Gospel Story Finder

The excitement of Valentine’s Day was growing. The valentine boxes in Cady’s class were decorated and ready to receive the special cards. The teacher, Mrs. Duncan, gave everybody a class list so that each child could address a valentine to every other class member.
Cady loved Valentine’s Day. She enjoyed sending and receiving special notes any day of the year. It was not unusual for her to put a note under her mom’s and dad’s pillows. When her sister went on a trip, she neatly tucked a note in her bag. She looked forward to getting notes from her family in her lunch box or a word of encouragement in her backpack. Cady knew how good it felt when she got notes, so she tried to help others have the same feeling.
When Billy* wasn’t around, the other children in his fifth-grade class were talking about the big day when the valentine boxes would be emptied. One said, "Let’s give valentines to everyone but Billy." Hesitantly each agreed on the plan.
Cady was troubled, though. She knew that Billy came from a family that didn’t have very much money. Sometimes he came to school scruffy and dirty. The children made fun of him and didn’t include him when they played. Cady felt sad about that, and she knew she had been wrong to agree with her classmates.
That afternoon as she sat at the kitchen table, addressing her valentines with her best friend, who was in another class, she had an idea! She explained to her friend and Mom how sad Billy would be if he didn’t get any valentines. Then she asked her mom for some more valentines.
Soon Cady and her friend had a whole bunch of valentines for Billy. They hoped that their cards would make Valentine’s Day a happy day for him. The next day they secretly tucked the valentines into his box.
When Billy opened it and saw all the valentines, he was thrilled. Cady’s heart swelled as she remembered the words of the Savior, "Love one another, as I have loved you."

I’m so grateful for my family, and that includes my ancestors. One way I like to show gratitude for all of my family is by doing family history work.
This all started with my Personal Progress project for Individual Worth, value experience 6. I wanted to learn how to do family history work. At first I began with indexing and then tried looking for names on FamilySearch.org. It was so cool to start finding names of my own ancestors. Recently, I went to the temple with several names I’d found. I was able to do the baptisms and the confirmations. I loved it! The whole experience reminded me of my own baptism. It made me feel good to imagine that my ancestors were watching and that they were excited to have their ordinances done.
I’ve done temple baptisms before, but doing my own family names brought a whole new meaning to the names and ordinances for me.
After the baptisms were complete, I then sent the names to other family members to complete the remaining ordinances. My aunt and uncle have done 12 names so far. Sometimes I even babysit for them so they can go to the temple together.
At first I used to do family history research mostly on Sundays, but lately I’ve been squeezing it in during the week whenever I can. My grandfather is a convert to the Church and the only member in his family, so there’s a lot of opportunity to do temple ordinances for my ancestors on that side. I’m excited to research and work on their names as I hear stories about them from my grandfather.
I’m so thankful to have a loving family, and I know my ancestors are a big part of that family. I’m glad I can do this sacred work for them.
Emily H., 15, Arizona, USA

One young man, Logan G. Van Wagoner, shared the result of his plans to make scripture study more meaningful: “Duty to God has made a big change in my life. One great change is that I used to just read my scriptures. I wouldn’t pay a lot of attention and just ended up glancing through the verses so I could say I had read. But soon after I started Duty to God, it helped me realize the importance of the scriptures. I started to read each verse and mark or highlight things the Spirit made me feel were important and significant. I also started to check the cross-references to help me really understand and learn what I could. Now I feel the Spirit every time I read, telling me those things are true. It’s made a huge and positive difference in my life.”

The first time I paid tithing, the amount was five cents. With my father, I went to the office of the bishop, who solemnly accepted my five pennies and wrote out the receipt. Then he came from behind his desk and sat next to me. With his hand on my shoulder, he said, “Ronald, you have made a good beginning. If you continue as you have begun, you can be a perfect tithe payer.” The idea of being perfect at anything seemed well beyond my ability. But with those words, the bishop inspired me to strive for perfection in that one basic aspect of the gospel.

G. K. Chesterton in an essay entitled “A Piece of Chalk” wrote of going into the countryside in the south of England to draw with his colored chalks—only to find, ruefully, that he was missing the color white. Being too far from a store to remedy the situation, he felt his expedition ruined until he suddenly realized that the rock upon which he sat was, in fact, white chalk. (In Robert K. Thomas, ed., The Joy of Reading, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1978, pp. 35–40).
There, in a Sussex meadow, he was “sitting on an immense warehouse of white chalk.” For him to think he had no chalk was like a chemist in the middle of the ocean looking for salt water to perform experiments or someone in the vast Sahara searching for sand to fill an hour glass. Many times the solutions to our problems await only our discovery that we already have the key to the answer. The need is for us to learn to use it effectively.

How those words touched me! It had been 15 years ago that the Book of Mormon became an integral part of David’s life. I had read it to him as he lay in bed, at life’s edge.
“What are you reading, Mommy?” David asked in the faintest whisper of a sound. His delicate face closely matched the color of the snowy pillowcase. Deep red drops of blood, descending from a bottle suspended above, provided a vivid contrast as they dropped through a tube into his motionless white arm.
“The Book of Mormon,” I replied. It helped me through the endless hours of watching my son fight a seemingly insurmountable battle. It was supposed to be minor surgery to correct a small health problem, but the whole procedure had become a nightmare. Face to face with the fragile quality of mortality, I groped for an anchor with eternity.
“Read it to me,” David said.
“But you wouldn’t understand it, David,” I told him. “You’re too young. Later, when you’re well and at home, I’ll read you some stories from the Book of Mormon.”
Again the whispered words, urgent this time. “Please read it to me, Mommy.”
Not knowing what else to do, and not wishing to further upset him, I began in First Nephi: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, …” I intended to read a few lines while he drifted off to sleep, and then continue my silent reading. Every time I thought he was asleep, my voice quieted and quit. Then, from the hospital bed, again and again, I heard, “Read it to me.”
And so I read it to him. I read all during the hospital stay, and then at home, where he lay attached to two tubes that drained fluids from his body into bags, one on each leg. Doctors had discovered a congenital defect that gave him only part of one kidney.
I did not read stories from the Book of Mormon. I read from the book itself. One morning, after David’s two sisters had gone to school and his two little brothers were sleeping, we sat together reading as usual. I stopped and looked down at him. “David, do you understand this?”
His blue eyes looked thoughtfully into mine. “Not all. But some of it.”
When I continued reading he stopped me and said, “Mother, kneel down.” Startled by the request, I simply knelt, feeling his small body at my side. Then, totally trusting, he said, “Now pray for me. Pray that I will understand the Book of Mormon.”
By the time we finished the book, David had turned five and was able to recognize and read many of the words on his own. Eventually he read alone. His health improved and, by the time he was baptized, he had read the whole thing by himself more than once. By the time he was ordained a deacon, he was eagerly preparing for a mission.

Carter walked into the kitchen with his friend Devin and opened the fridge. He pulled out two sodas and looked around. Where was Mom? Normally she was home when he got back from school. But her car wasn’t in the garage.
He handed a soda to Devin.
“Thanks,” Devin said. “I’m so mad about the science project. Only one week to finish the whole thing!”
Carter took a sip. “I know! It’s not fair!” The project their teacher had assigned that afternoon was going to take forever.
Devin said, “Now we probably can’t go on our bike ride on Saturday.”
Suddenly a swear word jumped out of Carter’s mouth. He hadn’t even thought to say it.
Devin looked surprised, but not upset. They’d both started swearing at school during recess a few weeks ago. But they’d never used bad words in their homes before.
“My thoughts exactly,” Devin said. Then he added a swear word of his own. They laughed.
Carter glanced around the empty kitchen. Mom wasn’t home, and Dad was still at work. It felt … kind of exciting to say that word in his own kitchen. But he also felt uneasy for some reason.
“It’s messed up,” Devin said. “He should’ve given us a month.”
“Totally,” Carter said. He took another drink of his soda. He drank too quickly and the carbonation burned down his throat. “And you know what else?”
This time Carter strung together a sentence with three swear words in it that made Devin laugh so hard he almost spilled his soda. Carter laughed with him.
“What!?”
Carter felt like a bolt of lightning cut through him as he heard Mom’s voice. He turned and saw her standing in the doorway to the garage. He hadn’t heard the door open.
Mom’s face showed how much his words had hurt her. Carter felt awful inside. He wanted to crawl inside a deep, deep hole.
“Uh, I gotta go.” Devin grabbed his backpack and hurried out the front door.
“Carter,” Mom finally said. She wasn’t yelling. He almost wished she were—that would be better than the disappointment in her voice. “We’ll talk about this later.”
She set her bags on the table and walked upstairs. Carter cringed. She was too upset to talk.
Carter finished his soda quickly and went out to the backyard. He plopped down on a lawn chair.
A few weeks ago he had decided it wasn’t that big a deal to use bad words once in a while—as long as he didn’t say them at home or at church. But only a few minutes ago that swear word had popped out before he’d even thought about it.
Carter already knew what he wanted to say to Mom. He wanted to tell her he was sorry and ask for her forgiveness.
Swearing wasn’t worth it, Carter decided. Not at home, and not at school. Not if it made him feel like this. Not if it upset Mom that way.
He prayed to Heavenly Father and asked for forgiveness. Carter promised right then and there. He was done swearing. Not ever again.
He felt a little tug of peace in his heart as soon as he made that choice. That was the Holy Ghost, he realized, telling him he was making the right decision.

For one of my Cub Scout adventures, I had to go somewhere that people worship or feel reverence. My family decided to go to the Sikh (pronounced seek) temple near our house. It was really cool because we’ve driven past it a lot of times. It’s a building with a flag and gold trim around the top. We got to go inside. We got to see how they worship, and we got to eat food with them after.
The people could speak a different language, and all the boys’ middle names were the same: Singh. All the girls’ middle names were Kaur. They treated us very nicely. We had to take off our shoes and put on a hat or a scarf to cover our hair. We did that so that we could show respect for the way they worship. The food that they fed us was really good. They gave us juice, candies, and some sweet fried dough.
I felt amazed after I met them, because the way they worship is a lot different than the way we worship. Instead of sitting on benches, they sit on the floor. But some people whose legs hurt sit on benches. They also have a special place for their sacred books.
We took a picture with the people we met, and then we got hugs from them. I felt happy that I got to know these people a bit. I would love to go back sometime.

Later in my life I was called to be an early-morning seminary teacher, and that year the course of study was the Doctrine and Covenants and Church history. All of our children were in school during the day, and I found myself sitting at our dining room table each day with every book about Church history I could lay my hands on. I sat for hours every day immersed in reading everything I could about the life of Joseph Smith, the early accounts of Church history, and the revelations received. I couldn’t get enough. I was riveted.

It is interesting that as controversial questions have arisen in more recent times about Joseph Smith and some aspects of Church history, I feel grateful for that time in my life. I read all of those things years ago as I studied the life of Joseph Smith and the history of the early days of the Church. I am already familiar with many of the slanderous reports made by the Prophet’s detractors in his time, so when they begin to resurface as “new information,” my response is, “Really? This old stuff again?” Accurate knowledge together with faith is the best defense against skepticism.

A young college student found herself almost overwhelmed by personal and family difficulties. “It was a time of grief and loneliness,” she recalls. “Then, Lila, a young woman who served with me in a ward calling, began stopping by my apartment to visit with me. Again and again her visits came at the very moments when I felt nearest despair. Her friendship gave me the courage to go on—not only because it lifted me—but because it showed me that my Heavenly Father knew my need.”

Wonderful Primary teachers also taught me many good things. My memory of names is very poor, and yet these people’s names are engraven on my soul. I think there is a cement of love that permanently binds such people’s names to our hearts and our minds. Most of all, I remember their love toward me. My Primary teachers demonstrated that love in lots of ways. I remember them coming over to see me when I was sick. If I ever missed Primary, they were there to find out why and to check on me.

When I was a very young boy I had pneumonia, and both my lungs filled up with fluid. My father asked me if I wanted a priesthood blessing. I told him I did. I remember asking him to call my uncle to come. When they placed their hands on my head and through the holy Melchizedek Priesthood called down a blessing of heaven, I felt different. I felt something flow into me, and I knew that the priesthood was very real. The doctor had told my mother that I was in very serious condition, but the next morning I felt great. My mother took me back to the doctor, and he checked my lungs. They were completely empty of fluid.

I would like to tell you children that I love you. I think about you all the time. I want you to know that I personally pray for you, and that I care about what is happening in your lives. I have great hopes for you. This world is just as beautiful now as when I was growing up, and I hope you see the beauty around you. I know that the Savior cares about every child individually. I want you to know that. He knows you personally and cares about each one of you dearly, deeply. He wants you to succeed and be happy. I know this Church is true. If you live the commandments, you will always feel good, and the Lord will bless you.

Let me tell you about some individuals who have truly learned and applied these concepts in their own lives. Melanie Hall and Marty Tidwell were typical BYU students. Like you, they were extremely busy with their studies and their jobs. But they both found time to take the initiative to get involved. Among other things they were involved with Special Olympics, field trips with the American Fork Training School, and BYU Management Society community clean-up projects. Melanie was from Durango, Colorado; and Marty was from Prineville, Oregon. Melanie’s uncle was Marty’s home ward bishop in Oregon. So one year Melanie’s aunt invited her to their home for Christmas, and she arranged for Melanie to ride to Oregon with Marty. Thus, Melanie tells me their first “date” was prearranged by her aunt and was 14 hours long! They eventually fell in love and married, and after graduation they worked for a while in Portland, Oregon, and then moved to Singapore, where they work today.

Several years ago a woman in their ward, Leearne DiMichiel, was trying to adopt a baby girl from an orphanage in Cambodia, and she asked Melanie to accompany her there to help clear up some medical issues with the baby. Before leaving, they made baby quilts and collected toys and clothes for the children at the orphanage. But once there they met two little boys who changed their lives forever.

One was 18-month-old Ratana, who was very near death. He had both AIDS and tuberculosis, and at the time they saw him, he was nothing more than skin and bones. He was lying on a towel he had just vomited on, and he was naked except for a dirty cloth tied around his waist as a diaper. When Melanie and Leearne tried to get close to him, he would cover his mouth with his bony hands, whimper, and turn away from them as if to say, “You mustn’t look at me. I’m too sad.” They sensed that he knew something was wrong with him, and he seemed embarrassed for anyone to pay any attention to him. The other baby, Han, was four months old and weighed only four and a half pounds. When Melanie asked the ladies working at the orphanage what was wrong with Han, they repeatedly said, “No mama, no papa, not enough milk.” With that response, the two women knew what they had to do. They agreed to pay for private care for both Ratana and Han. Immediately both boys were cleaned up and taken care of. Melanie tells me:

It was such a moving thing to watch Ratana take it all in. He went from being a child left in the corner with nothing to a child who was getting the attention he deserved. He was calm and serene as the ladies fixed him up. He had a peaceful, relieved look on his face.

Less than a week after the two women returned home, Ratana died—but since the day that they’d found him he had been dressed, fed, cared for, and loved. What a blessing to him and to them that they had taken the initiative to become involved. Because of this experience, Melanie, Leearne, and others sponsored other critically ill babies. They even hired an artist to paint murals of nature scenes and Disney characters on the walls of the orphanage.

Now what about Han? Well, Melanie and Leearne introduced him to Sister White, the wife of the mission president. She agreed to visit Han frequently and serve as a surrogate grandmother. He responded well to the love and attention and was eventually adopted by a family in Hawaii.

This was only the beginning. Over the years, as they continued their efforts with fund-raisers and baby showers for these children, word seemed to spread magically and many other individuals and organizations became involved. The work continues today. Three years ago the Tidwells adopted an 11-year-old Cambodian girl themselves. With her adoption, Melanie and Marty needed to redirect their focus to their new daughter. Even though she is not as involved today with the Cambodian efforts, Melanie continues helping in other areas.

Before Elder M. Russell Ballard was an Apostle, he had an unusual experience on an airplane. He was flying to Salt Lake City on a very foggy day. The small plane held only four people. When they got close to the airport, the pilot radioed the control tower.
“We’re about to close the runway because the fog is so thick,” the air traffic controller told the pilot. “But I can talk you through the landing.”
The pilot asked Brother Ballard and the other passengers, “What do you want to do? The controller can guide us down. Or we can turn back and wait for the weather to clear in a day or two.” They decided to try to land in Salt Lake.
The controller could see the plane on his radar. He told the pilot when to lower the plane and when to turn. The pilot watched the plane’s controls carefully. He followed the controller’s directions exactly.
Finally the man in the front seat shouted, “I see the runway!”
They looked out the window. The runway was directly ahead. The nose of the plane was right on the centerline! They were so grateful that the controller guided them safely to the ground.
Brother Ballard thought about how this flight was like our lives. We can’t see or understand everything, so Heavenly Father has given us ways to get help. The prophet is like an air traffic controller. He gives us directions to return safely to Heavenly Father. We also have the Holy Ghost, the scriptures, and leaders and parents to guide us safely home.

When I was a child, my parents sang in our ward choir. Mother especially loved to sing at Christmastime. Every Christmas Eve our family reenacted the Nativity story and sang Christmas songs. We always finished with mother’s favorite, “Silent Night.”
In her early 60s, my mother developed asthma. Years of coughing and struggling with the illness eventually ravaged her voice. She also lost hearing in one ear and suffered diminished hearing in the other ear. She still attempted to sing but often just read and thought about a song’s lyrics.
One Sunday while I visited my parents during the Christmas season, we attended sacrament meeting. The program centered on the birth and mission of Jesus Christ.
“I won’t have asthma in the hereafter, will I?” my mother asked me before the meeting started.
“Of course not,” I replied.
Then we talked about other physical ailments she would no longer have after the Resurrection.
“I’ll be able to sing again,” she said.
“With the choirs of heaven,” I added.
As we sang the opening hymn, “Away in a Manger,” Mother could not hear the piano accompaniment. She started singing the Primary version of the song instead of the Hymns version, which has a different melody. I tried to correct her, but she had difficulty hearing me. During the sacrament hymn, she continued to struggle. She really wanted to sing, but her pitch was all over the place.
As the sacrament meeting progressed, I felt the warmth of the Spirit and the sweet innocence of the children who bore their testimonies of the Savior in song. Then, as the congregation began to sing the closing song, “Silent Night,” so did my mother.
Listening to her struggle, I wished with all my heart that she could again sing Christmas songs the way she used to. As she sang, however, I felt the quiet warmth of the Spirit speak to my mind and heart: “Her offering is acceptable to me.”
At that moment, my mother’s voice took on a new beauty, blessed and sanctified by a loving Savior who looked on her heart. And, as He did when the widow cast in two mites (see Luke 21:1–4), He rejoiced in her sincerity and offering.

Leah looked around the third-grade classroom. The desks were lined up in neat rows, and bright posters hung on the walls. Most of the other kids were talking with their friends.
Leah sat down at her desk. She didn’t really know anyone in this class. She hoped she’d be able to make a new friend at school this year.
“Hey.”
Leah looked up. A girl had sat down next to her.
“My name is Anna,” she said. “Want to be friends?”
Leah smiled. “Sure!”
Later Leah and Anna ate lunch together. During their break, they played four square and jumped rope. At the end of the day, Anna waved goodbye to Leah through the window of the bus. “See you tomorrow!” she said.
From then on, Leah and Anna were good friends. They played together every day. In the winter, they made long paths in the snow. When the snow had frozen over, they slid down the paths. One time they were partners for a science project about space. Leah had fun making a poster of the planets with Anna.
But one day Anna started acting kind of strange. She didn’t wave back to Leah in the morning. She joined a new group for math practice. And at lunch, she barely talked at all.
“Hey,” Leah asked, “what’s going on?”
Anna sighed. “Look, I don’t think we should hang out as much. My friend Audrey said you were weird.”
“Oh.” Leah frowned. She and Anna had fun together. Why would Anna care so much about what other kids thought?
Anna said they could still be friends, but after that, she never talked to Leah. Leah tried not to feel hurt, but it was hard to be by herself while Anna played with other kids.
Soon the school year ended, and their summer break began. Leah stayed busy with lots of fun activities. She went to ballet class and cooking class. She also took a sewing class with her best friend, Ellie.
Ellie and Leah had known each other since they were little. They went to the same school, but they’d never been in the same class. Sometimes Ellie came over to play at Leah’s house. Leah found a pair of fake glasses to wear that looked like Ellie’s. That made Ellie laugh.
“I can’t believe summer is almost over,” Ellie said. “I wish we got to see each other more.”
Leah smiled. “Me too.”
Another school year was coming up fast. Leah was excited for fourth grade, but she was a little nervous too. She was fine with being by herself most of the time. But a year was a long time to not have a friend in her class. She remembered how she felt when Anna stopped being her friend. She didn’t want to feel lonely.
Leah kept praying to Heavenly Father for peace. When summer ended, she felt hopeful. She knew things would turn out OK.
On the first day of school, Leah walked into her new classroom.
“Leah!”
She couldn’t believe it. Ellie was in her class!
Ellie ran to Leah and gave her a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here! This will be the best year ever!”
Leah smiled big. She knew Heavenly Father had been with her, even when it was hard. And Ellie was right—this year would be the best one yet!
This story took place in the USA.

While preaching the gospel in Ohio, Lorenzo had a dream one night in which he saw an angry mob attacking him in a schoolhouse. He awoke frightened and prayed for the Lord to protect him as he preached the gospel.
Later that same day, two well-dressed men came to Lorenzo and asked him to come to a schoolhouse where a crowd was waiting to hear him preach. Remembering the dream, Lorenzo refused to come. The men tried harder and harder to get him to come, but Lorenzo would not. The men finally left, shouting angry words at him. Lorenzo soon found out that they weren’t really wanting to hear him preach. Instead, they and a group of other men were waiting to attack Lorenzo at the schoolhouse.

My mission president also had a great influence on me. I was so enthusiastic about serving my mission that all I wanted to do was teach and baptize people. But he had the wisdom to take me on assignments where I would learn about Church procedures and administration. Later, when I was called to serve in leadership positions, such as a young bishop, I was truly grateful to him for giving me those experiences.

My older brother and sister, David and Shannon, also had their challenges. When David was one year old, he was severely burned. Scars covered his hands, arms, stomach, and legs. Shannon had a walking disability and was born with a slower mental capacity that often made her act younger than she was. Almost daily children at school made fun of them.
Despite their trials, my brother and sister looked to Christ in everything they did. Both of them served honorable missions. Their humility, constant faith, and perseverance provided wonderful examples. They are everything I want to become.
In this life we may be criticized and persecuted. That’s part of why we came here—to rise above the persecution and become stronger because of it. David, Shannon, and I are better people today for having been faithful in difficult experiences. I often say that everything given to us in life can be either a blessing or a curse. The strength of one’s heart determines which it is.

Before I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at age 14, my family lived in a house that belonged to Sister Gladys, a member of the Church. I was not interested in anything Sister Gladys said about the Church because I believed I was happy as I was.
Then, after much suffering, my father died. My mother and I loved him with all our hearts. His death did not leave my mother and me well off—either economically or spiritually.
My life became filled with bitterness and pain. Sometimes I thought God did not love me and had forsaken us. My mom had to go to work, and I was alone all day, crying and remembering the things we had done with my dad. I didn’t have many friends and didn’t want to do anything.
One day, Julian, Sister Gladys’s son, asked me if I wanted to talk to the missionaries. I told him no at first, but he seemed so disappointed I decided I would.
The missionaries greeted me kindly and introduced themselves. They looked so happy I decided to take the discussions.
During one of the discussions, they told me I could see my father again, he could be baptized by proxy, and we could be an eternal family. From that moment, I knew God had heard me and He loved me greatly. I decided to be baptized.
After my baptism, I wanted to share the truth with my mother, but she was not interested. We argued a lot because I had changed religions.
I kept praying and hoping that someday my mother would be baptized. After three years and many prayers, her heart was softened and she joined the Church. Now we live very happily, and our goal is to be sealed in the temple. And as if these were not enough blessings, the Church is now building a temple in my country!
I know that this is the true Church and that God loves us very much. I know that I am going to see my father again and that we can be a happy, eternal family.

When I was 15 or 16, I was deeply self-absorbed and, like many of us in our adolescence, unsettled, uncertain, and vulnerable. I felt lost, self-conscious, and awkward. It didn’t help that my parents lived far away in Saudi Arabia while I was at boarding school on a desolate bit of coast in England. In terms of the school, Hogwarts with Snape would have been more welcoming.
Bad weather was common along that coast, but one winter a particularly formidable storm blew in across the Irish Sea with hurricane-force winds. Around 5,000 homes were flooded, food was running out, and people were left cut off without electricity or any means of heating and lighting their homes.
As the flood started to subside, we were dispatched by the school to help with cleaning up. I was astonished to experience such a natural disaster close up. Water and mud were everywhere. The faces of those whose homes had been flooded were ashen and gaunt. They hadn’t slept in days. My fellow schoolboys and I went to work, moving waterlogged belongings to upper floors and pulling up ruined carpet.
But what struck me most was the camaraderie that developed. There was just a wonderful, good-natured feeling among people united in a worthy cause under challenging circumstances. I later reflected that all those insecure feelings that usually consumed my teenage thoughts left while I was involved in this great effort to assist our neighbors.
The discovery that helping others was the antidote to my gloomy, self-obsessed state should have been transforming. But it wasn’t, because the discovery didn’t sink deep enough, and I failed to reflect more thoughtfully on what had taken place. That understanding came later.