Gospel Story Finder

The Salt Lake Temple, dedicated in 1893, was the first temple topped with an angel formally identified as Moroni. When Church President Wilford Woodruff (1807–98) asked non-LDS artist Cyrus Dallin to create a statue, Dallin declined. Knowing that Dallin’s parents had once been active Latter-day Saints, President Woodruff encouraged him to consult with his mother.

Dallin’s mother felt he should accept the commission. When he said he did not believe in angels, his mother asked, “Why do you say that? … You call me your ‘angel mother.’”3 She encouraged him to study Latter-day Saint scriptures for inspiration, which he did. His design was a dignified, neoclassical angel in robe and cap, standing upright with a trumpet in hand. The original one-meter plaster model was completed by 4 October 1891, and a full-size model was sent to Salem, Ohio, where the statue was hammered out of copper and covered with 22-karat gold leaf. The 3.8 meter statue stands on a stone ball on the 64-meter central spire on the east side.

Cyrus Dallin was born in Springville, Utah, on 22 November 1861. His family had joined the Church in England and immigrated to Utah in 1851. Once there, however, Dallin’s parents joined the Presbyterian Church. As a child, Cyrus loved sketching and modeling with clay. Eventually he studied art in Boston, Massachusetts. “I considered that my ‘Angel Moroni’ brought me nearer to God than anything I ever did,” he said. “It seemed to me that I came to know what it means to commune with angels from heaven.”4

“Evacuate your homes now!” bellowed the loudspeaker on a truck. “The fire is coming! The fire is coming!”
The forest fire raged down the mountain toward the town. Fierce winds fanned the enormous flames. Short of water and help, the firefighters couldn’t hold it back any longer. Families were going to lose their homes and belongings. There was nothing anyone could do.
Seven-year-old Catherine sat in her family’s living room, watching the news reports. It was hard to believe that the fire was only an hour away. She stared as flames licked through the treetops. She didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t look away. She felt sad and sick.
Catherine went to her room and thought about the fire. Looking around, she wondered what it would be like to leave everything behind. She had lots of prized possessions. The most precious was Ginger, her favorite doll. She looked at her other dolls, her trophies, her toys, even her clothes and shoes. Losing everything was hard to even think about.
When Dad got home, Catherine and her parents ate dinner. They discussed the new evacuations. Tears welled up in Catherine’s eyes, and she began to cry.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked.
“Why can’t they stop the fire?” Catherine asked. “Where will people live if their houses burn down?”
“Everyone will move into temporary shelters,” Mom answered. “They will get food, clothes, and a warm place to sleep until this is all sorted out.”
“What about their things? Who’s going to help them save their things?”
“The fire is too hot and moving too fast for anyone to think much about saving things,” Dad said. “It’s more important to make sure the people are safe. Most things can be replaced.”
Too upset to finish her supper, Catherine asked to be excused and went to her room and knelt by her bed. “Girls just like me are going to lose everything,” she prayed. “Somebody has to help them. I want to help them, but what can I do?”
When she awoke the next morning, Catherine knew exactly what to do. She filled a large shopping bag with clothes, books, and games. Last of all, she put in Ginger. “Mom, I want to donate these things,” she said. “Can you help me?”
Mom looked through the bag. “You’re giving away some of your nicest treasures,” she said. “Are you sure you want to give away Ginger?”
Catherine tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “This is what I need to do,” she said. “I know that this will help someone feel better. Will you help me?”
Mom hugged her. “Of course. The Relief Society is collecting donations. I was going to take some blankets and canned goods over this afternoon, but I think we should go right now, instead.”
The missionaries had set up a large open trailer in the ward parking lot. Waiting in line with other people who were making donations, Catherine began to feel that giving away Ginger was just too hard. She thought longingly about keeping her favorite doll. The line inched forward, giving her time to think some more. When it was her turn, she handed her bag to the Relief Society sisters, Ginger and all. Silently saying good-bye, she watched as her bag was carried to the trailer. It was so hard to give up her things! She turned and walked quietly back to the car.
That afternoon, Mom collected blankets and canned goods. When she and Catherine arrived at the meetinghouse, the trailer was full of useful things.
Back home, a television report announced that four hundred homes had been destroyed. But there was good news, too. The fire was nearly under control, and no one had been hurt.
Catherine watched the reports every night. She was worried about the four hundred families without homes. She thought about her shopping bag of treasures and wondered if it had really mattered among the thousands of other donations. And she really missed Ginger.
Suddenly Catherine sat up and looked more closely at the television screen. Something looked familiar. A little girl in a shelter was clutching a doll that looked a lot like—no, it really was—Ginger!
Catherine jumped up and squealed with delight. Her prayer had been answered. Her donation really had made a difference.

Your hearts would have been caused to burn as did ours as we watched him preside over nine separate area conferences during the last few days, each with three general sessions and separate priesthood and mothers-and-daughters meetings. I feel blessed to have seen and felt the love the Saints have for him and his love for the people all over the world—in Samoa, New Zealand, Fiji, Tonga, and Tahiti; in Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane. The Saints expressed their love in their welcome for him, and then again throughout the meetings in their songs and testimonies. They had spent weeks and weeks in preparation. Streets, fences, and buildings were decorated with ferns, orchids, hibiscus, and coconut fronds. They had fasted and prayed that the rains would cease. The rain fell before and during the meeting. One day the rain fell exactly at ten o’clock. We were all inside and the meeting had started. We don’t think a drop ever fell on the prophet. They had fasted and prayed.
Several hundred students lined the road to our school in Tonga, standing at attention, immaculately uniformed. Boy scouts formed honor guards; several hundred of our teenagers hired buses to take them to the Melbourne airport to greet the prophet. They had paid a dollar each. The plane was going to be twenty minutes late, and they were fearful that the bus couldn’t wait and they would have to go back to the city. But the plane arrived in a few moments, and tears flowed as they had a chance to see him and to touch his hand. One of our group saw an excited five-year-old boy and asked, “Did you shake his hand?”
This little boy said, “No, but I saw him. Boy, did I see him!” The little boy handed this member of our party a little envelope and said, “Will you give this to the prophet?” When it was opened, here was a little hand drawn picture of President Kimball. Scrawled at the bottom was “Love, from Luke.”

That evening at supper Beth was quiet.
“Is anything wrong, Beth?” her mother asked.
“How far away is Easter?”
“About four weeks,” her mother replied. “Why?”
“I’m going to make an Easter egg,” Beth said slowly.
“We always color eggs, Beth,” her mother said, puzzled. “Don’t you think this is a bit early to start?”
“No, because I want to make a fancy egg—like Gram has in her collection.”
A look of understanding spread across Mother’s face. “Were you helping Gram get her eggs ready for the library display this week?”
Beth nodded. “And do you know what? I found out that Gramps was the Phantom all along. Did you know that, Mom?”
“Did I ever! I remember all the eggs we used to eat. It’s a wonder I didn’t sprout feathers when I was growing up!” Mother smiled at the memory. “I never let on to Gramps that I knew though. It would have spoiled his fun. He got such a kick out of surprising Gram.”
“She’s really sad because this is going to be the first Easter in almost fifty years that she won’t be getting a Phantom egg,” Beth said. “I thought that if I could make her one, she might feel a little better. I know it wouldn’t be the same as one from the Phantom, but I’d like to try.”
Beth’s father, who had been listening quietly, smiled at his daughter. “I think that’s a great idea, Beth. It would remind Gram that she is still loved even though Gramps isn’t here anymore. If I can do anything to help, let me know.”
After school the next day Beth bicycled over to the library. She found several books to take home on the art of egg decorating. When she finished her homework and the dishes, she sat down to study the books before bedtime. As Mother gave her a kiss good night, Beth said, “Mom, some of those eggs that Gramps made took a lot of time and work. Why didn’t he make some to sell?”
“He only made them for Gram because he loved her, and he knew how much she liked decorated eggs. Have you decided what kind you’re going to make?”
“Not yet. But I’ve got the choice narrowed down. I’ll decide in the morning.” Beth yawned and snuggled down under the covers.
By Saturday Beth was eager to start her project. She had decided to try her hand at two different types of decorations. One involved an onion-skin dye. After the egg had been dyed, a design would be scratched onto its surface. The other type was a “sugar” egg. This required some diamond dust and floral cake decorations as well as glue, ribbons, and a special sugar frosting. Both types required starting with clean, whole, empty eggshells.
A few hours later Beth looked ruefully into a bowl of shell-less eggs. The yellow yolks seemed to be winking at her. She had only a few whole shells to show for her efforts.
She looked up when Mother came into the kitchen. “Mom, can I fix breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Mother put an arm around Beth’s shoulders and hugged her sympathetically. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll be happy to eat all the eggs we need to. If I never clucked before, I doubt that I will now.”
“Thanks, Mom. You’re super. This isn’t as easy as I thought.”
The weeks sped by. Beth practiced her egg craft every spare moment. The family ate omelets, angel food cake, souffles, custards, meringue pies, and anything else they could think of that used lots of eggs. Decorated eggshells lined every available space.
The day before Easter came quickly. Beth’s mother had rummaged through the attic and found a beautiful little basket that was the perfect size for one egg. Beth had lined it with soft Easter grass.
After supper Beth carefully positioned her prize egg in the basket. Pastel flowers shone softly through its glistening spun-sugar coating.
“Beth, that’s lovely,” her mother said.
“You’ve done a great job, honey,” her father agreed. “You should be proud of yourself. We are. I’m sure Gram will be very happy.”
“Thank you.” Beth smiled. “It did turn out nice, didn’t it? I’m glad I decided to do this kind instead of the onion-skin type. I like this kind better.”
“I like the smell better too.” Her dad wrinkled his nose in mock disgust at the remembered smell of boiling onion skins.
“Oh, Dad!” Beth laughed. “I can’t wait to see Gram’s face.”
Early the next morning they drove to Gram’s house and parked out of sight down the street. Beth cautiously crept up to the front door, put the basket on the steps, rang the bell, and scurried behind a huge lilac bush.
The front door opened slowly. Beth’s grandmother stepped out and peered around uncertainly. Shaking her head, she turned to go back inside. Suddenly she glanced down and froze as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
Beth held her breath as Gram sat down on the step and placed the basket on her lap. She stared and stared at it. Beth could see tears on her grandmother’s cheeks. Gram lifted her head and called out, “If you’re out there, my new Phantom, how can I thank you? You’ve made me very happy. I’m going to call my granddaughter to tell her about your kindness. She’ll be delighted.”
As soon as Gram closed the door, Beth scooted back to the car. “Quick!” she told her parents. “We’ve got to get home. Gram is going to call me to tell me about the egg.”
The phone was ringing as Beth raced through the front door. Although Beth was winded from her run, her grandmother was too excited to notice it over the phone.
Easter dinner conversation revolved around the new Phantom egg which Gram had brought to show off. All the aunts, uncles, and cousins were impressed, and Beth glowed inwardly when Gram said, “Tomorrow I’m taking this egg right down to the library and have it put in the case with my other Phantom eggs. I’m going to make a nice card explaining what happened and how much this egg means to me. Somehow I’m sure that Gramps is pleased too.”

When called upon to sustain someone who appears to be less qualified than ourselves, there may sometimes be an inclination to follow the course of Oliver Cowdery in eventually looking down upon a leader less educated than we are.

In October 1834 Oliver eloquently recounted the great spiritual experience he had while serving as Joseph’s scribe:

These were days never to be forgotten—to sit under the sound of a voice dictated by the inspiration of heaven, awakened the utmost gratitude of this bosom! Day after day I continued, uninterrupted, to write from his mouth, as he translated with the Urim and Thummim . . . the history, or record, called “The book of Mormon.” [Messenger and Advocate 1:14; emphasis in original]

Oliver then referred to the ecstatic joy that filled their hearts as the resurrected John the Baptist conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon Joseph and himself (ibid., pp. 15–16).

Joseph’s confidence in and reliance upon Oliver is reflected by the fact that in February 1835, the Prophet invited Oliver to give the newly called Council of the Twelve their apostolic charge. Among other excellent counsel, Oliver admonished them to “cultivate great humility; for I know the pride of the human heart” (HC 2:195).

In April 1836 Oliver was in the Kirtland Temple with the Prophet when they “saw the Lord standing upon the breastwork of the pulpit” (D&C 110:1). Moses, Elias, and Elijah subsequently restored priesthood keys to them. But not long after, Oliver committed some serious transgressions and lost the Spirit of the Lord. He failed to attend to the responsibilities of his calling and began persecuting the Brethren and defaming the character of the Prophet Joseph (see HC 3:16–17).

In April 1838 Oliver was invited to appear before a disciplinary council to be tried for his membership in the Church. Among the charges was the allegation that he had persecuted the Brethren through urging lawsuits against them. It was also alleged that he had defamed the character of the Prophet and that he had treated “the Church with contempt by not attending meetings.” It was further alleged that he had forsaken his calling “appointed him by revelation, for the sake of filthy lucre, and turning to the practice of law” (HC 3:16–17).

Oliver refused to attend the disciplinary council and to face his brethren, but he did send a letter to Bishop Edward Partridge in response to the charges made against him. Note the change in this man who, in humbler days, had enthusiastically served as the Prophet’s scribe. Note the justification of his behavior and his arrogant attitude as he wrote the following:

My venerable ancestor was among the little band, who landed on the rocks of Plymouth in 1620—with him he brought those maxims, and a body of those laws which were the result and experience of many centuries, on the basis of which now stands our great and happy government; and they are so interwoven in my nature, have so long been inculcated into my mind by a liberal and intelligent ancestry that I am wholly unwilling to exchange them for anything less liberal, less benevolent, or less free. . . .
This attempt to control me in my temporal interests, I conceive to be a disposition to take from me a portion of my Constitutional privileges and inherent right—I only, respectfully, ask leave, therefore, to withdraw from a society assuming they have such right. [HC 3:18]

Oliver had been a man of great native intellect, of eloquent speech, of unflinching loyalty to the Prophet as he served as second elder of the Church and later as assistant president of the Church. And now he had thrown it all away because he refused to accept the counsel of others.

Recently my wife and children were very ill from an unusual bacterial infection. I gave them blessings and prayed for them. Then, not wanting to expose anyone else to their sickness, I arranged my work schedule to be able to be home to care for their needs. It was soon apparent that my acts of service to help them through three weeks of illness became a strong binding force for us. Such struggles in life sometimes push marital partners apart, but crises can serve as the training ground for commitment. We often perform such acts of service because we are committed beforehand, but in many instances service precedes commitment. It is in serving each other that we become committed to each other.

We recently had an experience that pointed out the importance of communication. Our stake was given an emergency welfare assignment to can food, and the high councilor responsible for welfare received the assignment on Sunday—but not in time to announce it in our Sunday meetings. Only the bishops were notified of the assignment. When I attended a meeting of ward Relief Society presidents on Tuesday, I was faced with such comments as: “Why can’t they give us more than three days’ notice? Surely they’ve known about it for six weeks.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I said, but not knowing whether it was or not put me in an awkward position. I felt discontent among the sisters at that meeting. Later, when I had the facts, I learned that most of what the sisters had said was incorrect and could have been immediately corrected if I had only known more about the situation.
Of course, there will always be emergencies in which we have to make the best of things, but when there is time to do so, it is important for priesthood leaders to inform Relief Society leaders of activities and assignments well in advance. Thus informed, Relief Society sisters can help promote goodwill and enthusiasm in a ward or stake. Just as important, Relief Society leaders should be trustworthy in dealing with confidential information and be positive in supporting priesthood leaders. Gossip and negative speaking detract from the Spirit’s influence and should be avoided.

As a young missionary in Tonga, in the aftermath of a devastating hurricane, I stood in a tiny, wobbly wooden framed home of a Tongan branch president, surrounded by the shattered remains of much newer and stronger homes, and heard him describe in tears how at the height of the 150 mile an hour storm, when his house was on the verge of collapse, he placed his hand on one of the ceiling beams and commanded by virtue of his priesthood and in the name of Jesus Christ that the house remain standing solidly and intact during the storm. And miraculously it was so.

Illustrated by Dilleen Marsh
WELCOME!I’m Sister Simon.Hi! I’m Ramón.Hello. I’m Cathlyn.I’m Mei Lin.Hi! I’m David.And I’m Joshua.
Hey, Ramón, let’s get going. We’ll be late for the project to help Brother Hollister.
I’m afraid I can’t make it. Brother Hollister’s a great guy, and I really want to help him, but my uncle just invited me to go to the ball game.
OK. See you later.
I mean, I can help Brother Hollister some other time, right?
Of course. Don’t worry about it.
Look, I know he’s helped others all his life, and times are tough for him right now, but a guy needs to have some fun, too, doesn’t he?
Absolutely. Enjoy the game.
Sure, I always feel great after one of these projects, and there’ll be other ball games, but … Oh, all right then, you’ve talked me into it. I’ll call my uncle and get a rain check on the ball game.
Boy, you really know how to pressure a guy.
What?

by Sandi Poulsen
The phrase “today is eternity” has an extra amount of meaning for the youth of the Kinston North Carolina Stake who recently presented a stake musical by the same name. Said one participating Laurel, “The role I played in ‘Today Is Eternity’ helped me to a great extent. The play made me realize how important all decisions are and how careful and prayerful you have to be in making them.”
In preparation, more than 50 young men and women (including four non-Mormons) traveled to the stake center to rehearse lines, dancing, vocal solos, and choral music. A basic script was sketched by the adult stake drama and dance specialists, after which it was given to the youth for revisions and final copy. Since the play provided parts for every youth who desired to perform, many found themselves doing things they had never done before—including dancing, acting, and singing solos.
The play revolved around the struggles in the lives of the three oldest children in a large LDS family. The oldest daughter had to decide whether to marry a young man who could not marry her in the temple; the nearly nineteen-year-old son had to decide between a football scholarship and a mission; and the sixteen-year-old daughter faced the choice of maintaining her standards or joining with her peers in a more wild way of life. By the end of the play, because of sincere personal efforts and help from family members and leaders, all three had reached the right decisions.
Many favorable comments and reactions followed the production. One seminary teacher said, “The play was really a review of those things we studied in seminary last year. But I feel that seeing these decisions and problems enacted on stage has brought them to life and touched some of our youth in a way they never had before.”
The young woman who played the part of the girl deciding to wait for a temple marriage agreed. “There was no doubt in Mandy’s mind that she was to marry in the temple. It is the same with myself. But I learned that simply deciding that you will marry in the temple is not enough. You must start before you meet your sweetheart, before you even start to date. You must take necessary precautions now to guard yourself against falling in love with someone who can’t take you to the temple.”
Parents gave their wholehearted support throughout the preparations and presentation of the play. Several mothers voluntarily offered to take a makeup class to assist in this area. One mother commented afterwards, “I know the play helped my children. But I feel it helped me just as much if not more as I listened to the loving counsel given in song and word. It makes me more determined than ever to have that type of relationship and atmosphere in my own home.”
A great emphasis was also placed on missionary work, as stake members took seriously their stake presidency’s charge to bring nonmembers to the play. One non-Mormon who was in the play bore the following testimony afterwards: “For you to stop in the middle of rehearsal and explain that material [the Book of Mormon] to me made me stop and think of how much I meant to you. I was shown how much enthusiasm the Mormons have in presenting a demonstration of their faith. I believe that such interest in a church has got to be a revealing sign the Church is true.”
The dedication and hard work of the youth was rewarded by two nights of overflow audiences. But more important than that was the love and unity and testimonies that were strengthened throughout the whole Kinston North Carolina Stake.

When I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at age 35, one of the many things I quickly learned was that I needed to be willing to serve others. Whether it was to help someone move, offer lawn care, do repairs, or provide transportation, I tried as much as possible to respond to requests for service from my quorum or from individuals.
I felt that I was serving in a good way. In retrospect, however, I realize that I was serving out of a sense of duty and not out of a sense of love for those who needed help. I didn’t really view my service as trying to become the Lord’s hands.1
After I moved to central Missouri, I had the opportunity to serve an older couple. Their small, old country home needed a lot of repairs, including its leaky roof. The couple, however, suffered from serious health challenges that prevented them from doing physical labor.
On a hot day in July, my good friend Dallas Martin and I were up on the roof putting down new shingles. We were uncomfortable and dripping with sweat. Suddenly, Dallas stopped nailing, stood up, and looked at me.
“Do you realize how blessed we are to be the ones capable of being up here doing this work and not the ones inside who can’t?” he asked.
His question hit me like a bolt of lightning. It was literally a life-changing moment. My whole perspective on service took on new meaning. I realized how blessed I was to be able to do all the things that I could do.
At that moment, I felt that Dallas and I were not simply helping because of a sense of duty but were helping with a sense of gratitude. The Lord had blessed us with the ability to truly be His hands. With that realization, it was easy for me to feel love for those we were helping.
Since that day, whenever I have helped with a service project, or whenever someone has needed assistance that I was capable of providing, I have tried to keep that perspective in mind. I have not always been successful, but that perspective has been a huge blessing in my life. It has truly helped me keep a positive attitude about service.
When I have problems or challenges, I try to think of people who face more serious trials than I do. Then I express my thanks to the Lord for all the blessings He has given me.

Corey remembers being 11 or so when his cousin died of cancer. He was at his funeral and struggling with questions. Why did this have to happen? He was a good kid who was strong in the gospel. Why did he have to die? His family knew they would be together again, but the loss made them so sad.
“I didn’t understand why he was taken from us. Then I heard a small voice that said, ‘I need him here.’ It was still a hard thing, but I felt better. After that experience I know that the Lord answers my prayers. That was the beginning of my testimony.”

1. The first Sunday after Miguel moved to a new city, his mother took him to church. They went to meet his new Primary class.
2. When they got to the classroom door, Miguel grabbed Mom’s hand. “She isn’t my teacher, Mom. Where is Sister Dominguez?”
3. Mom knelt to talk with Miguel. “We live in a different city now, and we are going to meet new friends—like your new Primary teacher.”
4. “I don’t want a new teacher,” Miguel said. “I want to go home to my old house and be with my old teacher.”
5. “I know it isn’t easy to move to a new place,” Mom said. “But some things will be the same. You will sing Primary songs, pray, and listen to talks.”
6. “I will?” Miguel asked. “What else will be the same?”
“Your new Primary teacher will teach you about Jesus—just as Sister Dominguez did.”
7. Miguel let go of Mom’s hand and sat down in a chair in his new Primary class.
8. After class, Mom came to get Miguel.
“Mom, you were right! We sang, prayed, and listened to talks. My new Primary teacher said Jesus loves me. It is the same!”

BYU and its departments have developed many programs designed to make each major challenging and relevant to the professional goals of the student. For example, the University Studies program allows students whose needs aren’t met by existing majors to design their own programs. One girl wanted to be woman’s page editor for a newspaper. Instead of majoring in communications, which would be the usual procedure, she outlined a unique program that fit her particular needs. After completing her general education requirements, she spent 15 hours in foods and nutrition, 15 hours in clothing and textiles, 15 hours in home economics, and 15 hours in photography and journalism. She graduated with exactly the training she needed for the job she wanted.

Sahr from Bo, Sierra Leone, traveled by motorcycle taxi to a rural area to take much needed medicine to his elderly parents. He stayed later than planned to help his parents repair their roof, which had been damaged in a windstorm. By the time it was fixed, twilight had fallen.
Because of the late hour, it was unlikely a taxi would come along. Sahr became worried. Without a taxi, he faced a journey on foot that would not only be long but also possibly dangerous. Remaining at his parents’ home wasn’t an option because he had an early work shift the next morning. In addition, he didn’t want to leave his young family alone at night.
Praying for a motorcycle taxi seemed a bit strange, but Sahr asked God to help him get home. Minutes later, a taxi came along, having just dropped someone off in that usually quiet area. Sahr gratefully climbed on, feeling blessed he would be able to be home in plenty of time to keep his work commitments and keep his family safe.

Jimmy and his mom were shopping in an outdoor mall during the Christmas season. It was very cold, and they saw some high school students playing holiday songs. They played a few for Jimmy. As Jimmy and his mom walked away, he said they needed to give the students something. They went to their car and Jimmy got all the candy he had just received at his school Christmas party. He went back to the students and gave them all of his candy.

“Michael, I’m not going to tell you again. Get into the living room and practice.”
“Why?”
“Because practice makes perfect, because you’ll thank me later, and because I say so!”
The last reason carried the most weight. Michael sighed as he dumped his baseball glove on the hall table and went into the torture chamber.
There it stood—eighty-eight keys’ worth of misery. Michael thought he knew how knights of old had felt when advancing to certain doom. “We who are about to die salute you,” he muttered under his breath.
“I don’t hear anything,” his mother called from the kitchen.
There was no way out. Michael placed his fingers on what he hoped were the correct keys and began to play. It sounded like the time the high school drum major had tripped in a parade and knocked down a drummer and half the woodwinds.
“That’s better,” his mother called over the cacophony.
“If only it were,” Michael muttered wearily.
Half an hour later he knew he had reached his breaking point. “Kitten on the Keys” sounded like the cat had just had an unfortunate run-in with a train. Resolutely he headed to the kitchen.
Mom was at the table, gluing together rocks that she painted with cute faces and sold at the craft store in town. The house was littered with the things. They paid for Michael’s piano lessons.
“Uh, Mom,” Michael said gently. “I think you should stop painting those.”
“Why?” she asked, putting a base coat of paint on something that vaguely resembled a frog.
“Because I’m quitting piano.”
The rock frog quivered, then fell stickily apart in Mom’s hands. She turned to face him. “Oh no you’re not.”
“Look, Mom,” he reasoned, “you’re throwing money down a well here. A deep well. I have no talent. I’ve learned to face it, why can’t you?”
“Nonsense,” she replied briskly. “You just need to practice more. Anyone can learn to play the piano. How hard can it be?”
At that, Michael snapped. “If you think it’s so all-fired easy, why don’t you take the lessons?”
“Me?” Mom asked, taken aback. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t think you can do it, huh?” Michael replied triumphantly.
His mother looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “All right, you’re on! I’ll take lessons too.”
“Too? No, no, no. Instead. You’re going to take them instead of me, right?”
“No—too. Here’s the deal.” Mom looked him in the eye. “We both take lessons. If, at the next recital, I play better than you do, you keep taking lessons. If, however, you play better than I do, then it’s your choice.”
Michael saw that this was the best chance he’d get. “OK.” Now, at least, there was a possibility of escape. The next recital was in two months. Mom couldn’t possibly catch up and pass him by then. After all, he’d been taking lessons for almost a year. It was a sure thing. He could relax.
He stopped relaxing after two weeks. To his horror, he discovered that his mother was swiftly progressing from one-hand to two-hand pieces, from scales to chords.
“It’s not fair!” he announced, coming home from school to hear “Kitten on the Keys” played as if the cat had almost completely recovered from the train accident. “You can practice all day, and I have to go to school.”
Mom just smiled and launched into “Elephant Antics,” finishing with a flourish before presenting him with the piano bench.
Michael began to panic. He got up early to practice. He zipped home after school and flung himself at the keyboard with the desperation of a drowning man learning to swim. Mom had lined up a critical audience of stone creatures along the top of the piano that seemed to eye him as he played, daring him to improve.
To his amazement, he started playing better. To his horror, so did his mother.
The piano was practiced from dawn until bedtime. Michael’s father took to inserting earplugs as he walked through the front door every evening. The dog decided to spend its time in the backyard. The neighbors kept their windows shut.
Finally the day of the recital arrived. Michael sat on the stage with the other piano students—a line of kids, with Mom sticking out like a basketball player at a jockey convention.
Sweat trickled down his back; Mom looked cool and collected in pink organdy.
“She’s just trying to psych me out,” he told himself as he ran a finger inside his sweaty collar, trying to loosen it. But she hadn’t let him hear her practice in a week. How good is she? he wondered.
Pretty good, he groaned to himself, when he heard her play. Her fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, and he counted only three mistakes. The applause when she finished sounded like the final nails being pounded into his coffin.
He was next. Nervously he approached the piano, sat down, raised his hands to the keys, and played.
To his amazement he sounded good. No, he sounded great! He’d been so busy the last few weeks worrying about his mother that he hadn’t really been listening to himself. Well, I’ll be! Mom was right—practice does make perfect!
The applause, when he finished, seemed to rock the room. He was surprised to see Mom clapping the hardest. At least she was a good loser.
“You won fair and square,” she said as they walked home. “So what are you going to do, Michael? Are you quitting piano lessons?”
“I guess not.” He shrugged. “After these last two months, a half hour of practice a day will seem like a vacation. Besides,” he added, pretending to buff his nails, “I’m getting pretty good at it.” He paused. “What about you, Mom?”
“I’d like to keep taking lessons, too,” she said, “but I don’t know if my painting can support two lessons—it takes time to find good rocks, you know.”
Michael stooped down, picked up a couple of likely rocks, and handed them to her. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll help you.”

A moment in time from my own family history exemplifies a commitment to care for those in need. Many have heard of the Willie and Martin handcart companies and how these faithful pioneers suffered and died as they endured winter cold and debilitating conditions during their trek west. Robert Taylor Burton, one of my great-great-grandfathers, was one of those whom Brigham Young asked to ride out and rescue those dear, desperate Saints.
Of this time Grandfather wrote in his journal: “Snow deep [and] very cold. … So cold that [we] could not move. … Thermometer 11 degrees below zero [-24°C] … ; so cold the people could not travel.”12
Life-saving supplies were distributed to the stranded Saints, but “in spite of all [the rescuers] could do many were laid to rest by the wayside.”13
As the rescued Saints were traversing a portion of the trail through Echo Canyon, several wagons pulled off to assist in the arrival of a baby girl. Robert noticed the young mother did not have enough clothing to keep her newborn infant warm. In spite of the freezing temperatures, he “took off his own homespun shirt and gave it to the mother to [wrap] the baby.”14 The child was given the name Echo—Echo Squires—as a remembrance of the place and circumstances of her birth.
In later years Robert was called to the Presiding Bishopric of the Church, where he served for more than three decades. At age 86 Robert Taylor Burton fell ill. He gathered his family to his bedside to give them his final blessing. Among his last words was this simple but very profound counsel: “Be kind to the poor.”15

I had similar feelings when I was a student here some time ago. As a convert, I didn’t grow up in the church and never had too many members around me in Taiwan. When I got accepted to BYU-Hawai?i, I was very excited about the prospect of living in Zion with my fellow Latter-day Saints. I imagined an almost living happily-ever-after scenario, in which everyone would be perfect, angel-like, doing what we are all supposed to do. But upon seeing some of my fellow students’ behaviors, I started having doubts. “What’s going on? Didn’t these people grow up in Mormon families? How could they? This is not what I was expecting.”

One specific example I still clearly recall from my student days here was with home teachers. Many of them showed up only once at the beginning of the semester and then totally disappeared afterward. My unit-mates later found out that it was because we were not pretty enough to be home taught. What happened was that home teachers would come to check out the new girls. If they were pretty, the home teachers would visit them faithfully to advance potential romantic relationships. If not, there would be no point for them to waste their time and energy. I hope the same situation does not occur now.

To be fair, I was probably too naïve in thinking every Latter-day Saint would be of good character and always follow gospel principles. Although most of us are trying our best to live our lives, a few examples of bad behavior can become others’ stumbling blocks.

MonicaOne of Christ’s most profound teachings is that we should “love one another, as I have loved you”. [2] But how can we truly love one another if we don’t understand each other? Whether you’re just starting to date, or you’ve been married for years, the ability to talk openly, listen carefully, and understand each other’s needs is essential.

Keoni and I first met in November of 2001. I had gone to school with his cousin Amy, and we were part of the same friend group. Keoni had spent time with Amy and our mutual friends before leaving on his mission, but somehow, we never met during that time.

One afternoon, I was sitting with Amy and several of our friends. During the conversation, Amy casually mentioned that her cousin Keoni had returned from his mission. She then suggested that I should go out with him. I was surprised—because I had no idea who Keoni was! Amy and the others were shocked that I didn’t know him, but they quickly filled me in. From what they said, he sounded like someone I’d want to meet.

Amy suggested we meet up, so we went to a devotional together, and after that, we hung out in groups two more times. I clearly remember one night, after he dropped me off at home, being really struck by the way he spoke about his mission. It wasn’t just a recounting of experiences—he spoke with real love and longing, which left a lasting impression on me.

So, although Keoni had my phone number, things just kind of fizzled out. Looking back, I’m not sure what happened exactly, but we were both busy, and maybe the timing wasn’t right for anything to develop.

Or maybe Keoni has a better explanation?

KeoniUmmm…yeah…I'm just going to go with timing…I'm going to go with timing.

MonicaSeveral months later, I had gotten back into distance running and was preparing for the Top of Utah Marathon. My friend Tiffany and I had decided to run a 10K race in Provo as part of our training. However, Tiffany had gotten engaged and decided not to continue training for the full marathon, so I was left without a training partner.

KeoniSo, for reasons I can only ascribe to divine intervention, I woke up very early on the fourth of July of 2002. I immediately had a strong prompting that I should run the 10K race in Provo that morning, even though I hadn’t registered for it. So I walked, I went over to the race, I showed up early, I registered at the race, and I walked to the starting line. Almost immediately, as I approached the starting line, I saw Monica and her friend Tiffany. I walked up behind and said, “Monica and Tiffany!” We chatted briefly about running, and I found out that Monica had signed up for the same Top of Utah Marathon that I had signed up for and that she was training, just like me, and that just like me, her training partner had bailed out on her.

So, after the race, I saw some of Monica’s other friends waiting for her to finish and made sure I had the right phone number for her. I was excited that we had reconnected and was looking forward to seeing her again. The next day, I called Monica and asked her out on a date.

MonicaAnd…I told him no.

I didn’t want to say no. In fact, right after I told him, I talked to my mom about how difficult it was to turn him down. The truth was, I had been dating someone else, and while that relationship was clearly coming to an end, it hadn’t officially ended yet. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for me to go on a date with Keoni until I had fully resolved things with the other guy. So, I ended things and, soon after, decided to call Keoni and ask if he wanted to go running with me.

I figured that by suggesting we run together, Keoni would get the hint that I was no longer seeing anyone and that I was interested in him.

KeoniAnd, she couldn’t have been more wrong. I was still a bit embarrassed that she had told me "no". I thought she was interested! And I wasn’t about to risk looking or feeling stupid again.

MonicaHe didn’t pick up on any clues or signals that I was now available and interested. Running together, in his mind, was just running. He kept our time together focused only on that.

We hadn’t even been on a date yet, and we were already facing challenges with communication!

It took a few weeks for me to finally work into the conversation that I no longer had a boyfriend, hoping that he would understand that he could now ask me out.

Shortly after that conversation, I went on a family vacation. Upon returning, I was excited to call Keoni to see if he wanted to go running the next day. He said yes, and in that same phone call, he asked me out on a date for that weekend!

Looking back, it’s clear that we both had some miscommunication. I thought I was dropping hints, but Keoni wasn’t picking up on them. This experience taught us a valuable lesson.

Say what you mean; don’t assume the other person is filling in the gaps with correct information. They are filling in the gaps, but most likely with the wrong information.