Gospel Story Finder

Jennifer shut her bedroom door and threw herself on the bed. She wiped the hot, wet tears from her cheeks and tried to quiet her sobs.
She had just argued with her older brother and sister. Mom and Dad had left to go to the grocery store, and it felt like they would never come home.
Jennifer felt horrible. As much as she tried to stop her lip from trembling, she still felt very unhappy. “If Mom and Dad were home, things would feel a lot better,” she thought.
Then Jennifer remembered something she had learned about prayer in Primary. “You can pray anytime,” her Primary teacher had said. “You can pray when you feel happy and when you feel sad.”
Jennifer knelt beside her bed. She threw the blanket over her head so that she wouldn’t be interrupted if someone opened the door. She dried her tears again, folded her arms, and began to pray.
“Heavenly Father,” she said, “please forgive me for fighting with my brother and sister today. And please help me to feel better. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Now Jennifer didn’t feel like crying anymore. Slowly, the hurt feeling inside changed into a warm, peaceful feeling. She felt as good and as loved as if someone were giving her a hug.
When her parents came home later, Jennifer had apologized and was playing with her brother and sister again. As Mom walked through the door, Jennifer ran and gave her a hello hug. A hug from Mom felt wonderful, but Jennifer had learned that even when Mom wasn’t home, she could feel the comforting love of Heavenly Father.

In the northern provinces of Canada there is a version of an old fable about two geese and a tortoise. They had a strong friendship. The story goes something like this: When fall arrived, the geese planned to migrate south for the winter. One evening the geese worried about the situation of their friend, the tortoise.

“It’s too bad that you can’t fly,” said one of the geese. “You will certainly miss us. How will you survive?”

“I have an idea,” responded the tortoise. “Why not find a good stick that you can hold in your beaks? I will hold onto it with my teeth. Thus, when you fly south, I will fly with you.”

“Do you think you are strong enough to hold on for such a long time?” asked the other goose.

“Certainly. I am very strong,” said the tortoise.

A few days later, somewhere over Montana, a farmer raised his eyes and saw something unbelievable: two geese flying over his head with a stick in their beaks and a tortoise holding onto the stick.

He cried out, “That’s incredible! Who had such a great idea?”

Knowing that it was his idea, the tortoise couldn’t resist and cried out, “It was I!”

And the tortoise fell.

During the Christmas season last year, I found myself praying for a lot of things for myself. But as I prayed on the night of 23 December, I felt something wonderful inside, an indescribable joy. The feeling grew as I continued my prayer. I didn’t say anything about the things I wanted. In fact, my prayer changed completely; I started praying for other people, for all those around me, and I asked Heavenly Father to forgive me for my selfishness. When I finished, I realized that an hour had gone by. I had never felt the Spirit so strongly.
From this experience, I learned that Christmas is a time to give, not to receive. I didn’t give anything material to anyone, but I later realized that my humble prayer had been answered. Almost everyone I had prayed for on that night, when my heart was overflowing with joy, received what I had asked for.

I telephoned one day from Honolulu to my home. I asked the engineer there at the radio-phone place, “How can I talk confidentially to my wife? If I send this message out into the air, anybody with a ham radio can reach out and pick it up.” He said, “Yeah, that’s right, but they won’t understand it.” I said, “Well, why not?” He said, “Well, when your words go out of this transmitter we jumble them up; there is no meaning to them. But when they go into the receiver on the mainland they are all straightened out again, and your wife will understand them just as you spoke them.”

My, I’m glad of that. I’ll tell you why. I get my prayers so jumbled up sometimes that I’m glad there’s a receiving set over on the other side that will straighten out the things I’m trying to say. And I believe that. I’m just simple enough to believe that. I’m simple enough to believe that if man can talk to man across the ocean and across the world with these instruments, then man can talk to God; that God has as much power as man, as much control over the elements. And so, brothers and sisters of the Church, God has his priesthood here upon the earth, his power, and with that power we can be used by God for the accomplishment of his purpose. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t ever forget it. I’ve had these experiences. I know.

Saturday morning was supply day at the mission home, when missionaries from nearby districts came in to pick up copies of the Book of Mormon, tracts, tapes, and all the other materials involved in spreading the gospel in the 20th century. The mission office was filled with elders and sisters taking care of business, swapping mission news, and waiting their turns to stock up.
Just outside the door of my small office, where I was typing away on one of the quarterly reports, which, like the poor, are always with us, Elder Richard Ericson sat. His saddle-brown triple combination lay open on one knee, his black notebook containing the discussions was spread on the other, and a red pencil worked busily between them.
By some small coincidence, we both finished at the same time: I spun the completed report out of my typewriter with satisfaction, and he clapped his books shut in the same instant.
“Well, Elder,” I said, “you’ve been on your mission just about three months now. How’s it going?”
He smiled, almost to himself.
“No, sister, I’ve been on my mission longer than that.”
“Oh, of course. You mean the eight weeks in the Language Training Mission. But I—”
“No,” he cut in, “I don’t mean that. I mean I started my mission two months earlier than everyone else I came out with.”
Had Elder Ericson been transferred from another mission? I thought I ran a pretty good grapevine, but I hadn’t heard about anything like that. Had he been sick, gone home, then returned? Sometimes that happened.
“All right. I give up. Don’t kill me with curiosity. I know you’re getting a reputation as quite a missionary. In fact, rumor has it that you’ll be a senior before Christmas. Do these extra two months have anything to do with it? What’s the story?”
And this is what he told me.
The greatest day of my life, up to that point, was the day I received my mission call. Not even making the all-state basketball team or even Eagle Scout could compare. Dad and I were home alone, because Mother and the girls were spending two months in Phoenix with Grandma. I had just finished phoning Mom the good news.
“Wow, Dad!” I said as I hung up. “I still can’t believe it! Mom thinks it’s great, too. She says to tell you Grandma’s feeling a little better, by the way. Wow! I can’t get over it,” and I leaped to catch hold of the top of the door frame, executing a quick little swing.
“How would you like to start your mission right away?” Dad asked quietly.
“You bet! I wish it were tomorrow! I can’t wait to get into the LTM and then take that old plane for—”
“No. I mean it, Rich. How would you like to begin your mission now?”
“Now? But, Dad, the letter says, ‘You will enter the Missionary Home in Salt Lake City on the 20th of March.’ I don’t think they let you go in early. I think you have to—”
“I don’t mean start it in the Missionary Home. I mean start it here.” He was still sitting quietly in his big leather chair, looking at me very steadily. Something in his look made me quit exploding around the room. I dropped onto the footstool near the fireplace and just waited.
“I don’t want to make any speeches, Rich. You’re ready for your mission; we all know that. You’ve done all the right things to prepare. By the way, in case I haven’t said it lately, I’m proud of you.”
For some crazy reason, I fogged up and had to pretend to tie my shoelace.
“But a mission’s hard on the best of young people. That early adjustment brings frustration and problems most people your age haven’t had to deal with. And I guess a certain amount of frustration is good for the soul. Makes you grow up. But sometimes, if a fellow isn’t able to take those frustrations in his stride, it can really interfere with his mission, and mix him up; it can—”
“But, Dad, you said I was prepared.”
“In all the big things, yes. You’ve honored your priesthood, worked hard in your quorums, done well at seminary and in the institute this past year.”
“Well then?”
“I’m talking about the little things. Your mother and I have tried to teach you a lot about personal responsibility, and I think you are a mature person—well, most of the time!” He laughed. “But you know your mother likes to spoil you a little—”
“Aw, Dad!”
“Well, she does! And I guess that is her privilege. All I’m saying is this: there are lots of little surprises in store for the missionary. If you and I begin working on them now, then your adjustment should be easier. With the two of us baching it alone for the rest of the summer, we could operate on the missionary companion basis and see what we can learn.” Now he sat back and waited.
“I don’t quite get it, Dad. You mean, like you’re the senior companion and I’m the junior? Great! But then what? What will we do? Go tracting? I can see us at Sister Bigelow’s door—or Brother Young’s!” I grinned as I thought of the startled looks that would appear on our neighbors’ faces if my father and I donned dark suits and went around knocking on their doors.
“No, no tracting. You’ll see what I have in mind tomorrow. Right now I think it’s time for us to turn in.” He got up and stretched.
“Okay, Dad. Pretty soon. I just want to catch a little bit of the late show, and then I’ll—”
“No late show. It’s time for bed, Elder.” And something about the look he gave me made me wonder about this new senior companion of mine.
“Rise and shine!” The call came loud and clear.
I bounded out of bed, startled. Dad usually tiptoed past my room, especially in the summer. Then I saw the clock. Six A.M.! I sank back into the bed with a laugh.
“Cut the funny stuff, Dad!” I called as I rolled over.
The door banged open.
“Out of the bed, Elder! And make it up as soon as you’ve finished praying. You’re due in the kitchen in 20 minutes.” The door shut again, this time quietly. I stared at it in amazement.
When I finally made it to the kitchen, the table was set, but Dad had done nothing else about breakfast. He sat reading the scriptures in Mom’s rocker by the window, where the sun streamed in through her white curtains and over the African violets.
“You’re on breakfast detail today,” he said, smiling. And, as I reached into the cupboard for a box of cold cereal, he said, “Sorry. You can’t do a missionary’s work on that. Now listen carefully; I’ll only say this once.” He held up the four fingers of his right hand.
“Basic four. Remember that from health? Every meal. Milk or milk products, meat or protein, fruits and vegetables, cereals and grains. Every meal. Basic four. Now get going.”
As I searched wildly in the refrigerator, glancing back over my shoulder at Dad from time to time, I wondered what had happened to my quiet, easy-going father.
Without tears, but with plenty of sweat and a drop or two of blood (cut myself on the fruit knife), I managed to put a basic-four breakfast on the table by 7:00 A.M. I felt pretty proud. Dad said nothing, just knelt beside his chair and talked to the Lord as he had every morning of the world since I’d been in it, and before.
Later we cleared the table together and did the dishes. Then Dad said, “Study time, Elder. Let’s sit right here.
“Now I know you’re working mornings at the supermarket. But that gives you the afternoons free. I’ve talked with the bishop, and he was delighted with my plan. He’s changed our home teaching assignment; here’s the new list.”
I took one look at it.
“Good night, Dad! This list must contain every inactive member in the ward!”
“No, not all of them. But they’ll keep us busy. This afternoon I want you to go over the list. Think about the people, the families. Think about what we can do to help them, how we can reach them. Think especially about the Marlins—we’re going there tonight, and you’re giving the lesson. Well, son, time for me to get going. See you a little before five. I’ll fix dinner tonight, since you’ll be working on the lesson.” And with that, he was gone.
I guess my mind was kind of blocked out that first meeting with the Marlins. But I know that I did everything wrong. Preached to them instead of talking. Started coughing—not on purpose, I promise—when Brother Marlin lit up (trying to catch me off guard, I was sure). I asked Linda Marlin how school was, completely forgetting she’d dropped out.
The next morning Dad moved into phase two. Instead of getting me up at six, he opened the door at 5:30, dressed in his jogging outfit. Seems he thought I might have gotten out of shape since basketball season.
“Missionaries do a lot of walking—especially where you’re going. Need to be in good shape,” he said as we strode briskly into the foothills north of our house. “Now then—”
Now then? I thought. What could be next? Here we were jogging in the darkness, with not even the sun to keep us company. What could be “now then”?
“Brothers and Sisters,” he began, puffing only slightly between phrases, “Today we’ re happy to welcome Elder Richard Ericson, who is new to our branch. We’d like to have Elder Ericson say a few words to us. Perhaps Elder Ericson would like to talk briefly on faith.”
“Elder Ericson,” slightly short of breath, rolled his eyes and began to mumble a pretty standard two-and-a-half minute talk on faith. At the conclusion of this wonderful woodland sermon, Elder Ericson, Senior, said, “Tomorrow, brothers and sisters, Elder Ericson will give us a real talk on faith.”
That evening, one tired junior companion spent the evening hours with triple combination, concordance, and a copy of Joseph Smith’s Lectures on Faith. But the next morning I felt pretty good about the talk.
Soon we were jogging every morning; I was making a basic-four breakfast every other day and a basic-four dinner on the days in between; we were making regular evening visits to our home teaching families; and I was spending the evenings memorizing scriptures and preparing for the talks I was “assigned” to give while jogging. I was also doing my own laundry, cleaning my room, and budgeting every cent I earned. I can’t say I was crazy about the hours we were keeping—up at 5:30 and in bed before 11:00—but I really felt I was building myself into a missionary. So, naturally, that was time for me to get humble.
“Special assignment next Sunday, Rich,” Dad told me in the middle of the week. “I’ve asked the bishop to let us give a sacrament service out at Oak Crest Rest Home. It’ll just be the two of us doing everything. Now let’s see, I’ll conduct, you give the opening prayer, I’ll play the piano, you lead the singing, we’ll both bless and pass the sacrament and give talks, and then I’ll say the closing prayer.”
I wasn’t delighted at the thought of visiting the rest home down in a small canyon nearly an hour’s ride from home. I’d never liked hospitals anyway. But I’d just have to gird up my loins and act like a missionary.
When I arrived at Oak Crest with Dad the following Sunday, I realized that that was the problem. I was making outward motions like a missionary, acting like one in some ways, but inside I was still Rich Ericson, star basketball player and good-time Charley. I was totally unprepared for what we encountered. The rest home was clean and modern, the colors bright, the staff cheerful. But the patients! It wasn’t their wrinkled, gray faces, their slow, shuffling way of walking—if they could walk. It wasn’t even the fact that they seemed to be doing nothing, just sitting, or staring at television. What stunned me was that they all seemed so alone. Oh, here and there in a room we’d occasionally see friends and family visiting the elderly patients. And these patients seemed in a completely different class from the others. But most of the people we saw seemed isolated, even from each other. I realized that here, status was no longer money or beauty, strength, or knowledge. Status was having someone who came to visit you.
We held the meeting in a small recreation room. Perhaps 20 patients made up our congregation, grouped before us in wheelchairs or on folding chairs, with canes on the floor beside them.
“Dear brothers and sisters,” my father began. Seated beside him, I looked at each face. As Dad talked, smiles came to the tired features, eyes twinkled behind old-fashioned glasses. When I stood to give the opening prayer, all the formula praying I’d done in my life went out the window. I stood silent for a moment, my head bowed, and then started quietly pleading with our Father to bless these people, to give them whatever they needed to buoy up their spirits and gladden their hearts and enable them to stay strong—to endure—until they were reunited with him.
We went through the program: singing, their wavering voices following ours; blessing the sacrament and passing it while they took it with slow, shaking hands. I began to feel the Spirit growing around us like a pair of enfolding arms. In this room we weren’t alone. None of these people felt alone, I realized with surprise. Their faces may have been old, tired, and wrinkled, but they were serene and radiant, especially after the passing of the sacrament. And when Dad began his talk, they listened without the whispers, the yawns, and the fidgets I was used to in our ward. They were drinking in Dad’s quiet, gentle voice; more than that, they were drinking in the precious words he was saying. They were receiving comfort beyond that which this world has to offer. A quick shiver went up my spine. That day the Holy Spirit became someone, rather than something, to me.
We rode a long way in silence after that meeting. I looked out into the foothills with their sagebrush blowing dustily in the wind.
“Dad, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” I asked. “The hours, the exercise, the basic four, the memorizing of scripture—those are all …” I couldn’t say what I meant.
“They’re the tools. The healthy body, the prepared mind, knowledge of the gospel plan, the discipline to go on when you’re tired or frustrated—those are all just tools. They allow you to use your priesthood—”
“To bless people,” I finished, in wonder. “To really bless them, make a difference in their lives, in their whole, eternal lives. …”
“Hey, Elder! Elder Ericson! Let’s go! We have a discussion to give right after lunch, remember?” Elder Shumway beckoned to his companion from the foyer of the mission home, juggling a pile of books and tracts in one arm while he struggled into his coat.
“I see what you mean, Elder,” I said softly. “You really did begin your mission early.”
“Well,” he replied, wrapping his scarf around his neck and getting into his coat, “let’s say I went through some of my frustration at home, instead of here. I learned to get the mechanics taken care of, smoothly and without thought. Getting up on time, eating right, learning scriptures, staying in shape, organizing talks—I got into those habits before my mission, not during it. But what’s even more important, I got a little glimpse, just a peek, at what it’s all for. So I know it’s all worth it and then some—thanks to my dad.” He chuckled. “My dad—the senior companion!”
And then he was gone.

My husband and I both fell sick to COVID-19 in June 2021, to the point where we could barely get up. Our two babies—a six-month-old and a two-year-old—were healthy, but they needed to eat, and I, their mother, couldn’t even get out of bed.
My mother asked us to go over to her place so she could care for me and my kids. My dilemma was having to choose between the wellbeing of my parents or my children. My father and brother were on heavy medication for conditions unrelated to COVID-19. I did not want to expose my extended family to the virus, but my kids needed someone who was able to take care of them.
It was my mother’s birthday that day we went over. She took care of me and my father, and my siblings took care of my kids. My husband, who is also the bishop in our ward, did not come because he needed to be in the same lockdown area as his ward members in case they ever put up boundaries within the Suva area; our country was on lockdown.
My mum nursed me back to health and then fell sick to COVID herself. By this time, Fiji’s health system was so stressed that it took days for authorities to respond to our emergency call. We were told to take her to the hospital ourselves. My mum was put in a tent for COVID patients. Conditions in the tent were so poor that my father felt we needed to do something.
One day he walked right into the tent filled with COVID patients because my mother needed help to get to the bathroom, and no one was there to help her. His heart was heavy for the other patients in there, as well. Mum was moved into ICU a few days later.
We started providing nutritional packs for COVID patients in tents, to boost their immune system. Our friends and family on Facebook—both members and nonmembers—helped us put together food packs and fruit to help patients get healthy.
A friend of mine asked me to make a bowl of soup for her friend, who was in the isolation centre for mothers, because they weren’t getting sufficient nourishment. This mother was in our lockdown area, but her family members could not cross the border to tend to her needs.
I felt we needed to make soup for everyone else who might be in a similar situation. I put up a post on Facebook to find others who would be willing to help make soup for pregnant mothers and mothers of newborns in isolation. This brought a lot of kindhearted individuals together, united in a cause to help those who were suffering.
My husband and brother-in-law cooked the first lot of soup and delivered it to the hall where the mothers were isolating. My father and siblings would make the deliveries but on days when my father felt too weak to drive, we would get my brother-in-law and my husband—who live in a different town—to help.
Mum spent nearly two months in the hospital and doctors kept saying she might not make it. Hospital workers even discarded her clothes, thinking she wouldn’t survive. We would have family prayer every night with my mum on video call and we would hear her breathing heavily, with the beeping sound of the monitoring machines in the background.
Most nights at 7 PM sharp, Mum called to listen in on our family prayer. On nights she didn’t call, we knew she was not feeling strong enough, so our prayers were even more earnest. Our service to the other patients and our wrestling with the Lord through personal and family prayers helped us through this frightening time.
Our service might have helped others, but we were the ones being blessed—Mum came home alive!

On Church assignment in Hawaii, Sister Wirthlin and I visited the island of Molokai. As we walked back to our car after laboring up a trail in the mountains, we came upon a young man headed toward the overlook. I offered a polite greeting. From his answer, I could tell he was from Germany.
His countenance bespoke a sincere heart and an approachable personality. I spoke his language and knew something of his culture, having served a German-speaking mission. The Spirit prompted me to introduce the gospel to him. However, other people around us interrupted our brief encounter without my having said a word about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I failed to be the missionary that every member of the Savior’s Church ought to be.
As we drove away, I had the disturbing feeling that I had failed in my duty to proclaim the gospel. I was troubled while we drove around the island to see Molokai’s beautiful waterfalls. As we got out of our car, another car drove up and stopped. The young man we had seen earlier stepped out, smiled, and gave me a warm handshake. As I grasped his outstretched hand, I thought to myself, This time I will do my duty.
We introduced ourselves, and I learned he was a university student in a small city south of Düsseldorf, Germany. We spoke of my fond memories of Germany and of my admiration for the German people. Speaking of my work in Europe gave me an ideal opportunity to explain some of the basics of the gospel. As we parted, I asked for his address and telephone number, which he gladly shared. I felt he was truly a newfound friend.
Upon my return to Salt Lake City, I wrote to the Germany Düsseldorf Mission and asked President John F. Charles to send missionaries to continue the gospel discussion. I don’t believe my wife and I met this young man twice by coincidence.
But the Lord doesn’t always give us a second chance to share the gospel. I failed to follow the Spirit the first time the still, small voice unmistakably spoke to my heart and mind. I may not have had another opportunity, but the Lord graciously gave it to me.
We must act when the Spirit speaks. When I did, the young man responded positively to my message. It wasn’t really my message. It was God’s, brought to my mind by the Spirit of the Lord. I was but an instrument in the Lord’s hands.

A few years ago, our family gathered to discuss where we should spend our Christmas vacation within our country. Two of my children—both energetic and outgoing—wanted us to stay in a hotel in Kenema. My wife and I understood their excitement, but we also knew how that choice would affect our savings and limit our ability to extend help to needy family members. Kenema is where many of our extended relatives live and also a place where they value culture. Christmas has always been a time when we try to open our arms to those who may come to visit.
What started as a simple decision soon turned into repeated strain. The children who wanted the hotel stay felt misunderstood; the others felt opposed for thinking differently. Small communication has broken down here. Some days my wife and I felt indecisive, wondering whether we were failing as parents—especially because the conflict was beginning to overshadow the spirit of the holiday.
We prayed and counselled together, searching for a way to honour our children’s desires while also teaching the deeper principle of balancing personal enjoyment with charity. Eventually, we found a middle path: a simple Catholic guesthouse with enough room for all of us, affordable enough to preserve what we needed to bless others, yet still giving the children the feeling of being “away” for the holiday. It was not exactly what anyone originally wanted, but it was something that honoured everyone’s needs.
During that period of tension, I spent many moments on my dialogue. One day, as I prayed, a calm feeling settled over me. A thought entered my mind—gentle but clear. It reminded me of something President D. Todd Christofferson has taught that parents are called not merely to keep peace in the home but to lead their children toward higher principles—and that true discipleship often requires deliberate, loving correction, patient teaching, and choices that reflect eternal priorities rather than momentary desires.
He teaches that families grow stronger when parents guide with purpose, helping children learn to choose what builds faith, unity, and compassion—even when those choices require sacrifice.
Remembering that helped me breathe again. It reminded me that our role was not to please every wish but to guide our children toward Christlike balance—toward understanding that joy, charity, and family unity can and must coexist.
And as we moved forward with love and steady leadership, hearts softened. The arguments faded. And our family grew closer—not just because we found a place to stay but because we learned, together, what President Christofferson teaches so often: that true happiness in families comes when love, sacrifice, and discipleship walk hand in hand.
“Love them first. Teach them second.”
That night, instead of teaching them about obedience or respect, I gathered all of our family and expressed how much we loved them. I shared memories of my childhood, their kindness, and the joy they brought into our home. To my surprise, they softened. One of them began to appreciate sharing gifts and coordinating plans to assist when the opportunity arises. Our family grew stronger not by avoiding conflict but by facing it with love and the help of the Lord.

It was then she looked up, and instead of seeing two young men in suitcoats and on bikes turn out of the alley, only one was coming. His white shirt was missing its usual tie, and his bike and coat were gone. With head down and hands jammed hard in his pockets, clenched in fists of frustration, he was kicking rocks and old cans as he stomped toward her. She could see that he was talking to himself, and as the distance narrowed, she caught snatches of the angry words he was saying.

She sat and listened as he began having a mental battle with himself. First he’d mumble a scripture on patience, or brotherly love, or humility, then a quick comeback on patience being gone, and brotherly love destroyed by this or that, and humility nonexistent. The more he talked, the more the scriptures began to win until he was murmuring only pieces of scriptures and phrases of hymns that she had never heard before.

There had been a disagreement of some sorts; that was obvious. By the time he had reached the spot where she sat staring in the chrysanthemums, he had slowed and stopped. He stood looking at his scuffed shoes, totally unaware of her presence, his mind frantically searching for what to do. Pride said go, but love said stop. The hardness of his brow softened, the firmness around his mouth that had kept his gritted teeth solidly in place weakened, and she could see his eyes fill with tears. She became very conscious of her position and wished she were one of her beautiful little flowers blowing in the breeze.

Then from the alley a voice boomed: “Elder, wait! I—I’m sorry!” The young man near her slowly turned and looked where his partner was standing in his stocking feet.

For what seemed enough time to plant and harvest a section of wheat, the air remained empty of human sounds or movement. Then Elder Scuffed Shoes looked at her and, in a rather husky voice, asked if he could please have a flower. “A flower of forgiveness,” he had muttered. Mutely she clipped one for him and watched as he retraced his steps until he stood in front of the other. They were too far off for her to hear what was said, but she saw the flower exchange hands and watched as they walked back to their apartment in the alley, each with an arm around the other’s shoulder.

She had sat there in the flowers trying to figure out how one young man could know so much about love and have such an abundance of it, while another lay lifeless on a mortician’s table because of his gross lack of it. Both had been searching for what life really was. One had found it; the other hadn’t. Why? She couldn’t answer her own question. Finally she got up and left to prepare for a funeral many miles away. Even as she left, she knew she had to find the answer to “Why?” when she returned.

While the Hendricks family was reuniting in the Salt Lake Valley, the men of Brigham’s return company were still venturing east on the trail. They had been traveling rapidly and were now exhausted and running low on food. Their horses were growing weaker and starting to give out. In the mornings, some animals needed help getting to their feet.37
Amid these difficulties, Brigham remained unsettled about his meeting with Parley.38 Although he had forgiven his fellow apostle and told him to forget the matter, their disagreement revealed a need for clarification—and possibly changes—in how the Church was currently led and organized.
In Joseph’s day, a First Presidency had presided over the Church. After the prophet’s death, however, the First Presidency had been dissolved, leaving the Twelve to preside in its place. According to revelation, the Twelve Apostles formed a quorum equal in authority to the First Presidency. Yet they also had a sacred duty to serve as a traveling council and take the gospel to the world.39 As a quorum, could they adequately fulfill this mandate while still shouldering the duties of the First Presidency?
Brigham had occasionally considered reorganizing the First Presidency, yet he had never thought the time was right. Since leaving the Salt Lake Valley, questions about the future of Church leadership had loomed over him.40 He pondered the matter quietly on the road to Winter Quarters, and more and more he felt the Spirit urging him to act.
One day, while resting beside a river, he turned to Wilford Woodruff and asked if the Church should call members of the Twelve to form a new First Presidency.
Wilford thought it over. Altering the Quorum of the Twelve—a quorum established by revelation—was a serious matter.
“It would require a revelation to change the order of that quorum,” Wilford observed. “Whatever the Lord inspires you to do in this matter, I am with you.”41

When the Maori people in the New Zealand Mission needed help, they prayed for President Cowley to come to them. One day he drove up to a post office in a rather distant city in New Zealand. There were two sisters standing by the post office, waiting. When he got out of the car, one said to the other, “See, I told you he would be here soon.”

President Cowley said, “What’s going on here?”

One of the sisters said, “We needed you, and we’ve been praying. We knew you would come, and you always go directly to the post office, so we decided to wait here until you arrived.”

It was just that simple. People would tell the Lord what they wanted, and somehow or other President Cowley was led by the Spirit to go to where they were. He wasn’t disorganized, but I have never known anyone who planned less and accomplished more, simply by doing what he felt impressed to do.

Later, when Valentine, a priest in Rome killed about A.D. 270 during the persecution of early Christians, was made a saint, his feast day was established on February fourteenth. In time, the two feast days were combined.
One legend is that Valentine is the patron saint of lovers: Roman soldiers did not want to leave their homes to fight, so the emperor, Claudius II, ordered young men not to marry. He believed that if they didn’t have homes, they would be more willing to go away and fight. Valentine felt sorry for the unhappy young men and their sweethearts and married many of them secretly. So today, sweethearts still celebrate in his honor.

(President of the Church from 1951 to 1970)
The McKay family loved music. Each Christmas, President David O. McKay attached jingle bells to his horses and took his grandchildren on a sleigh ride around town. After sledding through the snow, they would sing carols around the family’s piano. Once, while President McKay was working at the Church Administration Building, he was surprised by a different group of carolers—165 Primary children who had come to sing Christmas songs for him! President McKay appreciated their musical gift, especially when he learned they had given up their annual Christmas party to make the trip.

A friend of mine played football at a community college in California. He wasn’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but when a teammate transferred to BYU, he decided to come along.

He spent more time on the sidelines than he did on the field, but he didn’t mind because he was learning a lot, majoring in English, and meeting people, including someone he hoped to marry. He was inquisitive and asked good questions. On the field, his queries were about Xs and Os. In the classroom, he sought to hone his academic and communication skills. He became increasingly interested in the purpose of life, in his relationship with God, and in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

In time he was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When a teammate asked why, he responded simply, “I really believe for me this is the way.”6

As he approached graduation, a thoughtful mentor, seeing potential in this young man, asked him to stay on as a graduate assistant.

Fast-forward more than forty years to February of this very year, and that same BYU graduate, now looking a little older, stood atop a massive podium in Las Vegas surrounded by floating confetti. He was holding the Vince Lombardi Trophy, side by side with the woman he met and married here at BYU. Travis Kelce hugged him. Even Taylor Swift was giving him a little love. If you haven’t guessed by now, this is the Andy Reid story.

It is also a classic BYU story—a story of becoming. It is a story full of triumphs and trials as well as highs and lows. It is a story marked by daily decisions to choose Christian discipleship and the courage to embrace what Ruth L. Okediji described on this campus as a fully integrated life—a life in which religious convictions and professional pursuits are harmonized, not compartmentalized.7

In the LDS Living podcast All In, Andy Reid said:

What a great example [Christ] was for us. All the trials and tribulations that He went through. [And] Joseph Smith, the trials and tribulations that he went through. These are great examples for us.

And then we just hang on to that iron rod, because that son of a gun [life] can be difficult at times. But you hang on and you work your way through these things and bank on your faith.8

Turning to our own time, let me share with you an example of faith, of courage, of compassion, of victory. It illustrates how it is possible to meet life’s challenges—head-on. It exemplifies the ability to suffer physical impairment, endure pain and suffering, and yet never complain. Such are Wendy Bennion of Sandy, Utah, and Jami Palmer of Park Valley, Utah. Both are teenagers; both have borne similar afflictions. Their situations run almost parallel. Since Wendy’s battle has been of a longer duration, I shall speak today of her.
Stricken with cancer at a tender age, subjected to long periods of chemotherapy, Wendy persevered valiantly. Teachers cooperated, parents and family helped—but the mainstay in her affliction has been her indomitable spirit. Wendy has brought cheer to others similarly afflicted. She has prayed for them; she has sustained them with her own example and faith.
After Wendy completed eighteen months of chemotherapy, a balloon-launching party was held in her honor. The public media covered the event. One of the many balloons launched that day was found miles away by Jayne Johnson. It had landed in her backyard, and she discovered it just as she was starting her own chemotherapy treatments. She wrote to Wendy, indicating she had been feeling sad and frightened but that finding the balloon and the note inside—which told about Wendy, her cancer, and the completion of her treatments—had given her the strength and that Wendy was a real inspiration to her. Wendy said, “I think she was supposed to find that balloon so that she would know that it’s not the end of the world and that people do get better.”
Though Wendy’s cancer recurred and a second round of therapy was needed, this choice young lady has not wavered, nor has she shrunk from her course. Rarely have I witnessed one with such courage, such determination, such faith. The same can be said of Jami Palmer. They personify the words of the poetess Ella Wheeler Wilcox, who wrote:
It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through tears.

A big decision following my mission was a career. What should I do? A new position opened with the Union Pacific Railroad Company as a passenger representative. After two months, other choices confronted me. An opportunity came to return to ZCMI in its finance division, plus part-time work as an early morning seminary teacher serving Salt Lake East High School; or to work as a mathematics teacher in Tucson, Arizona, High School, or as director of music at the Box Elder High School in Brigham City. I made it a matter of study and prayer. On an eventful afternoon I walked over to Temple Square during my lunch hour for a special, quiet prayer. The decision followed. The formula—prayer, study, work, consultation with parents and trusted friends—produced results.

It was Christmas Eve, and large, soft snowflakes were falling gently. Three small girls—Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Sarah Amelia, who was often called Pet—were home alone while their widowed mother was at work. The three girls were worried about Santa not being able to get down their chimney, so they decided to sweep a path for him from the outside gate to the front door.
After they finished, Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet went inside their house and cuddled up in a very large rocking chair. They were beginning to get tired when they heard their family cow, Boss, mooing and mooing. “Poor old Boss,” Pet said. “She must be hungry.”
They were quiet for a minute; then Pet said, “It’s Christmas, and Boss doesn’t have one Christmas present, not even something to eat.”
Caroline came up with a wonderful idea: “Our mattress is filled with nice dried grass. Let’s feed it to Boss.”
So Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet pulled the covers off their bed, struggled to get a good hold on the mattress, and pulled it into the front room. They put on their coats and gloves, then dragged the mattress through the doorway and over to the barnyard. They ripped open the mattress and dumped out the grass. Old Boss stopped mooing and got busy eating her Christmas Eve supper. The very tired girls returned to the house. They curled up in the big rocking chair and were soon fast asleep.
When their mother got home, she awakened the girls and told them to go to bed. Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet told her they couldn’t go to bed because they had fed their bed to the cow! So their mother let them sleep in the big rocking chair.
Sometime that night Santa came and filled their stockings with yummy things to eat. And the next morning a good neighbor came with a load of hay and straw. So old Boss got a second Christmas present, and Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet got a new straw bed.

While I was stationed at an air base in Wyoming during World War II, it was announced in our branch sacrament meeting that the following week a branch conference would be held and that there was a good possibility that the mission president would bring a visiting authority from Salt Lake City with him. As we came to branch conference the following Sunday morning, we were introduced to that visiting authority, a man that none of us had ever seen before. It was Elder Spencer W. Kimball, the newest member of the Twelve out on one of his very first assignments. His manner was kindly, his testimony so sure, but he expressed concern that such a high calling should come to one such as he. Then with renewed confidence, he said in effect: “Brothers and Sisters: I don’t know exactly why the Lord has called me, but I do have one talent to offer. My father taught me how to work; and if the Lord can use a worker, I’m available.” Yes, the Lord could use a worker! In fact, he needed a hard worker that might possibly be ready to assume prime responsibility at a most significant time.
Now is that time, and a prophet who knows how to work is leading the way. But one fact is certain—this latter-day work requires thousands of us who are willing to match stride with the prophet.
A prophet who walks alone can do little more than mark time. Every dispensation has had the crying need for hard-working, qualified disciples. President Kimball is calling for the greatest army of hard workers in the history of the Church on earth.
May we consider together these three objectives as a starting point in our preparation to match stride with the prophet:
First, we must be better informed about the doctrine; second, we must be more willing to just DO IT; and third, we must be more readily available to the gifts of the Spirit.
A great teacher once said, “He who does not read has no advantage over him who cannot read.” Illiteracy in the gospel seems almost inexcusable in this day of enlightenment and modern teaching techniques, especially among those of us who are committed in the waters of baptism and who reconfirm that commitment each week as we partake of the sacrament.
On point number two—being willing—it always thrills me to meet with the missionaries all over the world. Is it ever convenient to pick up in the prime of life, to set schooling or an apprenticeship aside for two years, to leave family, friends, and personal interests to respond to a call from the prophet? Convenient, no. Soul satisfying, yes. And when you believe in something, you just DO IT!
I would like to pause for a moment and just share some notes that I made while I was attending a function in the South Pacific just a couple of weeks ago. The counsel received from the prophet should never be taken lightly. The Nuku‘alofa Tonga Stake followed President Kimball’s counsel to organize choirs in every ward and branch and then to invite their neighbors to join with them in these choirs. Just last month Sister Simpson and I thrilled at this stake’s choir festival. Every unit participated. One small branch came with a choir almost as large as the total branch membership. Each choir had a significant number of nonmembers. At least one choir consisted of one-third investigators. All choirs had recently baptized members singing with them. Almost all of them had been baptized as a direct result of choir participation. They were all dressed in white; they were well trained. It was an outstanding evening of spiritual uplift; it was an outstanding example of the blessings that can come by following the direction of a prophet. Does your ward or branch have a choir? Do you invite nonmembers to participate with you? Let’s DO IT!
And then this little thought—you know, we have more than 7,000 wards and branches in this church. What if every one of those wards and branches set out to bring in just one family in the next year—twelve months to do it. We could invite a man and his wife and maybe they will have two or three children. If this family of five could be invited to sing with us, and if they could be converted, we could take five times 7,000, and you know we would have 35,000 new converts in addition to all else we are doing. This is significant! And these are the rewards that come from doing what a prophet has asked us to do.
Those who become candidates to inherit all that the Father has must learn early that a home teaching assignment is more important than any TV program or any other worldly interest. When the still small voice prompts us, let’s DO IT and DO IT NOW!
Spiritual sensitivity is a gift, freely given, to all who are willing to do their best. It is for those who have a desire to serve and the fortitude to take the first step, even when it doesn’t seem personally convenient to do so. As we complicate our lives, we discourage the gifts of the Spirit.
The Savior taught so simply, so beautifully, but so-called modern civilization has brought so many frustrations into our lives. Today’s social environment seems to demand a sophistication in our living patterns that is too often incompatible with more important eternal objectives.
As Sister Simpson and I walked along lower Queen Street in Auckland, New Zealand, the other day, we came to a particular place not far from the wharf. There we paused for a few moments as I related to her the incident that took place at that very spot during my first mission.
I could still see in my mind’s eye a very old Maori couple who stood at the curb with thousands of others waving farewell to the Maori Battalion as they marched down to their troop transport and off to war.
The old couple became very excited as one young soldier glanced their way with a big smile. From their Maori conversation, it became apparent that this was their great-grandson going off to war.
His would be an atomic war with sophisticated equipment capable of killing by the thousands—so unlike the Maori wars of the late 1800s that the old Maori had participated in as a young tribal warrior.
Soon the boy was gone from view, and it was then that the old man turned to his wife and said (perhaps a little cynically), “Ka tahi kua pakeha tatou,” which in effect means, “So now we are civilized.”
What is civilization? What is progress? Just exactly what is important and what isn’t? Scriptures teach that God’s ways are not man’s ways. Nothing has ever been truer than this.
According to the revealed word of God, there is really and truly only one simple overall objective for this world of ours, and that is the accomplishment of immortality and eternal life for all of those who come here to live for a few years.
As we know, the first part of immortality has been accomplished through the atoning sacrifice of the Savior. Everyone, regardless of race, color, creed, or performance, will live beyond the grave and benefit by this unconditional and divine gift.
The further possibility of eternal life or exaltation simply calls for an individual and personal conformity to Christ’s teachings and priesthood principles. But unlike immortality, each person needs to be convinced or converted to the disciplines and life-style that need to be learned and lived in order to achieve this ultimate goal of all eternity.
Most impressive is the universal acceptance of gospel truths in the hearts of honest people. The Savior excluded no one from his circle of influence. So it is in his church today. I know a banker in Boston who will hurry home next Monday for family home evening (he does this every Monday); just exactly like another good brother I know of who owns a small farm in the mountains of Peru. I know a young father who lives on the island of Vava‘u in Tonga who goes out faithfully making his home teaching calls in his outrigger canoe; but his faith is no different from that of the young business executive I know in London who loves the work and does his home teaching faithfully—both willing to DO IT.
That old Maori great-grandfather had every right to question the true values of so-called civilization that had been thrust upon him. Our jet age of atomic power and automatic everything can be helpful if used properly.
If sophisticated methods and automatic equipment can provide us with more time to teach mankind eternal principles of God, then we are blessed most abundantly. If it only enables us to “lengthen our stride” in some devious direction, the adversary has won another round.
May we be blessed with the ability to touch hearts and lift up as we follow the life of the Master and the example of his living prophet on earth today as we just simply DO IT is my prayer in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Before leaving Nauvoo in the winter of 1846, President Brigham Young had a dream in which he saw an angel standing on a cone-shaped hill somewhere in the West pointing to a valley below. When he entered the Salt Lake Valley some 18 months later, he saw just above the location where we are now gathered the same hillside prominence he had seen in vision.
As has often been told from this pulpit, Brother Brigham led a handful of leaders to the summit of that hill and proclaimed it Ensign Peak, a name filled with religious meaning for these modern Israelites. Twenty-five hundred years earlier the prophet Isaiah had declared that in the last days “the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established in the top of the mountains,” and there “he shall set up an ensign for the nations.”
Seeing their moment in history as partial fulfillment of that prophecy, the Brethren wished to fly a banner of some kind to make the idea of “an ensign for the nations” literal. Elder Heber C. Kimball produced a yellow bandana. Brother Brigham tied it to a walking stick carried by Elder Willard Richards and then planted the makeshift flag, declaring the valley of the Great Salt Lake and the mountains surrounding it as that prophesied place from which the word of the Lord would go forth in the latter days.

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.