Gospel Story Finder

I am inspired by students who demonstrate empathy for people who committed serious crimes and for those they formerly feared or dismissed. Working with refugees, I have witnessed rage, need, and resignation. One late weekend night, I brought a young Burmese client home from the hospital for a short visit before he returned for an additional lengthy stay. He had already been hospitalized for months, and it was difficult for his family to visit regularly due to limited public transportation access and busy work schedules. Seeing the way that family embraced their brief time together and showed love for their son was profoundly humbling. To be present with others during moments of vulnerability allows us to feel God’s grace for them and for us.

This story happened in Bolivia.
“Ha! You don’t know anything!” Fabricio pointed his finger at José and laughed.
Adam frowned. José had just asked the teacher a question. It wasn’t nice of Fabricio to tease him for that.
“Fabricio, that’s enough,” the teacher said.
Adam looked over at José. He was staring down at his notebook, like he hadn’t even heard Fabricio.
José was new to their school. At first, no one talked to him. Then some of the other kids started to tease him. They always called him names and laughed at him. Adam felt like he should help José, but he never knew what to say.
Besides, José looked just fine. It seemed like the teasing didn’t even bother him.
Adam turned back to his book. They had a big math test soon, and he had to focus.
On the day of the test, Adam did his best, but it was hard! He was nervous about his grade. What if he had failed?
The next day, their teacher stood at the front of the room with a stack of papers.
“I have your test grades,” she told them. “Many of you have room to improve, but some of you did very well.”
She began to read each student’s grade out loud. Most of the grades were pretty low. Adam waited anxiously for his name.
“Adam,” the teacher said. “Eighty.”
Adam couldn’t believe it. He had passed! He smiled big.
Then the teacher read José’s grade.
“One hundred,” she said, loud and clear. “A perfect grade.”
Fabricio stood up. “No way!” he shouted. “José cheated!”
“Yeah!” said another boy. “He doesn’t know anything. He must have copied someone.”
Other students joined in. José tried to tell them that he didn’t cheat, but they didn’t listen. The teacher tried to tell them to be quiet, but they wouldn’t listen to her either.
“Cheater!” someone yelled.
“Liar!” said someone else.
Adam’s heart was beating fast. He didn’t know what to do. He looked over at José. He would be OK, right? José was always calm.
José stared down at his desk like he always did. Then he started to cry.
The other kids stopped shouting, and the room went silent. All Adam could hear was the sound of José crying. He knew he couldn’t just stay still this time. He had to be brave. The Holy Ghost was telling him to help José.
Adam stood up. The other kids watched him as he walked over to José. He still didn’t know what to say. So he just leaned down and gave José a tight hug.
“It’s OK,” he whispered as he patted José on the back. “It’s OK.”
Soon other kids came to hug José too. Even Fabricio came over and said sorry. Before long the whole class was standing around José to say sorry and cheer him up.
“We love you, José!” someone said.
“You’re the best at math!” said another.
José wiped away his tears and smiled. Adam smiled too. Being kind took courage, but it was worth it.
Illustration by Shawna J. C. Tenney

One of my good friends was reading the Book of Mormon in class in her spare time one day. People began to tease her. She stood up for Heavenly Father and told them that this is her religion and they shouldn’t be saying anything about it. The kids stopped teasing her. That was a very good example for me. I recommend that you stick up for the Church. If this guy knows how you really feel, then he will stop teasing you.
Tia T., 13, Utah

For excitement, challenge, and diversion, a friend of mine used to hunt mountain lions in the hilltop areas of southern Utah. Among other things, this sport requires personal patience, endurance, and skill, durable horses, and dependable, well-trained dogs. To be effective in locating, cornering, or “treeing” a mountain lion, dogs must be completely dependable from the moment the hunt starts until the capture is finished.
A few years ago when I was visiting with my friend at his place of business, I noticed he had a beautiful hunting dog tied to the outside of his office building. As came close to the dog, I was impressed with his stature, markings, and color. I commented to the owner, “Isn’t he a beauty? How long have you had him?”
“I’ve raised him from a pup. He’s been trained since he was a few months old to track mountain lions. But now he’s got to go. I’m going to get rid of him. He isn’t worth his keep anymore,” he said with a firm and final conviction.
“Why do you want to sell a dog as alert and strong as this one?” I inquired.
To this query the wise owner, a veteran of many mountain lion hunts, said with emphasis, “You know, when I have spent months and months training a hunting dog for these outings, I expect, and demand, one thing. When we’re tracking lions, we’re tracking lions, and that’s it. My dogs, and I usually take about four of them, know this, and if one lets me down, he’s had it. Last time we were out on a hunt, moving into the mountain areas where the lions hide out, this dog was distracted by a jack rabbit and ran after him for more than half an hour.
“Later on the same day he was gone for about an hour chasing a deer. Both of these incidents were indulged in by this disobedient dog despite many months of tedious training. I therefore resolved that when I returned to the city he was no longer to be a member of the hunting expedition. He isn’t worth his feed. He must be sold.”
As I traveled back to Salt Lake City alone by automobile later that day, my thoughts turned to this experience with a master’s comment and decision about one of his dogs. The dog had lost his usefulness because he had forgotten his training and the purpose of the hunt. He could be distracted, diverted, and led in wrong pursuits.
Similarly in our daily lives we sometimes forget our goals and purposes and let distractions, interferences, and temptations lead us away from the charted courses we have been trained to pursue. It is to be hoped that we will stay close to our Master, heeding His teachings and avoiding situations that tend to lead us away.
Lofty standards of behavior will always be based upon a love for the right and walking in paths of righteousness. Wickedness in any form will never lead to happiness. We must be aware of those who will deceive and have us believe there is no heaven, there is no hell, and that the only road to happiness is marked with compromise, convenience, and momentary pleasures or pursuits. Satan is real, and he is effective. He would throw men down by his cunning. He would have all mankind strangers to God. Let us not be deceived. God lives, and through him and with him we can accomplish all things. We must not permit ourselves to become entangled in the sin of compromising our standards, but rather we must learn to avoid all the ways of Satan. His paths lead to disappointment, frustration, and regret.
We compromise our blessings, we rationalize ourselves out of the sure and eternal ways when we do not ask our God to help us continue in his paths. Often a disciple of God can best be identified by the paths he travels.
“If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed;
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:31–32.)
The Lord has promised us that he will help us in our pursuit of happiness if we will continue the quest for righteousness and follow his paths. The abundant life will be ours if we walk with his strength. If we will remember and practice the Savior’s teachings every day, Satan can have no power over us. God’s strength makes it possible for us to walk uprightly. Ammon in his comments to his brother Aaron in the 26th chapter of Alma, verse 12 [Alma 26:12], points to paths of life that bring security and insulation from devilish desires.
“Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength I can do all things; … for which we will praise his name forever.”
Our continuing pursuit of happiness will bring us our Heavenly Father’s strength and protection. In his paths we will find security. My constant prayer is that we will all have the desire in our hearts to earnestly seek the pathways of safety by honestly keeping all of his commandments.
Let us not forget the lessons learned from my friend who taught me well about what is necessary in worthy mountain lion hunting dogs and from a God who knows well his children. Let us not forget our goals and purposes, and let not distraction, interferences, or temptations lead us away from the charted courses we have been trained to pursue.

Let me tell you a quick story about a briefcase. I know it’s a weird subject for a story, but it’s actually a magic briefcase. It’s my magic Brigham Young University briefcase. I visited here in the fall of 2007 for the first time—I’d never been here before. My friend Gary Cornia, who is the dean of the business school, gave me a beautiful briefcase that said “Brigham Young University” on it. I took it home and put it away because I already had a briefcase, and I didn’t think about it.

About a month later my briefcase broke, and I was complaining to my wife, and I said, “The handle’s broken. It’s very inconvenient.”

And she said, “What about that BYU briefcase you brought home? Why don’t you carry that?”

And I said, “Oh. Okay. That’s a good idea.”

So I took all my stuff and put it in the BYU briefcase, and I started carrying it around.

At the time, my research assistant at Syracuse University, Nick Bailey (he’s here—he actually works at BYU now), noticed, and he said, “You’re carrying a BYU briefcase.”

I said, “Yeah, it’s great. It’s an Italian briefcase. It’s very nice.”

I travel a lot, and one of the funny things I noticed is that when you are out in public carrying a briefcase that says something on it, the first thing people you don’t know do is read the briefcase and then look at you. It occurred to me that people were thinking, “He’s a Mormon guy.” And that’s actually sort of false religious advertising because I’m a Roman Catholic. I take my faith seriously, but no matter how seriously I take my faith, technically that still doesn’t make me a Mormon.

So I was walking around saying, basically, “I’m a Mormon,” and the funny thing is that it was changing my personality. And the reason it was changing my personality was because I was mortified by the idea that somebody would say, “You know, I was in the airport, and I saw this Mormon guy, and he was being a real jerk.” I wanted to live up to someone else’s reputation, and it was making me into a better person. It was a magic briefcase.

So what’s the implication of this story? Well, obviously it might just be that I’m trying to get a new briefcase right now. (Maybe the greatest kind of evangelization that the LDS Church could undertake would be to buy 300 million briefcases and give them out to all Americans.) But the bigger point here is that carrying the briefcase was actually making my life better. I was happier; things were going really well for me as I was carrying that briefcase. And the reason is that the service for which Mormons have become justifiably famous was infecting my life. It was making me better as a person. It was helping me. And I thank you for that.

I didn’t know what to do. President Ezra Taft Benson said that we should all read the Book of Mormon, but it isn’t that easy. My mom and dad think that since I’m only five years old, I’m too young to have a Book of Mormon of my own. Since I don’t have my own Book of Mormon, I decided to borrow one.
The first thing I did was look for my father’s Book of Mormon. I was climbing on a chair to get it from the top shelf when Dad came into the room.
“What are you doing, Melissa?” he asked.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Dad got his book and sat down in a chair with me on his lap and showed me the picture of Nephi stretching out his hand, and the one with Abinadi standing before King Noah, and even the one of Jesus coming down from heaven. Then he closed the book, gave me a hug, and lifted me off his lap.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
He opened his Book of Mormon to one of the front pages. “See this yellow spot?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“That’s mustard from your last hot dog. See this brown smudge on page 229?”
I nodded.
“That’s from your chocolate ice cream cone.”
“Oh.”
“See these last two pages that won’t come apart, even when I shake them?”
“Yes.”
“Strawberry jam.”
Dad put his Book of Mormon back on the shelf and walked away. I decided that I would have to borrow someone else’s.
I went up to my brother’s room. It’s full of all kinds of things, but I looked around until I found his Book of Mormon in the bottom drawer of his dresser. It’s a small one with tiny print and a real leather cover, and it has his name written in gold on the front. Ryan says that he’s saving it to take on his mission. I was just opening it when he came into the room. When he saw me, his eyes got wide. He rushed over and grabbed it from my hand.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
“Leave it alone!” he shouted, flipping it open. “Look at this!”
“It looks like a crayon mark,” I said.
He turned to another place. “And this!”
“It looks like someone accidentally tore the page,” I said.
He closed the book and put it back in his dresser drawer. I slipped quietly from the room.
I went to my own bedroom and huddled in a corner. After a while my nine-year-old sister came in. What’s wrong, Melissa?” Gina asked me.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Gina smiled and patted my head.
“You can read mine,” she said. I watched her look around the room until she found her Book of Mormon hidden under a pile of blankets. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. It was a big one, with large print.
“Thank you,” I said. I sat down on my bed and opened it. I looked at the words really hard, but I still couldn’t read them. I squinted at the page. I turned the book upside down. I lay on my back and lifted the book above me in the air, but it was no use. No matter what I did, I couldn’t read the Book of Mormon like the prophet told us to. I closed it and put it beside my pillow. Maybe the prophet hadn’t meant for five-year-olds to read it.
That night my mother came up to my room to tuck me into bed. She leaned over and kissed me and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then she looked around the room for my bedtime storybook. Mom looked in the toy box and under the bed, and while she was still searching, I remembered Gina’s Book of Mormon.
“What about this book, Mom?” I asked.
She picked it up. She looked at me, then at the book, then back at me again. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” I said.
She opened it to the first page.
“I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents,” she began.
It was better than my story book any day.

Allow me to share an experience that helped me better understand our call to go to the rescue.
In addition to being a faculty member here at BYU-Idaho, I have the opportunity to practice medicine as a physician assistant at the BYU-Idaho Student Health Center.
Recently, I saw a student who had come to the clinic with severe abdominal pain. Emily reported that she had lived with nearly constant abdominal pain for over six years. She had been seen by several doctors, put through countless medical tests, and started on several different treatment plans. Emily expressed the frustration of living with chronic abdominal pain. She was hoping for an identification of her pain and some resolution. I immediately began to wonder how I could help her where so many others could not. I silently had a prayer in my heart and pleaded for help.
After an initial evaluation, I became concerned about Emily's gallbladder. I ordered appropriate testing to evaluate her gallbladder and it was revealed that Emily had gallstones, and her gallbladder was functioning at five percent of its capacity. Emily was referred to a surgeon, and the gallbladder was removed. She told me that her pain resolved almost immediately after surgery. Emily later wrote me a note that said, "Thank you for finding what was wrong with me...My diet is back to normal, I am able to exercise, and [I can] go on with my life without being set back with this problem anymore.
By now you are wondering, "What does this have to do with going to the rescue?" When one part of the body is afflicted, the whole body feels it, and we are not whole until all members of the body are whole.

My employer transferred our family to Beijing just a few years after I had finished graduate school. As I arrived to develop clients for our consulting firm, business leaders from the United States and Europe advised that, to be successful, I would need to take Chinese executives to karaoke bars and consume a lot of alcohol. I chose not to do that, and yet our firm still succeeded.

You may be tempted to break the Word of Wisdom to fit in socially, to try something new, or to obtain a work promotion. You may think that just a little sip will not hurt. I assure you that it will—spiritually, and perhaps physically as well. I testify the Lord will bless you with “wisdom and great treasures”20 as you choose to be peculiar in joyfully living the Word of Wisdom.

In February 2013, I returned to New Zealand on vacation. Being an avid hiker, I booked a four-day hiking excursion of the famous Milford Track in Fiordland National Park on the South Island.
I was joined by three Americans and 37 other hikers from around the world, including Australia, Brazil, England, Finland, Germany, Israel, and Uruguay. During our adventure, we shared thoughts, experiences, and opinions as best we could given our language barriers. It didn’t take long for our cultural differences and preconceived opinions to melt away under our growing bonds.
At the end of our third day of hiking, one of the hikers wanted to build upon our growing friendships and sprang to his feet, announcing that we should hold a talent show. He said he would begin the show. He chose to share his storytelling talent, which he had been practicing at his business office in Caesarea, Israel. His story went well, so he announced that he would tell another one. But as he shared some off-color remarks, I realized that the evening could easily turn out to be something less than uplifting.
During his story, I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world? The answer came to me forcefully: “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301).
I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world?
I was anxious but drew upon my memories of and love for the Primary children of New Zealand. I rose to my feet and explained that I would sing a special song that I had sung nearly 40 years ago with children in New Zealand. I explained that I had been a missionary, had taught these children, and had grown to love them. I then said a silent prayer, asking for help to sing in a manner that would bless the group.
The song went well, and afterward I could feel the Spirit. My new friends smiled, and the song seemed to open their hearts. It wasn’t long before others rose and began sharing their musical talents. A group of four ladies, previously reluctant to participate, sang selections from their church choir. Another hiker taught us a Jewish folk song.
At the end of the talent show, a beautiful young woman from Australia sang three songs in Maori, her native tongue. Truly the Spirit of our Heavenly Father had distilled upon us and helped us realize that we were all children of God, not just “strangers and foreigners” (Ephesians 2:19) from various lands.

One day I went to the store with my mom. I was wearing my patent leather shoes that I call my “church shoes” because I usually wear them only on Sunday. I was very proud of my shiny shoes. The lady who was helping my mom noticed me wiggling my feet and asked me about my shoes. When I told her they were my church shoes, she asked me which church I attended. I looked at my mom because I wasn’t sure I could remember the full name of the Church, and I wanted to make sure I said it right. My mom reminded me of my favorite Primary song. I sang, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (Children’s Songbook, 77). The lady smiled and told me that was great. I’m glad the song helped me to remember the Church’s name.

Let me give you an example of that if I may:

My parents were divorced when I was one year old. My father, for not the best of reasons, left the family. That caused certain concerns, certain problems, certain challenges for my mother, my two sisters, and myself.

If you were age fourteen and you were me and you prayed, “Father in Heaven, help me be at peace and forgive my father for having left his family,” that’s a good prayer; that’s a good desire—I received no answer.

At eighteen, you’re praying, “Father in Heaven, help me be at peace and find solace, and comfort, and forgiveness about this particular episode.”

My father had very little to do with us as we were growing up. One day a year he would take us to Lagoon in Utah. That was my only contact with my father, growing up. I got married. I’m praying. I had two daughters, two sons. Now I’m over thirty years of age.

One day I was preparing to give a talk on parenting. Now my mother was an absolute saint. I can’t imagine a boy being given a greater mother than the mother I was given; and everybody who knows my mother would agree with that. I was thinking, as I was preparing to talk about how to raise children, that I would talk about my mother. But the Spirit seemed to say, “You need to talk, and you need to think about your father.” I wondered, “What do I say about my father? I hardly know my father. I was not raised with him; I had no contact with my father.”

Just at that moment as I’m pondering about my father, my two sons—I had two at the time, my third son wasn’t born yet—they were about six and two years of age; they came in and they stood in front of me where I was sitting in the family room; they just stood there in front of me staring at me, the older brother standing behind his younger brother. I looked at those two boys and the Spirit just washed my brain with memories of things I had done with those boys. Simple things, nothing important: Trick-or-treating, carving Halloween pumpkins, Christmas mornings, blowing out birthday candles, looking at turtles at the pond, piggyback rides, listening to their Primary talks, listening to their prayers, bedtime stories, the first puppy, catching a fish in the same fishing hole I caught my first fish in.

Nothing critical, nothing important. Just the everyday memories that I as a father had shared with those boys in six years of my being a father. As I was thinking of those things, the Lord said, “Now Mike, life has carved a holding place in your heart, and I will give you the answer”; and this is what He said: “Now that you are a father, now that you know a father’s joys and love, would you be the son who lost his father? Or the father who lost his son?”

Do you understand what the Lord was saying to me? I began to weep. I just sobbed. I grabbed those two boys and I just hugged them, sobbing—not for me—for my father. Because I knew the tragedy of his life greater than he knew it. I knew what he missed. I knew that it was a greater tragedy for him to have missed all those wonderful things with his family, than it was for me, as a son, to have missed them with a father.

My wife came in, she said, “For heaven’s sake Mike, what’s the matter?” I was sobbing, clinging to my boys. I said, “I can’t talk about it now.” I went up to the bathroom and just cried and cried, cried myself dry—for my father.

God always had an answer. But why didn’t He give it to me at age fourteen, or eighteen, or when I was married, or when I was the father of two daughters? It had to be when I was the father of boys and had shared enough life with those boys to comprehend the answer that God would give. The easiest thing in the world for me to forgive was my father for having left the family. But it took life to create the space for God to put the answer.

That was the year my father transplanted our family of nine from our home in Hawaii to the foreign land of Michigan. While he was enjoying a sabbatical leave at the University of Michigan, I was wearing transparent rubber galoshes, cat glasses, and a second-hand grandma coat to school, and enduring the snubs of my classmates.
I was naive and ignorant about midwest fashion. How was I to know it wasn’t kosher to wear white socks in the winter? In Hawaii we didn’t wear socks. In fact, most of the time we didn’t even wear shoes. Even if I had deciphered the fashion code, I couldn’t have done anything to remedy the problem because my father was earning half salary that year. Without money, fashion was out.
I admit I enjoyed many happy times with my family in Michigan, but nonetheless was greatly relieved when the sabbatical ended and we returned to Hawaii where fashion was largely ignored and I had many friends.

Gerhardt, a little German shepherd boy, was such an example. He was very, very poor, and one day as he was watching his flock, a hunter came out of the woods and asked the way to the nearest village. When the boy told him, he said if he would show him the way he would be rewarded handsomely. When Gerhardt replied that he could not leave his sheep for fear they might be lost, the hunter said, “Well, what of that? They are not your sheep, and the loss of one or two would not matter to your master. I will give you more money than you have earned in a year.”
When the boy still declined, the hunter said, “Then will you trust me with your sheep while you go to the village and bring me food and drink and a guide?”
The boy shook his head, saying, “The sheep do not know your voice.”
Angrily the hunter retorted, “Can’t you trust me?”
Gerhardt reminded him that he had tried to get him to break faith with his master and asked, “How do I know that you would keep your word to me?”
Cornered, the hunter laughed and said, “I see you are a good faithful boy. I will not forget you. Show me the road and I will try to make it out by myself.”
The hunter turned out to be the grand duke, and he was so pleased with Gerhardt’s honesty that he later sent for him and had him educated. Though Gerhardt became a rich and powerful man, he remained honest and true. (Adapted from “A Faithful Shepherd Boy,” in Moral Stories for Little Folks, Salt Lake City: Juvenile Instructor Office. 1891, pp. 11–13.)

The snow lay in a thick blanket all around our small farmhouse. Inside, the warm, cheery lights were a sharp contrast to the cold dreariness outside. It was the first Christmas Eve that our family had spent together in the last five years. My oldest brother had been away at college and hadn’t had the money to return for every Christmas. My older sister, who had been married for three years, was visiting with her husband. For the first time in a long time, our family felt complete.
That Christmas Eve was a special one and has given me many fond memories. Bright lights sparkled on the Christmas tree that blessed the room with its scent. Everywhere festive holly, garland, wreaths, or some other ornamentation decorated the house. The sounds of laughter mixed with the faint Christmas carols that came from my sisters singing to each other in the upstairs bedrooms. From the kitchen drifted the heavenly aromas of turkey, potatoes, and pumpkin pie.
It was in the midst of this happy scene that I heard my mother calling me from the kitchen. Slowly I pushed myself up from the floor, where I had been sitting listening to one of my brother’s stories about college, and dragged myself into the kitchen.
My mother was wrapping up a beautiful golden pumpkin pie.
“James,” she said without looking up. “I need you to run this pie over to Clair. I promised him that I would bring it, but I just don’t have the time. Thank you!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she had already hustled me out the door so I had no chance to argue. I couldn’t believe it. It was Christmas Eve, all of my family was having a great time, and I was stuck driving alone in the snow to a strange old man’s house to deliver a pie.
It was barely noon, but already a gray dreariness hung in the sky. The icy wind had picked up and the dark clouds hung low, giving every indication of an impending snowstorm. With luck I wouldn’t be gone long, and I’d beat the storm back home. I climbed into the old pickup and started the engine.
Clair was our closest neighbor, but it still took a while to get to his house. I didn’t know much about him, not even his last name. His wife had died before I was born, and all of his children were grown, married, and lived far away. I supposed he was at least 80 years old, just a lonely old hermit. The rest of his farm had been sold a long time ago, but he still lived in the same house, the house he had built himself. My mom said he flatly refused to leave, even when his children begged him to move in with one of them. He even refused to go to visit them over Christmas. He would say, “I just can’t leave my home.” His home now was really little more than a two-room shack. It was old, weak, and run-down—much like the man who lived in it—but he loved it.
When I pulled up to the shack, I wasn’t surprised to see that all the lights were off. After all, I thought, it was the holidays and even Clair must have some friends to visit somewhere, right? Still, I had a pie to deliver, so I decided to make sure no one was home. I knocked lightly and waited. After a few minutes, I tried the door handle. The door opened easily.
“Who is it?” a voice growled.
“It’s James from down the road,” I answered above the rising wind.
“What do you want?” the voice asked.
“I brought you this pie …” I began.
“What kind of pie?” he demanded.
“I think it’s pumpkin.”
“Well bring it in and shut the door. It’s awfully cold outside.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, ducking inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. I flipped the switch and the lights flickered on. The small room was a far cry from the cheeriness of my own home. I shivered slightly.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said softly. “Is there a reason it’s so cold in here?”
“Of course there’s a reason,” he snapped. “Would I be sitting here in the blasted cold for no reason? I just don’t have the strength to build a fire, that’s all. And stop calling me ’sir.’ My name’s Clair.”
Without waiting for permission, I started building a fire in the cold fireplace. It wasn’t long before the light and warmth of the fire was spreading all about the small room.
“Much better,” I said.
The fire seemed to lift the old man’s spirits as well. Cheerfully, he demanded, “Well now, James. Let’s cut up that pumpkin pie, shall we?”
I really wanted to get back home and was tempted to excuse myself, but one look at the lonely man’s expectant face, and all I could do was ask where the forks and plates were. As I was serving large helpings for both of us, Clair said, “Of course I would be doing this if I had the strength, but since my illness, some days it’s just too hard.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t even known he was sick.
When we had finished one piece of pie, and I was dishing up another, I finally asked him, “How could you raise five kids in a house like this?”
After I said it, I realized how rude it must have sounded, but he didn’t seem to notice. He thought a moment and said, “Well now, James, just because this house is small doesn’t mean it wasn’t big enough. There was plenty of room for love, and this house has seen a lot of it.”
“But why do you still live here all alone?”
“Oh, I’m not alone at all,” he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Sure I could go live with my children or grandchildren and be surrounded by people. But here I’m surrounded by memories. This house has seen better days, happy days full of laughter, love, and joy.
“Christmases were never this dull before. We’d have a large tree in that corner with all the children’s presents underneath it. Their stockings would hang above the fire, and in years when the farm was doing well, there would be twice as many presents and a big turkey dinner as well.”
Clair paused and leaned forward intently. “But it wasn’t the turkey, the presents, the tree, or anything else that made Christmas special, James. It was having our family together, sharing our lives and love. That is what made Christmas a happy time. The outside world could go on its merry way, or even end for all we cared. When we were close together nothing else mattered. And now that everyone close to me is gone, I can still sit alone remembering those happy times and it’s like they’re all here.
The silence that followed as I thought of what he had said was suddenly broken by a fierce howl of the wind. It startled both of us, and I hurried outside. The storm had hit suddenly and viciously. The snow swirled all around so that I could barely see a few feet in front of me. I walked a few feet away from the house and tripped over a large pine bough that had broken off in the wind. I ran back into the house with the branch in my hand.
Clair looked at me in puzzlement, but I didn’t say anything until I had the branch standing up in a corner, supported by some books.
“There!” I said with satisfaction.
“What is it?” Clair asked.
“It’s your Christmas tree, of course.”
Clair looked at it, frowning. Then he started to laugh. It was a wheezy, tired laugh; but it grew steadily stronger, as if he were just out of practice. I couldn’t help joining him.
And so, with the wind shrieking outside, the snow piling up deeper and the day growing later, Clair and I set about decorating the tree. Clair had given his decorations away to his children, so we cut paper snowflakes and strung popcorn. Then I draped them over the little branches according to Clair’s directions. I tried to get Clair to sing Christmas carols with me, but he protested, saying he was too old. No amount of coaxing seemed to work, so I sang twice as loud.
When we were finished, we sat in silence, admiring our work. The sorry little tree only stood three feet high. No fancy presents lay beneath it, and no lights shone from its branches. But we both agreed it was the prettiest Christmas tree we had ever seen. It was even more beautiful to me than the lavishly decorated tree at home.
That thought gave me an idea.
“Clair,” I asked, “how would you like to come home with me and spend Christmas with my family?”
Clair looked almost angry. “James, I already said that I didn’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of people when I’m perfectly happy here.” He paused for a moment. “I’m not going to burden your folks when I’ve got my own home.”
“You won’t be a burden,” I said. “They’ll love it.” When I saw that he wasn’t going to budge, I added softly, “And besides, no amount of memories can replace the love of living human beings.”
Clair looked away in silence. For a few minutes he sat stubbornly still. Then I saw tears fill his eyes and he asked, “What about our tree?”
I grinned. “We’ll leave it here and it will be waiting when you get back.”
“All right, I’ll go, but just for an hour or so.” He sighed heavily, but I could see the twinkle in his eyes.
In the increasing dimness of the dying firelight I gathered a few things that Clair wanted to take so that he could still have his memories with him for Christmas. By now the snow was so bad I could hardly see my way to the truck and had to use the wall of the house to guide me. As we pulled away from Clair’s house, I looked in the rearview mirror. Through the snow, the house was just a dark form, a place where, minutes before, Clair and I had shared a pumpkin pie. The little house that had been built with such loving care was just a house, I realized.
But for some reason, I felt a strange sense of peace—glad that the little house could have had one more happy memory. Clair must have felt this same peace, for he began to sing softly, “Silent Night, Holy Night.”
All the way home we sang Christmas carols. Despite the slow treacherous drive, we were home sooner than I had expected. It was late and I knew my mom was worried, but I quickly explained what had happened. The family welcomed Clair as if he were one of us.
The next morning, Clair’s daughter arrived unexpectedly with her husband and children. They had come to surprise him for Christmas, and after a few days of pleading, he gave in and went to live with her family. Before he left he said something to me about thanks for showing him that love comes from people, not places. He telephoned Christmas Day every year until he passed away. And now, when I look back at my favorite Christmas memory, it is not one of a big Christmas feast, a bright Christmas tree, or even the beautiful sound of my sisters singing carols. Rather, it is the memory of eating pumpkin pie in a small, lonely shack, a humble three-foot branch decorated with paper and popcorn, and the memory of a lonely old man singing “Silent Night” that fills my heart with love.

While I was growing up, reading the scriptures was not emphasized in our small branch, and very few young people could afford their own sets of scriptures. I tried to read the Book of Mormon but never seemed to get past 1 Nephi. I knew I would have to read more someday, but the real motivation didn’t come until my mission.
Two weeks after I arrived in the mission field, my companion announced that we were scheduled to meet with a family to present a discussion. I was new, so I told my companion he would have to do the talking and I would provide moral support.
That evening we met in a humble home crowded with a family and their friends. I found a chair almost out of sight behind a big pot-bellied stove. My companion presented the lesson, and I was pleased and proud of the clarity of his message and the apparent acceptance of the group. We received permission to meet again the following week.
When we arrived for our next visit, I noticed a newcomer—a large man dressed in a suit. He was introduced to us as the family’s minister, and he said he wanted to hear what we were telling the members of his congregation. His appearance intimidated me, so I quickly found my chair behind the stove.
My companion again began the discussion. This time, however, he was constantly interrupted by the minister, who challenged every point my companion made and tried to refute it with other scriptures. I was not able to contribute anything. When my companion finally finished, the minister stood and condemned us, saying that we were preaching the doctrine of the devil and that we should go back to Utah and ask the Lord to forgive us for deceiving these people.
I was shaken and confused. That night I slept little, but I made a clear, firm resolution. I had to find out if what I was teaching was the truth—for if it was not, I knew I could not spend two years doing work I did not really believe in.
The next day I began to earnestly read the Book of Mormon for the first time. I read every day, every chance I could get. For the first time, I got past 1 Nephi. I was engrossed in the story, in the trials of the Nephites and their wars with the Lamanites. I learned about Jacob, Enos, King Benjamin, Ammon, Alma, Mosiah, and other great prophets in the first half of the book.
Then I began reading the latter part of the book of Alma. I immersed myself in the discourse of Alma to his son Corianton. Then I read Alma’s discussion of the Atonement. I had never read anything so clear. It penetrated my mind and heart. It was as though the Spirit opened my mind to matters beyond my understanding. The laws of justice and mercy became clear, and I knew then, more than ever, that Jesus Christ was indeed the Redeemer of the world.
As I completed the Book of Mormon, I knew that the gospel of Jesus Christ that I was preaching was true, and I was proud to be a missionary for the Lord. The testimony I gained through the Book of Mormon has been a bulwark in my life ever since.

“We had one lesson at least every two months on preparing to go on a mission,” Elder Kolb said. “On the blackboard we’d list all the things you needed to do to get ready—preparing yourself physically, spiritually, and financially. I felt like my spiritual and physical preparations were okay, but not my financial. So at 15 I got a job planting trees, and I had that job for five years. I’ll be able to pay for my whole mission myself.”

May I digress a moment to relate an amusing experience we had a few years ago. Sister Nelson and I had the privilege of taking President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) and his wife to an activity. Our five-year-old son was with us. I asked him to tell President Kimball about the picture our son had on the wall of his bedroom. He dutifully replied, “It’s the temple.”
President Kimball, with his global perspective, asked, “Which temple?”
That completely stumped our little boy, with his limited perspective. He thought a minute and then replied, “Why, the marriage temple, of course.” President Kimball gave a broad smile.

PETER: At the age of ten, Joyce was sitting on a bus going home. From the bus, she could see a Chinese Temple with the burning of incense still visible from afar. The bus then stopped at an Indian temple that has a huge Roman Catholic Church as its peaceful neighbor. At the next stop, a Malay Mosque can be seen with its devout followers humbly kneeling on their knees, praying and the sound of Koran recitation can be heard over the loud speaker. When the bus turn the corner, a Methodist Church was insight, and it suddenly dawned on Joyce that Singapore was indeed a country of religious freedom. She then started to contemplate which religion she should commit herself into. Her parents were traditional Chinese praying to many idols. Joyce remembered one particular black-faced angry looking Chinese god dressed like a warrior holding a spear poised for an attack. She shuttered at the thought of worshipping such a scary god.

Then, a face appeared in her mind's eye, and she recognized it to be that of Jesus Christ. It seemed right at that time for her to become a Christian. So, she started going from one church to another desiring to find out how she could become totally committed to Jesus and live his gospel. She asked many gospel questions, but they were left unsatisfactorily answered. Later, she met the missionaries who told her that she was a child of a loving God, and that she did not have to believe what they said but to ask God himself if their message was true. Joyce was intrigued, could God literally answer every sincere prayer? She decided to try. And Heavenly Father did answer the questions of a twelve-year-old girl. When Joyce first stepped into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a powerful feeling came over her, and she knew that she was home, she did not have to go elsewhere to search for the truth. Later, when Joyce was attending an early morning seminary class, the Holy Spirit again overwhelmed her entire being, and she gained a spiritual witness that an important part of her life's mission was to share the gospel with her Chinese fellowmen in China when it would be officially opened for the restored gospel.

In the early days of the Church, missionaries traveled without purse or scrip. That means they did not take with them any money or other usual items. Instead, they depended upon the Lord to furnish them with food, a place to sleep, and clothes to wear.
While my father was on his mission, he always had a place to sleep and plenty of food to eat. Once, however, he was discouraged because of his shabby appearance and the condition of his clothes. He had walked so far that his shoes had worn through; he had torn his coat and trousers; his shirt was ragged and faded; and low-hanging tree branches had poked holes in his hat. He prayed as he had never prayed before for the Lord to somehow help him get new clothing.
Soon afterward my father arrived in the town that was the county seat. When he went to pick up his mail, he found three letters waiting for him, each containing money. He also met two or three individuals who gave him money. So he went to the store and purchased the things he needed. As the clerk totaled the purchases, the bill came to exactly the amount of money he had received. Father always said, “This was truly an answer to prayer.”

Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells the story of his father teaching him to set goals by sitting down with the children individually and offering help.

“I had the desire to engage in this practice with my children,” Elder Cook said. “When our son, Larry, was five years old, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to be a doctor like his Uncle Joe. …

“Several months later, I asked him again what he would like to be. This time he said he wanted to be an airline pilot. … I said, ‘Larry, last time we talked you wanted to be a doctor. What has changed your mind?’ He answered, ‘I still like the idea of being a doctor, but I have noticed that Uncle Joe works on Saturday mornings, and I wouldn’t want to miss Saturday Morning Cartoons.’

“Since that time our family has labeled a distraction from a worthwhile goal as a Saturday Morning Cartoon.

“What are some of the Saturday Morning Cartoons that distract us from attaining the joy that we desire? … If we examine the reasons we don’t do what we ought to do, we find that the list of Saturday Morning Cartoons is almost endless.”

Elder Cook’s teachings show us that we need to reflect on how we are doing, avoid distractions, and stay focused as we seek to achieve our goals.