For Times of Trouble | Jeffrey R Holland | 1980

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I would like to be quite personal this  morning—personal about you and personal   about myself. I have thought about you a great  deal over the past few weeks and have prayed   to know what might be helpful to you.   In doing so I have been drawn back to my own  days as a student and some of the challenges   I faced then. While such experiences now border on  primitive history, fit only for a geology lecture,   I’m nevertheless going ahead. I have wondered  if some of your experiences and feelings   might even now be very much the same. I come this morning knowing the semester   is nearly over and that what suggestions  I offer were perhaps needed months ago.   Furthermore, the year is nearly over and maybe for  some an entire college career. But part of what I   want to stress is that every day counts—including  these remaining few in the semester—and   that you have thousands of days thereafter.  I will speak of you as you are right now   and will hope it matters as much to the graduating  senior as to the first-semester freshman.   I wish to speak today of a problem that is  universal and that can, at any given hour,   strike anywhere on campus—faculty, staff,  administration, and especially students.   I believe it is a form of evil. At least I know it  can have damaging effects that block our growth,   dampen our spirit, diminish our hope, and leave  us vulnerable to other more conspicuous evils.   I address it here this morning because I know of  nothing Satan uses quite so cunningly or cleverly   in his work on a young man or woman  in your present circumstances.   I speak of doubt—especially self-doubt—of  discouragement, and of despair.   In doing so I don’t wish to suggest that  there aren’t plenty of things in the world to   be troubled by. In our lives, individually and  collectively, there surely are serious threats   to our happiness. I watch an early morning  news broadcast while I shave and then read a   daily newspaper. That is enough to ruin anyone’s  day and by then it’s only 6:30 in the morning.   Iran, Afghanistan, inflation, energy, jogging,  mass murders, kidnapping, unemployment, floods.   With all of this waiting for us we are  tempted, as W. C. Fields once said,   to “smile first thing in the  morning and get it over with.”   But my concerns for you today are not the  national and international ones. I wish to   speak a little more personally of those matters  that do not make headlines in the New York Times   but that may be important  in your personal journal.   I’m anxious this morning about your problems  with school and love and finances and the future,   about your troubles concerning a place in life  and the value of your contribution, about your   private fears regarding where you are going  and whether you think you will ever get there.   Against a backdrop of hostages and high  prices I wish to speak more personally   of you and fortify you, if I am able,  against doubt—especially self-doubt—and   discouragement and despair. This morning  I want to attack double-digit depression.   In doing so, however, I wish at the outset to  make a distinction F. Scott Fitzgerald once made,   that “trouble has no necessary connection  with discouragement—discouragement   has a germ of its own, as different from trouble  as arthritis is different from a stiff joint”.   Troubles we all have, but the “germ” of  discouragement, to use Fitzgerald’s word,   is not in the trouble, it is in us. Or to be more  precise, I believe it is in Satan, the Prince   of Darkness, the Father of Lies. And he would  have it be in us. It’s frequently a small germ,   hardly worth going to the Health Center for, but  it will work and it will grow and it will spread.   In fact it can become almost a habit, a way of  living and thinking, and there the greatest damage   is done. Then it takes an increasingly severe toll  on our spirit, for it erodes the deepest religious   commitments we can make—those of faith, and hope,  and charity. We turn inward and look downward,   and these greatest of Christlike virtues  are damaged or at very least impaired.   We become unhappy and soon make others  unhappy, and before long Lucifer laughs.   As with any other germ, a  little preventive medicine   ought to be practiced in terms  of those things that get us down.   There is a line from Dante that says, “The  arrow seen before cometh less rudely”.   President John F. Kennedy put the same thought  into one of his state of the union messages this   way: “The time to repair the roof is when the sun  is shining.” The Boy Scouts say it best of all:   “Be prepared.” That isn’t just cracker-barrel  wisdom with us; it is theology. “And   angels shall fly through the midst of heaven,  crying with a loud voice . . . Prepare ye,   prepare ye”. “But if ye are prepared ye shall  not fear”. And fear is part of what I wish to   oppose this morning. The scriptures teach  that preparation—prevention if you will—is   perhaps the major weapon in your arsenal  against discouragement and self-defeat.   For example, if as a student you are the way I  was, you may be discouraged over money matters—and   almost everyone is, at least some of the time.  A recent study indicated that financially   related problems outranked all other factors in  marital difficulty by a margin of three to one.   And the pressure can be about that  great on single students as well.   If shared misery provides any consolation  for you, take heart—you have friends.   From the day I walked into my first college  class until I staggered out the exit of my last—   a period of time stretching over twelve years and  four degrees—I was responsible for every cent of   my education. I know that many in this audience  are getting through school exactly the same   way—part-time jobs, loans, working spouses, an  almost desperate plea for scholarships, postponed   personal comforts, and all the rest. These things  can be troublesome, but you have an obligation—to   yourself if no one else—to see that they are  not destructive. Prepare. “The arrow seen before   cometh less rudely.” Take advantage at this tender  age to learn to use a budget, to sit down at a   table spread out with your debts and come to grips  with the economic facts of life. It’s none too   soon if you’ve made it to college and still have  not had to establish personal fiscal priorities   to decide what you will have at the  expense of some things you will not have.   Get it down on paper and deal with it there.  That is the counsel given to husbands and wives,   and the same solution works for others. The  alternative is to leave it churning in your   stomach and head and heart, all of which are  susceptible to their own forms of ulcer.   I see the Brethren labor over the wise use of  the Church’s resources. I see President Oaks   labor over it for the university. I hope soon  to see someone labor over it for our nation.   You can consider it part of a very valuable  education to labor over it in your own life.   Plan. Prepare. Budget. Work. Save. Sacrifice.  Spend cheerfully on things that matter. Smile   at an old pair of shoes. Pay your tithing.  Cherish a used book. Though some of you may   be living in almost desperate financial  straits, I promise you there is a way.   Such times may be burdensome. Such sacrifice may  be hard. But it does not have to lead—for you it   must not lead—to despair and destruction and  defeat. In the words of Henry David Thoreau:   Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called  comforts of life are not only dispensable, but   positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind. Love your life, poor as it is. . . . The setting   sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse  as brightly as from the rich man’s abode.   Now no one here need be so dramatic  as to peer out of an almshouse,   but you may be going without some things,  you may even consider yourself poor.   Well, “Love your life, poor as it is.” “If God  so clothe the grass of the field, which today is,   and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not  much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”.   Quite apart from the financial challenge,   schoolwork itself can be quite  a drag. (Hold your applause.)   I suppose it’s fair to say that math and English  and economics and zoology can be discouraging on   certain days, especially as finals approach. But a  little preparation can work wonders here as well.   Otherwise, it’s the night before the paper is  due or the morning before the afternoon exam.   And despair distills upon  us as the dews from heaven.   I plead with you, in making your university  experience a pleasant and rewarding one,   work conscientiously in the early weeks,  and you’ll work more cheerfully at the end.   I remember handing in a paper to Dean Bruce  B. Clark who was at the time the teacher of an   English literature class I was taking. I loved the  class and knew from the first day of instruction   that three short papers would be due on  clearly stated dates during the term.   Yet I left those papers—in every case, I  think—until the night before they were due.   I remember Dean Clark handing one of  them back to me, saying something like   “You had the makings of a good paper here.  It’s too bad you didn’t spend more time on it.”   I was devastated. Here was the chairman  of my major department, teaching only one   class a semester that year, the very symbol  of my academic hopes and dreams for the B.A.,   saying “You didn’t work very hard.”  Oh, I had worked hard all right—from   9:00 the night before until 3:00 that  morning—without stopping, without breathing.   Now, my young brothers and sisters, I deserved to  be devastated. I should have been devastated. And   it could have been a good paper. Perhaps that  discouraged me more than anything. You see,   I discouraged me. I discouraged myself. Remember,  dear Brutus, “The fault . . . is not in our stars,   but in ourselves”. And that’s the worst kind of despair,   the kind of self-despising that eats  at our image and crushes our hopes.   It isn’t the class or the teacher or the paper.  It never is. I simply should have done better.   I should have been at work much sooner.  I should have written a draft or two and   then left it alone for a time. I should have  gone back to it in freshness and strength.   I might even have asked for some suggestions.  I should have reworked it and shaped it and   fine-tuned it over several rewritings. At the  end I should have been working with a scalpel;   as it was I delivered one butchered idea, the  meat axe still dripping as I walked into class.   And furthermore, you don’t type  very well at 3:00 in the morning.   The point is the same with school as with money  or marriage or profession or any hope and dream.   Prepare. Plan. Work. Sacrifice.  Rework. Spend cheerfully   on matters of worth. Carry the calm, and wear  the assurance of having done the best you could   with what you had. If you work hard and prepare  earnestly, it will be very difficult for you   to give in or give up or wear down. If you  labor with faith in God and in yourself and   in your future, you will have built upon a  rock. Then, when the winds blow and the rains   come—as surely they will—you shall not fall. Of course, some things are not under your control.   Some disappointments come regardless  of your effort and preparation,   for God wishes us to be strong as well as good.   There, too, I say, “Love your life, poor as it  is.” Drive even these experiences into the corner,   painful though they may be, and learn from  them. In this, too, you have friends through   the ages in whom you can take comfort and  with whom you can form timeless bonds.   Thomas Edison devoted ten years and all of his  money to developing the nickel-alkaline storage   battery at a time when he was almost penniless.  Through that period of time, his record and film   production was supporting the storage battery  effort. Then one night the terrifying cry of   fire echoed through the film plant. Spontaneous  combustion had ignited some chemicals.   Within moments all of the packing compounds,  celluloid for records, film, and other flammable   goods had gone up with a roar. Fire companies from  eight towns arrived, but the fire and heat were so   intense and the water pressure so low that the  fire hoses had no effect. Edison was sixty-seven   years old—no age to begin anew. His son Charles  was frantic, wondering if he were safe, if his   spirits were broken, and how he would handle  a crisis such as this at his age. Charles saw   his father running toward him. He spoke first. He said, “Where’s your mother? Go get her.   Tell her to get her friends. They’ll never see  another fire like this as long as they live!”   At 5:30 the next morning, with the fire barely  under control, he called his employees together   and announced, “We’re rebuilding.” One man was  told to lease all the machine shops in the area,   another to obtain a wrecking crane  from the Erie Railroad Company. Then,   almost as an afterthought, he added, “Oh, by the  way. Anybody know where we can get some money?”   Virtually everything you now recognize as  a Thomas Edison contribution to your life   came after that disaster. Remember, “Trouble  has no necessary connection with discouragement—   discouragement has a germ of its own.” If you are trying hard and living right and   things still seem burdensome and difficult, take  heart. Others have walked that way before you.   Do you feel unpopular and different, or outside  the inside of things? Read Noah again. Go out   there and take a few whacks on the side of your  ark and see what popularity was like in 2500 B.C.   Does the wilderness stretch before you  in a never-ending sequence of semesters?   Read Moses again. Calculate the burden of fighting  with the pharaohs and then a forty-year assignment   in Sinai. Some tasks take time. Accept that.  But as the scripture says, “They come to pass.”   They do end. We will cross over Jordan eventually.  Others have proven it. I stand before you as a   living symbol that anyone can make it through  school, fill a mission, and find a job.   Are you afraid people don’t like you? The  Prophet Joseph Smith could share a few   thoughts with you on that subject.  Has health been a problem?   Surely you will find comfort in the fact that  a veritable Job has led this Church into one   of the most exciting and revelatory decades of  this entire dispensation. President Kimball has   known few days in the last thirty years that were  not filled with pain or discomfort or disease.   Is it wrong to wonder if President Kimball  has in some sense become what he is not only   in spite of the physical burdens but also in  part because of them? Can you take courage   from your shared sacrifice with that giant  of a man who has defied disease and death,   has shaken his fist at the forces of darkness  and cried when there was hardly strength to walk,   “Oh, Lord, I am yet strong.  Give me one more mountain”.   Do you ever feel untalented  or incapable or inferior?   Would it help you to know that  everyone else feels that way too,   including the prophets of God? Moses initially  resisted his destiny, pleading that he was not   eloquent in language. Jeremiah thought himself a  child and was afraid of the faces he would meet.   And Enoch? I ask all of you to remember Enoch  as long as you live. This is the young man who,   when called to a seemingly impossible task, said,  “Why is it that I have found favor in thy sight,   [I] am but a lad, and all the people  hate me; for I am slow of speech?”.   Enoch was a believer. He stiffened his spine and  squared his shoulders and went stutteringly on his   way. Plain old, ungifted, inferior Enoch. And this  is what the angels would come to write of him:   And so great was the faith of Enoch that he  led the people of God, and their enemies came   to battle against them; and he spake the  word of the Lord, and the earth trembled,   and the mountains fled, even according to  his command; and the rivers of water were   turned out of their course; and the roar of  the lions was heard out of the wilderness;   and all nations feared greatly,  so powerful was the word of Enoch,   and so great was the power of the  language which God had given him.   Plain old, inadequate Enoch—whose name is now  synonymous with transcendent righteousness.   The next time you are tempted to paint your  self-portrait dismal gray, highlighted with   lackluster beige, just remember that in like  manner have this kingdom’s most splendid men   and women been tempted. I say to you as Joshua  said to the tribes of Israel as they faced one of   their most difficult tasks, “Sanctify yourselves:  for tomorrow the Lord will do wonders among you”.   There is, of course, one source of  despair more serious than all the rest.   It is linked with poor preparation  of a far more serious order. It is   the opposite of sanctification. It is the most  destructive discouragement in time or eternity.   It is transgression against God.  It is depression embedded in sin.   Here your most crucial challenge, once you have  recognized the seriousness of your mistakes,   will be to believe that you can change,  that there can be a different you.   To disbelieve that is clearly a satanic device  designed to discourage and defeat you. When you   get home tonight, you fall on your knees and thank  your Father in Heaven that you belong to a Church   and have grasped a gospel that promises  repentance to those who will pay the price.   Repentance is not a foreboding word. It is  following faith, the most encouraging word in the   Christian vocabulary. Repentance is simply the  scriptural invitation for growth and improvement   and progress and renewal. You can change! You  can be anything you want to be in righteousness.   If there is one lament I cannot abide—and I  hear it from adults as well as students—it   is the poor, pitiful, withered cry,  “Well, that’s just the way I am.”   If you want to talk about discouragement,  that phrase is one that discourages me.   Though not a swearing man, I am always sorely  tempted to try my hand when I hear that.   Please spare me your speeches  about “That’s just the way I   am.” I’ve heard that from too many people  who wanted to sin and call it psychology.   And I use the word sin again to  cover a vast range of habits,   some seemingly innocent enough, that nevertheless  bring discouragement and doubt and despair.   You can change anything you want to change,  and you can do it very fast. That’s another   satanic suckerpunch—that it takes years  and years and eons of eternity to repent.   It takes exactly as long to repent as it takes you  to say, “I’ll change”—and mean it. Of course there   will be problems to work out and restitutions to  make. You may well spend—indeed you had better   spend—the rest of your life proving your  repentance by its permanence. But change,   growth, renewal, and repentance can come for  you as instantaneously as for Alma and the   sons of Mosiah. Even if you have serious amends to  make, it is not likely that you would qualify for   the term, “the vilest of sinners,” which is the  phrase Mormon uses in describing these young men.   Yet as Alma recounts his own experience  in the thirty-sixth chapter of the book   that bears his name, his repentance appears to  have been as instantaneous as it was stunning.   Do not misunderstand. Repentance is not easy or  painless or convenient. It is a bitter cup from   Hell. But only Satan, who dwells there, would  have you think that a necessary and required   acknowledgment is more distasteful than permanent  residence. Only he would say, “You can’t change.   You won’t change. It’s too long and too hard  to change. Give up. Give in. Don’t repent.   You are just the way you are.” That, my friends,  is a lie born of desperation. Don’t fall for it.   As you know, the Brethren used to announce in  general conference the names of those who had   been called on missions. Not only was this the  way friends and neighbors learned of the call,   more often than not it was the way  the missionary learned of it as well.   One such prospect was Eli H. Pierce. A railroad  man by trade, he had not been very faithful in   Church meetings—“even had my inclinations led in  that direction, which I frankly confess they did   not,” he admitted. His mind had been given totally  to what he demurely calls “temporalities.” He   said he had never read more than a few pages of  scripture in his life and that he had spoken to   only one public gathering (an effort which he says  was no credit to himself or those who heard him).   He used the vernacular of the railroad and the  barroom with a finesse born of long practice. He   bought cigars wholesale—a thousand at a time—and  he regularly lost his paycheck playing pool. Then   this classic understatement: “Nature never endowed  me with a superabundance of religious sentiment;   my spirituality was not high and  probably even a little below average.”   Well, the Lord knew what Eli Pierce was, and he  knew something else. He knew what I’m pleading for   today. He knew what Eli Pierce could become.  When the call came that October 5 in 1875,   Eli wasn’t even in the Tabernacle. He was out  working on one of the railroad lines. A fellow   employee, once recovered from the shock of it  all, ran out to telegraph the startling news.   Brother Pierce writes, “At the very moment this  intelligence was being flashed over the wires,   I was sitting lazily thrown back in an  office rocking chair, my feet on the desk,   reading a novel and simultaneously sucking on  an old Dutch pipe just to vary the monotony of   cigar smoking.” (For my friends in the English  Department I would just hasten to add that the   novel reading was probably a more serious  transgression than the pipe smoking.)   He goes on. “As soon as I had been informed of  what had taken place, I threw the novel in the   waste basket, the pipe in a corner [and  have never touched either to this hour].   I sent in my resignation . . . to take  effect at once, in order that I might   have time for study and preparation. I then  started into town to buy [scripture].”   Then these stirring words: Remarkable as it may seem, and has since appeared   to me, a thought of disregarding the call, or  of refusing to comply with the requirement,   never once entered my mind. The only question  I asked—and I asked it a thousand times—was:   “How can I accomplish this mission? How  can I, who am so shamefully ignorant   and untaught in doctrine, do honor to  God and justice to the souls of men,   and merit the trust reposed  in me by the Priesthood?”   With such genuine humility fostering  resolution rather than defeating it,   Eli Pierce fulfilled a remarkable mission. His  journal could appropriately close on a completely   renovated life with this one line: “Throughout  our entire mission we were greatly blessed.”   But I add one experience to make the point. During his missionary service, Brother Pierce   was called in to administer to the infant child  of a branch president whom he knew and loved.   Unfortunately, the wife of the branch president  had become embittered and now seriously objected   to any religious activity within the home,  including a blessing for this dying child.   With the mother refusing to leave the  bedside and the child too ill to move,   this humble branch president with his missionary  friend retired to a small upper room in the house   to pray for the baby’s life. The mother,  suspecting just such an act, sent one of   the older children to observe and report back. There in that secluded chamber the two knelt and   prayed fervently until, in Brother Pierce’s own  words, “we felt that the child would live and   knew that our prayers had been heard.” Arising  from their knees, they turned slowly only to   see the young girl standing in the partially  open doorway gazing intently into the room.   She seemed, however, quite oblivious to the  movements of the two men. She stood entranced   for some seconds, her eyes immovable. Then she  said, “Papa, who was that . . . man in there?”   Her father said, “That is  Brother Pierce. You know him.”   “No,” she said, matter-of-factly,  “I mean the other man.”   “There was no other, darling, except Brother  Pierce and myself. We were praying for baby.”   “Oh, there was another man,” the child insisted,   “for I saw him standing [above] you and Brother  Pierce and he was dressed [all] in white.”   Now if God in his heavens will do that for  a repentant old cigar-smoking, inactive,   swearing pool player, don’t you think he’ll  do it for you? He will if your resolve   is as deep and permanent as Eli Pierce’s. In this  Church we ask for faith, not infallibility.   Immerse yourself in the scriptures. You will find your own experiences described   there. You will find spirit and strength there.  You will find solutions and counsel. Nephi says,   “The words of Christ will tell you  all things . . . ye should do”.   Pray earnestly and fast  with purpose and devotion.   Some difficulties, like devils, come  not out “but by prayer and fasting.”   Serve others. The heavenly paradox is that only in   so doing can you save yourself. Be patient.   As Robert Frost said, with many things the only  way out is through. Keep moving. Keep trying.   Have faith. Has the day of miracles ceased?   Or have angels ceased to appear unto the children  of men? Or has he withheld the power of the Holy   Ghost from them? Or will he, so long as time shall  last, or the earth shall stand, or there shall be   one man upon the face thereof to be saved?Behold  I say unto you, Nay; for it is by faith . . .   that angels appear and minister unto men. Several decades ago an acquaintance of mine   left a small southern Utah  town to travel to the East.   He had never traveled much beyond his little  hometown and certainly had never ridden a train.   But his older sister and brother-in-law needed  him under some special circumstances, and his   parents agreed to free him from the farm work  in order to go. They drove him to Salt Lake City   and put him onto the train—new Levi’s, not so new  boots, very frightened, and eighteen years old.   There was one major problem, and it terrified  him. He had to change trains in Chicago.   Furthermore, it involved a one-night layover,  and that was a fate worse than death.   His sister had written, carefully outlining  when the incoming train would arrive and how   and where and when he was to catch the  outgoing line, but he was terrified.   And then his humble, plain, sun-scarred father did  something no one in this room should ever forget.   He said, “Son, wherever you go in this Church  there will always be somebody to stand by you.   That’s part of what it means  to be a Latter-day Saint.”   And then he stuffed into the pocket of  his calico shirt the name of a bishop he   had taken the time to identify from sources at  Church headquarters. If the boy had troubles,   or became discouraged and afraid, he was  to call the bishop and ask for help.   Well, the train ride progressed rather  uneventfully until the train pulled into Chicago.   And even then the young man did pretty well  at collecting his luggage and making it to   the nearby hotel room that had been  prearranged by his brother-in-law.   But then the clock began to tick and night  began to fall and faith began to fail.   Could he find his way back to the  station? Could he find the right track   and train? What if it was late? What if  he was late? What if he lost his ticket?   What if his sister had made a mistake and he  ended up in New York? What if? What if? What if?   Without those well-worn boots ever hitting the  floor, that big, raw-boned boy flew across the   room, nearly pulled the telephone out of the  wall, and, fighting back tears and troubles,   called the bishop. Alas, the bishop was  not home, but the bishop’s wife was.   She spoke long enough to reassure him that  absolutely nothing could go wrong that night.   He was, after all, safe in the room, and what he  needed more than anything else was a night’s rest.   Then she said, “If tomorrow morning you are still  concerned, follow these directions and you can be   with our family and other ward members until  train time. We will make sure you get safely   on your way.” She then carefully spelled out  the directions, had him repeat them back,   and suggested a time for him to come. With slightly more peace in his heart,   he knelt by his bed in prayer (as he had every  night of his eighteen years) and then waited   for morning to come. Somewhere in the night  the hustle and bustle of Chicago in the 1930s   subsided into peaceful sleep. At the appointed hour the next morning he   set out. A long walk, then catch a bus. Then  transfer to another. Watch for the stop.   Walk a block, change sides of the street, and  then one last bus. Count the streets carefully.   Two more to go. One more to go. I’m here. Let me  out of this bus. It worked, just like she said.   Then his world crumbled, crumbled before his very  eyes. He stepped out of the bus onto the longest   stretch of shrubbery and grass he had ever seen  in his life. She had said something about a park,   but he thought a park was a dusty acre in southern  Utah with a netless tennis court in one corner.   Here he stood looking in vain at  the vast expanse of Lincoln Park   with not a single friendly face in sight. There was no sign of a bishop or a ward   or a meetinghouse. And the bus was gone. It struck  him that he had no idea where he was or what   combination of connections with who knows what  number of buses would be necessary to get him back   to the station. Suddenly he felt more alone and  overwhelmed than he had at any moment in his life.   As the tears welled up in his eyes, he  despised himself for feeling so afraid—but   he was, and the tears would not stop. He stepped  off the sidewalk away from the bus stop into the   edge of the park. He needed some privacy for  his tears, as only an eighteen-year-old from   Southern Utah could fully appreciate. But  as he stepped away from the noise, fighting   to control his emotions, he thought he heard  something hauntingly familiar in the distance.   He moved cautiously in the direction of the sound.  First he walked, and then he walked quickly.   The sound was stronger and firmer  and certainly it was familiar.   Then he started to smile, a smile  that erupted into an audible laugh,   and then he started to run. He wasn’t sure  that was the most dignified thing for a   newcomer to Chicago to do, but this was no time  for discretion. He ran, and he ran fast. He ran   as fast as those cowboy boots would carry him—over  shrubs, through trees, around the edge of a pool.   Though hard to you this journey may appear, Grace shall be as your day.   The sounds were crystal clear, and he was weeping  newer, different tears. For there over a little   rise huddled around a few picnic tables and  bundles of food were the bishop and his wife   and their children and most of the families  of that little ward. The date: July 24, 1934.   The sound: a slightly off-key   a cappella rendition of lines that even a  boy from Southern Utah could recognize.   Gird up your loins; fresh courage take; Our God will never us forsake;   And soon we’ll have this tale to tell— All is well! All is well!   It was Pioneer Day. The gathering to which  he had been invited was a Twenty-Fourth of   July celebration. Knowing that it was about time  for the boy to arrive, the ward had thought it   a simple matter to sing a verse or two of “Come,  Come, Ye Saints” to let him know their location.   Elisha, with a power known only to the prophets,   had counseled the king of Israel on how and where  and when to defend against the warring Syrians.   The king of Syria, of course, wished to rid his  armies of this prophetic problem. So—and I quote:   Therefore sent he thither horses, and  chariots, and a great host: and they came by   night, and compassed the city about.. . . an host  compassed the city both with horses and chariots.   If Elisha is looking for a good time to be  depressed, this is it. His only ally is the   president of the local teachers quorum. It  is one prophet and one lad against the world.   And the boy is petrified. He sees  the enemy everywhere—difficulty   and despair and problems and burdens everywhere.  The bus is gone and all he can see is Chicago.   With faltering faith the boy cries,  “Alas, my master! How shall we do?”   And Elisha’s reply? “Fear not: for they that be  with us are more than they that be with them”.   “They that be with us?” Now just an  Israelite minute here. Faith is fine and   courage is wonderful, but this is ridiculous,  the boy thinks. There are no others with them.   He can recognize a Syrian army when he sees  one, and he knows that one child and an old man   are not strong odds against it.  But then comes Elisha’s promise:   Fear not: for they that be with us are  more than they that be with them.And   Elisha prayed, and said, Lord, I pray  thee, open his eyes, that he may see.   And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man;   and he saw: and, behold, the mountain was full of  horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha.   In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help   from both sides of the veil,  and you must never forget that.   When disappointment and discouragement strike—and  they will—you remember and never forget   that if our eyes could be opened we would  see horses and chariots of fire as far as   the eye can see riding at reckless  speed to come to our protection.   They will always be there, these armies  of heaven, in defense of Abraham’s seed.   I close with this promise from heaven. Verily, verily, I say unto you,   ye are little children, and ye have not as yet  understood how great blessings the Father hath   in his own hands and prepared for you;And  ye cannot bear all things now; nevertheless,   be of good cheer, for I will lead you along. I will go before your face. I will be on your   right hand and on your left, . . . and mine angels  [shall be] round about you, to bear you up.   The kingdom is yours and the blessings thereof  are yours, and the riches of eternity are yours.   Oh yes, “We’ll find the place  which God for us prepared.”   And on the way “We’ll make the air with music  ring, Shout praises to our God and King;   Above the rest these words we’ll tell—All   is well! All is well!” In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
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Channel: BYU Speeches
Views: 20,153
Rating: 4.8906751 out of 5
Keywords: BYU Speeches, BYU Devotionals
Id: QG30MqRe1sM
Channel Id: undefined
Length: 44min 22sec (2662 seconds)
Published: Fri Jun 25 2021
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