Gospel Story Finder

I opened the door a little, but an enormous barrier divided us still. I stood back, away from her. I felt swollen and sore from so many tears, forever isolated by shame and disgrace, absolutely empty of any hope of future happiness. The girl at the front door was a numbing reminder of the most hateful part of all: that everyone knew.
But into my unyielding dimness, Karen spoke quietly. “Come back to school, Heather. No one will hold what your dad did against you.” That was all. I closed the door firmly without a word.
I listened to her walk away, my feelings unraveling with each footstep, my thoughts trailing backward.
My 13-year-old world fell apart when the local newspaper revealed, without feeling, the enormous surprise: Mr. David McPhie,* bookkeeper and owner of McPhie Accounting, was convicted of embezzlement and would serve his sentence in the jail across the river. It seemed so impossible, so comically bizarre. But it was so painfully real.
The subsequent events are unclear and without sequence to me now, obscured not only by time, but by the confusion and withdrawal I was feeling then. Dad was gone. He never said “I’m sorry I have destroyed you” or “I regret turning out to be a stranger you never really knew.” Mom was unreachable, struggling herself to cope. She offered no explanation of why this had happened or how to go on.
The sheriff came into our home. Everything of value was seized: records, books, furniture, the bed Dad had made me with the headboard shelf for pretty things, the piano. Mom and I slept on mattresses on the floor of one empty bedroom. Did we cook and eat? What activities filled the empty days? I can’t remember. Focused on my own grief in an intense and self-centered way, I clung to one determination: I would never go back to school.
I don’t know how many days I’d been away from school when Karen came. And I don’t know how many days it was after she came that I went back to school.
Karen was there for me when I went back, gentle, with no questions. And other friends I didn’t know I had were there, too: enough of them to elect me secretary of the student council; to teach a shy girl that if you are brave enough to smile first, others will smile back; to show me I could survive.
In the years that followed, our lives went different ways. My family was put back together. I learned to love my dad again. Then I moved miles away.
Through the rest of growing up, through high school and college and marriage and children and all the ups and downs in between, I’ve often thought about Karen. About a principal calling a few students into his office to show them a newspaper headline and to ask them how they could help. About one girl saying, “I’ll go.” About which way my life might have gone without that one pivotal act of reaching out.

Tragedy continued to follow Joseph F. in his childhood. Before his sixth birthday his father Hyrum and the Prophet Joseph were martyred in Carthage Jail. After his father’s death, Joseph F. helped his mother prepare for the trek west. Not yet ten years old, the boy drove two yoke of oxen from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley in the summer of 1848, a distance of over 1,000 miles. The journey was made even more difficult for the family since the captain of the train disapproved of Mary traveling without a husband, fearing that she would be a burden. But Mary was determined to ask for no special favors and promised that she would make the trip without his help and be the first to arrive in the valley. With fervent prayer and with the help of her young son, she kept that promise.

Someone occasionally says that there was so much of sacrifice in the early days of the Church, but there is no sacrifice today. The observer goes on to say that in pioneer days people were willing to lay their fortunes and even their lives on the altar. “What has happened to the spirit of consecration?” some of these ask. I should like to say with great emphasis that this spirit is still very much among us. I have discovered that no sacrifice is too great for faithful Latter-day Saints.

Only a week ago a man was recommended for a responsibility in a distant land. After I had checked out his worthiness and his capacity, I called him and talked with him. I wanted to know about his circumstances. I asked when he would be due for retirement from his employment. He indicated in about five years. I asked what leaving now would do to his future retirement income. He told me that it would mean a very substantial cut in that income. After going into this and other matters, I felt to excuse him.

He called back the next morning to tell me that he and his wife had discussed it, and they were ready to leave any time. He said they would not worry about the future, that they had faith to believe that a way would be opened to them to take care of their needs if they were willing to do that which the Lord asked of them. He went on to say that the Lord had been so good and generous to them and to their children that they would be willing to do anything to show their gratitude. They did not have a great abundance of the things of the world, but they had enough for their basic needs; and more importantly, they had the gospel of Jesus Christ and all of the blessings that flow therefrom.

Ray Hedgecock, 15, walked out of a stereo shop to get on his bike and head for home, then decided to go back in and look at some tapes. Moments later the lights went out, the ground began to rumble and shake, glass shattered out of windows, and stereos bounced off of shelves. The beam Ray was standing under protected him from falling light fixtures. Thirty-two seconds later, his bicycle was buried under a pile of bricks, the building across the street was ablaze with fire, and most of the buildings within four blocks were reduced to rubble. “All you could hear was the ground rumbling, it was so loud. There was so much dust you couldn’t even see across the street,” Ray recalled.

Samuel grew up in Cape Coast, Ghana, as a devoted Seventh-day Adventist. He knew of the Church through his friend Alexander Asare Duodu, a friend from his teenage years who would invite him to services and activities. The lifestyle and conduct of Alexander and others, such as Charles Amoah, Ernest Arko, Stephen Amoah, impressed him greatly, and he began to live his life in accord with those attributes. But whenever he was asked if he’d like to join the Church, which happened to him regularly, he always declined. He admits that part of the reason was fear of telling his mother, who was staunch in her beliefs. And he just wasn’t ready to make the commitment.
One day, after getting another invitation to be baptised, he decided to accept just so that he could be free of the constant invitations. His plan, however, was to just not show up on the day of the baptism. But when the day came, as he explained, he “failed to flee.” He was baptised by Elder Anthony M. Kaku and confirmed by Elder John K. Buah on December 13, 1986.

In earlier years the Brethren often reported their missions in general conference. I realize this is 2004, not 1904, but I wish to invoke the spirit of that earlier practice and reflect on some of the wonderful things Sister Holland and I are experiencing in Latin America. In doing so I hope to make general application to all of you, wherever you may live or serve.
First of all I would like to thank every missionary who has ever labored in this transcendent latter-day undertaking we have been given. The rolling forth of the restored gospel is a miracle in every sense of the word, and not the least of the miracle is that a significant portion of it rolls forward on the shoulders of 19-year-olds! As we have seen your sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters (and in some cases your parents and grandparents!) faithfully laboring in Chile, I have pictured the tens of thousands of others like them we have met all over the world. Clean, clear, bright-eyed missionaries, laboring two-by-two, have become a living symbol of this Church everywhere. They themselves are the first gospel message their investigators encounter—and what a message that is. Everyone knows who they are, and those of us who know them the best love them the most.
I wish you could meet the sister called to serve with us from her native Argentina. Wanting to do everything possible to finance her own mission, she sold her violin, her most prized and nearly sole earthly possession. She said simply, “God will bless me with another violin after I have blessed His children with the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
I wish you could meet the Chilean elder who, living without family in a boarding school, happened upon a Book of Mormon and started reading it that very evening. Reminiscent of Parley P. Pratt’s experience, he read insatiably—nonstop through the night. With the breaking of day, he was overwhelmed with a profound sense of peace and a new spirit of hope. He determined to find out where this book had come from and who had written its marvelous pages. Thirteen months later he was on a mission.
I wish you could meet the marvelous young man who came to us from Bolivia, arriving with no matching clothing and shoes three sizes too large for him. He was a little older because he was the sole breadwinner in his home, and it had taken some time to earn money for his mission. He raised chickens and sold the eggs door-to-door. Then, just as his call finally came, his widowed mother faced an emergency appendectomy. Our young friend gave every cent of the money he had earned for his mission to pay for his mother’s surgery and postoperative care, then quietly rounded up what used clothing he could from friends and arrived at the MTC in Santiago on schedule. I can assure you that his clothes now match, his shoes now fit, and both he and his mother are safe and sound, temporally as well as spiritually.
And so they come, from your homes all over the world. Included in such a long list of dedicated servants of the Lord is an increasing number of senior couples who make an indispensable contribution to the work. How we love and need couples in virtually every mission of this Church! Those of you who can, put away your golf clubs, don’t worry about the stock market, realize that your grandchildren will still be your grandchildren when you return—and go! We promise you the experience of a lifetime.
Let me say something of the marvelous members of the Church themselves. In the reorganization of a rather far-flung stake recently, I felt the Lord’s prompting to call a man to the stake presidency who, I had been told, owned a bicycle but no automobile. Many leaders across the Church don’t have cars, but I was nevertheless worried about what that might mean for this man in this particular stake. In my terminally ill Spanish I pursued the interview, then said, “Hermano, ¿no tiene un auto?” With a smile and not a second’s hesitation he replied, “No tengo un auto; pero yo tengo pies, yo tengo fe.” (“I do not have a car, but I do have feet and I do have faith.”) He then said he could ride the bus, ride his bicycle, or walk, “como los misioneros,” he smiled—“like the missionaries.” And so he does.
Just eight weeks ago I was holding a mission district conference on the island of Chiloé, an interior location in the south of Chile that gets few visitors. Imagine the responsibility I felt in addressing these beautiful people when it was pointed out to me that a very elderly man seated near the front of the chapel had set out on foot at five o’clock that morning, walking for four hours to be in his seat by nine o’clock for a meeting that was not scheduled to begin until eleven o’clock. He said he wanted to get a good seat. I looked into his eyes, thought of times in my life when I had been either too casual or too late, and thought of Jesus’s phrase, “I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel.”
The Punta Arenas Chile Stake is the Church’s southernmost stake anywhere on this planet, its outermost borders stretching toward Antarctica. Any stake farther south would have to be staffed by penguins. For the Punta Arenas Saints it is a 4,200-mile round-trip bus ride to the Santiago temple. For a husband and wife it can take up to 20 percent of an annual local income just for the transportation alone. Only 50 people can be accommodated on the bus, but for every excursion 250 others come out to hold a brief service with them the morning of their departure.
Pause for a minute and ask yourself when was the last time you stood on a cold, windswept parking lot adjacent to the Strait of Magellan just to sing with, pray for, and cheer on their way those who were going to the temple, hoping your savings would allow you to go next time? One hundred ten hours, 70 of those on dusty, bumpy, unfinished roads looping out through Argentina’s wild Patagonia. What does 110 hours on a bus feel like? I honestly don’t know, but I do know that some of us get nervous if we live more than 110 miles from a temple or if the services there take more than 110 minutes. While we are teaching the principle of tithing to, praying with, and building ever more temples for just such distant Latter-day Saints, perhaps the rest of us can do more to enjoy the blessings and wonder of the temple regularly when so many temples are increasingly within our reach.
And that leads me to my final point. For the Church at large, we have so many things to associate in our minds with the visionary ministry of President Gordon B. Hinckley, including (perhaps especially) the vast expansion of temples and temple building. But I dare say for those of us on this rostrum, it is likely that we will remember him at least as emphatically for his determination to retain in permanent activity the converts who join this Church. No modern prophet has addressed this issue more directly nor expected more from us in seeing that it happen. With a twinkle in his eye and a hand smacking the table in front of him, he said to the Twelve recently, “Brethren, when my life is finished and the final services are concluding, I am going to rise up as I go by, look each of you in the eye, and say, ‘How are we doing on retention?’”

The fulfillment of the Prophet’s statement came some months later when Dan Jones was called to go to Wales. His wife, Jane, accompanied him. They traveled with Wilford Woodruff and others to the British Isles. Elder Jones was assigned to labor in northern Wales. Though he had the great asset of speaking both Welsh and English, he accomplished relatively little in touching the hearts of the people of that area. On the other hand, William Henshaw, who did not speak the Welsh language, enjoyed considerable success in the south.

When Brother Henshaw was released a year later, Elder Jones was called to preside over all the work in Wales. He made his headquarters in Merthyr Tydfil in southeastern Wales. Working with a handful of missionaries, he witnessed a remarkable harvest. From 1845 to 1848, approximately 3,600 were baptized. It is estimated that in terms of population, one out of every 278 people in Wales at that time was baptized into the LDS Church.

Opponents of the Church had access to newspapers and other publications to attack the Mormon missionaries. But the press would not open its columns to Elder Jones. He therefore determined that he would answer with publications of his own. He enlisted the help of his brother, John Jones, a Protestant minister who owned a printing press. It is said that John printed Dan’s literature during the week and denounced him from the pulpit on Sunday.

Dan Jones’s publication was the first Mormon periodical published in a language other than English.2 Issued in 1846, it carried the title Prophwyd y Jubili (“Prophet of the Jubilee”).

We catch the spirit of his sometimes feisty manner in his opening article:
“Dear Reader,—Behold the beginning of a new era in our age, yea, the most remarkable which has ever been, the most wondrous in its preparations, the most goodly in its deeds, and the most glorious in its effects of every previous age. Once more the golden keys of heaven have been entrusted to men for them to open all treasures, to unlock all mysteries and for the clarification of all errors in the midst of mankind. Already the doors of eternity can be seen opening on their rusty hinges, its hidden pearls and the treasures old and new are once again starting to shine before the eyes of men as in the days of God! Let the inhabitants of the earth rejoice, and let every Welshman give a hearkening ear to the good news of great joy which is sounded through this last trumpet.”3

He had an interesting missionary technique. It was essentially one of controversy, a technique not fit for our time but used well by him then. He feared no one. He moved with great boldness. Of his method it has been written: “He would often advertise in a town for several weeks that he was coming to ‘convert’ the whole town. He would inform the mayor, the city council, the ministers, and the police force of his intentions. He would have the local members of the church distribute thousands of tracts to all the city. When he arrived at the railroad station he was often met by all of the officials of the city and many excited citizens.”4

Ministers of other churches lashed out against him. They used their pulpits and the public press. Of their antagonism, Dan Jones wrote, “Most of the stories that were told on poor Brother Joseph in America, are here fathered on Captain Jones, and I often hear those who don’t know that little man [himself], unhesitatingly denounce him as ‘a curse upon this nation.’”5

Public opinions raged this way and that. But instead of shrinking, Dan Jones capitalized on controversies. He drew such public attention that people had to decide whether the gospel of the Mormons was true or false. An increasing number of converts came into the Church while a veritable storm arose against the Mormons in general and Elder Jones in particular. He was vilified in the press. He was shouted at in the streets. His life was threatened.

In those circumstances he wrote, “I delight in the trophies of war. I came here to fight for the spiritual freedom of my brethren, and I thank heaven … that He is knocking off their shackles by hundreds! Who that has tasted of the sweets of liberty would say, ‘hold!’”6

When I was 12, I never dreamed that I would have to defend my belief in the Church. After all, I lived in a predominantly Latter-day Saint community, and most everyone I knew believed the same things I did. I didn’t anticipate the heated discussion I would have with my brother while he was on leave from his military duties. I wasn’t prepared to deal with the situation, and I finally left the room crying.
Since then, I’ve learned a lot about getting along with family members who don’t believe the same things I do. Here are some of the things that have helped me keep the peace without compromising my beliefs:
Remember courtesy. No matter where they stand on religious issues, it is important to treat all family members with kindness and love—serve them, communicate with them, and include them in family discussions and decisions.
Include family members in all family activities, even if those activities are Church related. For many years my brother refused to have anything to do with our religious activities, but now he wants to be invited to weddings, baby blessings, and other activities. Those with other beliefs still want to feel welcome, even if they don’t accept an invitation.
Use challenging questions to build your testimony. As hard as it was to answer my brother’s questions about the Church, I was determined to know for certain that what I had been taught was true. I studied the scriptures and asked my Church leaders and parents many questions until I gained a firm testimony of the gospel.
Do not avoid religious topics.Because the Church is so much a part of the life of a Latter-day Saint, avoiding the subject of religion may make family members feel as though you’re keeping secrets from them. In your conversations, include personal experiences that relate to the Church.
Seek to understand their point of view. I used to think my brother was always wrong, but when I started to look at things from his perspective, I was surprised. How would I feel if I couldn’t attend my little sister’s wedding? How would I feel if I didn’t understand some of the language my family members often used? If I were him, I might also sometimes react negatively to such things.
Take responsibility for mistakes. I used to argue with my brother or attack his beliefs. When I was finally mature enough to realize I was in the wrong, I apologized, and my relationship with my brother has never been better. You never need to apologize for your beliefs, just for actions that are not in keeping with the gospel.
Avoid contention. The Spirit will not stay where there is contention. If the Spirit is gone, opportunities for learning and growth are also gone.
Encourage those of other faiths in their own religious activities. Although we believe our Church to have the fulness of the gospel, many truths are taught in other churches. And where our views differ, we should still respect the religious views of others. Be as supportive of your family members’ righteous and wholesome religious activities as you want them to be of yours.
“Our adherence to these divinely given standards need never be an offensive thing to those about us. We need not contend with them. But if we will pursue a steady course, our very example will become the most effective argument we could ever make in favor of the virtues of the cause with which we are associated.”President Gordon B. Hinckley, “Contend Not with Others,” Tambuli, Nov. 1989, 4.

As a single mother of five children, I felt the heavy responsibility of providing for my family. I am a domestic worker, but my job does not provide enough for my family. I joined a self-reliance group so I could learn how to improve my situation.
I was inspired by the “Starting and Growing My Business” group and decided that I could sew and sell insulated bags for slow cookers. I would sew the bags late into the night after returning home from my day job.
I was working late one night on a large order that was due the next morning when my sewing machine stopped working. It was midnight, so no mechanics would be available to help. The machine came with a small tool kit, but I had never fixed a sewing machine before. I had no idea where to start.
Then the lesson in the My Foundation manual titled “Exercise Faith in Jesus Christ” came to my mind. At that time, I knew that I needed to put my trust in the Lord. I sank to my knees and pleaded: “Heavenly Father, please help me fix this machine so I can make the order for my customer to collect in the morning. Heavenly Father, help me!”
Then I had the distinct impression to take the screwdriver from the tool kit and use it to push on a particular part of the sewing machine. I did so, relying completely on my faith. I held my breath as I switched the machine back on. It worked!
I was able to meet the deadline for the order. I discovered what it’s like to have Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as business partners. I know I will continue to be blessed as I seek for opportunities to apply what I’ve learned in the self-reliance group.

Even though I had been attending a preschool for three years to help me with my speech problems, when I started kindergarten, my family, friends, and schoolteachers still had a hard time understanding what I was saying. My parents were concerned. My family fasted for me, and my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. My speech didn’t improve overnight, but by the middle of the school year my teacher, my family, and my friends could understand me better. Heavenly Father blessed me and the people who worked with me. I could finally bear my testimony. I still have to take speech classes and work hard, but I know Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

I really enjoy listening to the talks given during general conference. Last April, one of my favorites was Elder Gary E. Stevenson’s talk. He talked about the Holy Ghost and how He comforts us.
Elder Stevenson’s talk reminded me of when my little sister was diagnosed with Guillain-Barré syndrome. Her muscles got really weak, and she was in a lot of pain. She was in the hospital for a week for treatments. During those terrible days, I remembered being comforted by the Holy Ghost. When I would pray, I would hear Him say that she would be OK.
My sister had to learn how to walk again, but after a few months of physical therapy, she could walk and play like she used to. I was so glad to see her happy again. I am thankful to have the Holy Ghost always with me. Listening to general conference helps me understand more about the gospel and grow my testimony.

My best friend always used to say the Lord’s name in vain, and every time I heard her say it I felt bad. One night I decided to pray about it. The next day when I heard her say the Lord’s name in vain again, I told her that it wasn’t right and that I didn’t like it. That same day, she heard someone else using the Lord’s name in vain and said the same thing I had said to her. I have never heard her say the Lord’s name in vain again. This showed me that I can help lots of people by teaching just one. I am grateful that Heavenly Father helped me to tell my friend how I felt.

Life on a cattle ranch is both stressful and faith-building. One time they needed to plant oats to feed the cattle. Kache and the other ranch hands were ready to plant—there was just one problem. “It was really dry and hot and there was no rain for the oats.” Kache says. “My dad asked us to pray for rain. After a few days, we got that rain. The oats were able to grow, and we were able to have food for our cattle.”

Zack, a young man age nineteen, who is now in the Missionary Training Center, accompanied a truckload of food, clothing, etc., sent by our members in central Georgia to help the victims of the hurricane. As Zack was leaving, his mother gave him some Cabbage Patch and other treasured dolls from her prized collection. Zack took particular pleasure in distributing those dolls to solemn-eyed little girls whose other toys were all destroyed.

My military experience came after I had returned from a mission. My companions knew that I had been a missionary, which meant, to them, a minister. I remember lying in my tent, bunked next to a young fellow from Tennessee who would often look at me with a wondering expression. When I would ask him what was troubling him, he would say: “I can’t believe it. As I grew up through my childhood, ministers were people so highly respected that we hardly dared speak to them, and here I find myself sleeping next to one in this tent.”

As some of my companions engaged in practices that Latter-day Saints don’t think highly of, such as smoking or drinking, profanity or immorality, it was evident that they didn’t concern themselves about what the Lord would like them to do. When moments of stress came, however, their attitudes changed. I remember when one of these boys, who was not particularly impressed with the life of a former missionary, was scheduled for what was called an elimination flight, and he knew that if he failed the test that day, he would be eliminated from flying in the United States Air Force. He came to me in a very solemn mood and quietly said with tears in his eyes, “Bill, please pray for me. I need it.”

One day my instructor was giving an explanation to five of us in the ready room. In order to explain a certain maneuver, he went to the blackboard. Inasmuch as he was smoking a cigarette, he handed it to me to hold while he made the demonstration, and by this means I had the “privilege” of holding my first cigarette. After he had finished his demonstration at the blackboard, he took his cigarette back, and then he said, “Mr. Bangerter, I apologize for handing you my cigarette. I know you don’t smoke, do you?”

I said, “No, sir, I don’t.”

He said, “You don’t drink either, do you?”

I said, “No, sir.”

He asked, “Do you drink tea?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you drink coffee?”

“No, sir.” He turned to the other four students standing together and said, “Now, men, that’s the Word of Wisdom. We would all be much better off if we lived that way.” You can appreciate that I felt uplifted by that experience.

Another day I was riding in the airplane with my squadron commander. I was about 23 years old, and he was about 40. He was a man of fine manners and polite expression. After we had finished our flight and had landed the airplane, we were taxiing back to the parking area when another airplane came driving past in a way that my squadron commander did not appreciate. He looked over at the other pilot and said to me in a disgusted voice, “Where does that so-and-so think he is going!” And he uttered an oath. We parked the airplane and shut off the engine. As I climbed out, he turned to me and said, “Mr. Bangerter, I am sorry I spoke the way I did back there. I forgot for a moment it was you who was riding with me in the airplane.”

Of course, I realized throughout those years that I was considered different. Some people may have thought me strange. Those with whom I associated, however, frequently expressed admiration for the way I lived. I never found it necessary to break my standards, to remove my garments, or to apologize for being a Latter-day Saint. On more than one occasion during our training, my classmates gathered together for a farewell party or some other special event and had a dinner that, of course, was liberally supplied with liquor. Several of my companions would come to me before the dinner and ask me if I would please be so kind as to drive their car home for them because they would not be able to trust themselves at the conclusion of the party.

I can honestly say that no nonmember of the Church has ever tried to induce me to discard my standards. The only people I remember trying to coerce me to abandon my principles or who ridiculed me for my standards have been non-practicing members of the Church.

I know it is a blessing to stand up for the principles of truth and righteousness. People who value their character and their reputation will be honored to be of the chosen generation and to stand out as representatives of a peculiar and a noble people. I hope I may always find young people who are square. They are the solid kind, and their foundations are secure.

Not long ago, while riding in a plane, I talked with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another, and then came to the matter of religion. He said he had read considerably about the Mormons, had found much to admire, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith.

He was an active member of another religion, and when I asked where he had acquired his information about the LDS church, he indicated it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for IBM. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of IBM products from a Xerox representative. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point.”

I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which have interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith.

He saw and handled the plates of gold from which the Book of Mormon was translated and testified throughout his life to the truthfulness of that sacred book. His name remains firmly affixed, with those of the other witnesses to the Book of Mormon, in the front pages of that second witness of Jesus Christ. On one occasion he was imprisoned and told he would be released if he would deny the Book of Mormon. Not only did he not deny it, but he converted two persons during his thirty-day confinement.

The last few days had seemed almost like fall, the days when you want to grab a sweater. Today was no exception. The sun was bright yellow, and the refreshing cool breezes seemed out of place for August. But then again, I had felt out of place myself these past few days, as if a certain coolness had entered into my own life.
As I entered the small, dark bedroom my senses were filled with a medicinal odor. Adjusting to the dim light, I noticed the delicate lace curtains at the two long windows. I had always loved the feel of that crisp lace, but years had changed its crisp loveliness into a limp, but still elegant, fabric. On the opposite wall in an old oak bed rested the small form of my grandmother.
I walked hesitantly to her side and sat quietly on the bed. Her eyes opened, and a weary smile formed on her wrinkled face. As I lifted her small hand, I looked into her eyes. The eyes had once been crystal clear blue, but age and years of hard work had dulled their beauty. Those crystal blue eyes had caught the young Air Corps man’s fancy many years before. They were the eyes my grandfather had looked to for comfort and peace, the eyes he had seen the world out of the last few years of his life. Her eyes had beheld many seasons, many times of peace and comfort, and many of pain and tragedy.
Her cool hand clung to mine, and I gripped it tighter. Her hands were small yet strong. I looked at the contrast of our hands and felt her strength. Her hands were wrinkled, rough, and dark from the sun and age; mine were smooth, soft, and white. At first the sight displeased me. How could she have let her hands get so rough? My mind ran back to all the things she had done. With those small, seemingly frail hands she had lifted bales of hay, planted gardens, canned countless bottles of fruit, held children, braided hair, rubbed baby lambs to dryness, and quilted. Yet these same hands had also enjoyed the velvety touch of a rose petal, the smooth rich feeling of fine soil, and later felt the sharp pains of arthritis.
The sun hit on the old windowpanes and found its way into the room. It was a warm ray of sun, yet blinding to the eyes. As I moved to pull the blind, she clutched my hand tighter and then wearily pointed to the small robin in the flower box outside. She had always loved the simple things in life: the flight of a bird, the rain clouds of early summer, the sweet taste of freshly picked raspberries. Her life had been simple and unpretentious. She had no fine clothes or jewelry. But that didn’t matter to her. She had what she needed and cared about.
I suddenly became aware with a fear I had never known, that my grandmother was dying. I suppose I had thought about it, but the reality of it had not touched me before. Suddenly I realized I might never look into those eyes again, never again feel the touch of her hands. I had loved her for years, but only today did I really see my grandmother as she was—a beautiful, caring woman.
She noticed the tears in my eyes and patted my hand, forming the word no on her parched lips. She didn’t want me to feel sorry for her. I realized then that she was relieved. She had lived her life, and it had been a good one. But now it was coming to an end, and she would soon see Grandpa again. I kissed her gently on the cheek and walked away, glancing at the old lace curtains once again. They, like Grandma, had in their aging acquired a beauty all their own.

I love to read books that show temples from around the world. When I had a friend ask me about temples, I knew that my explanation wasn’t enough to help her understand. So I brought my books on temples and showed her what the temple is, the purpose of the temple, and how thankful we are to visit the temple. I decided to invite her to church on Sunday, where the missionaries and Sunday School teachers could help her learn more.
Jessica A., 18, Indonesia

“Two sandwiches? I want three! Gimme three!”
“Man, I can really use this. Thanks.”
“Hey sweetie! You’re kinda cute.”
“Can I take one home to my kid? We haven’t eaten in a while.”
“Peanut butter? I can’t eat this stuff. Ain’tcha got no cheese?”
Mark looked around in the tray for something that he thought was a cheese sandwich and handed it to the hungry man standing at the open side door of the big white van. Mark and three other priests from the Arlington Ward, McLean Stake, were distributing food as fast as they could to the needy and homeless of Washington, D.C. This was a service project a little out of the ordinary for the priests, one they wouldn’t soon forget.
The plan had sounded simple enough. They’d go to a charity kitchen called “Martha’s Table,” where food had been donated and prepared. They’d load a van, which was driven by another volunteer, then head out to give away the food at three prearranged locations.
Mark Wolthuis, 16, was to hand out sandwiches, fruit, and pastries. Taylor Holsinger, 16, would do the same thing. Gonzalo Vargas, 17, would be at the back of the truck, wearing yellow rubber gloves and ladling up hot vegetable soup. And Keith Haraguchi, 16, would pour drinks from big plastic coolers he’d set up outside the van.
A line about 50 people strong had already formed by the time the van pulled up to the first stop, a busy downtown street corner bordering a small square. The young men were surprised to see a business suit or two and several bicycle couriers in line. They were also surprised the first time they saw what they later understood to be standard operating procedure: People would stand in line, get their food, then go straight to the end of the line. By the time they got to the front of the line again, they had finished their first helpings and were ready for seconds.
The second stop was Lafayette Park, right across the street from the White House. There were even more eaters there, their numbers swollen by those who had run over from the last stop. While some tenderly fed their last sandwich crumbs to the pigeons, others were trying to cut in the line, and a fight erupted. The boys just kept on dispensing food.
The last stop was in a more residential neighborhood. Old brick apartment buildings surrounded a small park where the food was handed out. There some of the people stopped to chat, explaining that with rent and food costs so high, they couldn’t afford both. “Prices here are some of the highest in the country,” agreed Taylor.
Gonzalo turned the big soup kettle on its side, trying to ladle out the last drops of broth, and Keith poured his last drink. They loaded their equipment back in the truck for the final time and pulled away from the curb. One or two lone, shabby figures remained to pick through the discarded wrappers, hoping to find a crumb or two worth eating. On the way back to Arlington, after the van had been returned and the empty trays, pots, and coolers unloaded, the boys talked about what they’d learned from the experience. They had done their part to help the needy, but the needy had also helped them.
Taylor said it made him realize how important it is to work hard in school and to take advantage of the educational opportunities he has right now to prepare for future employment. “I don’t ever want to end up in the streets,” he said.
Keith learned about gratitude. Although the food they gave out was simple, he noted that many people were grateful for any little thing they could get. “A lot of people said thank you, and really meant it,” he said.
Some questions were raised in the boys’ minds, too. “Could this whole thing be kind of futile?” Taylor asked. “I mean, we feed them for not working. Why work when you can survive on handouts? Do you think, by giving them food, we’re making them lazy?”
“But what about the old people, and the ones who are sick?” asked Gonzalo. “There are some guys who really can’t take care of themselves.”
“Those are the ones we need to have shelters for, I guess,” said Taylor.
“It would be best to help some of the others find good jobs,” offered Mark.
The boys realized that they were dealing firsthand with a social situation that has no easy answers. They’d never know what the people they’d been helping had been through. All they could see was that there seemed to be an awful lot of people in need.”
“There was no way you could judge them, and no reason to,” said Gonzalo. “You just gave something to everybody.”
What Gonzalo said brought to mind the great speech King Benjamin gave in the Book of Mormon about helping the needy. He said: “Ye yourselves will succor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.
“Perhaps thou shalt say: The man has brought upon himself his misery; therefore I will stay my hand, and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just—
“But I say unto you, O man, whosoever doeth this the same hath great cause to repent. …
“For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have … ?
“And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, … O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another” (Mosiah 4:16–19, 21).
Somehow, the strange things the priests had seen didn’t matter as much as the good things they’d done. They’d been able to ease some of the pain, if only temporarily, for some people who were suffering. They knew they’d be back to do it again, and they knew they couldn’t judge the people they were helping.
Because, deep down inside, the seed of understanding had been planted that would teach them what was really meant when King Benjamin asked, “Are we not all beggars?”