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Every once in a while, a series of choices, experiences, and circumstances combine to create a person who seems to stand out, someone we naturally look to as a role model. Russell M. Nelson is one of those uncommon men.
Have you ever wondered how to measure your life? With a ruler or tape measure, we can determine how tall or wide something is, but how can we measure the depth and breadth of a life? What are the markers of significance, of success, of fulfillment along the road of life?
In the spring of 1945, with the world still staggering from the most devastating war in human history, leaders from 50 nations gathered in San Francisco with admittedly high aspirations: to create an international organization that would “save succeeding generations from the scourge of war.”1 Thus the United Nations was born, with a charter that also included the aim to promote human rights, international law, and a higher standard of living around the world.
Recently, a group of university students were discussing their spiritual beliefs. They talked about what they believed in, what they felt the purpose of life might be. One young man stated, “I believe in nothing except myself. I believe only in me.” A lively—but respectful—discussion followed, as many of his classmates questioned his view of life.
It takes only a glance at the news to know about disasters and tragedies all around the world. And it takes only a glance into our own lives to know that they happen close to home as well. Everyone’s difficulties are unique, but everyone has some. And perhaps that’s the first step toward coping and hoping: to realize that we’re not alone as we experience life’s hardships. We are all, to one degree or another, going through it together. While we might prefer to turn away from others and struggle privately, hearts heal best when they’re open. That’s when love can enter, when the bonds of friendship can bind up a broken heart. Writer James Thurber once shared this definition of love he heard from a friend: “Love is what you’ve been through with somebody.”1
We live in a world that seems obsessed with power—political power, military power, earning power. Popular movies even imagine superhuman powers. Few of us, if any, experience much of those powers. But there is a power that we can all have, and it’s the most important and most lasting power in the world. It is the power to influence others for good.
Some people face so many obstacles and seem to struggle and barely get by as they journey through life. On the other hand, others seem to travel an easy, scenic road with beautiful vistas all around. In reality, it’s likely that neither assumption is entirely true. We usually don’t discover the truth until we look a little deeper than outward appearances.
In 1846, thousands of people in the midwestern United States were persecuted for their beliefs and forced from their homes in the dead of winter. They didn’t consider themselves pioneers, but suddenly they were—walking across the western wilderness in search of refuge, a place where they could worship their God and practice their faith. Some traveled by wagon, others by handcart, but they all had to walk and walk and walk many hundreds of miles. There were no roads or restaurants, no inns or waystations to enter and rest along the way. But the fire of their faith kept them warm, and their convictions kept them moving.
We opened today’s broadcast the same way we opened The Tabernacle Choir’s first-ever broadcast 90 years ago: with a stirring hymn titled “The Morning Breaks, the Shadows Flee.” It was composed by George Careless, former conductor of the Choir, and looking back, it was the perfect way to begin the weekly tradition of Music and the Spoken Word—with a song about “the dawning of a brighter day” majestically rising “on the world.” Mornings, after all, bring hope. The dawn is a signal of promise and possibility and encouragement. And this is what Music and the Spoken Word has brought to the world for nine decades now. No one knew it at the time, but July 15, 1929, marked the dawning of the longest continuously broadcast network program in history.
There are many things in life that can be done alone. You can play a piano alone—or a violin or guitar or any other musical instrument. You can sing a solo, give a speech, or recite a poem alone. But then there are other things—some of the most beautiful—that simply can’t be done alone. For example, you can’t sing barbershop alone. Barbershop singing, by definition, involves joining with others in vocal harmony. It’s about music, but it’s also about community, about working together to create a thing of beauty.
Nathan Hale was a schoolteacher, fresh out of college, teaching in a one-room school in New London, Connecticut, when the American Colonies went to war against the British in 1775. Inspired by the cause of independence, he joined the fight and quickly rose to the rank of captain. But the colonists faced a series of defeats in the early months of the revolution, and victory did not seem likely. It was in these circumstances that General George Washington asked for volunteers to spy on the British forces. It was a dangerous mission, and being captured would mean certain death. At first no one volunteered. Then 21-year-old Nathan Hale—alone—stepped forward.
When physical or emotional illness strikes, our immediate need is to be healed. Whether it’s a scraped knee or a broken heart, a serious disease or a deep sadness, what we long for, first and foremost, is freedom from pain. We simply want to be healed.
Good fathers make a big difference in the lives of their children—bigger, in fact, than they might realize. Fathers often try to share with their children some of their hard-won wisdom—lessons about work, integrity, and perseverance. But most children will tell you they remember less of what their fathers say and more of what they do—who they are. How blessed are the many sons and daughters who can say, “I want to be just like my dad,” or “Whenever I’m not sure what to do, I think about my dad and try to follow his example.”
A national newspaper grabbed attention recently with this headline: “The Best Bosses Are Humble Bosses.” At first, that may seem to contradict conventional wisdom—that a good leader is dynamic, dominating, and bold. But it’s been found that people who work for humble bosses exhibit better teamwork and perform at higher levels. Not surprisingly, when a leader listens to the perspective of others and constantly seeks to learn and improve, the people who follow that leader are likely to do the same. That doesn’t mean leaders should be passive or indifferent. On the contrary, as one expert observed: “Humble leaders can also be highly competitive and ambitious. But they tend to avoid the spotlight and give credit to their teams.”1 As a result, some employers today are making humility one of the key qualities they look for in applicants, even for entry-level positions. Humility, they have found, will help their organization thrive and achieve its goals.
Every life is different; the only predictable pattern is that all of us experience a mix of joy and sadness, happiness and heartache—usually occurring unpredictably. No matter how carefully we plan, setbacks—large and small—can disrupt our plans. We settle into a good job, a relationship, a neighborhood, and then life surprises us.
The flag of the United States has flown on the earth and the moon, on the home front and the battlefront, in conflict and in peace. Something stirs within us when we see this red, white, and blue “emblem of the land [we] love, the home of the free and the brave.”1
Is there such a thing as a “perfect family”? Obedient children, abundantly patient parents, with endless bliss at home—we fantasize about it, because that’s exactly what it is: a fantasy. In reality we all have struggles, seen or unseen, that pull at the fabric of our family. And that cloth knows both tears and tears as we watch loved ones make choices that break our hearts.
Much of the world’s most important work is done by people who don’t get much recognition. Teachers, farmers, laborers, military personnel, emergency responders, and so many others all play such vital roles in our society, and yet they often do it quietly, without the appreciation they deserve. And for no one is that more true than for mothers.
On the 10th day of May 1869, at a remote promontory north of the Great Salt Lake, Central Pacific Railroad official Leland Stanford struck a golden spike into a railroad tie. It marked the connecting point between the Central Pacific and Union Pacific rail lines, a railroad that now spanned the breadth of the United States. Bill Smoot, a local 15-year-old, had signed on to help with the work as it passed through Utah Territory. He later recalled, “I caught the railroad fever, even though I had never even seen a picture of a railroad or a train of cars.” 1
The first time famed cellist Yo-Yo Ma ever performed as a young boy, he played a piece by Johann Sebastian Bach. In the 60 years since then, he has performed works by scores of other composers, but he finds himself constantly returning to Bach. When asked why that is, Yo-Yo Ma explained: “At each stage of your life, you go back and discover new things. The way I understand Bach now is with the analogy of a river. It’s like you’re touching a living stream of water that keeps flowing, and by touching it or listening to it or playing it, you are in touch with something much bigger than yourself. It changes from day to day, from season to season and from year to year.” 1
Years ago, a man who raised corn came home from tending his crop and sadly told his wife that it looked like the corn was going to be a complete loss this year because it was full of aphids. This was devastating news because the family depended on the harvest each year. Together they worried and then prayed that somehow the corn would be saved.
Not long ago, a three-year-old girl was watching a movie with her family. With a puzzled look on her face, she pointed at the screen and said, “Mom, that chicken is weird!”
Every person deserves to be remembered, acknowledged, and appreciated. Unfortunately, not every person is. Who among us has not felt forgotten or unnoticed at times? In many ways, modern life seems so impersonal, with more tools for communication but fewer true connections or deep relationships. Too many people feel alone, even when surrounded by a crowd.
As we get older, we tend to look at ourselves, others, and the world around us quite differently than when we were younger. Hopefully, we’ve learned a few things, gained wisdom and friendships along the way, and done our part to contribute to the world. Sometimes we become more interested in things that before didn’t capture our attention.
Many of us are searching for ways to feel a little better—physically and emotionally. When aches and pains escalate, we feel thankful for modern medicines that can help restore our health. But there is another kind of treatment that some people are calling free medicine, or “a prescription you can’t fill in a pharmacy”: time spent in nature.
When the 2018 Nobel Prizes were awarded, an international trio of laser scientists shared the award in physics. Among them was 96-year-old Dr. Arthur Ashkin, believed to be the oldest person to ever receive a Nobel Prize. One might think that at his age, this achievement would be the ideal conclusion to a long career, a final exclamation point on a life of hard work. Dr. Ashkin doesn’t seem to think so. He “told Nobel officials that he might not be available for interviews about the award because he is very busy working on his next scientific paper.” 1
Each season of the year brings new weather, different challenges, and fresh opportunities for those who open their eyes and heart.
At the state funeral for former United States President George H. W. Bush in December 2018, former Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney ended the eulogy of his dear friend with these words: “There are wooden ships, there are sailing ships, there are ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are friendships, and may they always be.”1
We’ve all experienced it: a family member, a coworker, or a perfect stranger says or does something to us that is downright rude. Maybe it was an impolite comment, an offensive joke, or some other sign of disrespect. Yes, we’ve all been on the receiving end of such incivility, and perhaps, from time to time, we’ve even been on the giving end.
According to popular legend, an officer in the Revolutionary War once directed his men to fell some trees and construct a much-needed bridge. As the soldiers struggled mightily with the task, an imposing-looking man rode up and, observing their work, said to the officer, “You don’t have enough men for the job, do you?”