Gospel Story Finder

From the back patio of my home in Hawaii, I could see the outdoor basketball court in the corner of the playground of Laie Elementary School. Lengthwise, the rough asphalt court was regulation size with standard ten-foot baskets at each end. Two shorter courts, each with lower eight-foot baskets, ran across its width.
Most afternoons, players of all ages, sizes, and colors jammed the court. But they didn’t play on the regulation baskets. They played on the eight-footers. With the shorter court and the lower standards, their fast breaks often ended in twisting two-handed slam dunks.
I wondered why so many kids would choose the lower hoops over the regulation ones, and this reason stood out: Who wouldn’t prefer a slam dunk over a jump shot?
I have to admit that I’ve played on that same court a few times myself, driving around my ten-year-old son to swoop down on the low basket with a rim-rattling dunk. Jonathan would be duly impressed by my leaping ability. And for a fleeting moment playing above the rim made me feel a little like Shaquille O’Neal or Patrick Ewing.
It was a good feeling.
But then we’d move to the ten-foot hoops, and I became a grounded bird; the rim seemed miles over my head, far, far out of range. All my shots would be off, ricocheting from the rim in weird angles. I’d have to play on the regular baskets for quite a while to get my shooting eye back. But no matter how much I played on the regulation hoops, I never did feel like an NBA giant. I just felt like a regular guy, hoping a combination of luck, wind currents, and my aim would guide the ball through the hoop.
Even though it was a blast skying over the eight-foot baskets to stuff in shots or snatch rebounds right off the rim, playing on the lower standards always hurt my ability to play on the standard baskets. Eventually, I wised up. Whenever Jonathan managed to get me to shoot around with him at the school court, I ignored the lower baskets, knowing that even though they might be fun, in the long run, they wouldn’t do my meager basketball skills a bit of good.
The funny thing is, I’ve known that since junior high school. I can still remember our coach warning us against playing on eight-foot baskets. “The game you guys are preparing for uses ten-foot standards. The lower baskets will only foul you up. So don’t you mess with them.” And if he ever caught any of us playing a lunchtime game on the low baskets, we’d get extra running at practice as a reminder of what was good for us.

What if I left? When I first moved here, there were only two other young women in my branch. We became friends and I got to know them very well. But they stopped going to church.
One time when I went to the temple, I saw the mission president. I told him about my friends and asked what I could do to help them return to the Church. He told me to stay where I was, be strong, and pray for them.
Soon after that, I saw one of the girls, and I was so happy to see her. When I returned home that night, I prayed and felt strongly that I definitely needed to stay right where I was and keep going to church, keep going to seminary, and keep being an example to my friends. What if I left and never came back and one of my friends returned to church? Who would be their friend and help them return?
Things are easier when we do them together.
Alyona, Kharkiv Oblast, Ukraine

Like big, black feet, the truck’s tires trampled the asphalt, bouncing thunder off a stone wall across the street. At the bottom of the hill, a yellow light flashed in warning, and the truck’s brakes squealed. In response to a glaring red “Stop!” the truck then paused, trembling—almost sweating. At the first flicker of green it lurched on, slowly building speed again.
Standing on a Tokyo street corner where a group of young Latter-day Saints was gathering, watching—and listening—to the traffic, it was quickly becoming clear that this would not be one of the quietest places to talk. Even though the group was gathering in one of the calmer parts of the city, there isn’t any street in Tokyo where there isn’t traffic, more or less constantly, even on a Saturday afternoon. The street next to the Tokyo Temple was no exception.
Next came the whine. Low pitched at first, like a whisper. Then higher in vibrato, intensity, and volume. Whine, whine, whine, pause. Whine, whine, whine, pause. WHINE, WHINE, WHINE, WHIIIIIIIINE. Slick around the corner, slicing air like a sprinting cheetah—motorcycle.
The tape recorder’s level indicator jumped hard enough to bend the needle. Great. A dozen Young Men and Young Women from stakes all over Tokyo just beginning to show up for interviews, and all the microphone would register would be trucks and motorcycles.
One of the young men standing nearby, an early arriver, had been watching my growing frustration with the noise. He approached another member who was acting as an interpreter. He bowed, then quietly said something. The interpreter turned to me and also bowed.
“He suggests that perhaps it’s too noisy out here in the street,” she translated. “Maybe you would care to go to Arisugawa Park?”
We only had to walk down the hill and around the corner to the entrance, and the entire group was happy to stroll through the gardens looking at flowers, trees, and young boys fishing from bridges spanning a man-made pond. Above the foliage the temple tower shone white and gold, as though its spire marked the most important building in the land. And of course the park was serene, a perfect place to chat and share ideas.
Relocating the interviews seemed like a minor incident at the time, but the members’ actions typified two traits common in Japan: the ability to sense the needs of others and put them at ease, and the ability to find a quiet place amid the rush, a skill the Japanese have developed through generations of seeking tranquility in crowded circumstances.

On Friday, 19 August 1988, I was at my job as a police officer in the Río Ceballos district office, near Córdoba, Argentina. At about 9:30 that morning, I received a telephone call from the nurse at the community health center, asking for assistance. We often got such calls, since we operated one of the few ambulances in the area.
The nurse told me that in the health center there was a five-month-old baby with a case of extreme dehydration. She required an urgent transfer to the children’s hospital in Córdoba, where the equipment necessary to treat her would be available. The ambulance driver and I were quickly on our way, and we soon had the baby and her mother in the ambulance. The baby was scared and crying; she had a fever and was hyperventilating. Her eyes were wide open, and her little face showed that she was in great pain.
From Río Ceballos to the hospital in Córdoba is a distance of forty kilometers. We had gone about fifteen when steam and boiling water began to shoot out from under the hood. A red light came on inside the cab, and the temperature gauge showed overheating. This couldn’t be happening! We had just had the ambulance checked over. But we had no choice other than to stop at the side of the road and carefully open the hood.
The hose that connected the radiator to the motor was leaking in several places and was about to burst. “We can’t go any farther,” said Oscar, my companion. “If we had gone just a few more meters, the ambulance would have broken down completely.” Feeling helpless, he hit the roof of the ambulance.
My mind raced as I tried to think of a solution. We didn’t have a radio, and there were no other cars on the road that we could signal for help. All around us, there were only abandoned fields. Meanwhile, the baby was getting worse.
Finally, I told Oscar that we had to continue as far as we could and see if we could get to a place where we could get help. “We should trust in God and have faith that we will arrive,” I said.
Oscar hesitated. If we went any farther, the hose might explode, and we would never get there. If we waited a little longer, the engine might have time to cool down. But the baby was getting steadily worse. Again, I told him, “Oscar, we should trust in God. He will help us get to the hospital.”
I also encouraged the mother and her baby. As I spoke, I felt someone telling me that if we didn’t lose hope, we would arrive in time to save the baby. With determination and confidence, I said, “We will make it.”
We started the motor and moved on. The gauge didn’t show such a high temperature now, and we continued our journey. Steam was no longer coming out from under the hood. Cautiously we drove on. After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the hospital.
The doctor who attended the baby told us, “If you had taken any longer, she may not have arrived here alive. She was in worse shape than we thought.”
How grateful I was that our Father in Heaven had helped us arrive in time! I knew that He had been with us the whole way there.
As we returned to Río Ceballos, we discussed what had happened. Oscar said, “That was incredible. I didn’t think we would make it.”
I told him we had witnessed a miracle. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded his head in agreement. “I was praying the whole way there that God would help us,” I told him.
“So was I,” he confessed. “It was the first time I had ever prayed so much. God helped us to arrive. Only He could have done it.”
Later, as I was meditating about what had happened and reading the scriptures, I found this passage in the Bible:
“The apostles said unto the Lord, Increase our faith.
“And the Lord said, If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye might say unto this sycamine tree, Be thou plucked up by the root, and be thou planted in the sea; and it should obey you” (Luke 17:5–6).

Five young brides dressed in white joined arms on the stage. The narrator spoke: “Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubles.
“Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.” (Prov. 31:10, 25.)
The scene was the finale to a special fashion show at a mother-daughter seminar sponsored by the Davenport Iowa Stake. The show included many humorous and inappropriate examples of dress as well as appropriate examples. “Many commented afterward that no talk could have put across the message of propriety in dress more effectively,” said Suzanne Romans, stake Young Women president.
The seminar was designed to bring mothers and daughters closer together and to help them both to understand the Young Women program better. The two-fold theme, “Lollipops and Lipstick,” represented lollipops for young girls and lipstick for mothers, also suggesting the little girl and mature woman in each.
The afternoon began with a special musical number performed by the Frogley family, followed by an entertaining talk on communication given by Sister Jackie Sumner and her daughter Kristy. In addition to the fashion show, each mother and daughter attended classes on the personal progress program and personality development and were given special folders in which they could put the handouts from each class.
by Karla Erickson

My sister Rylee is allergic to nuts. If she eats any, they can make her stop breathing. One night we ate some salt water taffy, not knowing that some of the pieces had nuts in them. Rylee’s mouth started burning. Mom gave her some medicine, but it didn’t help. Next, Rylee’s throat started to burn, and she couldn’t swallow. Then her chest started to burn. It soon became hard for her to breathe.
Dad was out of town, so he wasn’t around to give her a blessing. Mom decided to call 911. The operator told her to stay on the phone until the paramedics arrived.
My sisters Kelsey and Haley and I were really worried about Rylee. We knelt on the kitchen floor and said a prayer asking Heavenly Father not to let Rylee die. Soon the paramedics arrived, but Rylee was already doing better. Mom was really surprised at her recovery.
Later, after everyone had left, we told Mom about our prayer and asked if she thought it had helped. She told us that it was probably the reason why Rylee was all right. I am grateful that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers.Mason Cate, age 4, with help from his familyLayton, Utah

“Shucks, Wendy! I’m not doing anything to your silly flower. I’m just talking to it.”
“Well stop it, Peter!” Wendy warned.
Peter liked to talk to Wendy’s flower. One day Mother told him that flowers were happiest when people talked to them. So whenever Wendy was at school Peter talked and sang to the flower on her dresser.
Wendy’s teacher had given everyone in her class a little package of seeds and a jar of dirt. Wendy planted the seeds and after a long time, green shoots pushed up through the dirt and grew and grew until the leaves of a tiny plant popped open. Now there was also a little yellow flower on the end of the longest stem. Wendy was happy about her flower and protected it fiercely from anyone who came near.
“There’s no need to scold, Wendy,” Mother said. “You know that Peter won’t hurt your flower. Flowers grow better when they receive attention. Look how much it has grown already! Soon you’ll have to move the flower outside so it can have more room for its roots to spread out.”
The next morning Peter went back to Wendy’s room. He walked over to Wendy’s dresser and spoke softly, “Hello, Flower. Are you really too big for your jar? Do you want to move outside?” The flower didn’t answer, so Peter pretended that he was the flower answering: “Yes, Peter, I do need some more room so my roots can stretch out.”
Peter carefully picked up the jar. He carried it in both hands through the house and out into the backyard.
Then he sat down on the step to think. Wendy will be happy when she sees that I moved her flower, Peter thought. But where will I put it?
He looked for a place all over the yard—by the fence, by the swings, by the picnic table, even by the garbage cans. Then in the corner of the yard he spied a small pile of sand where he played with his bulldozer and dump trucks.
“There’s just the right place for you, Flower!” he said happily, as he headed for the sandpile.
While Peter was scooping out a hole in the sand, he found a little green car that had been lost. “There you are,” he said to his toy. “I guess I buried you and then I forgot to dig you up again.”
When Peter thought the hole was deep enough, he sat down beside the jar and tried to pull the flower out. But the roots were tangled up in the dirt, so Peter had to pry them out with his fingers. Some of the root hairs broke off. He put the flower in the hole and filled in sand around it.
Just as he went to fill the jar with water for the flower, it started to rain. With all this rain, I guess the flower doesn’t need any more water, Peter thought, and he went back into the house to wait for Wendy.
Wendy always watered her flower as soon as she came home from school. That was one job her mother never had to remind her to do. But when Wendy walked into her room after school that day, the flower was gone!
“MOTHER! My flower is gone!” Wendy cried as she ran into the kitchen.
“Now, Wendy, where would your flower go? Nobody has been here all day except Peter and me,” Mother said.
Just then Wendy turned around and saw Peter holding the empty jar in his hand. “Where is my flower? I told you not to touch it!” she declared angrily.
“Come and see,” he said excitedly. Mother and Wendy followed Peter outside.
He led them to the sandpile and proudly pointed to the little hump of sand where he had planted the flower. “See, Wendy, I moved your flower out here so it could have more room,” he said.
They all stood there, looking at it, but something was wrong. All the leaves were folded together and the head of the flower was drooping down to the ground.
Suddenly Peter was worried. He knelt down on the sand and tried to fix the flower so it would stand up straight. But it just kept flopping over again. His big eyes were filled with tears as he looked helplessly at Wendy and Mother. Then Wendy began to realize how much the flower really meant to her little brother. He feels even worse than I do, she decided and went over and knelt down beside him.
“Peter,” she comforted, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt the flower. You were only trying to help. Tomorrow we can get some more seeds and plant some flowers that we can take care of together.”

As Sister Simpson and I walked along lower Queen Street in Auckland, New Zealand, the other day, we came to a particular place not far from the wharf. There we paused for a few moments as I related to her the incident that took place at that very spot during my first mission.
I could still see in my mind’s eye a very old Maori couple who stood at the curb with thousands of others waving farewell to the Maori Battalion as they marched down to their troop transport and off to war.
The old couple became very excited as one young soldier glanced their way with a big smile. From their Maori conversation, it became apparent that this was their great-grandson going off to war.
His would be an atomic war with sophisticated equipment capable of killing by the thousands—so unlike the Maori wars of the late 1800s that the old Maori had participated in as a young tribal warrior.
Soon the boy was gone from view, and it was then that the old man turned to his wife and said (perhaps a little cynically), “Katahi kua pakeha tatou,” which in effect means, “So now we are civilized.”

How could a young man from Chatsworth, South Africa, support himself and create a future with only fourteen rand in his pocket? That was the dilemma facing Mervyn Pillay when he returned home a number of years ago after serving a mission in Johannesburg.
“When I came home . . . I said to myself, ‘How am I going to make it with R14?’ . . . but I talked to myself and said, ‘The Lord will bless you as you do what He wants you do.’”1
Soon after this, Mervyn bought one bottle of nail polish with his very limited cash. He went to the market and sold it for a profit. That was the beginning of a business, and soon he was selling more and more nail polish—in the market and door-to-door. Being self-reliant, he had gained some knowledge in repair work, so as he walked door-to-door, he also asked if homeowners had appliances in need of repair and found additional work—and income—that way.
At one home, Mervyn met a man who turned out to be the maker of the brand of nail polish he was selling. When he learned that Mervyn was a savvy salesman who could also make repairs for him, he invited him in and saying, “You can repair my stove.” Then he asked, “And could you also sell this nail polish for me?”
Having learned how to work hard as a missionary, Mervyn energetically applied himself to his new job and, over time, sold about three million bottles of nail polish.
“I bought my home and I started . . . an electrical business and . . . a cosmetics business, and the business has boomed.”2
Many years later Mervyn still runs both businesses and says, “I just know that if I pay my tithes, then Heavenly Father is going to bless me.”
The self-made businessman Mervyn Pillay has gone on to indeed bless the lives of many others, including his family, his employees, and those he has served as a branch president and bishop.

Years ago, I befriended a group of young men in Boston. While my initial connection to these youth came from a Church calling, the relationships quickly grew to the point where I saw them the way the Lord saw them, and I grew to love them as if they were my family. And, like I would with my own children, I began to counsel and teach them things as a father would. That meant our conversations went far beyond requests to participate in stake activities or attend church. A desire grew in me to teach them so the gospel would sink deep into their hearts. Our conversations expanded to include plans for missions, how to be an effective missionary, college preparation, the importance of marriage, and early careers.
Here is a picture of three of those young men when they were later students at BYU-Idaho and I was visiting as a guest of the university. In that setting, on that day, in this very auditorium, I shared with them counsel about how to succeed at BYU-Idaho and how to become who the Lord wanted them to become.
...
Here is a picture of some of those youth from Boston when they came to our inauguration last year. Most of them are or will be graduates of BYU-Idaho. Many of them have been married in the temple and are starting productive careers and beautiful families. Not all of their lives have been perfect or easy, but they are trying to do their best. I hope they all know they are children of promise.

Jeremy Miller is a lively, 18-year-old priest in La Habra, California, but because of a car accident when he was three, he is also a quadriplegic—paralyzed from the neck down.
Constant care is required for Jeremy. He must have a nurse, a family member, or knowledgeable friend with him at all times. He is usually attached to a small respirator and can move only by maneuvering his wheelchair with a device he activates with his chin. But Jeremy is far from helpless.
As a matter of fact, Jeremy is constantly involved in helping others. And his efforts are not confined to the southern California community where he lives—they’ve even reached overseas. “It’s a blast doing things for other people,” he says in his deep, enthusiastic voice. “It’s just so great!”
Jeremy’s latest endeavor will help thousands see. For his recently completed Eagle service project, Jeremy was responsible for collecting over 2,000 pairs of used glasses to send to an optometry school, which would then catalog them and send them to Central and South America.
Many are surprised that Jeremy is involved in Scouting at all, but it’s a family tradition he refuses to break. His three older brothers earned the rank of Eagle Scout. It hasn’t been easy for Jeremy to work on all his merit badges, and it’s required quite a bit of help from those around him. But everyone involved agrees it’s worthwhile.
“I love Scouting,” says Jeremy. “Besides, it saved my life.” When the car struck Jeremy, his older brother Russell used the life saving techniques he’d learned in Scouting to keep Jeremy breathing until he got professional care.
But just as Jeremy helped many people with his Eagle project, many helped Jeremy complete it. Jeremy created over 3,000 flyers, which the Scouts in his troop helped deliver. Soon both local and national papers picked up the story, and Jeremy was receiving glasses from all over the country. The Los Angeles Temple sent a box of glasses left by patrons over the years, and a car rental company sent a crateful of glasses that had been left in their cars. Encouraging letters accompanied many of the offerings.
“It was so great hearing from all those people,” Jeremy says. “I can’t believe so many would respond. Every time the doorbell rang, Dad would look at me and say, ‘More glasses!’”
“It just shows you that you can do anything if you put your mind to it,” Jeremy says, and then thinks a minute. “Well, maybe not anything. I’d really like to go scuba diving someday, but of course that’s impossible. Still, there are a lot of things I haven’t done yet that I plan on doing.”
Jeremy recently graduated from high school with a 4.0 grade point. His classmates there were always eager to lend a hand, and the school even tried to accommodate his special needs by acquiring a voice-activated computer. “My friends are really supportive,” Jeremy says. “It’s awesome.”
And Jeremy, in his own way, has given something back. At an awards banquet, where the top 100 students were honored, Jeremy received a special award and as it was presented, it was pointed out that Jeremy had provided a great experience for the student body. Not only had he given them an opportunity to extend themselves in service, but he’d provided an incredible example of tenacity, courage, and high spirits.
Ward members have been extremely supportive of Jeremy as well, and in return he serves as the first assistant in the priests quorum. He makes innumerable phone calls, takes his turn conducting Bishop’s Youth Committee meetings, and carries out most of the responsibilities his position requires, but there’s one thing he is still working on. “My goal is to bless the sacrament,” Jeremy says. “Now it’s set up so I can’t get up the stairs to where they bless it. The wheelchair is a problem, but we’ll get around that somehow.”
When Jeremy is not doing schoolwork, church work, or socializing with his friends, you might catch him involved in another rather surprising activity. Jeremy is a painter. His mother, an accomplished artist herself, has been a tremendous help and inspiration to him in this area and many others. With his canvas propped up in front of him, he holds the brush with his teeth and produces some impressive artwork. His favorite subjects are birds, but he created a Christmas scene that the Make-A-Wish Foundation used on their annual Christmas card. Make-A-Wish had previously helped Jeremy by making his lifelong dream of visiting Hawaii come true. By letting them use his painting, he was able to help them in return.
Jeremy is now trying to prepare himself so he won’t be completely dependent on his parents in the future and will have the power to give a little back to them as well. He’s involved in a two-year program that will teach him more about computers and enable him to take an active part in the computer industry. He already works part-time using a mouth stick to type tests into computers.
The Book of Mormon has also done a lot for Jeremy’s life. “It teaches me things I don’t know. One of the neatest things I’ve learned from it is how to get along with family and friends.” Jeremy would like to share the Book of Mormon on a full-time mission, but for health reasons, he probably won’t be able to serve in the traditional way. He’s always eager to tell about the goodness of the gospel, though, and many have heard his testimony.
That testimony includes a major helping of gratitude—for his life, which is a miracle in itself, and for the helpfulness of those around him. People feel good around Jeremy. They like to help him. In return, Jeremy does his best to see that what comes around goes around.
As the New Era went to press, we received word that Jeremy passed away. He did achieve his goal of blessing the sacrament before he died.

One-hundred-and-fifty youth from the New Orleans and Baton Rouge stakes in Louisiana volunteered for three days at a youth program for a national spina bifida conference in New Orleans. While their parents were in classes, the children and teens with spina bifida were entertained by the Louisiana youth. They played games, read, did puppet shows, danced, and just chatted. Spending one-on-one time with the children and teenagers was challenging for the LDS youth at first, but by the end of their youth conference the youth realized that although they were setting a good example by serving, those they served were the real shining examples.

“Are you going to paint this Saturday?” has been the familiar question among many college youth in Las Vegas, where they have painted the inside and outside of a church built by the Afro-Methodist Episcopal Church whose members were having trouble getting the building finished. The congregation lacked funds. The Student Association of Las Vegas Region pitched in and raised $4,000, in addition to painting the building. Under the direction of priesthood leader James Seastrand, president of the Las Vegas North Stake, and Reverend Charles Wyatt, the project got under way. It was a great time of togetherness, with the Relief Society and the ladies of the Afro-Methodist congregation providing lunch each workday. Funds were raised through dances, bake sales, car washes, and concerts. “The unity among the students and with people of another race was something wonderful to behold,” said Shauna Rollins, vice-chairman of one M Men-Gleaner Council in the area.

My mind went back to a time when I doubted my self-worth and usefulness. I had been feeling a bit restless and perhaps even a bit discontented with my church calling. For many years I had served in various music positions. I loved these callings, and I always tried to do my very best in them. Yet there came a point when I began to feel as though I was in a rut, stuck on the very bottom rung of the “Church-calling ladder.” Other women seemed to float in and out of what appeared to me to be more important callings—serving first as Primary president, then as Gospel Doctrine teacher, then as a counselor in the Relief Society. I wondered what was wrong with me, what the flaw was in my character that the bishop did not feel I was capable of doing anything beyond music, why he felt I could not be trusted with “more.”

Then something said one day in a sacrament meeting caught my attention and humbled me to the core. The speaker, a middle-aged gentleman, had not held any “high-profile” positions in the ward for as long as I had known him. Yet he was steady and true. I knew first-hand of his second-mile efforts as a home teacher, of his behind-the-scenes work with the Scouting program, of his good heart. He began his remarks that day with the phrase, “How grateful I am for the opportunity to serve . . . .” I did not hear anything else he said. The words “how grateful I am” kept ringing in my ears. I felt ashamed of my attitude, ashamed for not having been grateful for the opportunity to serve.

This man was not worried about status or titles; he was sincerely grateful to serve in whatever capacity he was called.

As an introduction to a third choice, I now relate a personal experience about others who set a path for me to follow. I attended graduate school at Indiana University. My first day in an economics class was with a well-known professor who had the reputation of being tough, demanding, and, for a number of other reasons, was somewhat feared. As this was the first day in his class, he asked each of us to stand and introduce ourselves, giving our name and the university we graduated from. When it was my turn, I gave my name and said I had just graduated from Brigham Young University.

The professor stopped the introductions and said something like this, "It is wonderful to have another great student from Brigham Young University in this class." Now, he did not say this about the very capable students from Indiana, Minnesota, Harvard, or other respected universities. He then asked, "Do you know 'so and so' from BYU?" I knew him. He went on, "Do you know 'so and so' from BYU?" I knew him. Then he named others, some of whom I knew and others I did not. Then he said they had all been outstanding students and great examples.

As I savored the undeserved limelight for those few moments, I was grateful for a string of LDS students who had preceded me at Indiana University. I was grateful for the impressions and influence these students had made on the life of this professor and probably others. I was determined not to mar the reputation of myself or those who had left such a legacy of example. This legacy was a motivation to me throughout my schooling at Indiana and my professional life. These accolades came because of a value system reflected in the lives of the students, a value system based upon the principles and doctrines of the gospel, a value system included and taught in the curriculum of BYU. At Indiana, I was grateful for the footprints that had been left and the candles that had been lit. You also can leave footprints and light candles.

A few months later I decided to continue my thesis research by visiting the famous genealogical facilities in Salt Lake City. I arrived in Utah the day before President Joseph Fielding Smith’s funeral, and I went to the public viewing with an LDS girl I had corresponded with while I was in France. I was impressed by the lack of despair at the services.
During this time, the photographer I met in Paris returned to Salt Lake City, and we became reacquainted. I asked him to help proofread my thesis, and as time went on, he noticed my comments in the thesis becoming more and more positive—starting with “the Mormons believe …” and later expressing, without my realizing it, “We believe …”
One evening, he asked if I would like to take the missionary lessons. I hesitated and gave my former response, “I’m only curious.” But there was less certainty in my voice, so he suggested, “What have you got to lose?”
I smiled and said, “Well, nothing, I guess. OK.” Three weeks later, I was baptized, and the wagon wheels turned again as I became a pioneer myself—the only member of the Church in my family. Soon I would be privileged to give many of my ancestors the opportunity to choose to become members of the Church of Jesus Christ.
A year and a half after my baptism, the photographer and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Little did he know when he met me how the wagon wheels shown in a French documentary would affect his life.

This treatment of Mormons—Latter-day Saints like Mitt Romney and Bryan Hall—by many who claim to be followers of Christ, along with the sometimes violent treatment from those who oppose your church for your strong defense of traditional marriage, prompted me, as an evangelical Christian, to try to inspire a national dialogue about civility.
Also, though I disagreed with then Senator Obama on many things, I found myself, even as a political conservative, being troubled by the way many people were treating him—ways I also didn’t think were Christlike.
So I decided to launch a civility project. I bought the appropriate domain addresses and began to develop a plan and a website. I wrote a simple three-point pledge, which I thought anyone in this country could agree to, regardless of political or religious affiliation. It read as follows:
1. I will be civil in my public discourse and behavior.
2. I will be respectful of others, whether or not I agree with them.
3. I will stand against incivility where and when I see it.
As I prepared to launch this project following the contentious 2008 election, I decided I needed a liberal counterpart. I didn’t want this effort to look like a conservative was lecturing the left on incivility, especially since there was so much incivility within my own ranks. So I reached out to a most unlikely person.
Lanny Davis was the White House counsel at the end of President Clinton’s second term. He is a self-described liberal and a democratic power broker. Lanny is also Jewish.
I didn’t know Lanny at this point, but I had written him a letter some six months earlier. As an avid supporter of Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign, Lanny was on television quite a bit during the primary season. Whenever I saw him on TV, I found myself saying, “Now there’s a liberal I really like.”
You see, Lanny was always respectful of his adversaries. He didn’t interrupt or raise his voice. He didn’t attack on a personal level or on motive—only on policy. So as Hillary Clinton was ending her campaign, I sat down and wrote a letter to Lanny at his law firm in Washington, DC. It began this way: “Dear Lanny, I am an evangelical and a conservative Republican who has spent the past year trying to get Mitt Romney elected president, and I suspect that, politically, you and I may have nothing in common.”
I went on to commend him for his civility in the public square and to encourage him after a hard-fought campaign. We had no further contact for six months, until I sent him an email late one night reminding him of my letter and telling him I was starting a civility project.
“Could I come to DC and get your thoughts on it?” I asked.
At 4:36 the next morning I received an email I will never forget. “Mark, I’d be honored to meet you,” it said. “Your letter sits in a frame on a bookshelf in my office. Call my assistant and set it up.”
When I went to see Lanny the next month, he was on a call in his office but motioned for me to come in. While he finished his call I surveyed his walls, covered with framed notes and photos of Lanny with members of Congress, a secretary of state, and several presidents, including one of him and his 10-year-old son with President Bush on Air Force One. And there, displayed on his bookshelf, was my letter.
Lanny hung up the phone, pointed to the bookshelf, and said, “That’s the nicest letter I’ve ever received.”
Lanny Davis and I were, by any assessment, a political odd couple. But, thanks to a simple letter with a civil and respectful tone, we became fast friends. He offered his full help, and on the eve of the inauguration of Barack Obama we launched the Civility Project with an op-ed we wrote together for the Washington Times.
For two years we promoted civility through our website and through national media and various speaking opportunities—opportunities that took me to places like the National Press Club in Washington, a synagogue in Houston, and the West Wing of the White House.
In the summer of 2010, anticipating an ugly midterm election cycle, we sent a letter to every member of Congress and every sitting governor asking them to sign this simple pledge. Six months later, just three—three out of 585—had done so. One of your recent forum speakers, Senator Joseph Lieberman, was joined by two Congressmen.
I dissolved the project a year ago after concluding I wasn’t able to devote the time and attention it deserved. Days later, Arizona Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords was shot at a political event, and the national debate about civility erupted once again.

Kevin watched as his older brother and sister got ready to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. Kevin wanted to go too.
Dad, can I go?
You’re not old enough yet, but I’m glad that you want to go. When you turn 12, you can go too.
Kevin helped his sister pack her bag. Then he helped his brother pick out a tie.
They left, and Kevin stayed home with Mom and his baby sister, Erin.
When Erin cried, Kevin gave her a teddy bear.
I know Heavenly Father is happy with the way you are serving Him today.
But I didn’t go to the temple.
Yes, but you helped your brother and sister get ready. And you are helping me take care of Erin.
When you help other people, you serve Heavenly Father.

1 Joseph Smith’s younger brother Samuel was the third person baptized into the restored Church. Two months after the Church was organized in 1830, he was set apart by the Prophet Joseph as the Church’s first formal missionary.
2 Samuel was anxious to share the gospel and to tell people about the Book of Mormon. But when he tried to sell copies of it to them, only a few wanted to buy it.
3 Many people were unkind to Samuel while he was on his mission. Often he went hungry and had to sleep outside.
4 Samuel did sell a Book of Mormon to Phineas Young. After Phineas read the Book of Mormon, he gave it to his brother Brigham to read.
5 Brigham Young read the Book of Mormon and believed that it was true. After studying the gospel of Jesus Christ, Brigham and Phineas told their friends about the Book of Mormon. Several of their friends read the book and joined the Church along with Brigham and Phineas.
6 Later Brigham Young became a prophet and a great leader. He helped the Saints to move across the prairies and mountains and to colonize the West.
7 Samuel Smith returned home from his first mission discouraged and disappointed. He didn’t know that because of his missionary efforts, Brigham Young and many other valiant people would come into the Church.

Often I have felt the priesthood power, power outside myself, moving through me to the person being blessed. I remember blessing a young mother who came seeking renewed strength to endure a difficult pregnancy with her third or fourth child. She had great faith, and as I blessed her as her bishop, I felt power streaming down my arms and through my fingers into the crown of her head. I felt it course through her body, even to the tips of her toes. It was a powerful, cleansing, rejuvenating force, almost electric in its energy, yet calm and soft and assuring. After the blessing, she arose, and with tears in her eyes said, “I felt that all the way to the tips of my toes.”