Gospel Story Finder

In the spring of 1975 my family and I were living among beautiful green farmland in the Rheinland-Pfalz area of West Germany. Driving home from church one rainy Sunday, we stopped to have a look at an automobile that had rolled onto its side in the wet roadbed at the edge of a forest. Inside the forest it was already dark because of the thick canopy created by the trees and the oncoming night.
After looking at the wrecked vehicle, we returned to our car and discovered it was stuck in the mud. I couldn’t back up, but I could drive forward—into the forest. We had previously driven through the forest and found that many forest roads were interconnected and would eventually lead back out, so I decided to move forward into the blackness.
I quickly realized that I had made the wrong decision. The narrow, wet road was filled with deep ruts of mud and kept leading farther and farther into the dark forest. I tried to keep up speed, fearing that if we stopped, we would become mired. I saw a high spot just ahead that looked firm enough to sustain the weight of the car. My plan was to get the car out of the mud to give myself time to think. The car lunged up and out of the mud.
I turned off the car and climbed out. With the headlights off, I couldn’t see a thing. I turned the headlights back on, grabbed our flashlight, and after looking the car over, decided that my best bet was to back into the forest and then make a mad dash out the way we came.
I backed as far into the forest as possible, revved the engine a little, lunged back onto the road, and sank deep into the mud. Now we were really in trouble. Outside the car it was total darkness and silence. Inside the car my wife and I sat with three terrified children.
I asked my wife for any ideas. After a moment she said, “Maybe we should pray.” The children calmed down almost immediately. I offered a humble but desperate prayer for help. As I prayed, a thought came clearly into my mind: “Put on the tire chains.”
Standing in 10 inches (25 cm) of mud in her Sunday dress, my sweet wife held the flashlight while I cleaned the rear tires with my bare hands and put the chains on. With faith and confidence, we prayed again and started the engine. Slowly we drove through the mud and eventually back onto the pavement.
In the excitement of being freed from the mud and the darkness, I almost forgot who had helped us out of the forest. Our five-year-old daughter reminded me when she said, “Daddy, Heavenly Father really does answer prayers, doesn’t He?”

Two years later, at 16, Jim joined my seminary class. He soon started dropping by my home after school, along with several other of my students. They would come for a swim, a haircut, advice, conversation, and, of course, food. I tried to serve up what each of them needed. In group dynamics, Jim was still the quiet one. He had graduated to making short statements, but they were usually succinct one-liners. He wasted no words. He was, however, a comfortable, undemanding kid to have around; and he was well liked by everyone. I came to know him better by observation than by communication.
San Diego is a Navy city, and many of the families in our ward were in the Navy. Jim’s dad was transferred to Okinawa later that year. Jim struggled with the idea of a move so far away but decided to move overseas with his family.
Jim didn’t write very much, though I wrote to him. One day, however, the mail brought a beautiful cloisonne bracelet for me. There was no card, just a return address: Jim’s. His parents also wrote to us occasionally, so I knew what Jim was up to. I twice received job recommendation requests, so I knew he was working as a lifeguard at the base pool.
During the next year, I was surprised one day to find Jim standing on my doorstep. He had flown military standby, along with his sister, to visit friends on the mainland. Most of his friends were in school or were working so he spent quite a bit of time at my house—usually by playing quietly with my boys, building Lego structures. He seemed to feel comfortable in my home.
We talked about Okinawa and his experiences there. Again, he would simply answer my questions. I asked of future plans, and he said he wasn’t sure what he was going to do after high school graduation. After a few days, he flew back to Okinawa.
Jim popped up again after he graduated, on his way to Brigham Young University. He showed up a few times more as he traveled from Utah to California, and sometimes to the Far East. I came to expect his unannounced visits. However, I was surprised by the physical changes as he grew and matured into a handsome young man.
He grew up, coming and going through my door. After Jim’s 19th birthday and a year in Provo, he announced his intention to serve a mission. I was thrilled but a little surprised. He had never spoken of a testimony. His group of friends were split—some were going in the military, a few were planning on missions, and a few others struggled with worthiness problems.
Jim went back to Okinawa again, this time to receive a mission call. In a few month’s time he was on my doorstep again, on his way to the Missionary Training Center. We acknowledged how ironic it was for him to leave the Far East to come to the United States for a mission. During this visit, Jim began to talk. We talked about Japan, about his two dates, about his friends and their plans, and we discussed his recent trip to the Tokyo Temple to be endowed. We laughed, reminisced, and speculated about our future lives when he returned as an “R.M.”
Secretly, I worried about him. How was this quiet, private young man, who was just now conversing openly with me after a five-year friendship, going to survive on a mission? I couldn’t imagine him tracting, speaking in church, or teaching a discussion. Would he be an ever-silent companion? I hoped for understanding, sensitive, and gregarious companions for him. When the departure day arrived, I hugged and waved him off to the MTC with a prayer in my heart—for his growth and for his survival.
Jim’s letters were few and far between, but they were treasures. I finally got to know some of his thoughts. He began to share some of his feelings and his testimony with me. Missionary work was hard. He hoped he could “do the job.” He liked some companions and struggled with others. He was always full of faith. His letters proved the adage, “Still waters run deep.”
Fate and time brought a move for us and a relocation for Jim’s parents. We both moved to the state of Washington. His mother, when we communicated, helped fill in the gaps between Jim’s infrequent letters. She gave me news of transfers, of companions, of a new assignment: zone leader. I tried not to be surprised. I matched the depth of the well-written letters with the emergence of this “new” personality who trained elders and taught successful discussions.
When Jim returned from his mission, I was privileged to join his family at the airport to welcome him. As I drove to the airport, I reviewed our friendship and Jim’s growth and maturation. I speculated about his appearance and his demeanor.
He was the last person to emerge from the jetway, which caused extra anxiety for his waiting family. Finally, he appeared—taller than I remembered, and thinner. His naturally curly hair was darker and was cut so short that there was no curl. He wore the missionary uniform: dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, black “mailman” shoes. The suit was very worn and looked like it could stand on its own and still hold the shape of Jim’s body. He was bent a little from the weight of his carry-on luggage.
When he saw us, he smiled a little, then dropped his head as he walked the last few feet of the walkway. When he raised his head again, his eyes were red and he was weeping. He dropped his bags and embraced his mother in a tight hug and cried openly as he kissed her, then held her in his arms for a full minute more. He released her to repeat this exchange with his brother, sister, and his father.
It is a rare privilege to observe such an exchange of pure love among people. I thought, this is how it must be to return to our heavenly parents after completing our earthly missions. What a sweet experience to return, knowing you’ve served faithfully.
Jim then turned to me, and without hesitation, embraced me in a bear hug. As we parted, we both wiped tears from our eyes. And he said, “Thanks for being here.”
I spent another two hours with Jim that morning before we had to head in different directions. During that time, I watched him start a conversation with the man next to him while waiting for his luggage. Within 15 minutes, he had given the man a Book of Mormon and a pamphlet and had parted as a friend. I saw him spend a few private tender moments with his younger brother and sister as he sensed their need and focused on them individually. He gave half of his lunch to his little brother, when the ten-year-old complained of being hungry still.
Jim related a few mission experiences: of singing a duet in church with his companion, of a Sunday when he had 17 investigators at church on the same day, and of the mission farewell the night before. He had been amazed that so many of the missionaries had wanted to gather to say good-bye to him. Jim wept again as he expressed his concern for a companion who had recently lost his dad to a sudden, unexpected death. Here was compassion, love, humility, confidence, and power. Sitting before me, in his grayed shirt, wrinkled tie, and well-worn coat, was someone who had been seemingly magically transformed. His smile was the only trace of the shy, quiet boy who hesitated to pray in front of someone.
We send our young men and women out to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. We ask them to study, to work hard, to endure, and to serve. And in the end, these children return to us whole, ready to teach and inspire by their loving and humble example. And, having been touched by divine light, we are, none of us, the same again.

I had never understood this scripture. Jesus had healed the blind man so that the works of God could be manifest. But what about all those who are not healed? What about my sister with disabilities, who had died when I was a child? What about Cameron, our home teacher’s son who had cerebral palsy and was in a wheelchair?
As I thought of Cameron, scenes flooded my mind.
We are sitting on our back porch with our home teachers. Cameron is in his wheelchair. He is bearing his testimony, slowly, painstakingly—fighting the obstinate, uncooperative muscles in his face.
“I know God loves me,” he says. “I love God.” It takes much effort, much time before he is finished. My husband, Van, leans forward.
“Cameron,” he says earnestly, “you are improving so much on your speaking. I can understand every word!”
Cameron beams with pride. I see my husband’s tender, compassionate face, and I wonder: Are not the works of God made manifest?
At twelve, Cameron is old enough to pass the sacrament. One of the brethren in our ward has designed and fitted his wheelchair with a special tray. The bread and water are placed on his tray by members of his Aaronic Priesthood quorum.
He wheels to the end of the pew, where a member lifts the tray to partake of the sacrament. Are not the works of God made manifest in that sacred act?
I see Cameron, my sister, and others I have known who have disabilities in mind or body. Others carry them; others are their arms, their legs, their minds. I see these same individuals with disabilities giving others gifts of love and hope.
I see the works of God made manifest for them and by them.

Today was Lillian’s last day in Primary. Lillian would miss the other Primary kids. There were just three of them—two younger girls and her little brother, Michael.
“How are you feeling about moving up to Young Women?” her Primary teacher asked.
“I can’t wait to go to class with the older girls!” Lillian said.
“I’m glad you’re excited,” her teacher said. “Who else will be in Young Women with you?”
Lillian thought of the older girls in the ward. Summer and Cova had just finished high school. And Melvina’s family had moved away. Wait. That left . . . just Lillian.
What would her Young Women class be like? Just the teachers and her? That sounded awkward—and lonely. Thinking about it made Lillian nervous. She frowned. She didn’t want to be the only one in Young Women.
For the rest of the day, Lillian thought about being the only young woman. At dinner, she moved the food around on her plate without eating it. She mumbled when it was her turn to read at family scripture study.
Mum set her scriptures down. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Lillian sighed. “I’m going to be all alone in Young Women!”
Mum moved to sit by Lillian. She gave her a hug. “That won’t be easy,” she said. “What can we do to help you?”
Lillian thought for a moment. “Maybe we could pray that another girl will move into the ward. And maybe Dad could give me a blessing.”
Dad smiled. “Those are great ideas.”
The family knelt to pray. “Heavenly Father,” Lillian began, “I’m glad I get to move to Young Women. I don’t want to be alone, but if that is Thy will, that’s all right. Please help me know what I can do to feel better. And if You want to inspire a family with a girl my age to move into our ward, that would be great too.”
After the prayer, Dad put his hands on her head. “I bless you to feel peaceful about moving to Young Women,” he said. “Heavenly Father will bless you as you ask for His help.”
Lillian did feel peaceful. She wasn’t sure yet what she could do to make moving to Young Women easier. But she also knew Heavenly Father would help her.
On Sunday, Lillian was still a little nervous. But she remembered the peace she felt after Dad’s blessing. She knew she would be OK.
In sacrament meeting, the bishop announced that Sister Barns would be the new Young Women president. Sister Barns stood up when her name was called. Lillian didn’t really know her, but she looked friendly.
Mum had said that when she was Lillian’s age, her Young Women leader became one of her best friends. Maybe Lillian and Sister Barns could be friends! That was an answer to her prayer.
After sacrament meeting, Lillian went to her new classroom. An older girl was standing in the hall.
“Hi,” Lillian said. “Are you visiting our ward?”
The girl shook her head. “No. Our family just moved here.”
Lillian smiled. “Welcome to our ward. This is my first day in Young Women.” She and the girl sat down in the classroom. “By the way, my name is Lillian.”
“No way!” the new girl said. “My name is Lillian too!”
Lillian laughed. Heavenly Father had answered her prayer again! Maybe being in Young Women wouldn’t be so lonely after all.
This story took place in Australia.
Illustrations by Sue Teodoro

I had a similar experience in Idaho some years later. I was attending a stake conference. After the Sunday morning session one of the bishops brought his aged mother up to see me. I had been referring to the Book of Mormon during my sermon and was still holding it in my hand.
She took the book from me, opened it, read a paragraph at random, and then returned the book. I wondered why. Then she said that at the previous stake conference the visitor had been Elder Thomas E. McKay, one of the Assistants to the Council of the Twelve.
She asked me if I knew Elder McKay and of course, I responded that I did. Then she said, “Will you please tell him that I read a paragraph in your book? When he was here at our last conference, my son brought him to my home and had him administer to me. I was blind. Please tell him that I read from your book.”

History provides us a vivid example of the importance of the Lord’s servants being in tune with the Spirit. The young Prophet Joseph Smith could not translate when he was angry or upset.
David Whitmer recalled: “One morning when he was getting ready to continue the translation, something went wrong about the house and he was put out about it. Something that Emma, his wife, had done. Oliver and I went up stairs, and Joseph came up soon after to continue the translation, but he could not do anything. He could not translate a single syllable. He went down stairs, out into the orchard and made supplication to the Lord; was gone about an hour—came back to the house, asked Emma’s forgiveness and then came up stairs where we were and the translation went on all right. He could do nothing save he was humble and faithful.”1

I want to especially thank this missionary choir. I had an experience I think they may be interested in, and you may find it interesting also. Many years ago I had a desperate call from the head of the missionary training center. He said, “President Monson, I have a missionary who is going home. Nothing can prevent him from quitting.”
I replied, “Well, that’s not singular. It’s happened before. What’s his problem?”
He said, “He’s been called to a Spanish-speaking mission, and he’s absolutely certain he cannot learn Spanish.”
I said, “I have a suggestion for you. Tomorrow morning have him attend a class learning Japanese. And then have him report to you at 12:00 noon.”
The next morning he phoned at 10:00! He said, “The young man is here with me now, and he wants me to know he’s absolutely certain he can learn Spanish.”
When there’s a will, there’s a way.

The Prophet Joseph Smith was a tall, strong man. He grew up on a farm and spent many hours clearing the land and planting crops with his father and brothers.
The Prophet loved spending time with young people. One of his favorite activities was wrestling. In those days, wrestling consisted mostly of trying to throw your opponent off balance.
One day Joseph noticed a crowd of enthusiastic young men and boys. When he got closer, he saw that they were wrestling. He decided to join them.
There was one especially large fellow who seemed to be the champion. He was proud of the fact that no one had thrown him, and he was eager to wrestle the Prophet.
The match had scarcely begun when the champion found himself being carried by his collar and the seat of his pants to a nearby ditch, where Joseph dropped him.
As the crowd yelled and cheered, Joseph helped the young man to his feet, patted him on his back, and said, “You must not mind this. When I am with the boys, I make all the fun I can for them.”
Although he was the first President of the Church and a very busy man, Joseph Smith knew that taking time to be friendly with others was important.

There came a time, early in my mission, when I knew that I had to know whether the Church was true and Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I felt what President Thomas S. Monson expressed so clearly in our last general conference: “If you do not have a firm testimony of these things, do that which is necessary to obtain one. It is essential for you to have your own testimony in these difficult times, for the testimonies of others will carry you only so far.” I knew what was necessary. I needed to read the Book of Mormon with a sincere heart, with real intent, and ask God whether it is true.
Listen to our Heavenly Father’s remarkable promise given through the prophet Moroni: “When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
In order to receive what was in the Book of Mormon, I needed to read it. I started at the beginning of the book and read every day. Some receive a witness very quickly. For others, it will take more time and more prayer and may include reading the book several times. I needed to read the entire book before I received the promised witness. However, God did manifest the truth of it unto me by the power of the Holy Ghost.
In my missionary journal, I described my joy in knowing the truth as well as my personal expression of commitment and real intent to act on the truth I had received. I wrote: “I have pledged with my Father in Heaven and with myself to do my very best, to give it 100 percent for the rest of my life, whatever I am asked, I’ll do, but for now I have the rest of my mission and I am going to make it a great mission, one that I won’t feel bad about, but not for me, for the Lord. I love the Lord, and I love the work, and I just pray that that feeling will never leave me.”

In addition to attending the scheduled church meetings, Sister Eubank and Sister Harkness were able to visit some of the members in their homes. After their 28 virtual home visits, Sister Eubank stated “I have never gone ministering with WhatsApp before, but it gave me the chance to sit in homes where the evening meal was being prepared and children were studying with a lamp and speak heart to heart with a sister about her challenges and joys. I came away so uplifted from meeting these sisters in this intimate way. Many shared deeply personal and spiritual experiences around their conversions to the gospel of Jesus Christ or introduced me to their family with pride.”

Dave, 27, had long dreamed of going into advertising. His father was an excellent graphic designer in Los Angeles. Dave would spend hours talking to his father about the business. He would help with pasteups and layouts. He had a natural eye and quickly developed the skills to be a fine designer. When he went to BYU, he tried to find a company willing to hire him, but he had no luck. So he decided to see if he could create his own job.
He contacted a printing shop and found they occasionally needed design work. He visited companies he thought would benefit by his artistic talents. He found school organizations and clubs willing to pay for a flyer or poster. He also found companies needing an artist for advertisements and other business needs. Soon Dave was very busy, and the work he was doing helped his schoolwork, too.
After graduation, Dave went to work for a major advertising agency.

Cindy looked at the clock above the door of the playground building. The hour had gone so fast she couldn’t believe it was nearly one o’clock.
She lifted her tennis racket and tossed the ball for her last serve. Donna was ready with a fast cross-court return that caught Cindy unprepared.
“I win!” Donna called. “I beat you for once!”
Cindy smiled as she wiped the back of her hand across her damp face. Then she began picking up the tennis balls.
“Let’s have another game,” Donna invited. “That last one was really an accident. You could easily win this time.”
“I can’t,” Cindy replied. “There’s just time for me to run home and shower before I go to the hospital to help Mrs. Holt with the story and craft activities.”
“Oh, nuts!” Donna scoffed, pulling a face. “That’s some way to spend the summer! Two afternoons a week with sick kids.”
“Those children have to spend a long time in the hospital. They do get awfully lonely, and I promised,” Cindy began.
“Well, just this once I’d think you could play another game,” Donna insisted. “It’s not like you were really that important. You said yourself that you don’t do very much.”
Cindy had thought this a number of times. All she ever did was pass out paper and crayons or scissors or whatever supplies were needed. And she also helped the children with their wheelchairs and crutches.
“Maybe I wouldn’t be missed,” she said to herself. “Maybe I’ve been building up the importance of what I’m doing because I want to feel I’m helping someone.”
“Come on, Cindy, and serve,” Donna said impatiently.
Cindy rolled the ball across her racket a few times, but then she shook her head. “Donna, I can’t. I really did promise, and it wouldn’t be fair!”
Cindy knew that Donna thought she was being foolish, but she couldn’t help that—even if Donna found someone else to play with the rest of the summer.
Cindy hurried to shower and get ready to go to the hospital. She was afraid she would be late, so she ran most of the eight blocks from her home to the hospital.
Her legs ached as she hurried up the hospital steps and down the long corridor toward the room where the children were waiting. As she opened the door, Cindy paused a moment to catch her breath.
“Mrs. Holt hasn’t started the stories yet,” she said to herself. “So maybe I’m not as late as it seemed.”
“Cindy’s here!” Dennis called as he caught sight of her. Dennis was in a cast from his hips down, but he wouldn’t think of missing the stories.
The others turned too. “Cindy! Cindy!” they called. It was almost like a chorus.
Mrs. Holt smiled, but Cindy saw that something was wrong with the gray-haired woman who was usually laughing with the children.
“Don’t you feel well?” Cindy asked quietly.
Mrs. Holt shook her head. “I’ve been a bit dizzy all day. I didn’t know if I could wait until you came. But now that you’re here, I know everything will be all right.”
Cindy felt her face grow warm, remembering how tempted she had been when Donna coaxed her to stay and play another game of tennis.
“I don’t like to leave you, Cindy,” Mrs. Holt sighed. “But all the children love you so much that I can go home and not worry. It’s good to know I can depend on you. Since you’ll be alone today, maybe you could read some stories.”
A shiver of doubt ran through Cindy, but she nodded. “I—I’ll do my best.”
Reluctantly Cindy watched Mrs. Holt walk away. At the door the older woman turned back. “I hope I’ll feel better by Friday, but if not I’ll depend on you again.”
Cindy had never read stories to the children before. At first her voice sounded shaky and small to her, but gradually her confidence grew.
“You read good,” Dennis announced. “Good as anybody!”
Cindy laughed and patted the little boy’s arm. “That’s because you’re all my friends.”
The afternoon went quickly—almost too quickly.
“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Dennis asked as Cindy was leaving. “You said we were friends,” he added wistfully.
Cindy went back and gave him a hug. “We are friends. And I’ll come back—I promise.”
As Cindy left the hospital, she knew she would keep her promise—just as often as she was needed.

Imagine waking up to the smell of smoke, the sound of screams and gunshots, the sights of looting and beating. Imagine racially inspired violence so dangerous that schools close and curfews are imposed for days.
This tragic scenario might seem like something you’d see in a movie—the kind your parents and leaders would probably recommend you avoid—but during late April and early May this year LDS youth in the Los Angeles area actually lived it. They saw the rioting. They knew people who looted. They watched familiar buildings burn to the ground.
Yet even while the ashes were still smoldering, the Young Women of the Los Angeles area were busy putting the finishing touches on a long-planned multistake conference that would unite nearly 500 LDS young women of various ethnic backgrounds and affirm that the gospel offers peace to everyone.
The six-hour conference featured an address from Young Women General President Janette Hales. Her message focused on how the fundamentals of personal religious behavior, things like reading the scriptures, praying, and keeping the commandments, can get you through life’s trials and keep you close to Heavenly Father, no matter what is going on in the world around you.
The conference also included 15 workshops covering subjects like dating, preparing for a mission, self-defense, sign language, and baby-sitting. It was just what the doctor ordered for the girls after the tragedy of the weeks before. But the memories for some of the young women were still vivid.
“We went to the store before they burned it to get some food,” said Virginia Smith of the Inglewood Stake. “It was crowded. All of a sudden people were screaming and running to the back. Someone said there were people there with guns. So my mom said to get on the floor, ’cuz if they shoot, they’re not going to shoot down there. Then someone said they went out. The next chance we got, we headed for the door, got in our car, and left.”

Almost 11 years ago when President Spencer W. Kimball, President N. Eldon Tanner, and President Marion G. Romney held different Church positions than they do today, they played an important role in the establishment of the Unified Social Service system. This agency was created to place under one program and leader all of the related social services departments. Included were the Indian student placement program, adoptions, detained youth, prisoners, drug addicts, unwed mothers, and foster-care children, alcoholics, the emotionally distressed, and others. These areas of concern and interest are presently an important part of the Church’s total Welfare Services program.
When I was called at the outset to direct this department, I found it to be most challenging and stimulating. To work full time with those with social and emotional problems was a new era of personal service for me.
Besides his continuing extreme interest in the Indian student placement service, President Kimball, then a member of the Council of the Twelve, continually expressed his concern in our relationships with prisoners. He was anxious for us to do more in assisting them in their rehabilitation processes both while they were still confined in prison and also after their release. It was under his encouragement that the present, very successful family home evening program at the Utah State Prison was started. Regular Sunday worship services and week-time activities of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints continue beneficially in the institution today, thanks to his total endorsement and assistance. Similar programs have been made available to LDS and other inmates in prisons in the United States and in the world. Great amounts of good have been and continue to be accomplished in improved lives and conduct.
It seems to me that during the time I directed the prison program for the Church and later when I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve, which necessitated giving up my direct relationship with the department, President Kimball continually wanted to go to the prison with me to visit. Because some inmates at the prison are unpredictable, I always discouraged President Kimball from going there to visit. I was grateful that he always respected my judgment in regard to his safety and well-being and did not insist he go to the prison over my protest.
Early in March of this year, with the prison’s interdenominational chapel well under construction, the thought came to me that that was the right time to take President Kimball to the prison for his long-awaited visit. He could visit on the outside without undue concern over dangers within the prison walls. I asked him if he would like to go the morning of March 10 to see the new chapel, the wardens, and some inmates. He was delighted with the invitation and cleared his heavy schedule to make the 20-mile trip from the Church Administration Building. As we rode together in the car, President Kimball’s questions about prison facilities, the chapel, the guards, the wardens, and the general atmosphere at the institution were rapid and pointed.
After a short visit with the prison administrators, at President Kimball’s encouragement two prisoners were brought in for interview. They were moved by President Kimball’s warmth and friendliness. “Where is your home?” “What are your special jobs here?” “Are you working on the construction of the new chapel?” These were some of his questions—all of which were free of criticism or embarrassment. He let them and others know immediately he was there because he cares.
With this short visit over, we were to make our way to the chapel. When asked if he wanted to ride or walk the two-block distance, President Kimball responded with “I would like to walk.” With the wardens, the two prisoners, and a few others of us, we walked in the 10:00 A.M., 40-degree temperature into the minimum security facilities where the new chapel was being constructed. For security reasons, only the wardens knew of our visit plans, so when we arrived in the visiting area adjoining the chapel, the presence of President Kimball surprised not only the media, but Utah’s Governor Scott M. Matheson and Salt Lake City Mayor Ted Wilson as well as other committee members who had been invited there for a review of chapel construction progress.
The highlight of the inspection tour came after brief remarks by President Kimball which included, “This facility will help prisoners find their way back.” Two inmates were invited to stand at the side of the prophet for pictures. As he shook their hands warmly and later put his arms around them, he said, “It is an honor for me to have my picture taken with you.” They were obviously touched by the comment. Others of us again saw the greatness and stature of the one we loved so much. Respect and human dignity were witnessed. He is the foe of sin, but the friend of the sinner. The scripture found in Doctrine and Covenants 50:26 came forcefully to my mind: “He that is ordained of God and sent forth, the same is appointed to be the greatest, notwithstanding he is the least and the servant of all.” [D&C 50:26]
Impressive also was President Kimball’s public statement regarding the interdenominational chapel, which included, “The Church is happy to be a participant in any and all community projects that are worthy.”
One inmate rushed up to me as we were leaving and said, “I didn’t get a chance to shake President Kimball’s hand, but would you please tell him we love him?”
As we walked back to the car to return to Salt Lake City, this choice experience with the prophet brought to mind the writing of Parley P. Pratt when he and the Prophet Joseph Smith were in a prison together in Richmond, Missouri. The situation was much different, but the same witness of true dignity and majesty was enjoyed. I, too, saw true majesty when a prison visitor performed and spoke under God’s authority.
During the tour of the new chapel and the walk between the buildings, Warden Morris and Deputy Warden Shulsen were always nearby to assist and respond to President Kimball’s questions. After hearing President Kimball refer to me a number of times as “Marv,” Warden Shulsen was impressed to say, “Isn’t it kind of neat to have President Kimball call you ‘Marv?’” I responded with, “Yes, it is, and it is especially neat to know President Spencer W. Kimball is a prophet of God.” I had again seen him in action.
I am glad the time and conditions were right for President Kimball to visit two of his friends in prison, one a member and one a nonmember. As they stood with him for their picture to be taken, President Kimball had on one side a prisoner serving time for theft and burglary and on the other a man in prison for manslaughter. His greeting during the handshake, “It is an honor for me to have my picture taken with you,” rings in my ears. “I was in prison and ye came unto me.”

How in the world was I going to get out of this? I was 16 years old and had my first job in the food court of a local grocery store. Pretty safe job—or so I thought—until my boss asked me to dress up as a corn dog to promote a sale we were having. A corn dog!
Next thing I knew, I was in a costume walking around the store with a basketful of candy. I couldn’t hold the basket with two hands because the corn dog suit was so huge my arms couldn’t reach around to the front. Not only that, when kids would run up to the giant corn dog to get some candy, I couldn’t look down to see how many pieces of candy they were taking. I think they caught on quickly.
I was under strict orders not to talk while in this horrible costume. So when people asked if I was a banana, I couldn’t say anything to correct them. I came up with a solution. I put a nice big sign on my front stating, “I am a corn dog!” I was already beyond humiliation. At least no one could see my face.
Around the store I walked. I’m sure the kids thought I was pretty strange—a giant, silent, walking corn dog with an empty basket. But hey, I wasn’t a banana, so it could have been worse.
Then came the cruel laughter and the jabbing kicks from behind. I turned around and saw no one.
Kick! I turned around again. No one.
Kick! Kick! I whirled around as quickly as a corn dog could manage. No one again. Now the laughter was hysterical. Kick! Kick! Kick! Why was no one coming to rescue a poor, persecuted corn dog! Couldn’t they see the kids torturing me? I was miserable. I had to get out of there! So I waddled as quickly as I could back to the food court.
It was then that I saw him. A guy I liked was standing at the counter of the food court. I could hear him asking for me. No!
Then I saw my fellow employee, a girl who I thought was my friend, point in my direction. I turned around as quickly as I could and waddled back to where I had been so rudely kicked. Somehow that seemed so much better than being approached by the guy I liked and had tried so hard to impress. I moved as quickly as I could, cutting through the aisle and making my way back to the food court from the other direction. I had to get out of this thing. Just a few more waddles and I would be there.
I struggled to pull the giant corn dog off of my body. I was so completely miserable, so completely humiliated. I couldn’t go out there again.
How long had I been in the corn dog costume? An hour? Two hours? Three? I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes! How could so much misery, so much humiliation, so much horror fit into just 20 minutes?
I saw my boss approaching me. I pleaded with her to let me be finished. Couldn’t she see how tortured I was? She informed me that if I could find a replacement then I was off the hook. Who in their right mind would actually want to do this? But it was my only hope. I had to at least ask.
I approached the girl who had previously blown my cover. I tried to act like it hadn’t been that bad. I thought if she knew what she was getting into, she’d never agree. But she did. “It’ll be fun,” she told me.
“She won’t last long,” I thought.
Three hours later, she came back smiling. I couldn’t believe it. She actually enjoyed being a corn dog. I didn’t think it was possible.
I learned something valuable that day. I learned that we can choose to be happy, or we can choose to be unhappy. We were in the same situation, and she chose to enjoy it. I could have done that too. I could have laughed along with everyone else. I could have seen the humor in the situation and had an enjoyable time. Instead I chose to be miserable.
It’s the same thing with life. Our circumstances don’t choose for us. We choose. Even in the midst of challenging school assignments, lack of friends, chronic illness, or parents divorcing, we can choose to turn to Heavenly Father and discover that we can still find peace, even joy, in this life. I learned that day that choosing to be cheerful is much more enjoyable, even for a corn dog.

Let me tell you the story of one man who sacrificed greatly to maintain his own financial integrity and honor.

In the 1930s Fred Snowberger opened the doors of a new pharmacy in northeastern Oregon. It had been his dream to own his own business, but the economic turnaround he had hoped for never materialized. Eight months later, Fred closed the doors of his pharmacy for the last time.

Even though his business had failed, Fred was determined to repay the loan he had secured. Some wondered why he insisted on repaying the debt. Why didn’t he simply declare bankruptcy and have the debt legally forgiven?

But Fred did not listen. He had said he would repay the loan, and he was determined to honor his word. His family made many of their own clothes, grew much of their food in their garden, and used everything they had until it was thoroughly worn out or used up. Rain or shine, Fred walked to and from his work each day. And every month, Fred paid what he could on the loan.

Years passed and finally the wonderful day arrived when Fred made the last payment. He delivered it in person. The man who had loaned him the money wept and with tears streaming down his face, said, “You not only paid back every penny, but you taught me what a man of character and honesty is.”

To this day, nearly 70 years after Fred signed his name to that note, descendants of Fred and Erma Snowberger still tell this story with pride. This act of honor and nobility has lived through the decades as a cherished example of family integrity.

On Saturday, April 22, 1893, a special session for children under eight years of age was held so that many more Primary children could attend. Seven-year-old LeGrand Richards, later an Apostle, attended this session with his mother. He was impressed when he saw the prophet in the temple that day. He said later, “I always remembered exactly what President Woodruff looked like and what he wore on that day for the rest of my life.” Unlike his older sister, who saw an angel during an earlier dedication session, LeGrand said, “I looked around for angels, but I didn’t see any!”

Elder Taiichi Aoba of the Seventy, who resides in a small mountain village in Shikoku, Japan, was asked to teach a class at a youth conference. “Stand Ye in Holy Places” was selected as the theme of the conference. After considering the theme and what to teach, Elder Aoba decided to use his vocation as a teaching tool. His work is making pottery.

Elder Aoba relates that his classroom of youth really sprang to life when they saw how he was able to almost magically transform the shape of the clay in his hands to plates, bowls, and cups. After his demonstration, he asked them if any of them would like to give it a try. They all raised their hands.

Elder Aoba had several of the youth come forward to try out their new interest. They assumed, after watching him, that this would be quite simple. However, none of them were successful in their attempts to make even a simple bowl. They proclaimed: “I can’t do this!” “Why is this so hard?” “This is so difficult.” These comments took place as the clay flew all around the room.

He asked the youth why they were having such difficulty making pottery. They responded with various answers: “I don’t have any experience,” “I have never been trained,” or “I have no talent.” Based on the result, what they said was all true; however, the most important reason for their failure was due to the clay not being centered on the wheel. The youth thought that they had placed the clay in the center, but from a professional’s perspective, it wasn’t in the exact center. He then told them, “Let’s try this one more time.”

This time, Elder Aoba placed the clay in the exact center of the wheel and then started to turn the wheel, making a hole in the middle of the clay. Several of the youth tried again. This time everyone started clapping when they said: “Wow, it’s not shaking,” “I can do this,” or “I did it!” Of course, the shapes weren’t perfect, but the outcome was totally different from the first attempt. The reason for their success was because the clay was perfectly centered on the wheel.

Doesn’t he realize he’s making us late for an appointment with the best family I’ve ever taught? my mind screamed as I turned my bike around. I was a missionary in the Taiwan Taipei Mission, and my new companion, Elder Loo, was lagging behind as usual.
I found him talking to a woman who was angrily holding a thick stick in one hand and clenching the arm of a small, whimpering boy with the other. I listened as Elder Loo tried to talk her out of beating the boy. She left without the stick.
When we finally arrived at our destination, my companion taught the family about “the first and great commandment,” to love the Lord. “And the second is like unto it,” he read, “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself” (Matt. 22:38–39).
I flinched. Although I had taught this discussion many times, it was as if I were hearing the scripture for the first time. I would have helped that little boy if we hadn’t been late, I rationalized. But I couldn’t convince myself.
Following a beautiful discussion on sacrifice and service, we made our way to our next appointment. But before we got far, I realized I was again alone. Elder Loo was helping a drunken man who had wrecked his motorcycle.
As we peddled slowly through the crowded market, my companion stopped again. I watched as he knelt by a crying child who appeared to be lost. The child’s eyes were red and puffy, and his face was streaked with tears. We didn’t leave until Elder Loo had assurances from people who said they would locate the boy’s parents.
I followed in silence, my mind racing. Why hadn’t I noticed the crying child? Or the motorcyclist? Why did he see things I missed?
Then it dawned on me. He saw opportunities to serve because he looked for them. He didn’t trail behind because he was just enjoying the scenery; he was looking for people in need.
I wondered what I would see if I really looked.
The next morning I didn’t race ahead of my companion. We rode side by side, looking, listening, and ready to serve.
Since then, whenever I think no one needs my help, I slow down and take another look. It’s amazing what I see.

Every morning our walk to the work site at the end of the trench grew longer, and every day the Sundance Power Plant grew a little smaller on the horizon. For myself and the three young LDS men that I worked with that summer in northern Alberta, the construction work was temporary—our heads were filled with thoughts of college, dreams of careers in business, advertising, and biology. We counted the days until the two-mile-long trench (that would serve as a filter for the murky water that left the power plant) would be finished.
The fact I had found myself working with three Mormons in northern Alberta was a near miracle, if not a mathematical impossibility. Being a recent convert, I felt fortunate to be among others of my faith while I worked. The time went by quickly as they shared experiences from their missions, one even taking the time to teach me a little Japanese.
Norm was our patriarch, not in age as much as in patience and insight. He was a tall, lanky guy who was always the first with a practical joke or a one-liner, but also the type who seemed to know when understanding and empathy were in order. Perhaps Norm’s kindness was made even more apparent as it contrasted with the rough, seasoned construction workers we worked alongside—men who used four-letter words to replace any and every adjective possible, men who spent their paychecks on beer and little else. Three of us steered clear of the regulars, but Norm made an extra effort to spend at least a few minutes every day working in their group.
One morning, before we made our way down the twisting trench, Norm pulled a Book of Mormon out of his lunch box and walked over to one of the regulars.
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped the powerfully built construction worker as he pushed the book back at Norm. Norm took a short, nervous step back.
“Put the thing in my truck,” the man said in a hushed voice. “And put it under the seat so the guys don’t see it and give me a hard time.”
Norm walked over to the vehicle and called back to the man who was now surrounded by several of his fellow workers. “Hey, nice stereo. Mind if I have a closer look?”
“Yeah, sure,” the man called back.
Norm slipped the Book of Mormon under the driver’s seat, and we began our daily walk to the job site.
Norm answered our queries by telling us that he had struck up several conversations with the man while they worked. During one talk he discovered the man’s grandmother was an American Indian. “I listened to the stories his grandmother told him,” said Norm, “like the one where the continent is covered in darkness for three days [see 1 Ne. 19:10]. I told him, ‘Boy, do I have a book for you!’”
I felt disturbed. I knew I would have let these individuals miss out on the blessings of the gospel simply because they appeared rough on the outside. I knew Norm did not approach these men because he wanted to show off to us; he knew the joy of the gospel, and he wanted these men to share that spiritual wealth.
After Norm told his story we were quiet for a long time, walking and thinking of the blessings we enjoyed and wondering how we could walk closer to our brothers. With the time we had left on the job, we brought the other men into our work group and involved them in our water fights and our harmless practical jokes on the bosses and on each other. But perhaps most important, we let these men know what we believed and how we lived our lives. And from then on, as we walked to and from the job site, we did so together, the regulars and the Mormons—side by side.