Be The Good by Candice Bond

My sister who sells houses down in Phoenix was showing a house one day when she came upon this sign. She sent me the picture, and I had it made for her this year for her birthday. With all of the negativity in the world today, I think that this sign is a perfect reminder for all of us. Here are just a few ways we can “Be The Good” in the world today.

·         Be The Good in our families. This is one that is hard for me on a daily basis. It is so easy to get upset when things don’t go as planned. As a mother of 3 little girls, believe me when I say that 90% of the time, things don’t go as planned. All too often I let my frustrations get the best of me. I have found that as the mother in the home I have the ability to either “make” or “break” the mood in my house. If I am patient and kind, my family tends to react in a similar manner. The same goes for if I am cranky and angry.

·         Be the Good in our Community. We are so lucky and fortunate to live in such a wonderful tight-knit community. I have seen so much “Good” in our community lately. I love how everyone has pulled together to help raise money for the New Covenant Church renovations. Also, just this past weekend, individuals pulled together to search for Ted Raban. He hadn’t been missing for even an hour when there were already 25 + individuals that were out searching for him on foot and in their cars. He was found and returned home safely. Each day as we interact with each other we are presented with opportunities to help each other and be the “Good” in someone’s life. This may be as simple as saying “Hello” or anonymously doing a good deed.   

·         Be the Good in Society. Today we live in a world of negativity. Lately I can’t turn on the news or get on Facebook without reading about all of the horrible things happening in our world right now. Today’s society seems to have a “glass half empty” kind of attitude. There is always the silver lining; we just have to do a little searching to find it. Positivity is contagious. It is hard to be negative when you are around someone who is exhibiting positive thoughts and actions. Everyday we wake up with the freedom to choose our thoughts and actions! A simple thing, such as complimenting a stranger could be all it takes to make someone’s day.

Each day I strive to “Be the Good." I am not perfect, by any means, but I know that if I put forth effort and do the best I can, I will make a difference.  

My Own Miraculous Event by Michelle Johnson

Being a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I have always felt I had a testimony of the Gospel. However, as I look back on life, it is as if I had borrowed the testimony from others to build mine. Unfortunately, I found out it was not strong enough to hold me up. The past 10 years, my testimony had been wavering, and, at times, I wondered if the church was true. I began to nit-pick at the testimonies from those I had tried to use to strength mine own. I knew I needed to learn and find out for myself. I began reading the Book of Mormon, and I attended the temple frequently along with my church meetings. It seemed to me that the more I did, the more I felt nothing. I became numb, and I was discouraged. I thought I was doing everything the Lord had asked me to do to receive some witness that the Gospel was true, that this church was the true church. I began to believe that maybe I was not worthy enough or good enough to have this blessing. Throughout my life, I had heard of many members testifying of the miraculous witness I had always wished to receive. Why couldn’t I? I became bitter and hurt. I gave up, not completely, but slowly my desire faded. 

Through those years, I struggled with many things: myself, my family, my friends, and church. I had let my hurt feelings overcome me to the point it was affecting my life. As I stated before, I never gave up completely on my faith, but I became extremely depressed. I lost myself and who I was, and I began to believe everyone around had given up on me also. 

For graduation my mother-in-law gives my children a trip to tour the church history sites. She had asked me if I wanted to go on a youth trip with my daughter, as she had gone the last two times. I told her I would think about it. As the time got closer, I tried to avoid her each time she brought it up. I didn’t really want to go. I didn’t want to be on a bus for 10 days with a bunch of annoying kids and listen to people talk about how wonderful their lives were or to hear their feelings or experiences. My husband finally convinced me to go and take the opportunity to just spend this quality time with our daughter, so that became my focus and general reason for going.

Our first stop was at the Hill Cumorah. We learned many things, and my mind started to become interested in what was being taught. As I listened to our tour guide, you would have thought my heart would have become softened. Instead, my heart was still numb and hardened. I wondered if the Gospel were really true. I had many questions, one in particular that bothered me a lot. Why did Emma not continue with the pioneers all the way to Utah? If she believed in her husband and the Gospel, why did she not carry it out? My doubt in the church began to weary me based on what I felt Emma did. 

We started our tour in the state of New York, and we would end in Kansas City, Missouri. We visited many places and learned so much information. I had expressed my concerns and feelings with the tour guide. He was full of information and answered most of my questions. Some of them he had no answers to, especially when I would ask about Emma and her decision to stay in Nauvoo. As you can see, this really concerned me. I believed a wife of the Prophet, with everything that they had gone through, would have had that belief and strength to stay with the members and follow through with them. 

After the Hill Cumorah, we traveled to the Smith Family Farm. I stood in the room where Moroni visited Joseph Smith. We walked through the Sacred Grove where I took the opportunity to ponder everything that I had been learning and what I had been feeling. I went off the trail where I found a nice place to sit. I took the time to say a prayer and express how I was feeling. I poured out all I had, tears of love, frustrations, desires, concerns, you name it, I let it out. I felt I was in such a sacred place that I would for sure get some type of answer. I sat there for 20 minutes or so after my prayer, silently waiting. I received nothing.  

 

I tried to not get discouraged, and I began to become interested in this journey. I knew I would not have this opportunity again to strengthen my testimony that I had always desired to have for myself and to find out myself if this was the true church. I began to change my attitude towards the trip. I would read and study what the tour guide would ask of us to do before each eventful day. While in Ohio, we were able to tour the Kirtland temple, The John Johnson Homestead, and we also stopped at the Newel K. Whitney store. This is where I can say MY miraculous event was given to me. At the John Johnson home (no relation) is where the mob broke into the home and dragged Joseph Smith out, and beat, tarred, and feathered him. 

I stood in Joseph and Emma’s room, and, as the tour guide and missionaries told the story, I closed my eyes and tried to place myself as if I were there when it was happening. Emma and Joseph had been up all night with the twins, and Joseph had just fallen asleep when the mob came in. They ripped him out of bed and dragged him down the road where others were there waiting for him. I could hear Emma scream. I could sense the fear for her husband. I felt her love for him. I was so overwhelmed with tears that compassion filled my heart. I learned as they brought Joseph back to the home, Emma stayed up all night pulling the feathers and tar off Joseph. Even with everything he had gone through, his body remained healthy enough to preach a sermon that morning. His sermon was on charity, and, along with the members that were there, there were also some of the same mob that attacked Joseph. Three of them were baptized after that meeting. 

As I pondered this event, I thought of Joseph and his love for the Gospel. He knew that what he was doing was true and that the Book of Mormon was true. If it was not true, anyone else being persecuted, tarred, and feathered would have given up. No one would have gone through what he and his family went through to bear false Gospel principles. My testimony began to grow. It was not until I was in the Newel K. Whitney store that I got my confirmation. 

Each night I prayed, I would ask my Heavenly Father to please help me find my own testimony, a confirmation to the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. In the Newel K. Whitney store there was a room they called the School of the Prophets. This is where the Prophet had received multiple revelations. Even the Father and Son had appeared to him. As we gathered in the small room, two sister missionaries began their testimony. Listening to the sisters, I had a warm feeling overcome me. My eyes began to fill with tears. I wasn’t feeling any different from what I had before on the other tours. However, this time my whole body from head to toes was starting to tingle and become numb. I couldn’t move. I had no idea what was going on. I felt like I was the only one in the room. The warm feeling I had started to feel around me, now had encapsulated me. I could feel the spirit so strong. I heard a sweet soft voice whisper in my ear validating the truthfulness I had been waiting all my life for. Hearing those words began a new feeling of life for me. The Lord does answer your prayers. Not on your time, but on his. HE knows the right time. 

After coming down the stairs from the School of Prophets, many other small miracles happened on the rest of the tour. Next door to the Whitney store was a saw mill that was owned by my husband’s Great Great Great Great Grandfather, Joel Hills Johnson. On our Journey to Nauvoo, I learned of my Great Great Grandfather, Edmund Nielson, and stood on the property that he had owned. My husband’s Great Great Great Great Uncle Benjamin F Johnson was the secretary to Joseph Smith. I was encircled by family, and I didn’t even know of their fellowship and service to our prophet Joseph Smith. 

As my journey was coming to an end, one of our last stops was at the Carthage jail. As our tour group stood in the room where Joseph and Hyrum were martyred, everyone had gone but us. The missionaries forgot us up in that room for a few minutes, and our tour guide took that opportunity to role play the event of that day for us. It was the most humbling experience for me to have. The bullet that shot Hyrum still leaves evidence in the door that he held shut as the mob was trying to push their way through. I stood in the window where Joseph Smith tried to escape to save the other two from being killed, but he was shot before and fell to his death. How could one go through all that he did if it wasn’t true? He suffered so much to give me the opportunity to have the Gospel in my life. 

My heart changed towards Emma Smith. I believe Emma loved her husband so much, and she had a love for the Gospel. She went through so many trials in her life that no other woman would have been able to bear a small amount of. I believe after Joseph Smith’s death that Emma could no longer go on. She had lost so much and didn’t want to lose any more. She knew the journey west would be hard, and, not having her husband by her side, she wanted to protect and raise their children in what safety and peace she could. The trip would have brought on more death. She had already endured so much, losing her children and the love of her life. How much more could her heart bear? Her decision to stay in Nauvoo was a difficult one, but she did what she thought was right. Respectfully, I knew the Lord was pleased with her. I grew a love for Emma; she is a hero in my book. 

There is no doubt in my mind of the truthfulness of this Gospel. I was extremely blessed to have had the humbling and confirming experiences on this trip. Even though I had to wait all this time for my own testament, I can say it was well worth the wait. It was the best experience I have ever had. I have my own testimony, and one I can never deny. 

Building Cathedrals through Motherhood by Maren Sundahl

My mom was at my house a few weeks ago, and she had seen a video in Relief Society (I hope I'm remembering right) entitled "The Invisible Woman" by Nicole Johnson. She had me find it on Youtube, and I listened to/watched the 5-minute clip while working on getting some beets canned.  

Nicole had a friend of hers give her a book about cathedrals and churches in Europe, and on the inside of the book, the friend inscribed: "...With Admiration, for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees." The book was filled with pictures of detailed cathedrals, which took hundreds of years to build-more than one working man's lifetime. Nicole essentially tells that these builders would show up, day after day, to their jobs that they would likely never see finished, a job that their names would not even be on. An author in the book even claims that "...no great cathedrals will ever be built again because so few people are willing to sacrifice to that degree.”

One of the stories that struck Nicole was one of a rich man who came to visit one of the cathedrals while it was in its building stages. The rich man saw a workman carving a tiny bird that would eventually be covered by the roof. This was quite puzzling to him, and he asked the workman why he was going to such great lengths to carve, in detail, something that would never be seen. The workman replied, "Because God sees." 

As mothers, we are undertaking a huge responsibility and an integral part of the Plan of Salvation. We are essentially the builders of cathedrals that we will not live to see finished, but our work here does not go unnoticed. Our Father in Heaven is aware of each and every sacrifice we make for our children. Every meal we put on the table. Every story we read. Every time we exercise patience with an especially difficult child. Not even the smallest sacrifice goes unnoticed. And THAT gives me great comfort.

Dog Tags by Jim Zieler

After the first week in what is referred to as “receiving barracks” we were all assigned to our final platoons. When I got to my platoon, there were about 80 other Marine recruits who were far from being Marines, but at least most of us looked like we belonged there. Most everyone had that confident and wild-eyed look about them when you looked into their eyes. One of these recruits in my platoon just stood out a little to me. His name was Arnett. The reason he stood out was to me he looked different from the rest of us. Arnett was quiet, unassuming, and reserved and wasn’t very athletic looking at all. There was nothing in his eyes that showed much confidence or the madness needed to endure what we were about to endure. In fact to me, he looked a little weak and even fragile. I was sure, if anyone washed out of boot camp, it would be Arnett. I couldn’t imagine why he would want to voluntarily enlist in the United States Marine Corps and endure some of the toughest mental and physical training with the hope of becoming part of the world’s most elite fighting force. Arnett didn’t fit the description of the typical Devil Dog you see on the recruiters’ posters.

All the research I did and the Marines I talked to before leaving for boot camp told me that no matter what my religious affiliations were, and no matter if I liked going to church or not, church was one part of boot camp I must take advantage of. Not necessarily for religious purposes, but because church was the only place you could be where somebody wasn’t in your face screaming at you. In fact, church was so quiet you could even catch a nap if you were subtle about it or you could write a short letter or two back home. Sleep was far too difficult to come by at night and too valuable to waste writing letters so church was the best place to catch up on both. All I knew was that I was convinced I was going to church when I got to boot camp. I decided I was going to be a religious man.

At the time of my enlistment when I was 17 years old, I was far from religious but I had already attended several churches, looking for the right one. I was raised a Catholic, just like generations of my Irish Catholic ancestors were. In high school, I decided there must be something more and I began going to other churches, then back to the Catholic Church. I visited many churches but eventually became an active, baptized member of a local Christian church. I eventually stopped going because of doubts I developed, but that was my last real association with a church.

As the first Sunday at the United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot rolled around, I couldn’t wait to finish morning chow and get the announcement to line up for church. As we all stood in formation at attention on the parade deck the drill instructors walked up and down our squads screaming in our faces that none of us sorry excuses for human beings deserved to go to church because we were nothing but godless heathens. This went on for some time. Finally, one drill instructor screamed that if any of us heathen maggots did not want to attend church, we should step forward. Those who didn’t want to attend would be allowed to return to the squad bay (barracks) with an assurance they wouldn’t be harassed. Either everyone knew that was not true or all the other recruits were suddenly religious like me, because nobody stepped forward. All of us were looking forward to some religion that day. 

The screaming then began from another drill instructor who walked up and down our squads, counting us off saying, “Catholic, Protestant, Catholic, Protestant…” I figured it out pretty quickly that these were our assignments for church; which religious service we were assigned to attend. When the drill instructor got to me he yelled, “Protestant.” Even though I thought, “Anything but Protestant!,” I was not even remotely thinking about how I was going to argue that generations of my Catholic ancestors would roll over in their graves if I was to step foot in a Protestant church. For me though, at that moment in time, there was no fight, no opposition. The thought of any church was a welcoming thought. The thought of questioning a drill instructor’s orders would be insubordination and beyond insane.

After everyone was “assigned” a religion we were given the command, “Fall out!” This command simply meant to sprint to whatever assignment you were given, 100 miles per hour, no questions and no looking back. More importantly, we were made to understand that we better be halfway to our destination before the entire letter “F” of FALL OUT left the drill instructor’s mouth. Even just a week into boot camp I had mastered the ability to get gone, long before the “F” of the order rang out. As I sprinted away I could hear two drill instructors screaming at what sounded like a single recruit as 80 of us others ran in two different directions. I was assigned as the first squad leader and had responsibility for the twenty recruits in my squad. As I ran towards the place where the Protestant services were being held, something told me to turn around to see what was going on. This was much like watching a train wreck about to happen where you know better than to look at it but somehow you can’t make yourself look away. I started to doubt the need to turn around and look but something stopped me in my tracks and made me turn around to look. I found myself standing there, looking at one of my fellow recruits with two drill instructors, inches from his face screaming and berating him, asking what his major malfunction was. It was Arnett.

Arnett wasn’t just another recruit, he was in my squad and I was his squad leader. I can’t say that I stood there and watched solely because I felt a sense of responsibility for him. At that point it was something that kept me frozen, unable to look away. Fortunately for me the drill instructors were so focused on humiliating  Arnett they didn’t notice me standing there looking on. As they continued screaming at him just inches from his face, one on the right and one on the left, sometimes driving the brim of their campaign covers (Smokey bear hats) into his nose and face, all I could think of was, “Just shut up and go Arnett.” At first I didn’t understand why he was still standing there while the rest of us fell out. What could possibly be going through his mind? All I knew at the time was Arnett was in deep. Real deep.

Soon it became apparent what the disagreement was. Over the bellowing of the drill instructors I finally heard Arnett shout, “Sir, the private is a Mormon, sir!” I was almost in shock. There we were not even a full week into training where it seemed most of us wouldn’t even survive and Arnett, who didn’t even belong there anyway, was making a stand on religion. My emotions at that minute were a combination of anger and fear. Anger because when one recruit screws up, the whole platoon, and especially his squad leader pays the price.  Anger because Arnett wasn’t giving in and I just wasn’t sure how far these drill instructors were going to take this. Even then, still frozen, I couldn’t look away.

As I continued to watch, the drill instructors started to do what was affectionately referred to as “thrashing” a recruit. That usually meant ordering them to do bend and thrusts (up downs), push-ups, sit-ups, and mountain climbers at such a fast pace a recruit would form a puddle of sweat on the ground in front of his face in short time. Thrashing a recruit on Sundays was not an acceptable practice by rule, but there was no doubt those drill instructors didn’t mind making an exception for Arnett. After a few minutes, one drill instructor would shout the command, “STOP!” At that second, the recruit was to return to the position of attention and freeze. As Arnett would stand there completely motionless, except for his heavy breathing, the drill instructors would start in on him again, one on each side, like windmills in a tornado. As soon as they were quiet, Arnett would respond, “Sir the private is a Mormon, sir!” As soon as he would say that, the thrashing started all over again.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. After the first few rounds of this, fear left me and my emotions turned completely to anger. After a few more minutes, the anger left and I only felt puzzled. Why on earth would Arnett disobey a direct order? Why wouldn’t he just comply and take the fight on another day? After the last few rounds, all I could feel was absolute respect and admiration. Arnett stood there like an oak tree and didn’t budge. Everything those drill instructors threw at him didn’t shake him a bit. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. 

After what seemed like an eternity, our company commander walked up to the drill instructors and I assume asked what was going on. After a brief discussion, Arnett was ordered to follow the company commander and the drill instructors marched away. I wasn’t sure if they were taking him to the brig (jail) or what was going on. What I found out later was the company commander arranged some type of “Mormon” services for Arnett that day. The same type of services he attended week after week for the rest of our stay on the recruit depot. 

Before I was discovered, I double-timed (ran) and found the Protestant services and slipped in without much attention. I remember taking lots of naps and writing lots of letters home while I was there. I don’t think I missed any services, but I realize it was for far different reasons than what Arnett went to church for. To this day and to my disappointment, my dog tags list Protestant as my religion.

The fall-out from that incident didn’t stay with Arnett as long as you might think. Right after the incident all the drill instructors started to refer to Arnett as the “Jesus Private” and would order him to pray out loud for the platoon before lights out. Although this was really intended to be a show of disrespect to him and his religious stand, Arnett never seemed to mind. I know, that just like me, those drill instructors learned a valuable lesson about just who Private Arnett was. There was a great deal of respect earned in the hot sun on the parade deck that Sunday morning. And one very important question was answered about whether or not someone like Arnett belonged there.

Although it was another 5 years before I accepted the Gospel and joined the Church, I never forgot Arnett standing there, “bearing his testimony” to two drill instructors, and I guess to me too. When I think about how people talk about how uncomfortable it makes them feel to bear their testimonies in front of people, even strangers, I think of Arnett standing there in a puddle of sweat, as immovable as an oak tree. I’ve never seen such strength in one man. Just as they did with me and the other recruits, I watched the drill instructors break Arnett down mentally and physically over the next twelve weeks, farther than most normal people can endure. In the end they succeeded and he was changed into a hardened American fighting machine, a US Marine.  What the toughest training program in the world wasn’t able to do was change who he was or his testimony of the Church. I never saw Arnett’s dog tags, but I’ll bet they said he was Mormon.   

*names were changed