Gospel Story Finder

It seemed perfectly normal when Karen Monahan grabbed the hero’s arm. Then, right on cue, he began his solo performance. But instead of singing the words, he was signing them, telling his part of the story through deaf sign language. No one in the audience knew that Karen had squeezed firmly on Scott’s arm to let him know when to begin. No one needed to know. He performed his actions smoothly, as the other actors had throughout the show, without saying a word.
Then the curtains rushed together, but no one on stage spoke. When the curtains opened again, the cast bowed politely. Although the audience thundered its applause, 30 of the 45 performers couldn’t hear it because they are deaf. But they had communicated so effectively with the audience that nearly everyone watching cheered when the awards were announced. The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf had won the Los Angeles California Stake roadshow competition, with awards for best acting, best costumes and set, best script, and of course, outstanding roadshow of the year.
It was the culmination of months of effort that had begun when the stake president, Rodney H. Brady, sent a letter inviting the ward to participate in the annual contest for the first time. Initially, the challenge seemed insurmountable. “I had my doubts about how good it would be,” Wayne Bennett, a counselor in the bishopric said, speaking in Ameslan (American Sign Language, a means of communication employed by many deaf people). “But a few months of practice made of lot of difference. When I saw the roadshow in performance, I said, ‘Hey, that’s no roadshow; that’s a miracle!’”
The audience seemed to agree. Carol Mears, a professional comedy sketch writer, said she was “thrilled. I honestly forgot it was being done by the deaf.” Other performers, sometimes from other ward’s roadshows, sometimes children of ward members, provided voices to narrate the story. They spoke through microphones in the orchestra pit and were unseen by the audience. But their narration helped those who could hear to follow the actions of the deaf actors and actresses on stage.
The show, entitled “Under the Apple Tree,” adhered closely to the stake theme, “Once upon an Apple Tree,” and followed the trials of Red Delicious, an apple tree torn from his home by a tornado. He was soon joined by Yellow Delicious, another uproot in search of a place she could call her own. The two castaways discovered a new orchard presided over by Mother Apple, and finally felt confident to sink their roots into the community. Red Delicious eventually saved his fellow trees from a nefarious attack by bugs and aphids (including two members of the bishopric), and the apple trees lived happily ever after.
One of the highlights of the production was the “ABC Song,” during which the Apple Cuties taught audience members the manual alphabet. Another well-remembered scene found Mother Apple unable to get the attention of Red and Yellow Delicious, so she threw an apple at them and complained, “They must be deaf.” The joke appeared to put the audience at ease as they realized the deaf knew how to laugh at themselves.
Making the roadshow a success was not an easy task. There were many unusual problems. For example, when 23-year-old director Dave McKay began thinking about writing a script, he encountered the difficulty of writing one that would never be spoken. “We wrote it with our hands,” he said. Once a skeletal plot outline was chosen, directors and cast members worked together from improvised possibilities to a finalized sequence of actions. Long after rehearsals had begun, voice director Kareena Heath decided on words to be read by the unseen voices in the orchestra pit.
Another difficulty was synchronization of music and action. The entr’acte, for example, was an interpretive dance, and the dancers were required to perform to music they could not hear. Brother McKay solved the problem by casting one hearing dancer, who was responsible to keep the others in time with the beat. Once again, this was accomplished by means of hidden signals undetectable to the audience. Scott Duge (Red Delicious) and Birdie Herrick (Mother Apple) were kept on cue by Karen, a hearing interpreter for the deaf who took the role of Yellow Delicious. In other sections, actors and dancers maintained correct timing by memorizing counts and order of appearance.
Staging had to be carefully arranged so that actors could not only be seen, but also so that their hand signals were clearly visible at all times.
And, of course, butterflies in the stomach aren’t limited only to those who hear. Bill Andrews, who played Washington, the oldest of Mother Apple’s children, explained that stage fright manifested itself in an unusual way. “You could literally say we had a case of arthritis,” he said. “Our fingers were frozen. When hearing people get scared, their voices shake, but in our case, it’s our hands. They stiffen up and we can’t make the signs.”
Birdie was supposed to keep everyone backstage quiet. “But the deaf signed to each other anyway,” she remembered, smiling. “I told them to cut it out, because their hands would crack and make noise.”
The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf is a unique organization. Those in the ward are either deaf themselves or members of a family in which someone is deaf. Although it is under jurisdiction of the Los Angeles California Stake, its members come from a broad geographical area. But the roadshow brought them all together.
Homer Thexton explained how participation in the event strengthened family unity. He is deaf, his wife is hard of hearing, and his children hear normally, yet all participated. “It helped our family,” he explained. “There was more cooperation and communication at home. We really taught and helped each other in our parts.”
That type of reaction extended throughout the stake. For example, members of the University of Southern California Branch roadshow cast (which, incidentally, placed second in the competition) stayed behind after their own performance long enough to provide the voices for the deaf show. Noting that support, President Brady said he felt the roadshow experience had unified the entire stake. Since the performance, a variety of activities have helped to bring members of the ward for the deaf and other wards in the stake into closer contact on a more regular basis. (See FYI for Feb. 1978 and May 1978.)
The roadshow is over. But excitement and pride remain. Already ward members are talking about future productions and looking forward to another roadshow next year.
Editor’s Note: The Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf was recently divided to form two new wards, the San Fernando Valley Ward for the Deaf in the Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake, and the Torrance North Ward for the Deaf, located in the Torrance California North Stake. The Fullerton Branch for the Deaf of the Fullerton California Stake was created in 1971, and continues to serve the needs of the deaf in that area.

David was a big boy. He was almost four years old. He could ride his new tricycle very fast.
“Ding! Ding!” went the bell on the handlebar as David pushed the button. “Ding! Ding! Here I come!”
David could keel somersaults. Over he would go on the green grass—one time, two times, three times.
He could lace his shoes all by himself.
He always brought the paper in for Daddy.
He remembered to brush his teeth.
He remembered to say “please” and “thank you.”
But there was one thing David could not remember to do. He could not remember to stay out of the street!
Daddy said, “You must play in the yard, David. It’s dangerous to play in the street! Remember what happened to Carl’s dog?”
Mother said, “Ride your tricycle on the driveway or on the sidewalk, David. It’s dangerous to play in the street! Remember what happened to Kathy’s white kitten?”
But David could not remember to stay out of the street. So everyone worried about him.
Daddy got little worry wrinkles in his forehead.
Mother got tired feet from running to the front door to remind David to play in the yard.
The neighbors got nervous jitters whenever they backed their cars out of their driveways. They were very careful, but they were never quite sure where David might be.
Many people were unhappy—all because David did not remember that it is dangerous to play in the street.
One day when Daddy was at work and Mother was busy baking peanut butter cookies, David climbed on his tricycle. Away he went down the driveway and right out into the middle of the street!
A car came down the street. “Honk! Honk!” said the horn. “Get out of the street!”
A truck came whizzing by. “Honk! Honk!” it said. “Get out of the street!”
A boy on a big bicycle came by. The boy’s name was Jack. He was David’s friend. Jack was wearing his Boy Scout uniform. He had a pretty neckerchief around his neck with an Indian chief slide on it.
Jack stopped his bicycle and got off. “Come out of the street, David,” he said. “Let’s go sit on your front steps and talk.”
David liked to talk with Jack. He parked his tricycle next to Jack’s big bicycle. Then they both sat down on the steps.
“David,” Jack said, “do you want to be a Boy Scout when you are older?”
“Oh, yes!” David answered.
“Then you’ll have to stay out of the street,” Jack told him. “Playing in the street is dangerous!
“The street is for fire engines to hurry to fires. The fire engines cannot hurry if children are playing in the street.
“The street is for milk trucks to carry milk for little babies and for big boys like you.
“The street is for buses to take people to town and for big trucks to haul gravel.
“The street is for cars to take fathers to work.
“Everyone loves you, David. No one wants you to get hurt.
“If I let you wear my neckerchief with my Indian chief slide, do you think you can remember to ride your tricycle on the sidewalk and to play only in the yard?”
David looked at the pretty neckerchief. He looked at the Indian chief slide. He thought for a minute, and then he said, “Yes, I can remember.”
Jack put the neckerchief around David’s neck and tightened it into place with the Indian chief slide. Then he said, “Good-bye, David. Remember!”
David felt proud to be wearing Jack’s neckerchief and the Indian chief slide. He climbed on his tricycle. Down the driveway he zoomed—right for the street.
Then David remembered!
David turned his tricycle around and rode up the driveway to the sidewalk. Up and down the sidewalk he rode. He pushed the bell button. “Ding! Ding! Here I come! Ding! Ding! Here I come!”
That night when David went to bed, he hung the neckerchief where he could see it first thing in the morning. And before he went to sleep he decided that some day he wanted to be a Boy Scout just like Jack. He wanted a neckerchief of his very own with an Indian chief slide. So he decided that every day he would try to remember to play in the yard and to ride his tricycle only on the sidewalk.
And David did remember!
After a while everyone stopped worrying.
The worry wrinkles left Daddy’s forehead.
Mother’s feet weren’t quite so tired.
The neighbors stopped having nervous jitters.
And Jack said, “David, you really are a big boy now. You’re almost a Boy Scout!”

Many years ago while serving in the United States Infantry in the South Pacific, my outfit was making a dry run on a seemingly deserted beach in the Admiralty Islands.
When my particular unit went ashore and scattered around on patrol, we came by chance upon a small native village. I will never forget one of the most interesting sights I have ever seen. All of the natives who appeared on the scene had dyed, reddish-orange hair, and every man, woman, and child—in fact, every living creature that I could see: dogs, animals of all sorts—wore a string of large green beads to the end of which were fastened three tiny shells. We learned upon inquiry from a Baptist minister who had labored amongst these natives that these beaded ornaments were used to ward off the bad results of an “evil eye” and bring good luck to the person or animal that wore it.
In this strange little village so far removed from our own culture it was believed that bad luck, sometimes even death, would follow if a mere glance from the evil eye of an enemy fell upon a person or animal. Hence, practically all of the animals and people wore such a string of beads as I have mentioned.

Since 1975, welfare services missionaries have been visiting Bermejillo on a weekly basis. They teach discussions to the leaders and members on such subjects as personal hygiene and nutrition and serve as a resource to the branch president in welfare services–related matters.

In the years following the welfare services missionaries’ arrival, President Castañeda has met frequently with his welfare services committee. Several projects have been undertaken to help members in the areas of personal and family preparedness.

A couple serving as welfare services missionaries were asked to assist members in planting family gardens. Seeds were obtained by President Castañeda through community resources and distributed to the members. He took the lead by planting the first garden. Almost all of the members followed his example.

It was soon found that in order to raise a garden, provisions had to be made to keep the pigs from running loose. Pens also had to be constructed for the chickens; it seemed that they were able to scratch out the seeds and young plants faster than they could grow.

In addition to the gardens, storage also became a part of the program. Members were taught how to dry fruits and vegetables, and canning was done on a small scale. Jams and jellies were made, using appropriate local methods. Part of their year’s supply included grains grown in their fields and then stored. They had to learn how to keep them from being infested by insects and rats. Wood which was brought in from the mountains and stored was later used as fuel for cooking as well as for heating water to wash dishes and clean the house.
As cleanliness and sanitation were emphasized, the members began building bathrooms adjacent to their homes. Prior to the project, members in Bermejillo had no bathrooms.

In this small building [slide shown], the first flush toilet in Bermejillo was installed with a septic tank dug in the courtyard to contain the waste. A shower was also built. It consisted of a fifty-gallon drum on the roof which was filled with water in the morning, warmed by the sun during the day, and was ready for a warm shower in the evening.

Gardens and bathrooms became a reality. Dirty, neglected homes with dirt floors and no beds—where cooking was done inside on open fires of twigs and sticks with no stovepipe or chimney—now have cement floors, cooking stoves with proper ventilation or an outside cooking house, clean tables and chairs, and orderly rooms.
Five years ago most of the buildings in Bermejillo looked about the same, but now, homes of Latter-day Saints have become the show places of the village. They are easily identified by their fresh paint, green trees, and beautiful flowers.

Members in Bermejillo had access to water which was piped from a nearby city but which was unsafe to drink. Boiling the water was too difficult because of the scarcity of fuel. So mothers were taught to purify it by putting three drops of chlorine bleach in each quart of water. Purifying the water has reduced illness due to diarrhea, amoebae, and typhoid fever.

Welfare services missionaries were assigned by the branch president to visit the home of every newly baptized family. In carrying out this assignment, the missionaries often found emergency teaching situations.

For example, one day upon entering the home of a newly baptized member, they were greeted by the mother, who invited them to sit own and then began to cry. Her baby was sick. Its stomach was badly bloated.

Upon investigation, it was found that the child had never had anything to eat except flour and water or powdered milk. For eight months the mother had been afraid to give the baby any other food because it was so sick, and it was sick because it was starving!
The missionaries taught the mother how to include cereals, fruits, and vegetables in the child’s diet. Now the child is on the road to normal health.

All the result of projects such as this one in Bermejillo, the death rate among member children in the whole mission has dropped from approximately forty per one hundred to ten per one hundred.
Other personal and family preparedness projects were also carried out, including one planned to help an inactive family clean up their home, which President Kimball has asked all of us to do.

This eight-member family lived in a little ten-by-twelve-foot one-room home with a dirt floor, two double beds, a small table, and a small kerosene stove. There was neither electricity nor running water.
The branch welfare services committee organized to solve the problem. The Relief Society sisters carried many buckets of water to clean the house. They helped the family take the furniture outside in the sun and remove the accumulations of years.
Home teachers and other priesthood brethren assisted in the repairing of the furniture.
The welfare services missionaries participated by giving lessons on cleanliness and personal hygiene.

Another way the missionaries were of assistance to the branch was through presentations of special lessons, such as baby care, to the Relief Society sisters. They have taught principles and techniques in family health care. The sisters have now learned to make their own clothing and to use sound judgment in shopping.

These activities have increased the sisters’ love for Relief Society, and now, for the first time, regular visiting teaching has become a reality.

The children have also benefitted from the personal and family preparedness projects in Bermejillo. The mothers now make sure the children are well groomed before sending them to Primary.
Older children are developing teaching skills as they help younger children learn the lessons of the gospel.
The missionaries have found that just by being an example to the children they teach them important principles. Children have learned of President Kimball’s counsel about saving money for their missions. They also now spend any of their extra pesos on fruit rather than candy.

Nonmembers have been influenced by the example of members in Bermejillo, and a number have been taught the gospel.

As the branch grew, the rented facilities became too small for them. So President Castañeda obtained permission for the use of this plot of land [slide shown], upon which to build a chapel. Other branches in the mission had met with extreme difficulty in obtaining such permission, but the village officials in Bermejillo were aware of the accomplishments of the branch and were pleased at the prospect of having a chapel built here.
A small, temporary, adobe chapel has been erected on the property and is now serving while the Saints raise their share of the funds for their new meeting place, which they have been authorized to build.

Much of their portion of the money is being earned through branch projects. Every Tuesday and Thursday the Relief Society sisters divide into small groups to make doughnuts and tamales. They then sell them in the parks or door-to-door. One of the sisters reported how difficult it was to sell door-to-door, but she said, “We want our chapel, and we are willing to do whatever it takes to earn enough money.”

To date they have met all their commitments, and the construction of a chapel on this site is scheduled to begin before the end of this year.

What we have just reviewed is a marvelous example of what can take place in any Church unit, regardless of circumstances, when the leaders and members begin to understand fully and live the basic principles of welfare services. In four short years, look what these Saints have accomplished. They have begun to raise gardens and store their produce, paint their homes, plant trees and flowers, build toilet and shower units, clean and fix up the interiors and exteriors of their homes, purify their water, properly prepare their food, and provide more nutritious diets for their children.

Beyond this, the members have extended the hand of fellowship by helping inactive families solve their temporal problems, by friendshipping nonmembers, and by setting a good example of Latter-day Saint living.

The spirituality of this branch has been enhanced through increased member activity, better preparation by class instructors, more effective home and visiting teachers, additional converts to the Church, branch projects, and personal sacrifice. It is interesting to note that there has been more than a tenfold increase in the per capita fast offering donations from this small branch over the past four years.

The principles of love, service, work, self-reliance, consecration, and stewardship are all evident in the accomplishments of the branch in Bermejillo. Indeed, these members are well on their way to establishing the ideal of Zion.

I am persuaded that any ward or stake in the Church can experience the same kind of success as the branch in Bermejillo. It will come as a result of organizing welfare services committees and of teaching and living the basic principles of welfare services. Many wards and stakes have their own resource people to call on, but where local resource people are not available, welfare services missionaries may be called through proper channels to assist Church units in emerging areas where temporal problems are critical.

May each of us catch the vision of welfare services as these Saints have in Bermejillo. By working together we can fully establish the latter-day Zion. That we may do this, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I had been excited to turn 12 so that I could go to the stake firesides. But when I was old enough, I never wanted to go. My parents told me that I would know the right thing to do. That made me feel like a jerk because I did know what I should do; I just didn’t want to do it. But I finally decided to go to a fireside, and am I glad I did. On that night, I learned the Church is true.
The speaker told many stories that made everyone laugh and cry. Then he asked his daughter to sing. She had a beautiful voice. But at the end of the program, he showed pictures of the Savior and talked about how he did many kind things. I was so touched by the Spirit that my doubts completely left me.

I remember many years ago, during a particularly trying period, I felt as though specific attacks were being made on my family, on my health, and on my integrity. I was fasting, praying, seeking counsel, and still feeling acute anxiety over how, when, and if the serious challenges would be resolved. The thing that brought the most relief during that difficult time was reviewing in my mind the words to the hymn “Be Still, My Soul.” I memorized all the verses and recited them at least once a day. The words that provided the most solace and comfort were:
Be still, my soul: The Lord is on thy side;
With patience bear thy cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In ev’ry change he faithful will remain. …
Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as he has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
I’ll never forget the blessing these words and the music were to me when they were sorely needed.

Several years ago, two Latter-day Saint missionaries visited me in Marshall, Texas. But I politely told them I wasn’t interested. I was afraid that I didn’t know enough about the Bible to be able to judge what they were telling me, and I had a great fear that they would ask me to pray. They left a Book of Mormon with me. But when I opened it and saw names that I had never heard before—such as Lehi, Nephi, and Alma—I immediately closed it, put it on a shelf in the closet, and forgot all about it.
As the years went by, I hardly gave religion or spiritual matters a thought. But one night I became troubled with the way I was living my life. “If there really is a God,” I thought, “I want to know it.” I decided to make an honest effort to find out and felt the best place to start was the scriptures.
I started studying the New Testament and attending a Protestant church. I enjoyed what I learned there, but something bothered me. In Ephesians 4:5 [Eph. 4:5], we read of one Lord, one faith, and one baptism—yet I had friends of various faiths who seemed content with their different beliefs. I wondered how they could all be right. When I mentioned this to them, they just laughed. “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” they said, “as long as you accept Christ as your personal Savior.”
I didn’t feel comfortable with that concept and tried to find the answer in the scriptures. But I wasn’t getting any answers, and I became upset. Why didn’t the Bible just say which church was right? Next I went to the encyclopedia to see if I could find the answer there. If I learned when different churches were organized, I reasoned, maybe that would help. Again, I was disappointed.
Then one day I found the book I had put on the closet shelf years before. And I began to read it. This time I found it interesting—so interesting that I began to tell my friends at work about it. Whether I was at home, at work, or at a movie, I couldn’t get it off my mind.
When I reached the point where I had to know if the book was really of God or of the devil, I considered praying about it but was afraid of being deceived. Then I read the scripture in Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5]where we’re told to pray about what we have read in the Book of Mormon. I was still afraid the answer might come from Satan, but then a biblical scripture came to mind that alleviated that worry:
“What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
“Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?” (Matt. 7:9–10). I know that the answer that later came was indeed from God.
After having read and studied for a good while, I thought, “I wonder if my minister would like to hear about this book.” I was sure he didn’t know about it because he had never mentioned it. To my surprise, he wasn’t interested. “Clifford,” he said, “evidently you don’t feel as if you’ve ever been saved.” So we knelt in his office and prayed. When we arose from our knees, he looked at me as if to say, “Now everything is okay.”
I said, “I don’t feel any differently now than I did when we knelt.”
“Don’t you believe in the scriptures that say that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ shall be saved?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but I can’t help how I feel.” I left, miserable. I felt I had failed because I couldn’t make him understand what I was feeling about the Book of Mormon.
I continued to read and study. Sometimes I’d have to stop. I can’t describe the mental anguish I suffered during those days. I had to know if this book was true. I would go to the Bible, then to the Book of Mormon—back and forth, study and compare.
I decided to talk to my minister again. At one point during the lengthy discussion, I asked him what happens to people who die without ever hearing the gospel of Jesus Christ. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Clifford, they die and go to hell.” Again, I was very depressed when I left him.
Then one day I remembered that the missionaries who had given me the Book of Mormon had told me that the local Latter-day Saint branch president owned a business in town and that if I ever had any questions, I could go to him. I visited President Murray Conley, asked some questions, and was pleased with his answers.
Later, some members of my church visited me and informed me that I was being misled. The next night, the minister and his wife came to visit. But when I asked him to explain Malachi 4:5–6 [Mal. 4:5–6], he got angry and told me I had been brainwashed by the Mormons and there was nothing more he could do.
One night I read 3 Nephi 14:13–14: “Enter ye in at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, which leadeth to destruction, and many there be who go in thereat;
“Because strait is the gate, and narrow the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” [3 Ne. 14:13–14]
I got up from my chair and walked outside. Alone in the darkness, I could see myself standing at that narrow scriptural gate, pacing back and forth, afraid to go in. I realized at that moment that I had found the way. The Lord spoke to me that night, not as we speak to one another, but with a still, small voice that said, “What are you going to do about it?”
I went back to tell President Conley I wanted to be baptized. But he was in Salt Lake City. Thinking that only the branch president had the authority to baptize, I left, intending to return a week later.
During that week, Satan placed another stumbling block in my path—more doubts. “Do I have to start all over again?” I wondered. After struggling with my doubts for three days, I started reading a book President Conley had given me—Truth Restored, by President Gordon B. Hinckley. As I did, the Spirit, which had borne witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, also bore witness to me that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true church.
When President Conley returned from Salt Lake City, I told him I wanted to be baptized. As we drove to Gilmer, Texas, for my baptism on 19 October 1970, I asked him, “Do I understand correctly from what I have read in the scriptures that just because I’m being baptized, I’m not saved, but that I have to endure to the end?”
He said, “That’s exactly right.”
I cried all the way to my baptism. I felt very strongly that the Church was true. After baptism, I felt it ten times more strongly.
Many times after, I wondered, “Why me? Why do I know the truth while many good Christian people don’t?” And a scripture always came to my mind, “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Luke 11:9).
Several weeks after I was baptized, I had the privilege of receiving a witness of the Holy Ghost once again, stronger than before. One morning at about 3:00 A.M., I sat up in bed with tears streaming down my face. The Holy Ghost was bearing such a powerful witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and of the Church that I felt like saying, “Please, Lord, no more, no more. I know it’s true.”
I do know with all my heart and soul that the Book of Mormon is true. It led me to the living God, to his Son Jesus Christ, and to his church guided by a living prophet.

I am an elder, serving a full-time mission. One day I picked up the New Era and read “Why Obey” (Nov. 2002) by Elder Athos M. Amorím. At that time, I wanted to return home, but I began to read this article with curiosity. When it mentioned the number of missionaries serving a mission and how they are sacrificing their time and money for the Lord, I thought about my selfishness. I read about how serving a mission is obeying our Father in Heaven and how sacrifice brings tremendous blessings. From reading this, I have decided to stay on my mission to help the Lord with this work. Thank you very much for this inspirational magazine.Name withheld(an elder who now “loves his mission!”)

Not long ago, I sat in the Draper Temple, observing the sealing of a beautiful young couple. I marveled because I had some knowledge of the groom’s dark past. I did not know everything he had been involved in; I just knew that he had been involved in, well, pretty much everything. He had fallen deep and far. If there be no Christ, that young man does not change; that young man cannot change. Yet there he was in the sealing room, changed. I searched his face, trying to detect some residue from his dark past, but there was none. Instead, his countenance shone with light and love and hope and joy. Why? Because there is a Christ, and His Atonement leaves no tracks, no traces.

No matter how far or how deep you may have fallen, Jesus has descended farther and deeper. During His descent, He became acquainted with your grief, and He was bruised by your iniquities.31 He voluntarily did this so that He could bring you back home where you belong. Nor is it His aim to simply save you by the skin of your teeth. No, His promise is sure: “I am able to make you holy”32—without spot.

My family has a tradition of drawing names for Christmas. It began when we were all still quite young and had to buy presents for each other from the meager handfuls of change in our piggy banks. We decided that it would be better to buy one brother or sister a nice gift than to buy smaller ones for all six. Secrecy was part of the tradition during our growing up years. At times we went to great lengths to keep one another from knowing whose name we had, or to be the first one to figure out who everyone else had. It added an air of mystery and excitement to the gift giving.
One year when I was in my early teens, my younger brother Eric drew my name. Christmas morning there was a present wrapped and under the tree from Eric to me. When my turn to open a present came, I tore the festive paper from the package while Eric watched in anticipation. When the package was finally open and I saw the gift, I stopped in astonishment. Eric had bought me an imitation turquoise necklace.
Now before you get visions of a dainty necklace that could be worn inconspicuously with nearly anything, let me describe it. The necklace hung halfway to my waist when I wore it. The main stone was at least the size of a silver dollar, and all the way up the chain were smaller stones. The setting was cheap tin fashioned to vaguely resemble the silver settings of genuine turquoise jewelry. Protruding from between the stones on the chain were geometric shapes of metal. In short, the necklace was huge.
Now, I was at an age when one is not extremely sensitive to the feelings of others (especially if they are the feelings of a younger brother), but somehow I realized that in Eric’s mind the necklace was exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps it was the look of rapture in his eyes, but I could imagine how he had searched for just the right gift for me and how excited he had felt when he finally found that necklace. So that left me with just one problem: What was I going to do with it?
This problem was compounded by the fact that gaudy turquoise jewelry was not the vogue right then. And even had it been, this was not the kind of necklace one could wear with just anything. So the necklace sat on my dresser for several weeks while I pondered what to do with it.
Then one Sunday morning I decided that it could wait no longer; it was time to wear the necklace—in public. (I had already decided that when I did wear it, it would be to church where there would not be so many of my friends to see it.) I chose a plain denim skirt and a white sweater to go with the necklace. When I was dressed, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time trying to decide if my appearance was acceptable. I almost changed into a different outfit—one without the necklace—but finally heaved a sigh and went upstairs.
Eric and my younger sister, Gaigh, were in the living room. When I entered, Eric’s face brightened and he turned to Gaigh.
Then in a triumphant tone of voice he said, “See, I told you she liked it!”
Knowing the two and the constant brother-sister bickering between them, it was not hard to figure out what had gone on.
“She doesn’t like your present,” Gaigh had probably taunted.
“Yes, she does,” Eric would have replied in that defensive tone we all take when we are ardently defending something of which we are not totally convinced ourselves. Now as I wore the necklace, Eric was vindicated.
Standing there, seeing the look of delight on his face at the sight of the necklace hanging around my neck, I realized that wearing the necklace was more important than all the embarrassment I might receive by doing so. After all, it was a gift given in the true spirit of giving. I would have been ungrateful to have accepted it in a manner any less gracious than the manner it had been given in.
That day I found an unexpected pleasure in wearing the necklace. When people asked about it (and many did because it was not the kind of thing one can easily ignore), I announced proudly that my brother had given it to me.
I’ve received many gifts since then. Some have been exactly what I’ve hoped for, others not. But each time I have tried to remember that behind each gift is a giver. And to offend someone who gives, no matter how humble or startling their gift, is to commit the grave sin of ingratitude.
I don’t have the necklace anymore. I doubt I wore it more than half a dozen times. And I think it was sent off to the thrift store when I sorted through my things while packing for college. In fact, I’m not even sure what made me remember it now, but the other night lying in bed I thought of the necklace and wished I still had it. Not because it is any more the style now than it was then, but because of the tender memories it holds—memories of the eagerness of a young boy in giving a gift, and the lesson an older sister learned in receiving it.

A man of wisdom often offered this simple piece of advice: “David, stand tall.” My dad did not expect that I would add inches to my stature or rise up on my tiptoes. He meant that I should be courageous in my decision, not compromising principles, not violating spiritual values, and not shrinking from responsibility. When I have followed his advice, life has been very good. When I have failed to stand tall, life has usually been unpleasant. I recently asked my two young grandsons what it would mean to them if Heavenly Father asked them to stand tall. I noticed one inadvertently raised himself to his tippy-toes so as to seem a little taller. And then they quickly said in unison, “He wants us to do what is right.”

I have observed throughout my life that the great men of the world, especially the great Saints, are always thinking—about the Lord, about others, about how they can serve. Their minds are fertile fields for the seeds of inspiration, and their thoughts naturally spawn actions. This principle is illustrated in a simple story of love that I read recently: An elderly widow gathered some windfall apples, prepared and bottled applesauce, and then presented twelve quarts of applesauce to a young single mother who was depressed because of her struggles. The elderly widow said simply, “I’ve been thinking about you.” The effect on the young single sister was dramatic and miraculous. This act of kindness helped her conquer her depression (see Kathy England, “Quarts of Love,” Ensign, July 1991, p. 40).

Our ward had enough riding enthusiasts to get the outlaw band more or less mounted. We had purebred stallions, ancient hay burners, a Shetland pony, and one reluctant donkey. He was the only member of the cast who didn’t think it was a good idea. We first noticed this lack of enthusiasm when we had to drag him stiff-legged down the road behind my Volkswagen to load him on a truck. If you’ve got 53 horsepower on one end of the rope and one donkey power on the other, you’ve got a toss-up contest that could go either way. But we finally won.
We loaded him and the rest of the horses and outlaws and headed for the hills.
The train route winds through Provo Canyon, then hugs the hillside around Deer Creek reservoir, and cuts through the fields and pastures of Heber Valley. We set up near a grove of trees and waited.
“Here she comes!” shouted the lookout.
I hollered, “Lights! Action! Roll ’em!” (Whatever that means.)
Lights and roll ’em we didn’t get, but action we did. One blast of the engine whistle and every horse sponsored his own Kentucky Derby in his own direction. Only the donkey was left. He was too ornery to be scared. He just stood stiff-legged by the tracks and sang two-part harmony with the train as it thundered by.
The Creeper was a white puff of smoke in the distance by the time we rounded up the last of the horses, so we dubbed in the train scene later. Speaking of dubbing in, try as much as possible to shoot the scenes in order. Rehearse them while looking through the camera; then try to get it right the first take. It will save film costs and editing time later.
Our script called for a brawl scene climaxed by a pie in the face. For this scene we got the bishop’s permission, because he got the pie in the face. Blueberry cream. It was a beautiful scene and performed with excellent taste, the bishop said.
Close-ups and reaction-to-the-action shots help pace the action. And also try to frame your characters as large as practical in the shot unless it’s a deliberate long shot or scenery shot. Mount your camera on a tripod whenever possible. Even though your cameraman lives the Word of Wisdom, he’s got shaky hands.
You can get synchronized sound with some super-8 movie cameras, but this was more trouble and expense than we wanted. We used a silent screen format with printed titles to show the dialogue and credits. You can type these and photograph them with a close-up attachment on the movie camera. Here, especially, use the tripod, We recorded a rinky-tink piano background (put thumbtacks in the piano hammers to get the “tink”). We play the tape whenever we show the movie.
Showing the movie is, of course, the climax, particularly the premiere showing. We staged a variety show titled “Salute to the Silver Screen.” The whole ward was invited (and came), and the kids did songs, dances, and skits based on great movies of the past. (Unfortunately most of the great movies are in the past.) Then we honored the cast and showed the movie. “The Great Train Robbery” will never get an Oscar, but it was a “ward winning” movie.

Some years ago, I was visiting Costa Rica with family and needed to find a local Church unit for us to attend sacrament meeting. After finding the building, we entered and were welcomed warmly by several of the members. During the meeting, we sang the sacrament hymn with the small congregation. We watched the priests prepare the sacrament and then listened as they recited the sacramental prayers. As the bread and water were passed to us, I was overwhelmed with God’s love for each one of these fellow covenant-keepers. I had not met any of them before that meeting but felt unity and kinship with them, since we had all made and were striving to keep the same promises to God.

The meaning of church to most people is a little different from what it means to me. Where I live, on a remote island of Alaska, church consists of only two LDS families. We meet together for an hour each week to partake of the sacrament and participate in talks, prayers, and questions. My dad is the branch president, and my family and the other family take turns hosting the Sunday meeting in our homes.
At first I didn’t like church. Maybe it was because I was the only teenage girl on the island who attended. Or maybe it was because I really didn’t understand the Church and had doubts about it. Was the Church true? Did God care? And most of all, What would happen to me when I died?
For a while, I read the Book of Mormon and never seemed to get anywhere. Satan seemed to be doing all he could to keep me from gaining a testimony.
One day I came home from school very upset. I had forgotten my lunch, and my best friend and I had had an argument. I ran to my room, flopped onto my bed, and started crying.
As my tears ceased, I noticed I had left my triple combination of the scriptures on my desk. As I picked it up to put it away, my eye caught a verse I had underlined. I read in Doctrine and Covenants 18:10–11: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God;
“For, behold, the Lord your Redeemer suffered death in the flesh; wherefore he suffered the pain of all men, that all men might repent and come unto him.” [D&C 18:10–11]
Suddenly I realized that Christ loved me and that I wanted to know him better. I had expected my testimony to be given to me. I know now that I’m not going to get my testimony from my parents or grandparents, or from my brothers and sisters. I have to search, ponder, and pray. But if I have faith, the Savior will help me, and together we will find my testimony.

When Makoto Ishizaka, 26, of the Senzokuike Ward, Yokohama Japan Stake, turned 18, he received the Melchizedek Priesthood and was ordained an elder by his father. Although Makoto was still a high school student, there was an urgent need for him to serve his family as a Melchizedek Priesthood holder. His 14-year-old brother, Isamu, had a malignant brain tumor.

As Isamu awoke from surgery, his first words were “Can I have a blessing?” For more than a year, Makoto joined his father in giving frequent priesthood blessings to Isamu. “Before giving blessings, I prayed and pondered in the small hospital room,” says Makoto. “When I give blessings, I feel Heavenly Father is using me as an instrument.”

While in the hospital, Isamu studied seminary lessons, did not murmur, and expressed gratitude for his blessings. When his condition suddenly became worse, Makoto prayed in desperation: “Why is this happening?” Then he felt the voice of the Lord. “It pierced my very soul. Through the Spirit, I knew Isamu was needed in heaven. My anger and uneasiness vanished and were changed to peace and hope. Forty-eight hours later, Isamu passed away. He was 16.” Makoto dedicated Isamu’s grave and received temple ordinances in his brother’s behalf. He later served a full-time mission. “The priesthood blesses both those who perform and those who receive ordinances—and it can purify both,” he says.

Claudia Laur, a Mia Maid in the Munich Third Ward, Munich Germany Stake, realized there were many activities in the ward for the young ladies but not many for the elderly sisters. Because she felt that particularly those who lived alone might not be benefiting from the same warmth of fellowship, she gathered the Mia Maids and Beehives together and planned an afternoon for the older sisters in the ward. The Merrie Miss Primary class was also invited to participate.
At a planning meeting, a program was outlined, including a difficult-to-learn round dance, a medley of favorite songs from the 50s, self-composed sketches and pantomimes, question-and-answer games in which the older sisters would participate, comedy, hymns (to add a spiritual side to the activity), and of course, refreshments.
Soon they had polished their routines, choreographed their steps, rehearsed their lines, and prepared their props. On the day of the gathering, decorations transformed the cultural hall into a cozy “Café in the Woods,” a comfortable setting for the older ladies to relax in while they enjoyed the show.
“We had a delightful afternoon,” one of the invited guests said. “They welcomed us warmly and escorted us to our tables, which were decorated with flowers and a nice little personal card. Their happy program put us in a joyful mood. We couldn’t help but feel that they served with love. It helped us to feel the unity that can come to sisters in the Church.”
Beehive Andrea Klein agreed: “It was really nice to see the older sisters so happy about such little things. The preparation and practices took a lot of time and required patience and effort, but it was well worth it.”

My Great-Grandfather, Ferdinand Rottweiler.
Ferdinand Rottweiler was born in Esslingen, Germany in 1876. At the age of seven, his mother died, his father remarried, and both his father and stepmother died when he was fourteen. At fourteen years old, he was on his own. He worked several jobs, including time serving in the German military for two years. He eventually was employed as a streetcar driver. At work one day, he met missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In his words:
Being of a religious nature, I became interested, reading their tracts and hearing them preach the everlasting gospel. It did not take me long to decide after hearing the testimonies to tell that this was the true Church. I accepted the gospel in 1901 and have never had any doubts to this day that the gospel is true and restored in its fullness.
Shortly after joining the Church, he met Rosa Marie Stelzenmuller, another convert. They were soon married and had a strong desire to emigrate to the western United States to join the body of the Church.
In 1901, not long after his baptism and marriage, they left their homeland and travelled to Utah and were sealed in the Salt Lake City Temple. They then travelled north and settled in Dubois, Idaho, then later Menan, Idaho. This is a photograph of Esslingen, Germany, their hometown. Notice how green, how civilized, and how lovely (for lack of a better word). Have you ever been to Dubois? I love eastern Idaho. I even love Dubois, but this must have been a shock. The sacrifice to leave their home, to leave their friends, to come to America—Dubois, Idaho no less—and to learn a new language, to learn how to eke out a living, farming in this cold and dry and desolate and unfamiliar landscape, humbles me greatly.
After establishing themselves in Menan, Idaho, he and his wife, Rosa, who suffered from various health issues and was relegated to a wheelchair until she passed away in 1929, raised five children, including my grandmother, Lillie Clark.
Ferdinand Rottweiler remained faithful in the gospel until his death in 1949. As his life was coming to an end, he wrote the following statement: “I hope the children will be faithful to the gospel which I gave so much for, leaving home and friends, and trying to make a new home.” What an understated summation of his sacrifice-filled life.

The members of the Asunafo Branch Relief Society presidency said they dedicated each Thursday to speaking to each other only in English. “It made some conversations longer that day because we could not think of the right words to say to each other,” said Evelyn Agyeiwaa, Relief Society president. “But we soon began translating for each other, finding the right words to say. Because we were learning together, none of us were embarrassed or afraid to say the wrong words. We simply helped each other.”

First, many people will mourn with us; they won’t judge us. Due to severe panic attacks, anxiety, and depression, our son returned home from his mission after just four weeks. As his parents, we found it difficult to deal with disappointment and sadness because we had prayed so much for his success. Like all parents, we want our children to prosper and be happy. A mission was to be an important milestone for our son. We also wondered what other people might think.

Unbeknownst to us, our son’s return was infinitely more devastating for him. Note that he loved the Lord and wanted to serve, and yet he could not for reasons he struggled to understand. He soon found himself at a point of total hopelessness, battling deep guilt. He no longer felt accepted but spiritually numb. He became consumed by recurring thoughts of death.

While in this irrational state, our son believed that the only action left was to take his own life. It took the Holy Ghost and a legion of angels on both sides of the veil to save him.

While he was fighting for his life and during this immensely difficult time, our family, ward leaders, members, and friends went out of their way to support and minister to us.

I have never felt such an outpouring of love. I have never sensed more powerfully and in such a personal way what it means to comfort those in need of comfort. Our family will be ever grateful for that outpouring.

I cannot describe the countless miracles that accompanied these events. Gratefully, our son survived, but it has taken a long time and much medical, therapeutic, and spiritual care for him to heal and to accept that he is loved, valued, and needed.

I recognize that not all such incidents end like ours. I sorrow with those who have lost loved ones far too early and are now left with feelings of grief as well as unanswered questions.