to California, and Misti was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

As a matter of fact, attempts to keep illness or other problems secret can sometimes backfire. One elder heard by accident that his mother had undergone heart surgery. A frantic, long-distance phone call from England partially reassured him that she was progressing satisfactorily. But the remaining year of his mission was edged with anxiety. As he put it, “If they had leveled with me, I could have relaxed when the crisis was past, but this way, I was never sure how things really were at home.”