Gospel Story Finder

Two relevant memories for young fathers. When I was such, I had just received a phone call telling me of a friend’s death in an accident. I was sitting in the living room with tears streaking down my cheeks. Our young son, Cory, saw the tears as he passed in the hallway. I learned that he had anxiously assumed the tears were because he had disappointed me in some way. He didn’t know about the phone call. Brethren, we underestimate how genuinely and frequently our children want to please us.

“I’m sorry to be leaving our home, too, but there is something even more precious that we are leaving behind.” Her mother led Elizabeth to the window and pointed outside.
Elizabeth saw the roses and petunias first. Though she knew it hurt Mama to leave the flowers she had so painstakingly nurtured, she also knew that Mama was pointing higher, at the Nauvoo Temple.
Elizabeth remembered how Mama had sold her piano and given the money to help raise the walls of the temple that now gleamed softly in the late afternoon sunlight. When Elizabeth had asked Mama how she could sacrifice her beautiful piano, Mama smiled. “It’s no sacrifice, Elizabeth, to give up something precious for something even more precious.”
“What could be more precious than your piano?” Elizabeth had asked. “You loved that piano, Mama.”
“The temple,” Mama had said simply. “I loved that piano especially because my mother gave it to me. But I love the Lord’s house much, much more.”

When I went outside that Saturday morning, I didn’t say to myself, “I hope a bug flies into my mouth today.” But as I was jogging, it happened. A bug flew right into my mouth! It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I didn’t even see it coming.
What do you think I did when that insect zipped between my teeth? Well, I didn’t swish it around and savor it. I didn’t leave it there just to see what would happen. I didn’t swallow it. I didn’t even take time to think about it. I just spit it out and kept running, sputtering along the way.
Have you ever had a “bug” fly into your mouth? Have you ever innocently come across an inappropriate picture or song or word or idea? You probably have. Evil influences are all around us, and while we can do much to avoid them, we will probably be exposed to them through no fault of our own. These spiritual bugs are deadly—much more harmful to our spirits than that little insect was to my body.
What should you do if a spiritual bug flies into your mouth? You should give it the same treatment I gave the bug that flew into mine: Spit it out! Don’t hesitate. Walk away. Run away if you have to. Turn off the TV. Turn off the radio. Turn off the computer. Throw that book or magazine in the garbage can where it belongs.
Exercise what President Brigham Young (1801–77) called “the mental force of faith.” He said: “By and by the world will be overturned according to the words of the prophet, and we will see the reign of righteousness enter in, and sin and iniquity will have to walk off. But the power and principles of evil, if they can be called principles, will never yield one particle to the righteous march of the Savior, [unless] they are beaten back inch by inch, and we have got to take the ground by force. Yes, by the mental force of faith, and by good works, the march forth of the Gospel will increase, spread, grow and prosper.”
President Young was speaking about our efforts to fill the world with the gospel, but his words also apply to our efforts to fill our lives with goodness. Force that evil thought or image out of your mind by singing a hymn, reciting a scripture, saying a prayer. “Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21).
Remember what President Gordon B. Hinckley has taught us over and over again about pornography:
“Of course you are tempted. It seems as if the whole world has become obsessed with sex. In a very beguiling and alluring way, it is thrown at you constantly. You are exposed to it on television, in magazines and books, in videos, even in music. Turn your back on it. Shun it. I know that is easy to say, and difficult to do. But each time that you do so, it will be so much the easier the next time. What a wonderful thing it will be if someday you can stand before the Lord and say, ‘I am clean.’
“The Lord has given a commandment in our time that applies to each of us. He has said, ‘Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly.’ And with this He has given a promise, ‘Then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God’ (D&C 121:45). I believe He is saying that if we are clean in mind and body, the time will come when we can stand confidently before the Lord. … There will be a feeling of confidence and there will also be smiles of approval.”
Remember: if a bug flies into your mouth, spit it out!

Amid the bustle of the Christmas Eve excitement, my father was preoccupied. His thoughts kept returning to the used bicycle hidden carefully in the garage rafters. Next to it lay the boxes holding two brand-new shining black, matching three-speed bikes which he had purchased for my two older sisters. The budget strains of Christmas had prevented Dad from buying a third black three-speed for Leanne, my third sister.
Instead, he set about restoring the old single-speed, fat-tired bike the older two no longer rode. Scouring pads and elbow grease made the rusty spokes shine. The inner tubes were patched, and a new coat of paint erased the battle scars of collisions and neglect. A replacement set of handgrips made the handlebars look almost new.
This Christmas Eve, when he finished the bicycle assembly projects and rolled out and placed the rejuvenated old bike next to the new ones, the stark contrast of the old half-sized, blue, thick-tubed bike against the sleek, black beauties made the revamped two-wheeler suddenly look small and old-fashioned. Had he made a mistake in trying to redo the old bike for Leanne? Would she feel slighted?
Early Christmas morning, we were poised in our annual positions in the hall—all in a row, youngest to the oldest. Dad was in the living room making the movie camera and the lights ready to record our grand entrance. My older sisters spotted their black beauties, gave them the once over with due praise and admiration, and moved on. Amid the chaos and clutter, Leanne stood firmly next to the old blue bike. She was touching every part and talking aloud, “Look, it has new grips and new paint! Just look at those pedals, and it’s my very own, my very own bike!”
She stayed near the bike and repeated the same speech several times, though no one was listening, no one, that is, except my father. He stood silently, the movie camera held low on his side, listening to Leanne. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he witnessed this perfect acceptance of his imperfect gift.
(December 1984, p. 29.)

I remember the occasion of more than 50 years ago when, as a missionary, I was speaking in an open-air meeting in Hyde Park, London. As I was presenting my message, a heckler interrupted to say, “Why don’t you stay with the doctrine of the Bible which says in John [4:24], ‘God is a Spirit’?”
I opened my Bible to the verse he had quoted and read to him the entire verse: “God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.”
I said, “Of course God is a spirit, and so are you, in the combination of spirit and body that makes of you a living being, and so am I.”
Each of us is a dual being of spiritual entity and physical entity. All know of the reality of death when the body dies, and each of us also knows that the spirit lives on as an individual entity and that at some time, under the divine plan made possible by the sacrifice of the Son of God, there will be a reunion of spirit and body. Jesus’ declaration that God is a spirit no more denies that he has a body than does the statement that I am a spirit while also having a body.

Years ago, when I was a young father, I went downstairs one day to our oldest son’s bedroom. He was very upset and had been crying. I was there to try to comfort him and find out what was wrong. As he and I talked, he confessed that he had told a fib to his mother. He said, “Dad, it’s so hard to be righteous.” This caused me to turn my head and smile, because he was young, but then he continued to say, “Dad, life is like climbing over a wall, isn’t it?” For a moment I was completely stunned. How could he have such insight?
We continued to talk, but the rest of the conversation is a blur. I hope my part of that conversation included teaching him how the Savior made it possible for him to repent of the fib he had told his mother and any other mistakes he had made. I also hope I taught him how very important it is to listen to and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost each day of his life.

"Some years ago Father, then over eighty years of age, was expecting a visit from a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles on a snowy winter day. Father, an artist, had painted a picture of the home of the Apostle. Rather than have the painting delivered to him, this sweet Apostle wanted to go personally to pick the painting up and thank my father for it.
"Knowing that Father would be concerned that everything was in readiness for the forthcoming visit, I dropped by his home. Because of the depth of the snow, snowplows had caused a snow bank in front of the walkway to the front door. Father had shoveled the walks and then labored to remove the snow bank. He returned to the house exhausted and in pain. When I arrived, he was experiencing heart pain from overexertion and stressful anxiety. My first concern was to warn him of his unwise physical efforts. Didn't he know what the result of his labor would be?
"'Robert,' he said through interrupted short breaths, 'do you realize an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ is coming to my home? The walks must be clean. He should not have to come through a snowdrift.' He raised his hand, saying, 'Oh, Robert, don't ever forget or take for granted the privilege it is to know and to serve with Apostles of the Lord.'"

A year after I was baptized, I received my mission call and entered the Missionary Training Center in Manila, Philippines. It was there that I made some treasured friends. The first was my companion, Sister Loh, a convert from Singapore. Since I couldn’t speak her language and she didn’t know any Filipino dialects, our only option was to communicate in English.
The 16 days I spent in the MTC were the most spiritual of my life. Although we were far from our families, we still felt loved thanks to a special person—Sister Luda Lee Cottrell, the wife of the MTC president. She was always smiling and happy. She gave us comfort and love and taught me about charity in words and in deed.
On our last night in the MTC, Sister Loh and I wanted to give something to Sister Cottrell as a remembrance and to thank her for all the love she gave us. We didn’t have anything nice to give, so my companion suggested that we sing a song for Sister Cottrell. I immediately agreed. Because we were new in the Church, neither of us was familiar with most of the hymns. We chose to sing “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301).
We found Sister Cottrell in her office. We told her of our simple present, and she gladly and patiently listened to us. While Sister Loh and I were singing, a memorable spiritual experience happened. I realized that we were three people of three different races, cultures, and languages. My companion and I were singing in English so that our beloved Sister Cottrell could understand what we were singing.
At that moment I forgot all our differences. The Spirit was telling me that what we are here doesn’t really matter, because the three of us are literally daughters of Heavenly Father. The Spirit taught me why and what brought the three of us there. It is the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is the gospel that brought Sister Loh and me to the MTC. It is the gospel that made Sister Cottrell such a wonderful, loving person. It is the gospel that gave the three of us the knowledge that we are all children of God.

In the early Church, Parley P. Pratt felt disgruntled with the Prophet Joseph Smith and chose to criticize him and the Church. When John Taylor, whom Parley taught the gospel, came to town, Parley took him aside and warned him not to follow Joseph. John Taylor said to Parley:
“Before you left Canada, you bore a strong testimony to Joseph Smith being a prophet of God, … and you said you knew these things by revelation and the gift of the Holy Ghost.
“… I now have the same testimony that you then rejoiced in. If the work was true six months ago, it is true today. If Joseph Smith was then a prophet, he is now a prophet.”

After his wife suffered a heartbreaking miscarriage during their first pregnancy, Solofo Ravelojaona felt that their prayers were answered a year later with their second pregnancy. He and his wife, Hary Martine, consider the birth of their daughter to be one of their greatest blessings. Solofo explains, “Because we asked God and He gave her to us, we gave her a name that, in Malagasy, means ‘God’s answer.’”
Solofo, a young adult from Madagascar, holds to the knowledge that God answers prayers and in time blesses the faithful. “Life is hard,” says Solofo, “and when people don’t get what they want, some start asking, ‘Why did this happen to me?’ They might leave the Church or question their belief in God. But when we live the gospel and read the scriptures, it’s easier. When you really live the gospel, you can really see the blessings.”
Living in a country with serious challenges, such as extreme poverty, instability within the government, a weak infrastructure, and natural disasters, it’s clear why Solofo says life is hard. But for him, the blessings that living the gospel brings outweigh any hardships. “I cannot even count the blessings I receive, as long as I live the gospel,” he says.
Because the Church is relatively new in Madagascar (the first branch was organized in 1990), Solofo says the hardest part about being a member is the rumors and misconceptions about the Church. Solofo comments that, just as in Lehi’s vision of the tree of life, “people may not fully embrace the gospel because they feel ashamed in front of their friends and scared that they’ll be rejected by their family.” What makes Solofo different, he suggests, is that, “I have never been ashamed. I live the gospel, and I always want to share it with my colleagues, even though some of them aren’t really interested.” He often shares his simple testimony, so much so that his co-workers nicknamed him “pastor.”
In the midst of economic and political turmoil, Solofo and Hary Martine rely on the blessings of their temple covenants (they were married in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple one year after their missions—his in Uganda, hers in Madagascar), as well as their trust in the Lord. “I have the gospel, and I just put my life in God’s hands,” Solofo explains. He can rely on his solid testimony because he already has faith in “God’s answers.”

When I was six, our family went hiking in the mountains. On the way back, my older brother, Barrie, and I ran ahead. We were excited!
We loved seeing the rocks, flowers, birds, and small creatures. But soon we realized we were alone, and the trail was gone.
We didn’t know how to get back. Trees were all around us. I imagined lions hiding behind each one! Barrie said we should shout for help. We shouted for a long time, but no one heard us.
Finally, Barrie turned to me and said, “I think we should pray.”
I thought that was a great idea. As he prayed, I kept one eye open to watch out for lions. After we prayed, we felt calm.
Just then, we heard rustling in the trees. I was sure it was a lion! But before I got too scared, I saw who it was. It was Dad! We were grateful our prayer had been answered.
As we walked back to the trail, we told Dad about our prayer. He stopped and said, “We need to pray again to thank Heavenly Father for His help.”
With happy hearts, we bowed our heads, and I thanked Him for answering our prayer. This time, I made sure both eyes were closed!
Illustration by Kelly Kennedy

This is a story of a young girl, living in New York, who before age three lost her father when his boat sank on a large lake. She, her mother, older brother, and younger sister moved to a new city in another state to live with her aunt and uncle. Sometime after the family arrived, missionaries and members of a newly organized religion came to their town with the glorious news of the Restoration of the gospel. They told a remarkable story of an angel delivering an ancient record to a young man named Joseph Smith, a record he had translated by the power of God. Two of the visitors, Oliver Cowdery and John Whitmer, had actually seen the engraved metal pages of the ancient record with their own eyes, and Whitmer witnessed he had held the golden plates in his own hands. This record had been recently published, and Brother Whitmer brought the book with him. The name of the book, of course, was the Book of Mormon.
When 12-year-old Mary heard the missionaries speak about the book, she had a special feeling in her heart. Even though the Book of Mormon was thick with many pages, Mary yearned to read it. When Brother Whitmer departed, he gave one precious copy of the book to Brother Isaac Morley, who was a friend of Mary’s uncle and a local leader in the new church.
Mary later recorded: “I went to [Brother Morley’s] house … and asked to see the Book; [he] put it in my hand, [and] as I looked at it, I felt such a desire to read it, that I could not refrain from asking him to let me take it home and read it. … He said … he had hardly had time to read a chapter in it himself, and but few of the brethren had even seen it, but I plead so earnestly for it, he finally said, ‘child, if you will bring this book home before breakfast tomorrow morning, you may take it.’”
Mary ran home and was so captured by the book that she stayed up nearly all night reading it. The next morning, when she returned the book, Brother Morley said, “I guess you did not read much in it” and “I don’t believe you can tell me one word of it.” Mary stood up straight and repeated from memory the first verse of the Book of Mormon. She then told him the story of the prophet Nephi. Mary later wrote, “He gazed at me in surprise, and said, ‘child, take this book home and finish it, I can wait.’”
A short time later, Mary finished reading the book and was the first person in her town to read the entire book. She knew it was true and that it came from Heavenly Father. As she looked to the book, she looked to the Lord.
One month later a special visitor came to her house. Here is what Mary wrote about her memorable encounter that day: “When [Joseph Smith] saw me he looked at me so earnestly. … After a moment or two he … gave me a great blessing … and made me a present of the book, and said he would give Brother Morley another [copy]. … We all felt that he was a man of God, for he spoke with power, and as one having authority.”
This young girl, Mary Elizabeth Rollins, saw many other miracles in her life and always kept her testimony of the Book of Mormon.1 This story has special meaning to me because she is my fourth-great-aunt. Through Mary’s example, along with other experiences in my life, I have learned that one is never too young to seek and receive a personal testimony of the Book of Mormon.

Mark combed his hair carefully. His baseball heroes seemed to look on with approval from the posters covering his bedroom walls.
“Everyone into the van,” Mom called from downstairs. “We don’t want to be late for church.”
Mark put down his comb and turned to leave. He stopped short. Staring him straight in the eye from the picture on his bedroom door was another of his heroes—Captain Moroni. I almost forgot! he said to himself. He went back and grabbed his scriptures from under a stack of baseball cards.
Brother Barton, Mark’s Primary teacher, was really cool. He’d returned from his mission a year ago and often told them, “Brethren (he always called them brethren), before you know it, you’ll be on your missions. Studying the scriptures is a great way to prepare.” Brother Barton made scripture study fun, and Mark especially loved reading the Book of Mormon.
A brisk hot breeze ruffled his hair as he climbed into the van. As it slowly went down the gravel driveway, Mom observed, “Everything’s so dry.” Through the open window, Mark could hear the tall, straw-like grass rattle nervously in the wind. Even the manzanita bushes and oak trees looked thirsty. In the summer, wildfires were a way of life in their rural area, but this year, after several dry winters, the fire danger was extremely high.
“It looks like there’s a fire over in Acorn Valley,” Dad said. Mark turned and spotted the thin, black feather of smoke.
“The firefighters are well trained,” Mom said confidently. “They’ll have it out before long.”
But by the time they got to the meetinghouse, the smoke plume had grown much wider. Mark became more and more alarmed as he heard bits and pieces of anxious conversations in the foyer:
“This wind is spreading the fire …”
“… having trouble controlling …”
“… alerting crews from all over …”
As Mark stepped into the classroom, Brother Barton smiled at him, and Mark relaxed a little.
After the opening prayer, Brother Barton said, “Let’s turn to 3 Nephi 13:21.” [3 Ne. 13:21] He waited until everyone had found the right place, then read, “‘For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”
He closed his scriptures. “After Lehi and his family left their home in Jerusalem, the Lord told Lehi to have his sons return. Why?”
“To get the brass plates,” one of the boys answered.
“Right. The brass plates contained scriptures and their genealogy,” Brother Barton explained. “The plates were a precious treasure to Lehi’s family. They gave up their gold and silver and even risked their lives to get them.” He looked right at Mark as he asked, “Brethren, how about you? What’s important to you?”
As Mark thought of his baseball cards and his mitt, Brother Barton continued, “Are the things of the world more important to you than the things of the spirit? Brethren, where is your heart? What is your treasure?”
On the way to sacrament meeting, Mark was still thinking about what his teacher had said. What is my treasure? Then he noticed the concerned faces of the people in the half-full chapel. Tensing up, he remembered the fire and found it very hard to concentrate.
After the sacrament, the bishop was handed a note. “The wind has shifted,” he somberly announced, “and the fire is now threatening Wildwood Acres.” There were a few gasps. Mark knew many of the ward members lived in that community. And it wasn’t far from his own home!
“We’ll dismiss early today, brothers and sisters. For those who need it, an evacuation center will be set up here at the church.”
Evacuate! A couple of weeks ago, Mom had given a family home evening lesson on being prepared for emergencies. Mark thought of the hours he, his dad, and his brothers had spent clearing a thirty-foot strip of weeds from around their house. Would it be enough to save their home if the fire kept spreading?
Mark’s family hurried out to the van. The smoke now billowed like a black thundercloud in the distance. Airplanes heavy with fire retardant roared overhead. Fire engines screamed past them.
On the radio came the report: “The fire has already burned through hundreds of acres, and several homes have been lost.” No one in the van had much to say.
As they turned onto their street, they were stopped by a roadblock. The highway patrol car’s lights were flashing alarmingly. Walking over to the van, a uniformed officer spoke to dad. “This area’s been evacuated, sir.” Mark’s stomach muscles tightened even more. He could hear the wail of sirens echoing through the valley.
“But we live just three houses down,” Dad told him.
The officer hesitated, looked at his watch, and said, “We can give you twenty minutes to get what you can out of your home, but then you’ll have to leave.”
Dad’s face was grim as he drove past the roadblock. “Do you all remember what you were assigned to save in an emergency?” Everyone nodded. “If there’s still time after we get the essential things out, you can each fill a small box with whatever you want to take.”
The moment the van screeched to a stop, everyone dashed for the front door. The smoke-filled air made breathing unpleasant. Just over the hill, flames like the tongues of a dozen dragons licked the horizon.
Working quickly, the family loaded financial papers, family records, journals, and photo albums into the van. They added their 72-hour emergency kit from the house to the one already in the car, sleeping bags, extra changes of clothes, and additional food. Mark carefully wrapped the old family Bible in a towel and placed it in the van, then he grabbed an empty box and sprinted to his room.
What should he take? The words of the scripture kept repeating in his mind: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” He quickly stuffed his baseball mitt and three of his best baseball card albums into the box.
Then he remembered Brother Barton’s words, “Are the things of the world more important to you than the things of the spirit?” Fragments of the story of Lehi’s family came to mind. They left their home. They went back for the brass plates. The plates were precious treasure.
“We have to leave right now!” Dad shouted.
As Mark hurried down the stairs, his eyes rested on his scriptures, which he’d left on the hallway table. He quickly picked them up and placed them in the box.
The road was crowded with cars and trucks loaded with furniture and belongings. The traffic slowed when it passed the dramatic sight of walls of fire boiling down the hillside.
Mom softly said, “I’m so grateful that our family is together and safe and that we were able to save our most important things.”
A soothing, peaceful feeling filled Mark’s heart. He glanced down at his scriptures. And I got to save my treasure too. He knew that somehow everything would be all right.

When I was a child, as a family we went on vacation to a beach on the coast of my native country, Chile. I was excited to spend some days enjoying the summer with my family. I was also thrilled because I thought I could finally join in and do what my two older brothers usually did for fun on the water.
One day my brothers went to play where the waves were breaking, and I felt big and mature enough to follow them. As I moved toward that area, I realized the waves were larger than they appeared from the shore. Suddenly, a wave rapidly approached me, taking me by surprise. I felt like the power of nature had taken over me, and I was dragged into the depths of the sea. I couldn’t see or feel any reference point as I was tossed around. Just as I thought my adventure on the earth might be coming to an end, I felt a hand pulling me toward the surface. Finally, I could see the sun and catch my breath.
My brother Claudio had seen my attempts to act as a grown-up and had come to my rescue. I was not far from the shore. Even though the water was shallow, I was disoriented and had not realized I could have helped myself. Claudio told me that I needed to be careful and, if I wanted, he could teach me. Despite the gallons of water I had swallowed, my pride and desire to be a big boy were stronger, and I said, “Sure.”
Claudio told me I needed to attack the waves. I told myself I would surely lose that battle against what seemed like a huge wall of water.
As a new big wave approached, Claudio quickly said, “Look at me; this is how you do it.” Claudio ran toward the incoming wave and dove into it before it broke. I was so impressed with his dive that I lost sight of the next incoming wave. So again I was sent to the depths of the sea and tossed by the forces of nature. A few seconds later, a hand grasped mine, and I was again pulled toward the surface and air. The flame of my pride was extinguishing.
This time my brother invited me to dive with him. As per his invitation, I followed him, and we dove together. I felt as if I was conquering the most complicated challenge. Certainly, it was not very easy, but I did it, thanks to the help and example shown by my brother. His hand rescued me twice; his example showed me how to deal with my challenge and be victorious that day.
If we think celestial, we will recognize Jesus Christ as a flawless example of ministry. There is a pattern for us in the scriptures when He or His disciples reach out to someone in need of help, rescue, or a blessing as they reach out with their hands. As in my story, I knew my brother was there, but being there for me was not enough. Claudio knew I was in trouble, and he went to help lift me from the water.
My brother did not give up on me that day but persisted so I could learn how to do it for myself. He persisted, even if that required rescuing me twice. He persisted, even if I could not get it at first. He persisted so I could overcome that challenge and succeed. If we think celestial, we will realize that our Savior will be there as many times as necessary to provide help if we want to learn, change, overcome, cope, or succeed in whatever will bring true and everlasting happiness to our lives.

“I hate freckles!” Tommy exclaimed as he studied his face in the mirror. “Why do I have so many?”
“Well,” Mother said thoughtfully, “I guess you could say that they’re a gift.”
“A gift! Who would give freckles as a gift?”
“Grandma Flamm would.” Mother smiled. “And I’ll bet if you ‘climb’ your family tree, you’ll find even more surprising gifts.”
Tommy thought about the trees in his backyard. There was a big oak tree, an apple tree, and a pine tree, but he couldn’t think of a family tree. “Where is my family tree?” he asked.
“I’ll get it.”
Tommy shook his head, puzzled. Mother sure was saying funny things this morning. He imagined his big old oak tree covered with brightly wrapped packages. How could Mother find something like that?
“Here it is,” Mother called, coming down the stairs. She held up a piece of paper as Tommy eagerly ran toward her.
“Why, it’s nothing but words on some lines,” he said, disappointed. “I thought you said it was a tree.”
“Look at it this way,” Mother said, turning the paper sideways.
Tommy studied it thoughtfully. “Hey, that does look kind of like a tree! But I don’t see any presents.”
“Let me explain,” Mother said. “Every line on this chart has the name of one of your ancestors. And every one of your ancestors has given you a gift. They have given you something that they had, so now you have it, too.”
“Like freckles?”
“Exactly!”
“I think I’d rather have birthday presents,” Tommy said glumly.
Mother laughed. “Grandma thought so, too. In fact, she hated her freckles until she met Grandpa. But he said that he couldn’t forget the girl with the cute freckles, and they got married.”
“Really?” asked Tommy, wide-eyed. Maybe this gift business wasn’t so bad after all. “What other gifts did I get?”
“Well, look at your hair—it’s blond like Grandpa Peck’s. That’s his gift to you.”
“Yeah, and my hair’s curly like yours! Is that your gift?”
“That’s right, Tommy. You’re starting to understand. Let’s see if we can find another gift.”
“Blue eyes! Grandma Peck has blue eyes—just like me!” He studied the chart. There were still two more names there—Dad’s and Grandpa’s. He tried to think of gifts from them. “I guess Dad and Grandpa Flamm didn’t give me a gift,” he decided sadly.
“Sure, they did. Let me give you a hint,” Mother said. “Do you remember the pictures Grandpa painted that are hanging in our living room?”
“Yes,” said Tommy, “but Grandpa didn’t give them to me.”
“No, he didn’t. His gift to you is much better than that. He gave you a love of painting and the talent to paint beautiful pictures.”
Tommy’s eyes began to sparkle. “You mean Grandpa’s gift was that I can paint well?”
“That’s right.”
“And what about Dad?” Tommy asked excitedly. “What did he give me?”
“Dad’s gift is extra special, too. He gave you the gift of kindness. You have a special talent for being kind, just like him.”
“Wow! I never knew I could get so many gifts from a family tree,” said Tommy. A big grin spread across his face, almost connecting his freckles. “You know what, Mom?” he asked happily. “This is even better than birthday presents!”

One day during my school choir practice, I accidentally embarrassed a boy. He sang a note by himself and went out of tune. People started laughing, and I laughed too. Afterward I felt really bad, so I asked my mom for help. She told me I should tell him I was sorry. I handwrote an apology letter and handed it to him during recess. About a day or so later, when I was walking down the hallway with my friends, the boy stuck his head out of his classroom and yelled, “I forgive you!” I’m glad I had the courage to make the right choice.
Courtney L., age 11, Texas, USA

Many years ago I had an experience that greatly influenced my thinking about how to deal with potentially contentious situations. We all face them in our lives. How we choose to respond is within our power.

I had been invited to represent the United States at a conference in Japan that brought together officials and representatives from approximately twenty nations from around the world. Countries in Europe, North America, Asia, and Latin America were represented including the Soviet Union and East Germany. The Japanese, who were hosting the conference, had divided its work into three parts - the search for economic prosperity with an emphasis on trade policy, the search for justice with an emphasis on social policy, and the search for peace with an emphasis on arms control policy.

The format for the conference involved distributing the delegates into three groups with each group considering one of the three topics. The groups would then report their findings to all the delegates on the final day. At the time I was serving in the White House advising the President on economic policy issues and was pleased with the format and topics given my interest and expertise in trade policy.

The Japanese, in their deferential way, wanted the delegates to feel like they were not being asked to produce some preordained outcome and determined to have one of the delegates, a British Member of Parliament, Colin Moynihan, chair the proceedings. I was delighted. When we met that first evening, Colin Moynihan and I found that we had much in common. I had served a mission in Great Britain and later attended graduate school and taught in England for three years. I loved England and its people and we discovered that we had many common acquaintances. We both enjoyed sport. He had coxed the British heavyweight crew to a silver medal in the 1980 Moscow Summer Olympic Games. We quickly gravitated to one another and I felt confident that I had an ally.

When the design of the conference was outlined the delegates were asked to indicate which of the three subject areas appealed most to them. I naturally selected the area dealing with economic prosperity.

You can imagine my distress when my new friend informed me that I had been assigned to the group dealing with arms control policy. I protested that I knew little about the subject and could make a much better contribution on the economic policy panel. He responded that the Soviet and East German delegates were determined to serve on the arms control group and that it was imperative that the United States be represented on that panel. I could not dispute his logic. I saw the need and reluctantly agreed, but my enthusiasm for the task was distinctly limited.

In preparing for this assignment, I was eager not to misrepresent U.S. policy and so I quickly contacted our embassy and was provided with a stack of speeches, position papers, and other documents on the subject.

That evening I poured over the documents the embassy had sent, learning a great deal about the U.S. and Soviet positions on arms control. I approached the task as if I were going into a debate the following day. I outlined the central elements of U.S. policy and the evidence I would use to defend and advance it successfully. My experience as a debater propelled me down a path where I was fashioning a powerful case for the U.S. position.

At the beginning of the evening I was concerned about my lack of familiarity with the subject matter. As I warmed to the issues and learned many technical terms, I was pleased with the result of my efforts. I felt less anxious and more confident. It was now nearly 4:00 am and I determined that I needed to get some sleep, even if only for a few hours. As I concluded my prayers before retiring, an uncomfortable feeling settled over me. As I lay reflecting on it, sleep did not come. It became increasingly clear to me what would happen the next morning. We would meet and contend with one another. I would remain convinced that I was right and that the Soviet and East German representatives were wrong. I had what I thought were powerful, even sophisticated arguments. The Soviet and East German representatives would similarly remain persuaded that they were right and that I was wrong. Neither of us would successfully convince the other. At best, we would amicably disagree. There was also a strong possibility that we would engage in a polite but acrimonious exchange. We would both feel justified; nothing would change.

I then asked myself how the Savior would approach the situation. From his perspective, I saw the coming day in a whole new light. I recalled his words to the Nephites:

"For verily, verily I say unto you, he that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another" (3 Nephi 11:29).

Soon, I had a very different vision for the approach I should take. My task was not to attempt to win a debate but to produce agreement, to find common ground, to avoid contention. With this new framework in mind, I returned to my notes and in less than an hour I had detailed a number of areas on which I thought we could reach some agreement as well as a number of areas where we would inevitably differ. I was surprised that the first list was longer than the second.

When we gathered to meet as a group that morning, I offered to serve as the rapporteur responsible for writing the report the group would submit. Happily, the others readily agreed. I suggested each delegate offer some opening observations to get us started. We went around the room. I was the last to speak.

I noted that as rapporteur I was in a difficult situation. It would be easy for some to expect that I would bias my report to align with my views. That would not serve our group or me well. Accordingly, I made two proposals. First, I said that after preparing my report at the end of the day I would visit each delegation, show it to them, and get their concurrence. If there was anything in the report with which a delegate disagreed, I would take it out, no questions asked. The Soviet and East German representatives looked surprised and relieved. Second, I said that I didn't think our report would prove very useful if it simply rehearsed our differences. Accordingly, I suggested that we try to produce a list of things on which we could all agree. Having made careful notes while others spoke, I read a list of statements, based on what others had said, which I thought might serve as the beginning of that list.

We worked on the list most of the morning. Later we turned to the task of defining our differences. Not surprisingly, we did not agree on everything. But, by focusing first on an effort to find common ground our discussions avoided acrimonious contention and produced much agreement. We were not paralyzed by those things that divided us. In the process, we gained added respect for one another. There was no spirit of contention. An assignment I had dreaded turned out to teach me a valuable lesson.

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town in British Columbia, Canada, where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending time with my Latter-day Saint friends. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church.
As was our habit, a group of us gathered in the foyer of our meetinghouse and began chatting. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with this boy and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded halfheartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He looked awkward and uncomfortable and mostly stared at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We talked for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too intrusive. Then we slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is—except the new boy. We were so caught up in our discussion we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the rest room, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, joined her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a five-kilometer walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to Laurence, my older brother, about it. He had returned from college and would soon go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” he asked me after I had blurted out the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we walked into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a streetlight and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a woman I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight, and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I want to apologize and invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes a look of disgust at the way we had treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong, and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I had even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted my burden of guilt. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart: I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

I mention one more example of the incorrect way to accomplish home teaching. President Marion G. Romney, who was a counselor in the First Presidency some years ago, used to tell about his home teacher who once went to the Romney home on a cold winter night. He kept his hat in his hand and shifted nervously when invited to sit down and give his message. As he remained standing, he said, “Well, I’ll tell you, Brother Romney, it’s cold outside, and I left my car engine running so it wouldn’t stop. I just came by so I could tell the bishop I had made my visits.”

President Ezra Taft Benson, after relating President Romney’s experience in a meeting of priesthood holders, then said, “We can do better than that, brethren—much better!” I agree.

Well, I have 101 things I could say and should say about families. I read something once about what Abraham Lincoln’s step-mother did for him. She felt she “must not wait.”

She was sometimes called Sally, a widow with three children. Perhaps life had been a little harsh and she would have welcomed a change for the better, the easier, if it came. She thought she saw it come when a man, a widower from her past, returned with a proposal of marriage in his nice suit of clothes and talk of a prosperous farm. The prospects of a better life grew, and she understood him to mention servants and to be a man of substance. She accepted and crossed the river with him to view her new possessions: A farm grown up to wild blackberry vines and sumac, a floorless, windowless hut, the only servants were two thinly clad barefoot children, the father of whom had borrowed the suit and the boots that he had gone a-courting in. Her first thought was the obvious one: go back home. But she looked at the children, especially the younger, a boy whose melancholy gaze met hers. For a moment she looked while a great spirit subdued the passions of the flesh and then, rolling up her sleeves, she quietly spoke immortal words which ought to be engraven on every parent or teacher’s heart: “I’ll stay for the sake of this boy.”

“Oh, Sally Bush, what a treasure trembled in the balance that day,” wrote one whose mother was a neighbor of the boy. And Sally Bush didn’t know, when she looked at that melancholy face of ten years, that her stepson would someday save this nation, heal a generational breech, and become the immortal Abraham Lincoln. She uttered what should be engraven on every parent or teacher’s heart, “I’ll stay for the sake of this boy.”