Gospel Story Finder

Ruby didn’t like to put on her socks. She didn’t like to put on her shoes. She liked Mom to do it for her. But Mom couldn’t today. Mom was taking care of Ruby’s baby brother, Ezra.
It was Sunday. It was time for church. Ruby cried about putting on her socks. She cried about putting on her shoes. Her family was late for church.
On Monday night, it was time for family home evening. The family sang a song. Mom said a prayer. Ruby’s big brother, Danny, gave the lesson.
Danny read a story from the Bible. The story was about Noah. God asked Noah to build a ship. Other people made fun of Noah. But Noah did what God asked.
“When we choose the right, we feel happy,” Danny said. “When we choose the right, it makes Heavenly Father and Jesus happy too.”
Ruby thought about that. She didn’t feel happy when she cried about her socks and shoes. Maybe she could make a better choice.
The next day, Mom needed to go to the store. “Ruby, please put your socks and shoes on,” Mom said. “I’ll get Ezra dressed.”
Ruby started to cry. She didn’t want to put on her socks. Or her shoes. Then she remembered the story from family night. She could choose the right!
Ruby put on her socks and shoes. She brushed her hair. She put on her coat. “I’m ready,” she said.
Mom smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re getting so grown up.”
Mom’s smile made Ruby happy.

During the television documentaries shown throughout the fiftieth anniversary of the D-Day invasion of Normandy, the terrible toll in human life was graphically illustrated, and gripping firsthand experiences of soldiers who were there were shared. I particularly remember the comments of an American infantryman who told that, after a day of ferocious fighting, he glanced up from his shallow foxhole to see an enemy soldier with his gun barrel leveled at the American’s heart. Said the infantryman: “I felt I was soon to cross over that bridge of death which leads to eternity. Incredibly my enemy, in broken English, said to me, ‘Soldier, for you this war is over!’ He took me prisoner and thus saved my life. Such mercy I shall remember forever.”

After several months of improvement, the moment you’ve been striving for arrives. The mission assistants pull up to your fale one morning and say, “Pack your box, Elder, you’re transferred.” You are now in a new area, and your new companion has been in the mission field for three days. That means you’re in the driver’s seat, the senior companion, charged with directing the work of the Lord in your area.

This is your big opportunity to do things your way. A wave of fear sweeps over you as you realize that you really are in charge, and your new companion looks at you like, “Well, what do we do now?” You fight off your fear, “gird up your loins,” and go out to preach repentance to the people.

A month passes, maybe two. You’re putting in the hours, working the area, giving discussions, making out the reports. All the physical essentials of proselyting are there, but something is missing. People are polite. They let you into their homes and let you give a lesson if you wish. But they seldom ask you back, and you can tell that they aren’t really interested. Their custom prescribes that they receive you cordially, and they honor their custom.

You begin to do some real soul-searching and pray earnestly to understand how to get through to the people. And then the words of counsel that your father gave you before you left focus sharply in your memory: “Son, unless you really love those people, nothing else you do matters.” The words ring true. You ask yourself: “Do I? Do I really love these people?” And your own conscience gives you the answer.

The next time you go out to proselyte, your methods are changed. Instead of just preaching, you begin to listen—not only to what people are saying, but you fine-tune your spirit to the feelings behind the words. It’s a revelation to you as you begin to understand that these people have real problems, joys, hopes, and fears just like everyone else.

One Sunday one of the sisters in the branch approaches you and asks you and your companion to bless her baby who is critically ill. Your faith wavers, but hers doesn’t. The blessing is given, and a life is saved by a mother’s faith. You are left with a deep respect for the faith of a people who, when one of theirs is sick, go to the elders even before they seek medical help.

You visit a nonmember family. As is often the case, they prepare a meal for you before you leave. This is common, and you had not taken much note of it before. This time you pay particular attention. The little red rooster that had been crowing when you arrived is now boiling in the pot. The last bunch of bananas is plucked. Enough money is found to buy a can of corned beef. You look around. The house is small, the roof needs patching, there are many children in the family, and they have little clothing. Yet they give you the best they have, and the only reward they hope for from you is your blessing, as a servant of the Lord, upon their family. As you leave there is a lump in your throat and mist in your eyes. You are humbled with the realization that you are charged with teaching the perfect gospel to a people who know and live the principles of true Christianity. You find there is much to be learned from them as you teach them the restored gospel.

A change in your sources of motivation now begins to take place. Language and language study become tools to better communicate the feelings of the Spirit, not just to impress your fellow missionaries or to send tapes home in a foreign language to impress Mom and Dad. Your fasting and prayers change from an emphasis upon your own needs to those of your contacts. Gospel study changes from a mere accumulation of theological facts to a sincere application of those truths in your own life. A whole new realm opens up to you now. Experiences that seem natural in themselves become revelations of truth.

You find that the Spirit of the Lord can be as powerfully present in a grass hut as in the nicest chapel; that the greatest gift with which a missionary can be blessed is to teach effectively and with the Spirit, to be sensitive and perceptive of the feelings of others, to discern their needs and wants; that the most productive and rewarding hours of your proselyting day are the “overtime” or “extra-mile” hours given in service when the body says, “I’m tired; let’s go home,” but the greater desire within you says, “One more house—maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a receptive spirit”; that the true fruits of your labors consist not in how many but in what kind of baptisms result—be it one or one hundred—and the feeling of grateful joy you receive when the Lord permits you to be a partner in the miracle of conversion.

The end of your mission nears. You are now an old timer among your fellow missionaries. On one of those last days, 9:00 A.M. finds you and your companion, as usual, walking to your first appointment of the day. Buried in your own thoughts you think of how the sun made a golden highway across a glassy sea as it rose that morning; how the storm of the day before made the rivers and waterfalls swell and the green foliage seem so much deeper and brighter after the clouds receded a little and the sun broke through; how the sunset over the tops of the mountains was reflected from one cloud to another until the whole sky was filled with shades of purple, yellow, pink, and blue; of the night breeze that cleared away the clouds and caused the palm leaves to clatter and the roar of the breakers to be carried clearly across the beach and village green long seconds after appearing as silver crests of reflected moonlight, tumbling one on the other against the coral reef hundreds of yards from the shore, to become mere lappings upon reaching the sand. All of this is but a fitting stage on which some of God’s choicest children have been placed.

As you continue up the trail, the now familiar lump again rises in your throat and the mist comes to your eyes, accompanied by a prayer in your heart that in some way you have given as much as you have received.

So, future missionary, be it the South Pacific, the Orient, South or Central America, Europe, Scandinavia, or the USA, the conditions and challenges may differ, but the key to success is love, the love you feel for your Father in heaven and the love you have for his children.

The famed scientist, Madame Marie Curie, returned to her home the night of the funeral for her husband, Pierre Curie, who was killed in an accident in the streets of Paris, and made this entry in her diary:
“They filled the grave and put sheaves of flowers on it. Everything is over. Pierre is sleeping his last sleep beneath the earth; it is the end of everything, everything, everything.” (Vincent Sheehan, trans., Madame Curie: A Biography by Eve Curie, Garden City, New York: Garden City Publishing Co., 1943, p. 249.)

One family story that means a lot to Harriet is the conversion story of her parents, John and Margaret. They were married and living in England, both working at the post office, when a coworker introduced them to the Church. Her mother was baptized then, and her father was later. They made a rather adventuresome decision to move to Australia. They found that the Church was strong in Melbourne, and there was plenty of room for a house that could accommodate so many children. That decision has made all the difference.

I have always been fascinated by the wild outdoors. I love the mountains. I love the ocean. I love the rivers. I love the animals. I think that God’s creations are almost beyond any description in their beauty and value.
When I was 16 years old I wanted to see more of the outdoors, so my mother gave me permission to work in Alaska for the summer. I rode an old propeller plane there and found a job working in a grocery store.
I worked with a lay minister who was quite interested in converting me to his beliefs. Day after day we discussed the scriptures, but it was hard for me to defend my faith because, frankly, I didn’t know it well enough. I struggled to explain the Joseph Smith story and the revelations he had received in a way the minister could accept.
I finally realized I needed some help. So I looked up the full-time missionaries in the area and asked them if they would teach me more about the gospel. That summer I often spent an hour or two with the missionaries before talking with the minister, who had become a very good friend.
One particular night I awoke from sleep. I felt concerned that I couldn’t teach the gospel very well, even though I was coming to know it was true.
Outside the summer sun was shining the brightest fluorescent colors on the Alaska mountain range. The clouds hovered about two-thirds of the way up the slope, making it look like the mountain was floating in the air. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. It is hard to describe the beauty I saw and the reverence I felt for Heavenly Father’s creations.
I dropped to my knees and asked Heavenly Father to hear my prayer. I sincerely wanted to know that the Book of Mormon was true, and I sincerely wanted to know if what my mother had taught me all those years was what I should believe. I wanted to know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the true Church of God upon this earth.
That night—although it was still daylight in the Alaskan frontier—I came to know that the Church is true. I came to know that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. I came to know the importance of eternal relationships with my mother, deceased father, and other family members.
I stood up the next morning a different person because I knew that I could bear my testimony—that these things had been revealed to me by the Holy Spirit. The minister couldn’t handle that. He could debate the doctrine, but he could not argue against my witness that I knew the Church was true.
Though I remembered the names of the missionaries who taught me, I lost track of them for many years. In 1998 one of those missionaries was called to be a General Authority. Elder Stephen A. West was one of the key figures in helping me gain a complete testimony of the gospel. As General Authorities, he and I were assigned to the North America Southeast Area Presidency and were able to talk about our experiences that had happened so many years ago. I shall forever remember that Alaskan adventure I experienced as a 16-year-old boy.

Six worlds were about to get ROCKED! Specifically, the individual worlds of my family and myself.
I’ve always had a strange obsession with glow sticks (let the raised eyebrows commence), and now I had a way to create my very own, insanely awesome, massive glow stick with a few basic ingredients from the store. This handy bit of knowledge came compliments of an Internet video I’d seen earlier that day.
“Prepare to be amazed!” I said as my family crowded into a dark bathroom for the science experiment. I combined the mystical-yet-everyday ingredients of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and a soft drink into a container. Then I turned out the lights and sat back to watch the show.
One problem. Combining those three ingredients doesn’t produce any sort of glow whatsoever. Zero, zilch, nada.
It was a hoax. I found out later that the people who made this video secretly added—wait for it—a glow stick to their bogus science gimmick. They set out to deceive people and got me good. My family and I all felt disappointment as we realized we’d been duped.

I myself have been the beneficiary of the Lord’s tender mercies and witness to his perfect sense of timing. A few years ago, I was struggling to keep my own head above water. I was experiencing some significant health issues that I felt severely limited in my ability to be at my best. It got so bad that I seriously contemplated giving up teaching. I felt that I could not give my students everything they deserved. I vividly remember the moment I nearly gave up. I was at Maverick, putting gas in my car. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of discouragement and despair. I knew I couldn’t continue. At that exact moment, there was a screeching of tires and a car pulled up next to me. The window rolled down and there was one of my students. He said, “Brother Embree! I just wanted to tell you I love your class! You are my favorite teacher!” And then, vroom, he was gone. I was speechless. If that had happened five minutes earlier, or five minutes later, it would not have had the impact that it did. Coming right at that moment, it was a clear message and a tender mercy. I knew I should not quit. I knew I could endure. I knew all would be well.

It wasn’t until a couple of months later that I received a knock on my office door. It was this same student. He said, “Brother Embree, do you remember when I saw you at Maverick?” Oh, yes. I remembered. “Well, I was just sitting in my apartment when I had the strongest feeling that I needed to get up right then and go to Maverick. So I did. And you were there.” I will be forever grateful to someone who was willing to get up right then and do something that made no sense.

Brother Stewart’s desire to help his priests avoid similar situations was greeted enthusiastically by the quorum. His approach included a quiz on the young men’s existing knowledge of etiquette, with a discussion afterward, and a formal dinner for the priests and Laurels. The class exercise was well received, and the dinner turned out to be one of the best-attended activities of the year. “I thought the dinner would be fun but that I wouldn’t really learn anything new,” admitted Buster Child, first assistant to the president of the priests quorum. “But I was wrong. I really have learned a lot.”
Printed invitations were sent to each of the priests and Laurels in the ward, and the priests were assigned to escort the Laurels. As a result, shortly before 7:30 on a calm, clear, spring night, the Stewart sidewalk began filling up with beautiful young women in long, colorful dresses and handsome priests in coats and ties. Inside, several tables had been covered with fine cloths and set with china, silver, and goblets. Placecards indicated where each guest was to sit, and the tantalizing aroma of baked ham and scalloped potatoes floated into the dining room from the adjoining kitchen.
The young people spent the first part of the evening mingling, talking, and eating hors d’oeuvres of sausage-filled mushrooms and chips with dips. Such whispered comments as “I ate before I came so I wouldn’t stuff myself when I got here” and “Is it all right to pick up a mushroom with my fingers?” could be heard amidst talk of school, ward activities, and the approaching summer vacation.
Soon, however, it was time for dinner to begin. After a short welcome and a blessing on the food, Brother Stewart encouraged his guests to feel comfortable and to ask as many questions as they wanted. And they did. Throughout the evening the room buzzed with questions. “How do I butter my roll?” asked one, and from someone else, “Do I pass the food to my left or to my right?” Brother Stewart also brought up some points for discussion. Some of the answers were obvious: “Should you leave some food on your spoon or fork to be waved about during conversation?” brought spontaneous laughter from the group. But the answer to another question, “Is it considered proper to butter a whole ear of corn at once?” (the answer is no; butter and eat only a few rows at a time) was greeted with disbelief, and the consensus was that perhaps this is one area that should be left up to personal taste.
When the evening was over, however, the group generally agreed that understanding etiquette and practicing good manners are just as important today as ever before. “Once you learn the basics, you can relax and enjoy yourself without wondering if you are going to make a big mistake,” said Mike Bonnelli. And Sharon Matsen added, “It’s being courteous, but it’s more than that, too. It’s a way of showing others you want them to feel comfortable. For example, I really like my date to open the car door for me. Even though it might be considered a little thing, it makes me feel that he thinks I’m someone special.”

I thought about Dean Smoot’s comments, and how we as humans constantly try to push the laws of nature as well as the laws of God, when I read in the newspaper about a young man celebrating his birthday at a hotel. He and his friends had been drinking and were probably not thinking clearly when he decided to jump from one tenth-floor balcony to the next. Being successful the first time, he attempted a second leap and fell to his death. “We were just out having a good time,” said his friend, “but now] I realize how quickly life can be taken away.”

“Did you see how that new kid skates?” Alex whispered to me as we sat on the players’ bench. “He crashed into the boards twice because he couldn’t stop fast enough.”
“Just our luck,” I agreed. Our hockey team has players from lots of different schools every year. “Look at the new guy on the Fliers,” I told Alex. “He zips around the ice like his skates are jet-propelled—and we get Sam. Sam trips over his own hockey stick.”
“No wonder we’re getting slaughtered again,” Alex sighed, glancing up at the scoreboard. Its red light said, “PENGUINS 1, FLIERS 7.”
The clock buzzed, and the coach signaled Alex and me to replace Sam and Joe as they came off the ice to rest.
The Penguins skated hard, but we just couldn’t score. The one time we managed to pass the puck into Flier territory, the Fliers’ new guy intercepted it. Stickhandling it down the ice, he sent the puck flying into the net under our goalie’s outstretched leg.
When the clock finally buzzed the end of the game, the Fliers had racked up ten goals. We Penguins still had only one.
“We’ll get them next time,” Sam said as the team headed to the locker room.
“Sure, Sam,” grumbled Chris, our star right wingman. “Are you going to shut down their new guy? First, you have to learn how to stop when you’re skating.”
“Guess so.” Sam shrugged his shoulders.
I felt a little sorry for him, but Chris was right. Sam didn’t seem to know what he was doing on the ice.
The locker room cleared out without much more conversation. When I zipped up my duffel bag, I noticed that Sam was still sitting on a bench with all of his equipment on. Maybe he wanted to hang around, but I couldn’t wait to forget about that game.
The next day, we had practice after supper. When I stepped onto the ice, Sam was already there. His face looked sweaty, and he was breathing hard.
“Did you figure out how to stop yet?” Chris asked him, zipping around the ice.
“I will,” Sam said, ignoring the jab. I had to admit to myself, at least, that Sam didn’t let anyone beat him down. He just kept racing down the ice and practicing his stops until his jersey was soaked from falling on the wet rink.
“Sam must be a little crazy,” Alex said as we leaned against the boards to catch our breath after a drill. “He’s wiping up the ice every time he tries to turn or stop. Doesn’t he know when to quit?”
“He does seem a little clumsy,” I agreed.
“A little! A clown with floppy shoes could do better.”
Ftweet! Coach blew his whistle, and we started a scrimmage. I was glad that Sam had been put on the other team. Who could win with him falling all over the ice?
All week I kept expecting Sam to quit. “How much fun could it be for him?” I asked Alex. “He constantly crashes into the boards, and everyone razzes him.”
“He doesn’t look like he’s ready to give up yet,” Alex answered. “He’s always already on the ice, practicing, when I come, and he’s the last guy off afterward.”
That Saturday we played the Rockets. For the first two periods, we actually kept a one goal lead. Then our team fell apart. Chris got a penalty, and we were shorthanded. The Rockets took advantage of their power play. Their left wingman hooked the puck away from Sam and sent it skittering down the ice. Two seconds later, the puck went flying into the corner of the net. The scoreboard glowed with the tie score.
The Rockets won the face-off. Their team passed the puck down the rink again. It ricocheted off the boards and went right through Sam’s legs. A moment later, the Rockets’ right wingman slapped the puck hard into our net. The Penguins lost by one goal.
“We’ll never win,” Chris complained as we headed to the locker room. “Not if we let the puck slip through our legs.”
I figured that Chris had made a few mistakes, too—like landing in the penalty box—but I said nothing. I didn’t want him picking apart my game next. As usual, Sam sat on a bench with his equipment on while everyone else changed and cleared out. I waved good-bye to him. He looked exhausted.
The team didn’t have much spirit left when we showed up for practice on Monday. We’d lost five games in a row, and everyone felt discouraged. Everyone, that is, except Sam. He was out on the ice practicing. I was still on the players’ bench when it happened. Sam actually flew down the ice and stopped on a dime.
“Hey, Sam,” yelled Alex, “way to go!”
Sam grinned and raced down the ice, sending a shower of ice flakes flying as he stopped again.
“I’m seeing a miracle,” Chris shouted.
Sam laughed “Here’s another one!” He raced down the rink and stopped right in front of Chris.
One by one, the whole team started to watch Sam. We all knew how hard he’d worked, and we felt happy for him. Suddenly Sam slipped and went sliding into the boards—but he didn’t jump back up.
“Sam’s hurt,” I said, and the rest of us hurried down the rink.
“Are you OK?” Chris bent over Sam and brushed the snow off his legs. All at once, Chris’s hand froze in midair.
“I just had the wind knocked out of me,” Sam told him.
“There’s something on your leg,” Chris finally said. “I felt it.”
Sam put his head down and took a deep breath. Then he looked at the circle of faces around him. “I didn’t want anyone to find out, because I don’t want you treating me special. I was born with a bad leg, and I have to wear a brace. But I can manage just fine. Now that I’ve finally impressed you with my stops, I have to work on my turns.”
No one said a word as Sam got up and skated down the rink. “Come on,” he hollered. “Coach is here.”
That day something happened to our team. We started practicing harder than ever before. We figured if Sam could learn to stop, we could all push ourselves a lot more, too. Sam had shown us that a fighting spirit and extra effort could accomplish amazing things.
During the next game, our team scored five goals and tied the Minnows. Sam still fell down every time he tried turning fast, but the whole team was improving.
“We’ll get them next time,” Sam said as we headed into the locker room.
This time Chris looked at Sam and grinned. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We just might.”

Close to two hundred years ago on the island of Tutuila in what has become American Samoa, my great-great-great grandfather Kerisiano Te’o had a choice: let the people of his village kill the Mormon missionaries who were in his home or defend them. He stood with his spear in one hand, shotgun in the other, and said, “If you want the missionaries you’ll have to go through me first.”

Kerisiano Te’o could have chosen to keep his life as it had always been before the LDS missionaries came to his village. He could have chosen not to act on the opportunity the Lord sent to him, to not listen to their message. He could have let the villagers have their way with the missionaries. He could have avoided putting himself in a situation where he chose to make a stand with his life. He could have chosen to sit still.

Instead, the consequence of his action has been a legacy that each generation following him has chosen to act upon, a legacy that continues today as his five-time great-grandchildren attend primary far away in a land very different from Samoa called Utah.

Before reaching Nauvoo, Kane described the area of Iowa through which he traveled by boat and horsedrawn carriage as being a sanctuary for “horse thieves, and other outlaws.” He said he grew tired of seeing “everywhere sordid, vagabond and idle settlers; and a country marred, without being improved, by their careless hands.”
I was descending the last hillside upon my journey, when a landscape in delightful contrast broke upon my view. Half encircled by a bend of the river, a beautiful city lay glittering in the fresh morning sun; its bright new dwellings, set in cool green gardens, ranging up around a stately dome-shaped hill, which was crowned by a noble marble edifice, whose tapering spire was radiant with white and gold. The city appeared to cover several miles; and beyond it, in the back ground, there [were well-tended fields]. The unmistakable marks of industry, enterprise and educated wealth, everywhere, made the scene one of singular and most striking beauty.
Kane obtained a small boat and rowed across the river to the city’s shore.
No one met me there. I looked, and saw no one. I could hear no one move; though the quiet everywhere was such that I heard the flies buzz, and the water ripples breaking against the shallow of the beach. I walked through the solitary streets. The town lay as in a dream, under some deadening spell of loneliness, from which I almost feared to wake it. For plainly it had not slept long. There was no grass growing up in the paved ways. Rains had not entirely washed away the prints of dusty footsteps.
Kane walked through workshops where materials of wood, leather, and iron were stacked ready for use, and equipment and tools lay where they had been left by the craftsmen. He then walked into well-cared-for gardens; examined fruits, vegetables and flowers; and helped himself to a drink from a well.
No one called out to me from any opened window, or any dog sprang forward to bark an alarm. I could have supposed the people hidden in the houses, but the doors were unfastened; and when I timidly entered them, I found [cold] ashes white upon the hearths, and had to tread tiptoe, … to avoid rousing irreverent echoes from the naked floors.
Bedroom of the Jonathan Browning house. Browning, a convert to the Church, invented one of the earliest automatic rifles.
On the outskirts of the city was the graveyard. But there was no record of the Plague there, nor did it in anywise differ much from other Protestant American cemeteries. Some of the mounds were not long sodded; some of the stones were newly set, their dates recent, …
Kane said that beyond the houses fields upon fields of grain lay rotting on the ground with no one to harvest it. As he walked around the suburbs at the southern edge of the city, he made two important discoveries.
Houses looking out upon the country showed, by their splintered woodwork and walls battered to the foundation, that they had lately been the mark of a destructive cannonade. And in and around the splendid Temple, which had been the chief object of my admiration, armed men were barracked, surrounded by their stacks of musketry and pieces of heavy ordnance. These [men] challenged me to render an account of myself, and why I had the temerity to cross the water without written permission from a leader of their band.
Though these men were generally more or less under the influence of ardent spirits [alcohol]; after I had explained myself as a passing stranger, they seemed anxious to gain my good opinion. They told me the story of the Dead City: that it had been a notable manufacturing and commercial [center], with 20,000 population; that they had waged war with its inhabitants for several years, and had been finally successful only a few days before my visit, in an action fought in front of the ruined suburb; after which, they had driven them forth at the point of the sword. The defence, they said, had been obstinate, but gave way on the third day’s bombardment. They boasted greatly of their prowess, especially in this Battle, as they called it; but I discovered they [could not agree on the details]; one of which, as I remember, was that they had slain a father and his son, a boy of fifteen, not long residents of the fated city, whom they admitted to have borne a character without reproach.
Kane was then shown around the “massive sculptured walls of the curious Temple,” which the invaders had vandalized. He was shown various features of the building including the baptismal font, “a large and deep chiselled marble vase or basin, supported upon twelve (life-size) oxen, also of marble.”
They permitted me also to ascend into the steeple, to see where it had been lightning-struck on the Sabbath before; and to look out, East and South, on wasted farms like those I had seen near the City, extending till they were lost in the distance. Here, … close to the scar of the Divine wrath left by the thunderbolt, were fragments of food, cruses of liquor and broken drinking vessels, …
It was after nightfall, when I was ready to cross the river on my return. The wind had freshened since the sunset; and the water beating roughly into my little boat, I headed higher up the stream than the point I had left in the morning, and landed where a faint glimmering light invited me to steer.
Here, … sheltered only by the darkness, without roof between them and the sky, I came upon a crowd of several hundred human creatures, whom my movements roused from an uneasy slumber on the ground.
The “faint glimmering light” that had guided him came from a candle that provided poor illumination for a woman tending a man dying of fever. Two little girls, sobbing, sat in the darkness nearby. Kane was to discover that this was a typical scene.
Dreadful, indeed, was the suffering of these forsaken beings. Cowed and cramped by cold and sunburn, alternating as each weary day and night dragged on, they were, most of them, the crippled victims of disease. They were there because they had no homes, nor hospital nor poor-house nor friends to offer them any. They could not satisfy the feeble cravings of their sick; they had not bread to quiet … hunger cries of their children. Mothers and babes, daughters and grandparents, all of them alike, were [camped] in tatters, wanting even covering to comfort those whom the sick shiver of fever was searching to the marrow.
These were Mormons, famishing, in Lee county, Iowa, in the fourth week of the month of September, in the year of our Lord 1846. The city—it was Nauvoo, Illinois. The Mormons were the owners of that city, and the smiling country round. And those who had stopped their ploughs, who had silenced their hammers, their axes, their shuttles and their workshop wheels; those who had put out their fires, who had eaten their food, spoiled their orchards, and trampled under foot their thousands of acres of unharvested bread; were [now] the keepers of their dwellings, the carousers in their Temple, whose drunken riot insulted the ears of their dying.
The party encountered by me at the river shore were the last of the Mormons that left the city. They had all of them engaged the year before that they would vacate their homes, and seek some other place of refuge. It had been a condition of a truce between them and their assailants; and as an earnest of their good faith, the chief elders … , with their families, were to set out for the West in the Spring of 1846. It had been stipulated in return, that the rest of the Mormons might remain behind in their peaceful enjoyment of their Illinois abode, until their leaders, with their exploring party, could with all diligence select for them a new place of settlement beyond the Rocky Mountains, in California, or elsewhere, and until they had opportunity to dispose to the best advantage of the property which they were then to leave.
[But] the enemy had only waited till the emigrants were supposed to be gone on their road too far to return to interfere with them, and then renewed their aggressions [against the Saints remaining in Nauvoo].
The Joseph Smith family may have used this log cabin while adding to the Joseph Smith Homestead, their first home in Nauvoo. The cabin has been reconstructed by the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Photo by Dick Brown.
Kane said that during the truce while the Saints were still allowed to remain in Nauvoo, they worked on the temple.
Strange to say, the chief part of their respite was devoted to completing the structure of their … beautiful Temple. Since the dispersion of Jewry, probably, history affords us no parallel to the attachment of the Mormons for this edifice. Its erection had been enjoined upon them as a most sacred duty: they were proud of the honor it conferred upon their city, when it grew up in its splendour to become the chief object of the admiration of strangers upon the Upper Mississippi. Beside, they had built it as a labor of love; they could count up to a half-million [dollars] the value of their tithings and free-will offerings laid upon it. Hardly a Mormon woman had not given up to it some trinket or [money saved]: the poorest Mormon man had at least served a tenth part of his year upon its walls; … Therefore, though their enemies drove on them ruthlessly, they succeeded in parrying the last sword-thrust, till they had completed even the gilding of the angel and trumpet on the summit of its lofty spire.
The completed temple was dedicated in May 1846. With the sacred rites of consecration ended, the Saints emptied the structure of anything of value, and anything that could be desecrated by the mobs.
[The work] went on through the night; and when the morning of the next day dawned, all the ornaments and furniture, everything that could provoke a sneer, had been carried off; and except some fixtures that would not bear removal, the building was dismantled to the bare walls.
It was this day that saw the departure of the last elders, and the largest band that moved in one company together. The people of Iowa have told me, that from morning to night they [the Saints] passed westward like an endless procession. They did not seem greatly out of heart, they said; but, at the top of every hill before they disappeared, were to be seen looking back on their abandoned homes, and the far-seen Temple and its glittering spire.
Prior to his visit to Nauvoo, Kane had observed the westward-bound Saints at work and at play in the Camps of Israel. He was impressed that they were honest and sincere in their testimonies of the gospel. He expressed amazement at the sacrifices many of them made and at the love that existed in the camps in spite of the hunger and hardships the Saints suffered. In later years, he made three visits to the Saints in Utah, where he was very welcome. His last visit, in 1877, was at the death of Brigham Young to whose “masterly guidance,” he said, the Saints were indebted for their prosperity. Hours before his own death in 1883 in Pennsylvania, he asked his wife to send “The sweetest message you can make up to my Mormon friends—to all, my dear Mormon friends.”

He also remembers the time his dad was seriously sick. Raúl’s mother thought he was going to die. She rode a bus to the missionaries’ house to ask them to give him a blessing. They weren’t home, so she left them a message. When they arrived several hours later, Raúl’s father was so sick he could hardly talk. The missionaries gave him a blessing—and within half an hour, he was up and feeling much better.

My great-grandfather George F. Richards was a humble farmer who raised his family of 15 children on hard work and willingness to follow the Lord. When he was a young man of 23, he was, like all young men of his day, struggling to make a life for his family. He was just starting out. As sometimes happened in those days, he received a letter of inquiry from the secretary of the First Presidency about whether he was available to serve a mission. He didn’t then know his future. Like you, he arose early and faced the challenges of each day, working hard and rejoicing in each small success. Listen to his words and note the expressions of his young heart as he responded to the First Presidency:
I am 23 years of age, I have a wife and one child, have never been on a foreign mission. Financially, I am in poor circumstances at present, being in debt more than 400 dollars.
I have no ready means and all the property I have is a set of harness, wagon (both been in use more than five years), six head of horses, a cow and two calves and not quite two acres of land worth from seventy-five to one hundred dollars.
While I feel that I am poor, I do not wish to let that stand between me and my duties as a Latter-day Saint. That which I have is upon the altar and subject to the direction of those in authority, as is also my time and life if necessary.
Your obedient servant, George F. Richards. [1]
A few short years later, at age 45, he was called to serve as an Apostle. Soon after his call to the Twelve, George wrote a letter to his brother in response to his question—did he really need to serve a mission?
I can tell you your services will be needed…if when the occasion presents itself…when you could be more useful in the Lord's hands, some little thing such as a non-observance of the word of wisdom, a neglect of your prayers, or anything of the kind may block your way. It is by the observance of these little things that we show whether ours is an obedient and willful spirit….A straw thrown up indicates the direction of the wind, even so, the small things of our lives indicate largely our future destiny.
Later, he taught:
"We know better now than we [act]. Let us keep our covenants by keeping the commandments as fast as made known unto us, attending to the little things and prove our spirits to be willing. Obedience to the gospel, to simple things, shows our spirits.”

Let me share one more personal experience, if I may, that occurred when I was 20 years old, about the same age as many of you. I was invited by a group of acquaintances to go on a five day river trip here in Idaho. This was a group who had run a number of rivers and there just happened to be an extra opening for this particular trip. I must confess that I gave little thought to what this adventure would actually involve. As I was preparing, my concerns were more focused on coordinating outfits and making sure I had my water proof sun block.

The first touch of reality hit when I saw that our bags were being lashed onto the rafts. It had made sense to me that we put everything in waterproof bags since water from the river might, of course, splash into the boat. It just hadn't occurred to me that anything from inside the boat might go over the edge into the river. This reality was reinforced as we were given gear to wear. First, a super duper extreme life jacket made specifically to turn the wearer face up in the event that she might be knocked unconscious when, not if, but when she was plummeted out of the raft while going through a set of rapids. Added to that was a life belt and a helmet. This was followed by a brief lesson on how to go through the rapids without a boat hands and feet first so that we could push off of rocks as we were being swept down river. Images of sun bathing and leisurely floating along were fast disappearing from my thoughts.

While standing there, trying to reconcile my rather undefined but definitely mild expectations with what was right in front of me, I noticed the leader of our group having an animated conversation with the forest ranger. I moseyed over to see if I could hear what was being said. The forest ranger was trying to discourage our group from beginning our trip. The river was extremely high and, in this case, that meant that it would be more dangerous than usual. In fact, just the day before a man had been killed going over the first falls. There were two bits of very important information for me from the comments I overhead. First, while at that age I was typically game for high adventure experiences, drowning on a river trip was a little higher than I was willing to go. Second was the word falls. No one had mentioned anything about going over a waterfall. In reality, it turned out to be only about 10 feet high, but 10 feet from the security of solid ground off shore looks quite different than 10 feet when you're sitting in a little, flimsy rubber raft while gazing at white water swirling wildly below. After much discussion, and in spite of my concerns, we were finally given permission to go and the river trip began.

After only a brief time on the river, we pulled to the side and hiked up a short distance to see what was ahead of us and to make plans for negotiating the rapids. We first had to go through Ping Pong Alley, so named because the large boulders caused the small rafts to bounce along like little ping pong balls. This was not a particularly dangerous area, but Velvet Falls followed right after. This is where the man had died the day before because his boat had gone over the edge side-ways and had rapidly filled with the backwash of the falls, making it impossible for him to float ahead out of harm=s way. Once through Ping Pong Alley, the critical point was to go over the falls with the raft facing straight on.

There were a few boats ahead of us and we could see them disappearing one by one over the edge. Finally it was our turn and just as we approached the waterfall, our boat was knocked sideways. Terror filled my heart. I wondered what my water logged body would look like in a casket. Would anyone come to my funeral? Fortuitously, just at the critical moment, the person in the middle seat of our raft took the oars and turned us around backwards, but straight. I think I will never forget the feeling, as I looked over the edge of the boat, literally hanging on for dear life to the ropes attached to the sides of the boat as we plummeted over the edge. I'm happy to report that we survived. There was no time to relax, however, because we had to immediately begin bailing out the water which had filled our boat. Then we paddled wildly to get into position for the next rapids. And that's how it was the entire day. Paddle like crazy. Hang on for dear life. Bail. Paddle. Hang on. Bail. By the time we pulled onto shore for the night I was exhausted. My hands and knuckles were bloodied from being knocked around through the rapids. My muscles were sore. I had lost one of my sneakers along the way. It was raining and I was cold. I had never gotten unscared the entire day.

I went up to the leader of the group that night and said, I'm not normally a quitter, but I just can't do this for 4 more days. This is too hard and I can't stay terrified for this long. He was so kind and so understanding and finally he said, You're right. You can't do it. You'll never make it to the end. You should just quit right this minute. But there's a detail you ought to know before making a decision, and it's that there are only two ways out of here. One is on the rafts with our group. The other is to walk out on your own. I looked down at my shoeless foot and up the steeply rising mountains on both sides with no apparent trails anywhere. And immediately I rejected his rejection and determined to ride the river. I finally got the hang of river running and was even able to enjoy the trip. It was still hard work, and my stomach churned with each rapid, but in the end it turned out to be one of the most powerful experiences of my life.

I tell you this story to make two points. Sometimes we are valiant and noble and just refuse to be defeated. Other times we don't give in, not because of any seeming greatness of character on our part, but because there really isn't a viable choice. Regardless, not allowing ourselves to be overcome by despair reaps benefits. We still learn and grow by working through the difficult tasks of life. The second point is that a lot of those difficulties cannot be controlled by us. There are natural laws with resulting consequences, everyone around us has the right to exercise agency, we do not have the power to fix every problem. Life presents us with all kinds of white water rapids and the best we can do is be prepared before they hit, remain as calm as possible when we're in the middle of them, and that may mean relying on a higher power than ours, and then do those things that will give us maximum control afterwards.

Now go back again with me in your thoughts to the church building about which we spoke earlier with its sign of “Spiritual Fuel Available—No Rationing—No Stamps—No Quotas—Come and Prepare.” Each one of us undoubtedly has a different building in mind. Perhaps yours is the one you attend most frequently—your own ward or branch.
The one I have in mind today is the Masterton Ward in the Wellington New Zealand Stake. We had the opportunity of dedicating this choice house of worship in February. Never have I been in a building so immaculately clean. It looked new. It smelled new. It was beautiful in its appropriate simplicity. It was worthy in appearance to be dedicated to the Lord. It was built by our people.
It was paid for by our people. It was polished to a fine finish by hands that took pride. It was tastefully landscaped and structurally sound. According to the town mayor, a nonmember, it was built by people who are happy. Three weeks before our arrival it was predicted by some that it couldn’t possibly be ready for dedication. Those so inclined to doubt didn’t know this good bishop and his ward family—people of humble circumstances but powerfully committed. Walls were painted, floors waxed, and so on by parents when their children had been put to sleep for the night. Young boys, appropriately encouraged, carried buckets of water to make the lawns green and the flowers bloom around the chapel, because New Zealand had been long without rain. It was not only completed, it was shining! Here was a group of people accumulating oil for their lamps a drop at a time through sacrifice, preparation, cooperation, faith, and works. As these ward members worked together to meet the midnight hour, their love for each other was nurtured. They, too, shined in their triumph.

In this school’s earliest, financially desperate days, one of its leaders, Zina Young Williams, a daughter of Brigham Young, visited the Lord’s prophet, President John Taylor, to ask for counsel and support.

He took my hand in a fatherly way [, Dean Williams recalled,] and said, “My dear child, I have something of importance to tell you. . . . I have been visited by your father. He came to me in the silence of the night clothed in brightness and . . . told me . . . that the school being taught by Brother [Karl G.] Maeser was accepted in the heavens and was a part of the great plan of life and salvation; that . . . there was a bright future in store . . . for the children of the covenant . . . ; and that Christ himself was directing and had a care over this school.”

Before commencing my first semester at Brigham Young University, I had the opportunity of visiting Bourton-on-the-Water, a small village in the English Cotswolds. Replete with honey-colored houses, bridge-crossed brooks, and sheep-trodden meadows, the town represented all things quintessentially English. While wandering through the narrow streets along the Windrush River, I entered the Church of St. Lawrence. I thought that no one else occupied the silent church, but I soon noticed an elderly woman in a dark wool suit and sensible shoes sitting in the third pew from the altar.
At first I thought she was praying, but upon closer inspection I realized that she was doing needlepoint, so I felt more comfortable approaching her. We sat together for some time talking about everything from the local tourist sights to the latest tabloid embarrassment of the royal family. As we talked I became intrigued by her handiwork. She explained that she was making a prayer cushion like the dozens hanging from brass hooks on the pews around us. She carefully described the entire process–from the type of materials used to the time and patience required for completing such an undertaking. As a budding young economist, I asked her how much such an endeavor cost.
“I buy the materials for 30 pounds,” she replied.
Next I asked how much she charged for the prayer cushions.
“The church buys them for 20 pounds each,” she said.
Now it doesn’t take an economics major to do a profitability analysis of this cottage industry. As I puzzled over her 10-pound loss and obviously irrational economic behavior, she responded with a somewhat bewildered smile, saying, “Oh, but you mustn’t think in that way!”
Awkwardly I considered her admonition before responding that all that really mattered was that she derived a great deal of pleasure from her efforts. By saying so I graciously restored her economic sensibility. Again she looked at me with the same smile. I could almost hear her say in response, “Oh, but you mustn’t think in that way either!”
Not knowing how to think, I said good-bye and excused myself. It wasn’t until some time later, long after I left the Church of St. Lawrence and the Cotswold hills, that I understood her primary motivation. Her labors were not a profit-maximizing investment decision; neither were they necessarily an exploration of her passion. Rather, she consecrated her needlepoint prayer cushions as a simple gift to her God and her fellow parishioners. Therein lay the importance of her act and her fulfillment in the action.
I’m confident that for the Cotswold woman, seeing her prayer cushions used every week in church gave her great satisfaction in knowing that she’d done some good in her corner of the world. However, I’m also sure that she never imagined that six years later and 5,000 miles away, her attitude of consecration would continue to inspire an economics student whom she probably doesn’t even remember.

Commissioner Eyring, who was also an Apostle at the time, spent much of the summer of 2001 writing and rewriting the talk President Hinckley had assigned him to give. By early September, he had the Prophet’s approval of his text.
But then the unthinkable happened. On Tuesday, September 11, terrorists destroyed the Twin Towers of New York’s World Trade Center and damaged the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Nearly 3,000 people were killed, and more than 6,000 were injured.
Like so many others, I will never forget where I was when the awful news came. I lived in Utah at the time and was driving to Church headquarters for a meeting with the seven members of the Presidency of the Seventy. Upon entering their conference room in the Church Administration Building, I felt great gratitude for the peace that prevailed there, notwithstanding our limited knowledge of what was going on in New York and Washington. I will never forget the comfort of Elder Christofferson’s prayer to begin our meeting, which was blessed by the Spirit even in that hour of terrible uncertainty.
Upon returning home, I learned more about the devastation in New York, Washington, and a field in Pennsylvania, as well as the cessation of all air traffic in the United States. My first thought was to call my father. By coincidence, we were both scheduled to give talks to college students the next Tuesday. I expected him to confirm my feeling that we should both cancel our addresses. My talk, on the subject of succeeding in college, seemed trivial and inappropriate under the tragic circumstances of 9/11.
But my father’s reaction was entirely different. He felt that the remarks he had prepared at President Hinckley’s direction would be perfectly appropriate at BYU-Idaho, perhaps even providentially so.
In hindsight, Commissioner Eyring couldn’t have been more right. But, to his credit, he made things work out, in several ways. First, he recognized the connection between the sweeping changes occurring at BYU-Idaho and the great uncertainty that hung over the world in consequence of the apocalyptic terrorist attacks, which seemed repeatable and even unpreventable. He optimistically decided to make the theme of change central to the address that had been in the works for months.
Though there wasn’t time to get President Hinckley’s approval of a new draft, Commissioner Eyring significantly expanded his emphasis on responding productively to change. You can hear that emphasis in this clip from his talk:
Now the other thing I was impressed with is that you were asked to raise your scriptures. I felt as you did that to make a promise to you that I know will be fulfilled because it has been fulfilled for me in the last few days. We live in a time of increasing difficulty and change. Many of us have felt some things that led us to the scriptures. In the last few days, I have found things I had never seen there before because, in my extremity, the Lord showed me things that He had prepared long ago to help me. I’ll make you a promise: If you will, in the next few hours and days, go to the scriptures, you will, as you read them (pick them anywhere that you’re led to read) see scriptures speaking to you as if it was the voice of God, as if He knew your needs and your concerns; and He will tailor that to you, and it will be a witness to you that He knows you and that in that set of scriptures that you lifted above your head is a means by which He can guide you and comfort you. I promise you, you’ll have that experience—and it will be very personal—in the next few days.
In fact, the talk “A Steady, Upward Course” uses some form of the word “change” 44 times. Ironically, not all of those references to change were planned. As if it were a dose of his own medicine, Commissioner Eyring started his talk with a change in his expectations. In those days, teleprompters were still rare. But, in an effort to be on the cutting edge of technology, BYU-Idaho audio/visual specialists Jim Croasmun, Arlen Wilcock, and Alan Young had rigged up a system using laptop computers and cables, the first-ever use of a teleprompter on this campus.
Jim, Arlen, and Alan knew that their prototype system might not work perfectly. But they had spent many days rigging and testing it. And, in the hour leading up to the devotional address, it was working well.
You can guess what happened. Minutes before the talk was to begin, the teleprompter screens went blank. Jim, Arlen, and Alan’s professional lives flashed before their eyes. Yet Commissioner Eyring didn’t miss a beat. In fact, he seemed to feel liberated by the blank teleprompter screens.
President Eyring’s teleprompter never came back on—until a few minutes after he finished speaking. To this day, Brothers Croasmun, Wilcock, and Young can’t explain why. Yet, in hindsight, it was meant to be. President Eyring ended up speaking—mostly off the cuff—for nearly an hour. And the things he said, in the spirit of prophecy, have proven invaluable to generations of BYU-Idaho students and employees.