Gospel Story Finder

President Thomas S. Monson shared with us the story of the first President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Thomas B. Marsh. He related to us, in his talk in October 2009 General Conference, the following:

“I believe most of us are familiar with the sad account of Thomas B. Marsh and his wife, Elizabeth. Brother Marsh was one of the first modern-day Apostles called after the Church was restored to the earth. He eventually became President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
While the Saints were in Far West, Missouri, Elizabeth Marsh, Thomas’s wife, and her friend Sister Harris decided they would exchange milk in order to make more cheese than they otherwise could. To be certain all was done fairly, they agreed that they should not save what were called the stripping’s, but that the milk and stripping’s should all go together. Stripping’s came at the end of the milking and were richer in cream.
Sister Harris was faithful to the agreement, but Sister Marsh, desiring to make some especially delicious cheese, saved a pint of stripping’s from each cow and sent Sister Harris the milk without the stripping’s. This caused the two women to quarrel. When they could not settle their differences, the matter was referred to the home teachers to settle. They found Elizabeth Marsh guilty of failure to keep her agreement. She and her husband were upset with the decision, and the matter was then referred to the bishop for a Church trial. The bishop’s court decided that the stripping’s were wrongfully saved and that Sister Marsh had violated her covenant with Sister Harris.
Thomas Marsh appealed to the high council, and the men comprising this council confirmed the bishop’s decision. He then appealed to the First Presidency of the Church. Joseph Smith and his counselors considered the case and upheld the decision of the high council.
Elder Thomas B. Marsh, who sided with his wife through all of this, became angrier with each successive decision—so angry, in fact, that he went before a magistrate and swore that the Mormons were hostile toward the state of Missouri. His affidavit led to—or at least was a factor in—Governor Lilburn Boggs’ cruel extermination order, which resulted in over 15,000 Saints being driven from their homes, with all the terrible suffering and consequent death that followed. All of these events followed because of a disagreement over the exchange of milk and cream.”

My dear brothers and sisters, when I was 12 years old, my family lived in Göteborg, a coastal city in southern Sweden. By way of reference, it is the hometown of our dear associate Elder Per G. Malm, who passed away this summer. We miss him. We’re grateful for his nobility and his noble service and for the example of his absolutely adorable family. And we certainly pray God’s richest blessings to be theirs.
Fifty years ago, we attended church in a large remodeled home. One Sunday, my friend Steffan, the only other deacon in the branch, greeted me at church with some excitement. We went to the chapel’s adjacent overflow area, and he pulled from his pocket a large firecracker and some matches. In an act of youthful bravado, I took the firecracker and lit the long gray fuse. I intended to snuff out the fuse before it blew up. But when I burned my fingers trying to do so, I dropped the firecracker. Steffan and I watched in horror as the fuse continued to burn.
The firecracker exploded, and sulfurous fumes filled the overflow area and the chapel. We hurriedly gathered up the scattered remnants of the firecracker and opened the windows to try to get the smell out, naively hoping that no one would notice. Fortunately, no one was hurt and no damage was done.
As members came to the meeting, they did notice the overpowering smell. It was hard to miss. The smell distracted from the sacred nature of the meeting. Because there were so few Aaronic Priesthood holders—and in what can only be described as dissociative thinking—I passed the sacrament, yet I did not feel worthy to partake of it. When the sacrament tray was offered to me, I took neither the bread nor the water. I felt horrible. I was embarrassed, and I knew that what I had done had displeased God.
After church, the branch president, Frank Lindberg, a distinguished older man with silver-gray hair, asked me to come to his office. After I sat down, he looked at me kindly and said he had noticed that I had not partaken of the sacrament. He asked why. I suspect he knew why. I was sure everyone knew what I had done. After I told him, he asked how I felt. Through tears, I haltingly told him I was sorry and that I knew I had let God down.
President Lindberg opened a well-worn copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and asked me to read some underlined verses. I read the following out loud:
“Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.
“By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them.”
I will never forget President Lindberg’s compassionate smile when I looked up after I had finished reading. With some emotion, he told me that he felt it would be fine for me to resume partaking of the sacrament. As I left his office, I felt indescribable joy.
As a 12-year-old in Göteborg, I could have blamed Steffan. He was the one who brought the big firecracker and the matches to the church in the first place. But blaming others, even if justified, allows us to excuse our behavior. By so doing, we shift responsibility for our actions to others. When the responsibility is shifted, we diminish both the need and our ability to act. We turn ourselves into hapless victims rather than agents capable of independent action.
Another choice that impedes repentance is minimizing our mistakes. In the Göteborg firecracker incident, no one was hurt, no permanent damage occurred, and the meeting was held anyway. It would have been easy to say that there was no reason to repent. But minimizing our mistakes, even if no immediate consequences are apparent, removes the motivation to change. This thinking prevents us from seeing that our mistakes and sins have eternal consequences.
The fact that we can repent is the good news of the gospel! Guilt can be “swept away.” We can be filled with joy, receive a remission of our sins, and have “peace of conscience.” We can be freed from feelings of despair and the bondage of sin. We can be filled with the marvelous light of God and be “pained no more.” Repentance is not only possible but also joyful because of our Savior. I still remember the feelings that washed over me in the branch president’s office after the firecracker episode. I knew I had been forgiven. My feelings of guilt vanished, my gloomy mood lifted, and my heart felt light.

This is it—the big one! Six young men and three adults have just registered with the National Park Service for a summit attempt on Mt. Rainier, the mountain monarch of the Northwest. White and majestic, it rises 8,000 feet above the surrounding ridges of lesser mountains, its summit flanked by 26 named glaciers. It is a paradise for the students of nature. At different elevations can be found both beautiful seasonal flowers and unreal ice sculptures common to the Arctic.
The teachers, priests, and adult leaders of the Seattle Washington North Stake’s Tenth Ward have been preparing for this attempt for a long time. We have had weeks of expert instruction in mountaineering. We’ve learned about (and worked for) proper physical and mental conditioning. We have studied proper body chemical balance. We have studied potential hazards, such as avalanches, dehydration, hypothermia, and crevasses (fissures in a glacier). We have learned about proper clothing and equipment and quick energy foods. We have gone to nearby mountains and practiced such things as foul-weather camping, stopping a fall with an ice axe, and rescuing a fallen climber from a crevasse, as well as many other aspects of first aid and mountaineering safety. We capped it all off with a climb to the summit of picturesque, 9,677-foot Mt. St. Helens. We have done everything we can to prepare. Now comes the test.
The weather forecast indicates a high pressure ridge aloft, deteriorating with low clouds forming to the south and cooling temperatures for tomorrow with possible rain. Not good, but not especially discouraging.
We set out, each carrying his share of the gear, plus his ten essentials (extra clothing, extra food, sunburn protection, sun goggles, first aid kit, flashlight, extra batteries, compass, map, matches, fire starter, and knife).
It is just over three miles and about a 1,400-foot elevation gain up a beautiful forest trail to Glacier Basin. There are bare places to set up camp amid snow drifts and avalanche lillies. We prepare supper during intermittent rain at about 5,700 feet.
Each night we will have an evening devotional before we retire. Our theme this evening is “Know Thyself.” We discuss what we have learned and experienced the last several months in preparation for this endeavor.
Next morning, after a good breakfast, we start our ascent of Inter Glacier, a climb of about 4,000 feet in two miles. A full pack, including climbing ropes and other climbing and emergency equipment, makes this a real physical challenge.
Near the top of Inter Glacier, which forms the “foredeck” of Steamboat Prow, we are rewarded by a spectacular view of the upper mountain. The initial summit route among numerous crevasses is obvious. The upper route appears more problematic. There is an ominous summit cloud cap on the mountain. We descend the ridge and arrive at Camp Schurman at the foot of the Prow about 4:00 P.M.
We will have supper by 5:00 P.M., be in bed at 6:00, and up at 12:00 midnight. Since climbing at higher elevations must be done when the surface is stabilized by freezing temperatures to avoid weak snow bridges over crevasses, shifting seracs, and other potential hazards, it is standard climbing practice to start a summit ascent at midnight or soon after at this time of year.
After a quick breakfast we will try to be climbing by 1:00 A.M. Will the weather hold? Will the summit be clear? Will there be route problems? winds? illness? Is our physical and mental conditioning adequate? This is where the training all comes together! Everyone works together now. We’re a team. Everyone is busy preparing food or melting snow, lots of it. We need two quarts of water each to take up the mountain, plus up to two quarts each for supper and breakfast. We have to avoid dehydration. The air is already thin. What will it be like at 12,000 feet? 14,000 feet? The mountain looks inviting. The summit looks ominous. Anxiety is high.
A team of four climbers is coming down. It will be good to get their report. We must eat whether we feel like it or not—high energy food, lots of carbohydrates.
It’s 5:00 P.M., time to get packs with the ten essentials ready for the summit so we can survive the night up there if necessary. We must also get the ropes ready, knots tied, prusiks in place. Everything will be easier now than later when it will be dark and the temperatures freezing.
The descending four arrive. They appear to be in their mid-20s and strong. They look tired. The effect of their experience is etched in their faces. Their report: a good climb. Frozen snow turned to ice at about 12,000 feet requiring crampons. They took 2 quarts of water each, but could have had a gallon (they felt dehydrated). The summit? There was a whiteout, and they had to use wands to find their route back down. The wind was moderate (20 to 30 miles per hour). They didn’t check the temperature. The chill factor was probably zero or below. They will complete their descent this afternoon. Our anxiety is now higher. Whiteouts can be bad news, more of a challenge than we’d really like to have.
We’ll stay in the hut instead of pitching tents. It will be nice to get out of the rising wind.
At 6:00 P.M. we are ready for bed. The theme of our second devotional is “Control Thyself.” We have a good discussion. It helps reduce the tension of anticipation. Sleep is fitful. Some can’t sleep at all, but even a little rest is welcome.
The alarm finally goes off at midnight. No one speaks. Groan, groan. Is this for real? Okay! Now or never! Everybody’s up and dressing for the climb. Don’t dress too warmly. The climbing will be hard; the body will generate a lot of heat. An insulated undershirt, wool shirt or light wool sweater, and wind breaker is enough. After a quick, cold, high energy breakfast, we’re ready to go.
The sky is full of stars. There is very little wind, but it is cold.
The group climb leader takes the lead. Crunch, crunch—the snow is frozen, but not very hard. There is nothing below us but blackness. There must be a heavy cloud layer down there to completely obscure everything. In three hours it will be twilight—in four to five hours, sunrise. The thought of light and warmth is comforting. Six or seven hours should be the turning point. In eight or nine we will be at the summit!
Two hours later the climbing has become labored. The heavy exercise has overcome the cold. Rests are only momentary relief. At 11,500 feet the team reverses position and Scott Capener takes the lead.
(He later said: “Being third man on the rope team, I felt secure. All there was to do was follow, but when we reversed positions, it seemed like the whole world reversed. It was pitch black in front of me, broken only by my headlamp, which wasn’t much benefit. Before, I was reassured by two lights ahead of me. Now I was alone, navigating between crevasses. I didn’t want to begin to think of how deep they were. I was trying to pick a route up a mountain I’d never been on before. The closest person to me was 50 feet behind me, out of hearing or talking range. There were people behind me, but I was alone.”)
We are no longer able to “kick steps” so we put crampons on to enable secure footing. The moon rises, a meager orange-red slit where you imagine the horizon should be.
At 12,500 feet the lead team again reverses position. We’ve now crossed several crevasses, but you never feel comfortable about them. Climbing has now become an ordeal—a real test, hour after hour.
Several of the team are now suffering one or more symptoms of acute mountain sickness (headache, nausea, vomiting), but there are no complaints. It is now twilight, and delayed sunrise is both welcome (it will soon turn to blinding, burning light reflected by the ice in every direction) and disappointing (it’s very cold when you stop to rest). There is no in-between up here. While you hike you sweat; when you stop you shiver.
The terrain is now steep, about 60 degrees in places. Two have tender Achilles tendons. The strongest of the group are calling for rest, which is welcome to all. Soon we are climbing again. You sink in your ax spike, take two steps, and repeat, breathing hard and deep several times in between. Over and over, on and on! Seems like it will never end. You feel lightheaded because you are breathing so hard that you are almost hyperventilating in spite of the thin air at 13,000 feet. But you can’t faint; you can’t fall; don’t even close your eyes or you might doze and slip. On this hard ice and steep angle, it would be almost impossible to stop once you started sliding. You recall accident reports in which fatalities occurred under similar conditions. Stomp those feet down hard!
The wind has started to blow down the mountain. It is bitter cold. There are clouds over the upper mountain. We start wanding to mark our route. We’ve now crossed many crevasses. Some we cross on snowbridges; some we climb around until we can step across.
At 13,500 feet we are climbing into the cloud cap. The wind is about 20 miles per hour. Maybe it will blow the cloud cap away. At 14,000 feet there is intermittent snow falling, with higher gusts of wind. At times visibility is ten to fifteen feet. Sometimes the ridge is visible for a few seconds. At 14,200 feet we are now higher than Liberty Cap or Point Success, two of the mountain’s three summits. Hoar frost forms on eyebrows and clothing. Although spirits are high, the condition of the group is not good. They are approaching fatigue. The advisability of continuing seems questionable.
Belden Durtschi, the climb leader’s second in command, has been here before. He is called up for consultation. Other members of the team are consulted. Not a negative word is heard. Belden takes the lead with his rope team. Soon exposed rock of the crater rim is showing. The terrain is not as steep.
At 9:30 A.M. the altimeter indicates we are at Columbia Crest at last! We scramble to the left side of the crater wall and collapse. Three fall asleep still in their packs. The rest take some food and drink and rest. The rocks feel like pillows.
After about 20 minutes it doesn’t look like the weather will clear, so we start our descent. We are soon out of the cloud.
The descent is fast, and we arrive back at Camp Schurman at about 1:30 P.M. for a well-earned rest.
In blinding sunshine, with a heavy cloud layer several thousand feet below, we spend an enjoyable afternoon exchanging thoughts of our experience. Since some retire early, the third element of our devotionals is held the next morning—the theme, “Give Thyself.” Our devotional themes “Know Thyself” (Socrates, 450 B.C.), “Control Thyself” (Cicero, 100 B.C.), and “Give Thyself” (Jesus Christ) are a formula for success suggested by Elder Paul H. Dunn in his book Discovering the Quality of Success. If we follow these concepts, we will truly succeed!
After breakfast we rope up again to descend the Emmons Glacier to where we can traverse the ridge to Inter Glacier. The lower half of Inter Glacier is free of crevasses and presents a beautiful glisade where we lose nearly 2,000 feet in a little over a mile. It is a fast trip and quite a thrill!
As we descend, the summit, shining brilliantly in the sun, is sometimes visible through the clouds. It’s hard to believe we were really there.
But we were, and it has made a difference.
In retrospect one of the fellows commented, “I learned a lot about self-discipline. It stimulates your thinking with challenging decisions.” Another said, “it was a spiritual, beautiful experience.” We discovered a lot about the qualities of success.
Into a cloud sea far below,
I lonely watched the red sun go,
Then turning, miracle of glad surprise,
Enchanted saw the full moon rise.
—C. Schurman—

A friend told of a time when, as a young mother, her five-year-old daughter inquired, "Mom, who shall I marry?"
Although somewhat puzzled by the question coming from such a young child, she thought for a moment and responded, "I believe David is a good boy."
"Mom," questioned the small girl, "Does he know the way to the temple?"
As years passed David did not know the way to the temple and the righteous daughter married a young man who did know the way. She was sealed in the temple, and now continues to keep her precious covenants and eternal perspective.

Let me tell you about a storm I experienced as a young missionary—a moment when my own foundation was tested.

One evening, after a long, rainy day of knocking on doors, my companion and I decided to try one last door. The man who opened the door kindly invited us in. We were grateful; it felt like a small miracle.

But as we sat down, his tone changed. He looked directly at me—the missionary of African descent—and began pressing us about the Church’s former restriction on priesthood and temple blessings.

Until that moment, I did not know that part of our history. His words were painful. Within minutes, my excitement turned to confusion and hurt. It felt as if everything I had known about God, His Son Jesus Christ, and the witness of the Holy Ghost was suddenly harder to reach.

Many of you have experienced moments like that—when faith is stretched and the heart longs for reassurance.

When we left, my heart was in turmoil. For the first time, I wondered if I should remain on my mission. Not knowing what else to do, I went straight to see my mission president.

He listened kindly, and then he said something simple:

“Elder Matswagothata, go back to that home. Bear your testimony. Then come back and we’ll talk.”

So that rainy night we returned and knocked on the same door. The same man opened.

Standing there on the doorstep—rain soaking my suit—I did what my mission president had asked.

I bore my testimony.

I testified of the Restoration—that God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to the boy prophet Joseph Smith; that this is the Church of Jesus Christ restored to the earth; that the Lord leads His Church today with living prophets and apostles; and that the priesthood is real.

And as I stood there, bearing my testimony, I felt the Lord’s reassurance fill me—almost from head to toe—with “peace … which passeth all understanding.” [9]

That peace was the witness of the Holy Ghost.

To this day, words cannot fully describe what I felt that night—and that witness has stayed with me through the years.

That night I learned something I will never forget:
A testimony is not a display of eloquent words or a knowledge of everything. It is a personal witness of eternal significance, borne to our souls by the Holy Ghost.

I also learned that some questions are asked with humility and real intent to understand. Others come packaged to provoke, to shame, or to make faith look naïve. The Spirit helped me learn the difference.

Most important, I learned that what I did not yet know did not erase what the Holy Ghost had already taught me. I have faced questions and distractions since then, but I have chosen not to let them determine the future of my faith—or that of my children and grandchildren. I knew then, as I know now, that this is the work of Jesus Christ. And after that sacred experience, everything else has become background noise in my life.

In contrast, as I close, consider unselfish Melissa Howes, whose comparatively young father died of cancer several months ago. Just before, Melissa, who was then nine, was voice in family prayer, pleading, “Heavenly Father, bless my daddy, and if you need him more than us, you can have him. We want him, but Thy will be done. And please help us not to be mad at you” (letter from Christie Howes, 25 Feb. 1998).
What spiritual submissiveness for one so young! What an unselfish understanding of the plan of salvation! May unselfish submissiveness be our path too, in the holy name of Jesus Christ, amen!

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.”

But in the days that followed, both of us felt unsettled—not about marrying each other but about the ring. Let me explain.
In the weeks leading up to our engagement, Shelley and I had spent significant time talking about how we wanted to raise our family and what we wanted our marriage to be like. One of the things at the center of that discussion was our determination to always follow the prophet.
Two months before we were engaged, we listened to lots of talks at the October 1976 general conference reinforcing the principles of self-reliance. This was a topic that President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) and others had been consistently teaching for several years. Both Shelley and I had grown up knowing the importance of growing a garden, having a supply of food, and being generally prepared. But in that general conference, the theme of preparation seemed especially prevalent. Some speakers made reference to the Teton Dam flood that had occurred in June. Among them was Barbara B. Smith (1922–2010), the Relief Society general president, who emphasized the importance of self-reliance—specifically, acquiring a year’s supply of food, as was counseled at the time.1 President Kimball, in the closing session of the conference, reminded Latter-day Saints of the scripture in Luke 6:46, where the Savior says, “Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?” President Kimball then exhorted the Saints to let the messages of conference follow them into their “homes and … future lives.”2
After our engagement, as Shelley and I contemplated the beginning of our marriage and family life, these messages were ringing in our ears. Unbeknownst to each other, both of us were thinking about how to start home storage for our family. To obey the counsel of that time, we needed to start acquiring a year’s supply of food. But how were we supposed to do it? We were students—and would be for years to come—and didn’t have a lot of money. The Holy Ghost gave both of us, separately, the same answer: we needed to sell the engagement ring.
But how was I supposed to ask Shelley to do that? I had just given her the ring. What would she think about my asking her to sell it so we could buy some oats and flour and rice? Meanwhile, she was worrying too. What would I think, she wondered, if she were to approach me about selling the ring I had picked out for her? Would it hurt my feelings?
But the prompting each of us had felt was too strong to ignore, and the more each of us thought about it, the more glaring that diamond ring became. When Shelley raised the subject a few days after Christmas, I was relieved that she had arrived at the same conclusion I had. In many ways, it was a tremendous confirmation to both of us about the choice of whom we were going to marry. To know that our priorities and values were in sync with the other’s and with the prophet of God was tremendously reassuring. I was so grateful for her willingness to make such a sacrifice to follow the prophet.
Please don’t misunderstand me and please don’t sell your rings! Buying or wearing an engagement ring isn’t wrong. In fact, our married children all have lovely and appropriate rings. There are many ways we can follow the prophets and apostles and apply their counsel to our personal lives. But because the Spirit had directed us to follow the prophet by selling our engagement ring, in our case the choice was between keeping the ring and following the prophet. This helped us establish two patterns in our home from the very beginning: following the prophet and following the personal, spiritual promptings we received.

When Theany Reath, a young adult in Cambodia, was investigating the Church two years ago, she worried that her family would be offended when she stopped praying to their deceased ancestors. To her relief, her parents have been tolerant of her new beliefs and behaviors. “I feel the love of my parents a great deal,” she says. “They respect my new practices, such as fasting, and they no longer expect me to drink tea with them.” Today she serves as a branch Young Women president.

Another example of a true disciple of Jesus Christ is a dear friend of ours in Côte d’Ivoire in West Africa. This wonderful, faithful sister suffered terrible emotional, and even some physical, abuse from her husband over a sustained period of time, and eventually they divorced. She never wavered in her faith and goodness, but because of his cruelty to her, she was deeply hurt for a long time. In her own words, she describes what happened:
“Though I said I forgave him, I always slept with a wound; I spent my days with that wound. It was like a burn in my heart. Many times I prayed to the Lord to take it away from me, but it hurt so bad that I strongly believed I was going to spend the rest of my life with it. It hurt more than when I lost my mom at a young age; it hurt more than when I lost my dad and even my son. It seemed to expand and cover my heart, giving me the impression I was going to even die at any time.
“Some other times I asked myself what the Savior would have done in my situation, and I would rather say, ‘This is too much, Lord.’
“Then one morning I looked for the pain that comes from all this in my heart and went deeper, looking for it in my soul. It was nowhere to be found. My mind quickly passed to review all the reasons I [had] to feel hurt, but I did not feel the pain. I waited the whole day to see if I was going to feel the pain in my heart; I did not feel it. Then I knelt down and thanked God for making the atoning sacrifice of the Lord work for me.”
This sister is now happily sealed to a wonderful, faithful man who loves her deeply.

“I’ve often said I wasn’t born east of the tracks. I wasn’t born west of the tracks. I was born between the tracks—the tracks on First West and the tracks on Third West in Salt Lake City.
“My mother’s ancestors were converts from Scotland. My father’s mother came from England, and my father’s father came from Sweden. They met aboard ship while coming to America as converts to the Church. She was considerably younger than he, and so he waited for her to ‘grow up,’ that they might be married. I noted with interest in his missionary journal, years later, that the first entry said, ‘Today I entered the Salt Lake Temple, where my sweetheart and I were married for time and all eternity.’ Three days later the entry said, ‘Tonight the bishop called at our home, and I have been called to return to Sweden on a three-year mission. My sweet wife will remain at home and support me and sustain me.’ This is the kind of pioneer stock of which I am very proud.
“When I was a boy, our family had a home up Provo Canyon—and we still have it—where we would spend each July and August. For those two months I was able to fish and swim every day and live like Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. I still enjoy swimming and fishing whenever I can manage the time for them.
“When I was about eleven, I started a hobby of raising pigeons. I still have some pigeons, and one of my sons has also taken up this hobby. I remember showing my pigeons at a state fair on one occasion and even winning blue ribbons for them. I’ve always enjoyed raising fancy chickens. Although I have lived in the city all my life, I’ve always had enough room to have a few chickens.
“I learned how to work from my father and began my first part-time job after school in the printing shop that he managed when I was fourteen. I don’t remember many days in my life after I was fourteen that I didn’t work, other than on Sundays. When you learn to work while you’re young, the habit stays with you. I’m happiest when I’m busy.
“I was a young boy during the depression. Our home was situated not far from the railroad tracks where the vagrants would ‘ride the rails.’ The men came in twos or threes to our back door for something to eat. I can never remember my mother turning those men away hungry. She would fix them a sandwich, give them a glass of milk, and send them on their way with a word of cheer, having a feeling in her heart that she had done some good.
“I was fortunate when I was a boy to have an outstanding Sunday School teacher. When she talked about the apostle Paul, we could almost hear him preaching. She made every character in the scriptures come alive. She was an unusually kind woman and let us boys know that she expected us to be gentlemen.
“In our class we had collected some money to use for a big party. One Sunday morning our teacher came to class and told us that one of our classmates would be absent—his mother had passed away. We were all very unhappy. The subject of the lesson that morning was that it is better to give than to receive. After she had presented the lesson, she talked about the hard times ahead for the absent boy’s family. ‘How would you students like to follow the Lord’s teachings?” she asked. ‘How would you feel about taking our party fund and giving it to this boy’s family as an expression of love?”
“The decision was unanimous. I remember that I was the treasurer of the class, and the teacher said to the boy’s father, ‘Brother Devenport, the class would like to make an expression of their feelings.’ Then she called on me to make an expression, and afterward I handed our party fund to him. I think that was one of the first times I saw a grown man weep. This simple act of kindness welded our class together. We learned through our own experience that it truly is more blessed to give than to receive.
“I would encourage the youth of the world to seek out opportunities to help other people, to do good to all, and to share what they have with others. It is the pathway to happiness. As we willingly share, we’ll strengthen our testimonies. But if we attempt to keep all good things to ourselves, we’ll lose everything.”

By inspiration, a bishopric calls a young couple to serve in the ward nursery. At first, the husband sits in the corner, detached and distant. Gradually, he begins smiling with the children. Later, the couple expresses gratitude. Earlier, they say, the wife wanted children; the husband did not. Now, serving has changed and united them. It has also brought the joy of children into their marriage and home.

I left on my mission but continued to communicate with Juan and Francisco.
I wrote them frequent letters sharing with them the gospel and my testimony of Jesus Christ. I invited them to repent and to attend church. To my great surprise, one of them actually went.
I had frequently invited my friends to Sunday meetings before, but none had accepted until now. Although I couldn’t attend with Juan, my brothers and my father were there to help him and fellowship him. My family accepted him, and Juan felt very comfortable at church.
He started changing little by little until he made the decision to get baptized. I was thrilled for him and even more thrilled when he told me he had learned to love Jesus Christ because of my letters. When I came home from my mission, I also stayed close with Francisco, and after some time, he and his wife also got baptized. Today, Juan and Francisco are still two of my closest friends.

In my own immediate neighborhood we have had our share of heart-wrenching tragedies. In October 1998, 19-year-old Zac Newton, who lived only three houses east of us, was killed in a tragic automobile accident.
Less than two years later, in July, 19-year-old Andrea Richards, who lived directly across from the Newtons, was killed in an automobile accident.
One Saturday afternoon in July 2006, Travis Bastian, a 28-year-old returned missionary, and his 15-year-old sister, Desiree, who lived across the street and two houses north of us, were killed in a terrible automobile accident.
One month later, in August 2006, 32-year-old Eric Gold, who grew up in the house next door to us, suffered a premature death. And others in this neighborhood have also suffered heart-wrenching experiences privately endured and known only to themselves and God.
With the loss of five young people, one might assume that this is an unusual number of trials for one small neighborhood. I choose to think the number only seems large because of a close, caring ward, whose members know when there is a pressing need. It is a ward with members who are following the admonition of Alma and the Savior—members who care and love and bear one another’s burdens, members who are willing to mourn with those that mourn, members who are willing to comfort those in need of comfort, members who endure together.
In each of these instances we saw an outpouring of love, service, and compassion that was inspirational to all. Bishops arrived, home and visiting teachers went into action, and Melchizedek and Aaronic Priesthood quorums and Relief Societies organized to take care of both spiritual and temporal needs. Refrigerators were stocked, houses cleaned, lawns mowed, shrubs trimmed, fences painted, blessings given, and soft shoulders were available for crying on. Members were everywhere.
In every one of these instances, the families who lost a loved one expressed increased faith, increased love for the Savior, increased gratitude for the Atonement, and heartfelt thankfulness for an organization that responds to the deepest emotional and spiritual needs of its members. These families now speak about how they got to know the Lord through their adversity. They relate many sweet experiences that grew out of their pain. They testify that blessings can emerge from heartbreak. They give praise to the Lord and would echo the words of Job: “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).

Having living prophets in our day is a sign of God’s love for His children. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, one of our current prophets, seers, and revelators, touched my heart in a very special way at a time when I was in desperate need of comfort. After I received this overwhelming calling to become an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, Elder Holland was the first person to call me. I immediately recognized his distinct, powerful voice on the other end of the line and felt of his and God’s love for me. I recognized Elder Holland’s voice as the voice of one of the Savior’s servants, and it provided me great comfort and confidence in an overwhelming moment.

Marie Holley, a single sister, fought cancer for three years before she became too weak to care for herself. After that, a friend helped her for several months, but the demands of working all day and caring for Marie all night were too much for her friend; she became ill also.
It was then that the ward Relief Society became involved. The organization had never been called on to care for someone who had an illness that would cause her death, so the Relief Society presidency prayed for guidance. Through inspiration, they called sisters to help; then, trained them how to care for Marie.
For fourteen months, Relief Society sisters stayed with Marie twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Marie got the help she needed, and the Relief Society sisters were blessed from their association with her. But another benefit of the service soon became apparent—increased sisterhood in the ward. Often the women didn’t know the person they were replacing or the one who would take their place in caring for Marie. But the unknown faces soon became dear friends as the women stopped to talk.
Looking back to that time, ward member Karen Anderson says, “I thought about how all [those] strangers had become friends and about how much we had all learned from Marie—about love, caring, and learning to give of ourselves. We had learned to recognize the good in each person and to realize the blessings that come from service” (“Lessons in Love,” Ensign, April 1986, page 62).

Here I am, the Freckled Wonder, starting another year at Madsen High. I say “another year” to distinguish myself from the younger set, who look incredibly lost and frightened. Was I that bad last year? As usual, anyone new who met me today said, “Hey, I’ll bet everybody calls you Freckles!” If anyone ever says, “Hey, I’ll bet everyone calls you Gorgeous,” I’ll be his slave forever.
The particular anyone I referred to earlier—the one who made the strikingly original remark about the freckles—is Dave Johnson, class president. If he hadn’t made that remark about the freckles, I think I would be interested in him. He’s handsome even with glasses, which he wears part-time. Reminds me of Richard O’Neal, my childhood (last year’s) hero.
Ever hear of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment, guaranteed to “lighten or totally remove unsightly freckles and facial blemishes forever”? Neither had I, until this afternoon in the library. Shelly handed me a moldy-looking book from a top shelf somewhere—Miss Gordon’s Modern Book of Beauty, Charm, and Etiquette. Needless to say, the book was actually written shortly after the Stone Age. I browsed through it awhile, not really studying anything in great detail, when suddenly, surrounded by recipes for homemade cold cream (where on earth would a person buy rose water?) and hand lotion (worse yet, wool fat?), there was the recipe for Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment.
“What a riot!” Shelly said to me as she wrinkled her smooth, unfreckled nose. “A girl would really have to be desperate to try a weird concoction like that!”
“How would Shelly know?” I thought as I carefully memorized the ingredients and amounts, trying meanwhile to look mildly amused. Shelly would laugh for a week if she knew that I went straight home and mixed one tablespoon of lemon juice, two tablespoons of vinegar, and one-half cup of flour “or enough to make a smooth, moist paste.”
Well, I was just stirring up my smooth, moist paste—and incidentally, the kitchen was beginning to smell like a pickle factory—when I heard voices and realized it was too late to hide. Voice Number One, of course, was Kevin, winner of the year’s Most-Obnoxious-Big-Brother Award.
“Gee,” he said, sniffing the aroma, “I’m glad you fixed me something good to snack on, Keri. I’m just dying (here he rolled his eyes desperately) of hunger.”
Voice Number Two then made his appearance in the kitchen. If I could have died on the spot, I would have.
“Oh, hi Dave,” I croaked feebly.
He grinned his handsome Richard O’Neal grin and asked, “Been taking cooking lessons? Smells like a real treat.”
What could I say? Why on earth did dear old Kevin pick this day, of all days of the year, to suddenly become great friends with Dave Johnson? They don’t have a thing in common other than their student government positions, debate team, and, of course, basketball. Dave is the school’s star center and Kevin is the star benchwarmer. I now noticed a basketball under Dave’s right arm. So that was what brought them together.
“Planning to really knock the team over dead this year, Kevin?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Kevin blushed slightly and couldn’t think of a good comeback.
“I hate to ask, but what is it?” said Dave, pointing to my dish of smooth, moist paste.
“I have a rare disease and it calls for a special diet.” I was trying to be funny.
Kevin’s next act deserves the award for Putdown of the Year.
“Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment,” he read solemnly and eloquently from the notebook on the counter. I had completely forgotten about that notebook. I wanted to sink into nonexistence. He went on to read the ingredients with great flourish, adding a few choice remarks like, “A touch of bat liver improves the quality of the ointment considerably!” and “Incidentally, if this doesn’t land the man of your dreams, Madame Butterball’s Diet Salve certainly will!”
I probably would have laughed if I hadn’t been so close to crying. I’ll bet Dave thinks I’m really out to lunch. What could I do? I whisked my smooth, moist paste to the opposite end of the kitchen, returned with the cookie jar, and disappeared to my room. It wasn’t too long before they were totally engrossed in devouring Mom’s home-baked chocolate chip cookies. From my room I could hear them chuckling. See if I loyally cheer for good old Kevin when he makes his one basket for the year.
I am not only desperate about those freckles, I’m determined. I have launched forth on Miss Frodjam’s program for freckle removal. I think it may work better than my past attempts with cover cosmetics, sun lamps, and zinc oxide.
Last night, in spite of the extreme humiliation of being discovered, I stubbornly smeared the paste all over my freckled face and then held very still while it dried to a stiff crust. The book said to leave it on four to six hours, so I went to bed looking and feeling like an Egyptian mummy. All night I had awful dreams about being encased in cement from head to toe.
But this morning when I woke up and rushed right in to wash the stuff off, my freckles—believe it or not—actually did look one-tenth of a shade lighter. I think.
I saw Dave Johnson in the hall today, but he didn’t say anything. Well, he said hi or something. But then what could he say after being a participant in the most embarrassing moment of my life? I suppose it is beneath his dignity anyway to speak to the star benchwarmer’s freckle-faced kid sister. I don’t care.
I guess tonight I’ll try Miss Frodjam’s miracle wonder paste again. It’s not that much fun, but if the treatment works, it will be worth it.
One solid week and seven applications of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. The results are far from striking, to say the least. I am about ready to give up. People are beginning to sniff and look baffled when I walk by. However, my freckles are now two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think.
But the crowning blow to my ego came tonight. I was in the kitchen mixing up my smooth, moist paste when Kevin and Dave strolled in, complete with Dave’s basketball again. They were grinning I might add. This week Dave has hardly noticed me, although I’ve seen him at least a hundred times at school. This fact made the moment of our meeting especially poignant.
“Here she is—Miss Freckles,” announced Kevin. “Having great success, I suppose, with your bat liver ointment?”
I ignored him—or rather glared at him—and turned to Dave to offer him the cookie jar.
“Hi, Keri.” That was all Dave said. That was it. His entire speech—two words. He could have at least laughed, or made some remark. But he just popped a cookie into his mouth, turned to Kevin, and started talking about basketball.
I feel like a real failure. Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment is not even good for a laugh.
That Dave Johnson. After school I saw him in the hall. He was going one way and I was going the other. I didn’t know whether to speak or not, so I didn’t. I kind of smiled feebly.
“Hi, Keri.” Dave Johnson, winner of the Warmest-Greeting-of-the-Year Award.
“Hi.” I thought that was a safe reply, in keeping with his warmth and enthusiasm. I was about to walk on, but he asked the weirdest question.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”
“I hate to ask, but what for?”
“Last night. I could have given you a bad time, but I didn’t.”
That was a new way of looking at it. “Uh, thanks!” I answered. “Chivalry is not dead.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I have some insight into the problems of being a kid sister.”
“Is that right? How did you come by this marvelous insight?” I asked.
“I’m a kid brother.”
“Which isn’t quite the same thing, you know.”
“I see your point. Which brings me to another subject,” he said, putting on his glasses. After clearing his throat very solemnly and intellectually, he proceeded. “Miss Carter, I am doing a detailed study on a little-known topic—freckles. The thesis of my study is that sunlight, far from fading freckles, actually brings out their color even more brilliantly. Now—would you be willing to be guinea pig in an experiment with direct sunlight at the football game Saturday afternoon?”
“Wait a minute!” I was really riled. “I thought you had marvelous insight?” What does he think I am, the Freckled Wonder of the World? I thought furiously. I was about to come out with a real putdown when I looked up at his face.
He didn’t look sarcastic or even funny. He looked a little awkward.
“Well, I was kidding about the insight. I was kidding about the freckle study, too. But the football game—I was serious about that. Would you like to come with me?”
Well, dear diary, I won’t go on to describe how I suddenly rose about six inches off the floor. I won’t mention what a fool I must have sounded like, trying to stammer out some sort of proper acceptance speech. I will mention that he smiled and looked almost relieved, and I just couldn’t believe that the great Dave Johnson might actually have moments of self-doubt too.
I definitely plan to discontinue use of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. It may have worked on Miss Frodjam. And my freckles are two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think. But after all, if I am going to be part of a detailed study on a little-known topic, far be it from me to try to influence the findings of the direct sunlight thesis.

Look at fasting as a blessing, not a forced and dreaded chore. I used to focus on my hunger pains on fast Sunday until my mom told me to fast with a purpose. She said every time you have a hunger pain, think of what you’re fasting for and say a silent prayer. I tried that the next fast Sunday, and it really helped! I didn’t feel hungry, and I saw the effects of my fast when I received the help I had fasted for. I gained a testimony of fasting that day, and ever since, fast Sunday has always been a blessing to me.
Janae S., 15, California, USA

Many years ago when I was a young missionary and had just received a new companion, we met a Protestant minister who invited us in out of the cold. After exchanging points of view on various topics, he asked us, “And what is the Mormon attitude toward sexuality?”
I choked on my cup of hot chocolate. “Well,” said the minister after a moment of silence, “could you please tell me the Mormon philosophy toward sexuality?” I was speechless. Finally, my companion, realizing that I didn’t have an answer, replied, “Sir, we believe in it.”
It has been more than twenty years since that time. As a marriage counselor and university professor I have been asked the same question by students, friends, professional people, and LDS members and nonmembers alike. And still, I have never found a better answer than the one my young missionary companion gave: “We believe in it.”

For the year-end program at my school, we were putting on a musical. I was so excited, especially when I got a part. I went to all the rehearsals even though no one could drive me there. But when my teacher showed us the costume we were to wear, I was disappointed. It was immodest.
I told my teacher that I would not wear the costume, and she was upset with me. She told me that none of the other girls had a problem with the costume and if I didn’t want to wear it, I couldn’t perform. She even tried to get my mom to pressure me to wear it. But I knew I had to keep the commandments, so I said I wouldn’t perform.
Then, just a few days before the program, the teacher got new costumes that were modest. I’m happy that I didn’t think that “just this one time” it would be OK to be immodest.