Gospel Story Finder

As an example, may I read a paragraph from a letter I received only last week from a young woman who is engaged in this kind of activity as president of the Relief Society.

Yesterday [she writes] I spent the better part of the day picking up welfare groceries and delivering them. One of the two cases I called on was tragic. She is a woman who, years ago, was in a fire and her head was badly injured. For years she has undergone constructive surgery and has a number of pins holding her scalp together. She is divorced, and in order to support herself and her four-year-old girl, she works at anything and everything she can find, doing a job here and a job there, until she is through surgery and can return to school to complete her training as a dietician. She has no car and relies solely on her bicycle for transportation in this great and busy city. She has ridden that bike all winter, with her little girl on the back, sometimes going as many as thirty miles in a day in order to get to and from a small job.

A week ago she hit a patch of ice while riding, fell, struck her head, and suffered a concussion. She refused to go to the hospital because she had no money to pay, so she remained in her apartment, suffering from pain until her sister found her and got medical help. Her mother was able to assist her just a little. Her home teacher happened to call and discovered her plight. When I, as the Relief Society president, called her, I discovered she had no food in the house, no medication for her diabetes, and not a cent of money. So yesterday I went to deliver the groceries and take her some medication. What an opportunity to serve one of those so desperately in need!

Eddie’s heart thumped with fear as the small group of Scouts huddled in the cold rain listening to instructions. They were told to fan out and search ravines, thickets, and the narrow creek for an elderly man who had wandered away from a nursing home early the day before.
Why do they call it a search party, Eddie wondered as he listened. A party is fun, but there’s nothing fun about this!
“The man is feeble and may have lost his coat and shoes by now,” the leader continued. “He could be lying somewhere too weak to call out for help. We’re working against time in such wet weather. That’s why we asked your troop to help. Let’s get started!”
The boys quickly fanned out as they had been told to do. At first they were careful to keep each other in sight, but as Eddie moved from side to side searching clumps of shrubs and waist-high weeds, he suddenly found himself alone.
Hiking a rugged trail with a group is fun, he thought as he struggled along, but this is hard work.
Sometimes there was a ditch on his right and a thicket on his left, and Eddie had to search both. With all the zigging and zagging, several holes had been snagged in his poncho, and his clothing felt wet and cold as it clung to his body. His pant legs were caked with mud, and each boot seemed to weigh five pounds.
Finally Eddie sat on a damp log to rest and clean his boots. At first he was just plain tired of the whole thing. Then he began to think about the old man who had been out in the storm for more than twenty-four hours. Suddenly Eddie was ashamed of thinking only about himself and hurrying to get the search over so he could go home where he would be warm and dry.
“I really didn’t look very carefully along the creek back there because of the thorns and mud,” he admitted to himself. Eddie shuddered at the thought that in his hurry he might not have seen the old man lying out in the storm.
Eddie shifted his pack, picked up a heavy stick to use as a staff, and started to backtrack along the slippery rocks that lined both sides of the narrow stream. His legs ached with fatigue as stones slipped and rolled under his muddy boots, but he was grateful for the support they gave his ankles. He wondered if the old man had good shoes or had left the home wearing only light slippers.
Now all the boy could think about was that someone was lost out in the storm. As he rounded a curve, there was a flash of red and his heart began to pound.
Racing on down the creek, he saw a man huddled under a rock ledge on the other side! Eddie’s first thought was to shout for help. But then he realized that, if startled, the man under the ledge might fall and be hurt or try to run away.
Suddenly Eddie remembered the owl hoot signals his troop had learned. Three hoots wouldn’t mean anything to the others, but they would bring one of the Scouts.
Climbing the slippery bank to the trail, Eddie backtracked a few hundred feet and signaled. There was no answer to the first two calls, but when his straining ears caught a faint answering “whoo” after the third call, he walked back to where he could watch the man and give low signals to guide the others to the spot.
The old man rolled over once. Then he sat up and listened to the owl calls.
Soon another mud-streaked Scout appeared in the ravine. Signaling him to remain silent, Eddie hurried down the slope as quietly as he could and explained that he had found the lost man.
“Hurry and bring help,” Eddie said, “but don’t start shouting for help until you’re far enough away so he won’t hear you. We’ll have to be careful not to scare him or he might try to run away.”
When he was alone again, Eddie crossed the creek and started toward the elderly man. Whistling and splashing along in the shallow water, he pretended to be surprised when he saw someone huddled on the overhanging ledge. “Hi!” he called. “Would you like to share my lunch?”
When Eddie took sandwiches and a thermos bottle out of his pack, he saw that hunger and eagerness replaced the fright in the faded blue eyes. But the old man remained silent as he reached out a trembling hand to accept the food and milk. Eddie took a blanket from his pack and draped it around the frail figure.
There was plenty of food, but Eddie had such a lump in his throat that he could hardly choke down even half of a sandwich. All he could think about was how he had almost gone on and left the poor old man.
“I went for a walk and got lost,” the man explained after he had finished eating. Then he pulled the blanket around himself like a tired child and fell asleep.
Almost before he knew it, Eddie was surrounded by other searchers who were eager to help. Soon the men in charge carried the old man away on a stretcher, and Eddie breathed a sigh of relief.
It was still storming and he was wet and cold and tired, but somehow Eddie felt so warm and good that it seemed almost as if the sun were shining!

David O. McKay loved to play baseball. Once, when he was at bat, the umpire called, “Strike two.” The pitcher thought that it was strike three and became angry, threatening to crack the bat over David’s head. Calmly David replied, “The umpire called only two strikes. Go back to the pitcher’s mound and try to get me out. You have one more chance.” On the next pitch, David got a two-base hit and then scored the winning run! Everyone cheered for him. They were glad that he had stood up to the bully when he knew that he was in the right.

The only girl and the youngest child in her family, she teases back her four big brothers when they occasionally tease her. When her family took her oldest brother, Rick, to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, two years ago, she knew that she’d miss him, but she wanted him to go on a mission.

After his mission in New Jersey, Rick joined the family as they visited important places in the early history of the Church. Caliana enjoyed seeing the Grandin Press, where the first Book of Mormon was printed, and the Sacred Grove. “All of those places helped me appreciate Church history and the pioneers. They were so faithful, and it helps me want to be true, too.”

Let me share briefly with you a letter. …
“Dear Brother Dunn:
“Since having the chance to visit with you last month, I’ve done a lot of thinking about the things we discussed—the meaning of life, my goals for the future, my homesickness, and my efforts to adjust to being on my own, and I’ve felt impressed to write and tell you some of these things. Here I am hundreds of miles away in a completely new environment, and I’ll admit I’ve been pretty down in the dumps at times, plenty homesick and wondering just what my next step would be. More than once I’d have given almost anything to be back at that kitchen table with the family, finishing off one of Mom’s good meals. I wouldn’t even have minded my folks wanting to know where I was going and when I’d be home—it used to really bug me but somehow now I’m glad they worried. I guess what I’m trying to write is that since being here I’m actually appreciating home and my folks in a different way then ever before. I’m grateful for the time that they’ve taken to worry about the little things, the talks we’ve been able to have about any crazy thing that was on my mind, the freedom I felt to go to them with my problems. It seems like they were always pretty fair about judging me when I made mistakes, too.
“I especially appreciate both Morn and Dad being so careful about living the principles of the gospel that they believed in and helping us to do the same. While there were times when I resented it, somehow it seems much easier now for me to discipline myself, to stick to what I should do in organizing my time, thinking, and life.
“I appreciate, too, the companionship we had as the whole family—the night each week we got together to talk about family problems and what we did about them, the times we went fishing together, prayed together, the get-togethers with cousins—mostly the things I guess I have taken for granted all of my life. Somehow, as ordinary as all of these everyday experiences are, thinking about them actually gives me the faith and courage I need right now when I’ve got so much adjusting to do and so many things to accomplish. I seem to have a new desire to live up to the things my folks have been trying to prepare me for all of these years. In some ways, even though I miss home, thinking out these things makes me feel better than I ever have before. I know I have lots to do, and I want to do it. And realizing that my family is behind me as they always have been gives me the strength I need and didn’t know I had. Unfortunately, I have seen some out here whose home life has not been like mine, and now I understand better the value of the training I’ve had. Thanks for getting me started thinking—I just hope my parents can know how much the stability of our home has meant to me, and how very much I love them.”
There is no question that this kind of boy coming from this type of home is going to give strength to this or any nation.
Paul H. DunnConference ReportOctober 1965, p. 117.

I’d like to share the story of one of these many family caregivers, my friend whom I will call Debbie.
When Debbie was 62, she and her husband invited her 86-year-old mother to live with them. Debbie’s mother had mid-stage Alzheimer’s disease and was unable to care for herself. Debbie lamented that her once sweet, temple-serving, ministering, Relief Society president mother was ravaged by Alzheimer’s disease. Now Debbie was required to care for her mother, the same person who had provided care for her and so many others throughout her life.
Debbie had to assist her mother with all the activities of daily living like dressing, bathing, and eating. Her mother continually repeated questions about what was happening. She frequently became disoriented and often fought against the care she was receiving because she could not remember what was happening or why it was happening. She became agitated and often lost her temper.
Her mother suffered from sundowning, which meant she was confused about when to sleep and when to be awake. Debbie awoke in the middle of the night to find her mother wandering through the house extremely anxious and disoriented. Since her mother no longer recognized Debbie’s husband, Debbie was the only one who could calm her mother down.
Twice Debbie’s mother was able to leave the house and start walking down the street in the middle of the night. The first time it happened, Debbie fortunately heard the front door close and was able to retrieve her mother before she had wandered too far. However, the second time, her mother left the house undetected, and Debbie received a phone call at 3:30 a.m. from the local police letting her know that her mother had been found walking down the road in only her nightgown.
The continual stress and effort that Debbie gave to care for her mother became intense. She did not know where to turn for help. Her two siblings didn’t accept that their mother had Alzheimer’s disease, nor that the symptoms were as bad as Debbie described. Their denial was reflected in the lack of assistance they offered. Since both of them lived hundreds of miles away, they were unable to regularly visit or offer help anyway.
Debbie felt awkward turning to friends, ward members, and other neighbors because she wasn’t sure how to explain her mother’s condition, and her mother didn’t respond well to new people. Debbie rejected the idea of getting help from professional services because she felt responsible to serve and care for her mother. Moving her mother to an assisted-living community was out of the question as well since her mother had once said she didn’t want to go to any place like that.
Week after week and month after month, Debbie continued giving more and more care to her mother. She focused less and less attention on her own health. One afternoon about 20 months after Debbie’s mother moved into Debbie’s home, Debbie’s husband returned from the store to find his mother-in-law agitated and pacing around the kitchen. He found Debbie collapsed on the living room floor. She was breathing but unconscious. She was taken to the hospital and was admitted due to a mild heart attack brought on by exhaustion.
Once my friend Debbie was released from the hospital, her husband and children sought out the Alzheimer’s Association. The local chapter provided support to the family. Debbie found the assistance she needed and realized the importance and power of allowing others to assist in caring for her mother.

I met my wife, Melinda, during my sophomore year at BYU, about six months after I had returned from my mission. I knew immediately that Melinda was the woman I wanted to marry. Melinda, however, did not have the same experience. It wasn’t until five years later that she finally received an answer that it would be “okay” if she married me.

During those five years—actually nearly five-and-a-half years, if you include our engagement—I had one of the more difficult trials of my life. I really wanted to be married. I knew whom I was supposed to marry, and the Spirit urged me on, but I couldn’t seem to reach that goal. Nothing I did seemed to help our relationship move forward as quickly as I wanted. It was five-plus years of frustration and—more important—refinement for me.

Shortly after I had graduated from BYU, Melinda decided to go on a mission—in part, I am convinced, to get away from me. I was concerned that while she served in Spain, my misery would increase as I waited for her. And there were times when I was miserable because I focused on what I didn’t have and I failed to exercise faith in God’s promises. However, I was studying the scriptures and praying daily, serving in the Church, and striving to do those things that brought the Holy Ghost into my life.

One early, very cold Sunday morning in Minneapolis, while I was driving to a church meeting, I thought, “I should be really miserable right now. Nothing seems to be going the way I want. But I’m not miserable. I feel unbelievably happy!”

There were actually a lot of moments of joy and happiness for me while Melinda was on her mission. I missed her, but I also remember that time as one of general happiness. My life wasn’t perfect—and it still isn’t—but for the most part I was happy.

Now how could I be happy if I was going through what, for me, was a very difficult trial?

The answer is found in Galatians 5:22–23. It reads: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long­suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.”

This scripture teaches at least two great truths: One, when we feel the Spirit in our lives, which can refer to the Holy Ghost or the Light of Christ,1 we feel love, joy, and peace. It is those feelings that make us truly happy. And two, the Spirit is the source, or the fount, from which these blessings or fruits come.

Consequently, because I was doing the things that brought the Spirit into my life, even amid what, for me, was a lot of turmoil and frustration, I felt God’s love. I felt joy and peace. I could suffer long and still be happy.

Finally! I’m at the end of this ordeal. I can get on with life! That’s exactly how I felt early the morning of my final day in the hospital. After four days of being tested, retested, poked, prodded, and squeezed, I was more than ready to “get outta here!”
I had been admitted to the hospital after suffering a collapsed lung. It happened while playing water football with a group of guys at the Austin Texas Fourth Ward picnic.
I’d have been just fine had I not tried to save the day for my team by attempting to tackle Kevin Horrocks. There I was, by far the skinniest guy in the ward, and big Kevin was on the fast track to score with only me left to stop him. The last thing I remember is being flattened and stuffed into the mud face first. Kevin was kind enough to assist me out of the ooze, but by then the damage had been done.
I had recuperated nicely and was to the point where the rest of my recovery could be handled at home. There was only one thing left to do—remove the chest tube which had been surgically implanted between two of my ribs.
It seemed a simple enough procedure. I was, however, a little curious as to why two doctors and three nurses had gathered in my room for the occasion.
“Are your ready?” the doctor asked.
“Doc,” I told him, “this thing has been in my chest for four days. I’m ready. Pull it!”
“Arrrggghhhrrrghhhggg!” It felt like my heart was being extracted instead of the tube. For a brief flash, I felt as if my body was being turned inside out. Though the experience was brief, I thought I was going to die.
The trauma having subsided somewhat, I asked, “Doc, why didn’t you tell me what that was going to feel like?”
He chuckled. “Because if I had, there is no way you would have let me take it out.” He was right.

One day while I was practicing on the piano, I was making a lot of mistakes. I got mad and started pounding on the keys. I tried playing a different song, but I kept making mistakes and got madder and madder. I was going to quit, but I remembered that my piano lesson was the next day. So I decided to say a prayer. It was a really short prayer. I said, “Please help me to be able to play this song. Help me to stop getting mad and to be good.” After my prayer, I felt a tingly feeling. I took a deep breath and let it out. I wasn’t mad anymore. I played the song and only messed up twice. At my lesson the next day, I played it without making any mistakes.Hayden Carnline, age 11Rockdale, Texas

On January 2, 1891, a 19-year-old Norwegian immigrant sat down in his home, in Logan City, Cache County, Utah Territory, and wrote the following lines on some lined paper:
“As I have come to fully realize; that, I am as weak as all other mortals—perhaps weaker than many; and realizing that happiness in life is only obtained by having a pure heart, a clear conscience; and fearing the Lord and keeping his commandments; also as I realize that happiness in old age consists of reviewing a life devoid from great sins; the gratification of noble desires manfully carried out; and finding that my life up to this time has not been as I should like it to have been: I lay down the following regulations by which I shall try to conduct my life hereafter; to which end may the Lord Almighty, my Creator, help me.”
He then wrote down 17 resolutions. Nearly eight months later, on Tuesday, August 25, 1891, he copied them in a hardcover journal. Here he was to record his years of struggle as a stranger-student from Utah Territory at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He began by entering the 17 resolves that were to guide his life.
“Resolved:
“1st. That religion, the science of sciences, be made my chief concernment throughout life.
“2nd. That I will daily pray to God in secret.
“3rd. That I will daily reflect upon God and his attributes and try to become like him.
“4th. That I will receive Light, Wisdom or Knowledge, wherever or however it may be offered.
“5th. That I will never be ashamed to acknowledge my principles, beliefs and religion when I once become fully convinced of their correctness …
“6th. That I will never lose one moment of time but use it wisely.
“7th. That I maintain strict temperance in eating and drinking.
“8th. That I will never do anything that I would not do were it the last hour of my life.
“9th. That I daily read the word of God, that I may learn his will and that I may be comforted, strengthened and encouraged by so doing.
“10th. That in any narrations I speak nothing but the pure and simple truth.
“11th. That I always do that which I think is my duty and for the best good for my fellow beings.
“12th. That I live with all my might while I do live, that I may not die a living death.
“13th. That I never by word or manner try to force my opinions on others but that I simply state them and offer my arguments against others.
“14th. That I seek to overcome the habit of quickly becoming angry, loud speaking, impatient motions, and whatever might offend my fellowmen and hurt me.
“15th. That I never for a moment forget my duty towards my mother, she who has made me who I am and who will make what I will become, she who has spent the better portion of her life in my behalf and to whom I owe all the honor, respect, and affection that I can give; also that I always remember my duties toward my brother and all my friends and relations.
“16th. That I complete every task which I begin: also that I carefully consider my purpose and its results before taking upon me any duty.
“17th. That I always remember that the men and women I meet are my brothers and sisters and that I look to the beam in my own eye before attempting to remove the mote in my fellow’s eye.” (See Matt. 7:5). It would be well if every young man and woman today would similarly evaluate his or her position in life.
The young man who wrote these lines was a student at the Brigham Young College in Logan when he first recorded them. The new year of 1891 was just beginning. A little over three months before, President Wilford Woodruff had issued, by revelation, the “Manifesto.” New opportunities awaited the driven, persecuted, misunderstood Latter-day Saints.
The young man’s name was John Andreas Widtsoe. He lived with his widowed mother and little brother in a small, poor cottage. They had come from Norway in 1884. On June 27, 1894, in Sanders Theater, in Harvard Yard, Cambridge, Massachusetts, President Charles W. Eliot of Harvard University conferred upon the young immigrant the degree, Bachelor of Science, summa cum laude (with highest honors). He completed the four-year curriculum in three years. He had undergone many hardships. His widowed mother and little brother had sent him small sums of money from their meager earnings. The rest of his education had been financed by unusual personal sacrifice and by loans from kind friends in Logan, with notes signed at 12 percent interest.
He returned home to Logan from Harvard to serve as chemist of the Agriculture Experiment Station, Logan, Utah. On June 1, 1898, he was married to a beautiful young woman, Miss Leah Dunford, eldest daughter of Susa Young Gates. The young couple went to Germany where he earned the PhD degree in biochemistry at the University of Gottingen. This was followed by postdoctoral studies at the Zurich Polytechnium in Switzerland and the University of London, in England.
While in Europe he was offered the presidency of the Brigham Young College by cablegram from the chairman of its board of trustees. A cablegram from President Joseph F. Smith of the First Presidency followed the next day, advising him not to accept the Brigham Young College presidency but to return to what is now Utah State University where he built up agricultural research, establishing scientific dry farming and irrigation practices to bless the arid lands of the world.
He became the father of scientific irrigation practices and dry farming. His books and articles were published in French, Italian, and Arabic and were widely used in arid regions throughout the world as well as in the United States and Canada. He was then called by the U.S. Secretary of the Interior to revise the reclamation laws and policies of the United States. He became the president of Utah State University in Logan, Utah (1907–1916) and the University of Utah in Salt Lake City, Utah (1916–1921). In March 1921 he was called to be an apostle by President Heber J. Grant and continued in that position throughout a long and eventful life. At his funeral in the Salt Lake Tabernacle in 1952, a telegram of appreciation for his great services to Canada was read; it was from the prime minister.
The life of John A. Widtsoe can serve as an example to every young man and young woman of the Church and of the world in these times, especially to those about to enter college, the world of work, and family life.
Recall his words:
“Realizing that happiness in life is only obtained by having a pure heart, a clear conscience; and fearing the Lord and keeping his commandments … I lay down the following regulations by which I shall try to conduct my life.”
Again, it would be well if all young men and women wrote down the regulations by which they desire to conduct their lives. Elder Widtsoe often counseled young people to “make promises. Then keep those promises.”
His commitment to the search for truth, for knowledge, was a notable landmark in the history of young Latter-day Saints. President of two state universities, he was also a member of the executive committee of Brigham Young University for many years and one of its guiding lights. He also served twice as Church Commissioner of Education. Fundamental as his commitment was to research and extending the fields of knowledge, his commitment to the Author of Truth, our Heavenly Father, and his faith in him was even greater. He recognized faith in the Lord Jesus Christ as not only the first principle of the gospel but also referred to such faith as “the greater knowledge.”
One of his poems, written as a Harvard student, now appears in LDS Hymns with a musical setting by Alexander Schreiner (“Lead Me Into Life Eternal”). Here one finds the lines, “Give me faith, the greater knowledge; Father hear me as I pray.” (No. 141.)
Can we overcome handicaps in these times? Can a person without money, family ties, or influence with people in high positions make his way in today’s world? Can we reconcile faith and knowledge?
We certainly can.
How?
By utilizing the same principles that Elder Widtsoe established for his life at a very early age. His example can be commended to all young men and young women today.
In his book “In Search of Truth,” Elder Widtsoe offered a formula we can follow. It served him well. It will serve anyone well. It is: “Work, work, work. Study, study, study. Pray, pray, pray.”

Walt was the new kid at school that year. He wasn’t in any of my classes; I met him out at our first freshman football practice. He seemed like a decent enough guy—a little on the quiet side, though.
I was the exact opposite—in the worst way. I talked long and loud with generous helpings of cussing. But, despite our differences, I put up with Walt because he was such a good football player. When it came to playing football, Walt was definitely all action and no talk.
I guess Walt had only two problems fitting in with the rest of us: he was the only Mormon on the team, and he was also the only kid who never, ever swore.
By the end of our freshman year, though, most everybody was used to Walt and his quiet, cussless ways. Even though he looked like us and hung around with us, when he opened his mouth—or didn’t open his mouth—he was completely different from us.
Walt’s “sissy” vocabulary didn’t bother me much the first couple of years I knew him. We became pretty good buddies and spent lots of time together talking about football, girls, school, and religion—Walt was always talking about his church. Anyway, in all our times together, I never heard Walt swear—even when he had every reason to.
At the beginning of our junior year, I decided it was my “duty” to reform Walt by “improving” his vocabulary. It was our first year on the varsity—he was a defensive back, I was an offensive lineman—and I figured if he didn’t learn to cuss, he’d never fit in with the rest of the varsity squad.
“Look, Wally,” I told him one night after twice-a-days practice, “I’m gonna make you swear—just once—if it’s the last thing I do this year.”
“Well,” he grinned, “I guess that’ll be the last thing you’ll do, because I don’t swear.”
I had my work cut out for me. I mean, here was a guy who said, “excuse me” every time he burped—even in the locker room. It was hard to believe that Walt didn’t swear; he surely had plenty of cussing examples around him. The air in the locker room and football field was always filled with vivid streaks of blue language. I knew that Walt had heard everything there was to hear, but he still never used anything stronger than, “Gee whiz, darn, or doggone it.”
So, I had to start at the beginning. One afternoon before practice, I handed Walt a vocabulary list. “Here, Walt. This is a list of words I want you to use today at practice. If you use them often enough, you’ll finally get the hang of it, and before you know it, you’ll be cussing like an old pro.”
He looked over my list for a minute but didn’t say a word.
I pointed to the first word. “This one—this is a great one. Use it when you drop a pass or miss a tackle. You’ll really feel much better if you do. And the next few are good when somebody takes a cheap shot at you. Use the last two anytime the ref makes a bad call.”
Walt wadded up my list and tossed it in his locker. “Aw, c’mon, Wally,” I pleaded. “Give it a chance. You’ve got to release all those pent-up emotions. The way you’re going, you’ll have ulcers before you’re 18.”
Out at practice that afternoon, Walt dropped a pass, missed three tackles during a scrimmage, and was the victim of one of my “friendly” cheap shots. I hit him right in the back, and when I helped him up, waiting to hear him cut loose with one of his new words, all he muttered was a feisty “Darn!” That was it.
I realized that I needed more help, so I recruited a few other guys to work on Walt. We tried everything: booby trapped his locker, pinched him in pile-ups, snapped him with towels, but we were lucky to even get a “doggone it” out of him. As a matter of fact, the harder we tried, the worse Walt got. It finally got so bad that Walt even quit using “darn” and just responded with “ouch” to all our persecutions.
“Okay, Walt,” I said to him one afternoon as we sat lacing up our cleats before practice, “I guess you win. No swearing, right? But what about dirty jokes? You know any?”
“Oh, you bet I do,” he answered. “I’ll tell you one today after practice.”
After wind sprints that evening, before he even got off the field, I gathered our buddies around and announced, “Hey, you guys, listen to this. Walt’s got a dirty joke to tell us.”
“Yeah, right,” said one player. “Walt? A dirty joke? You gotta be kidding.”
“Walt wouldn’t know a dirty joke if he heard one,” said another. “This I gotta hear.”
We huddled around Walt, anxious to see the effects of our “reform” efforts. “Gosh, you guys,” he exclaimed, “give me some room, okay?” We all moved back. “Okay,” he said, blushing slightly, “this is it. A white horse fell in a mud puddle.”
“Oh, no, …” we moaned. “You call that a dirty joke?”
“Well, what’d you guys expect?” laughed Walt. “That’s a Mormon dirty joke,” he said, and trotted off to the showers.
The football season progressed, and so did Walt. He terrorized our opponents as much as he mystified us, so we dubbed him “The Stormin’ Mormon.” It was a well-deserved nickname.
It became a team obsession to try to pollute Walt. We weren’t vicious about it; we were just good-naturedly hoping to save Walt from going off the deep end of goody-goodness. We owed it to him. Unfortunately for us, he was just as good-natured and just as determined to remain in the deep end of goodness.
We weren’t making any progress with Walt’s vocabulary, so some guys began telling (that is, trying to tell) dirty jokes to Walt. As soon as they’d begin a story, he’d cover up his ears. If they increased their volume, Walt would sing out loud; the louder the story, the louder Walt sang.
It got to be pretty comical. Two guys would dance around Walt trying to tell him a dirty joke while he sat peacefully in front of his locker with both hands clapped flat over his ears, singing at the top of his voice.
By the end of our season, we’d all but given up on Walt. He was a lost cause as far as swearing went. There was simply no reforming him.
It was even worse our senior year. The younger players looked up to Walt because he was one of the top players on the team, and the rest of us knew there was no changing him, so we all just accepted him for what he was and left it at that. Of course, we didn’t leave him completely alone. There were still a few booby-trapped lockers and assorted pranks. We gave Walt every opportunity, but he never swore. I guess that deep inside, we all knew he wouldn’t swear, and we would have been disappointed if he had.
Things finally got so bad that even I started to give up cussing, especially when I was around Walt. I knew he didn’t like hearing profanity all the time, so I toned down my vocabulary.
After all we’d been through (and Walt had been through a lot more than I had), we were really good friends. We talked often about lots of things, and he continued to plug the Church every chance he got.
It’s kind of funny, but for four years, I was really trying, trying hard, to reform Walt—to help him “see the light” of using a man’s vocabulary. But my bad example, and his good one, eventually backfired on me.
A month after we graduated, Walt was there to witness my baptism. “Gee whiz,” he said after the ceremony, “I didn’t think you’d ever change.”
“Doggone it, Walt,” I replied, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet (two meters) high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it and smiled and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:
“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”
That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

I became good friends with a girl named Julia. We decided to be “buddies” at girls camp. Even though I don’t like camping or hiking very much, I really enjoyed the entire experience. There was a different feeling at this camp. Our counselors made a special effort to see that we were having a good time and that everyone was included in all the activities we participated in. During the week, we had devotionals, a nature walk to learn about different plants, a first-aid class, and campfire skits. There was also a service project that everyone in the camp happily participated in. In fact, the service project table was always crowded with volunteers. All through the week there was a sense of organization, cooperation, and friendship.
On Saturday morning, the last day, everyone got together around the campfire, and whoever wanted to stood up and told the others of their testimony of the Church and expressed their gratitude for their family, friends, and what a great and memorable experience they had at camp. Most of them cried while they talked, and I cried along with them. I was surprised to see my sister go up on stage. She said how happy she was to come to this Church and how thankful she was for her family, especially me. That was one of the first times she had ever expressed her love for me as her sister. Once she sat down, I got up and sat next to her. I told her how grateful I was for what she said, and we cried together. We really made a special connection.

As a bishop a few years ago l held a temple recommend interview with one good brother; a really fine member of the ward. All went well until we got to the question, “do you pay your tithes?” Then he began to stammer; words could not come out clearly. I looked him straight in the eye and asked a second time, “Do you pay your tithes?”

The answer then came out rather quietly, “l am not consistent in paying my tithes, because many times when I get my pay, l have a lot of pressing needs and the money seems not to be enough to cover all the expenses or commitments.” I knew that this was an opportunity to teach him about the principle of paying an honest and full tithe, as commanded by the Lord. He then asked for time to go and make good on his promise to become a full tithe payer. It took six months before l could have another interview with him to ascertain his worthiness. Indeed, he had begun to take baby steps in the right direction.

He said, “Smile ako o. Kita mo? Kita mo smile ko?” (I’m smiling, can you see? Can you see my smile?) Then, he flashed a big, toothy smile. Between shallow breaths, he said “Miss you, miss you,” and pouted his lips, asking me to kiss him. And I did. Later, I realized his “miss you” really meant, “I will miss you.” Those were the last words he spoke. He knew we were going to be physically separated for a few decades, and just wanted me to know that he will miss me, but we will definitely see each other again.
The moment I saw his lifeless body in the hospital bed, I felt the Spirit whisper to me, “He was really supposed to live just up to this day.” The pain was there, the tears flowed freely, but miraculously I felt very peaceful and calm, and knew that everything in this world happens the way God intends or allows it.
I hold on to all the truths I have learned since childhood. The reality of the Plan of Salvation. That birth is not the beginning and death is not the end. The reality that a body dies but the spirit lives. That there is always hope because Jesus Christ has made resurrection available to all. I attribute my clear understanding and calm composure at that moment to the prayers of hundreds of people who love me and my little family, and I am grateful to all of you.
President Joseph Fielding Smith taught, “It is reasonable to believe that in the beginning, before the earth was prepared, the Lord would have all things organized from the beginning to the end of time”1. So there. God is all-knowing. Before the physical creation of the earth, there is a spiritual blueprint for everything. Eons and eons of time ago, He has designed our family life to be this way. We’ll have Titus to lead, teach and ready us for the first 10 years, but at 34 years old his probationary period will be over. We are still a family because we have made eternal covenants in the temple, and we both still have the obligation to lead our children back to Heavenly Father. However, I will just have to do the physical rearing and providing from here on out. And because our lives are designed this way, I am confident that God has already prepared all the necessary help we will ever need.
This the greatest miracle I have ever experienced—the ability to readily align my will to Heavenly Father’s. I call this a miracle because I was not really like this before. I will strive to do the same in all my future trials. I guess the greatest affliction can teach us the greatest lessons. And now I have the testimony that because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, because He has overcome sin and death, we can all have peace and even joy in any circumstance.

What about being kind when others are mean or we don’t feel they deserve kindness? That’s where the test gets hard, doesn’t it? The answer is, of course, that we try to show charity for all. Lucy Mack Smith shared the following story about her son:
A large group of men approached stating they had come to “kill Joe Smith and all the Mormons.” Joseph smiled, and shook their hands. He sat down with them and explained to them many of the difficulties the Saints had suffered and their claim against the injustices that had been heaped upon them. After talking to them for some time he turned and said, “I believe I will go home now—Emma will be expecting me.” At this, two of the officers who had come to kill him suggested that he should not go home alone and insisted that they would provide an escort to ensure his safety As they left, Joseph’s mother heard one say, “Did you not feel strangely when Smith took you by the hand?” Another said, “I could not move. I would not harm a hair of that man’s head for the whole world.”

When I was younger, I was so excited to show off one of my school pictures to my parents. I thought it was a great picture, my father thought otherwise. He told me I didn’t see your smile. So I pointed to the close-lipped smile in the photo. He said that I need to practice smiling in the mirror. He took me in front of the mirror and went on to show me how to form my lips and show just enough teeth but not too much. I thought it was so silly. Later, in my early teens, I did take my father's advice and practiced smiling in front of the mirror. So, Dad, I know you’re listening and you’re smiling. I am smiling too.

When I was a young teenager, our family lived in the mission field. My father was branch president in our little town in Wyoming. It was a typical small branch. There were few families and fewer young people. I was one of two Aaronic Priesthood bearers. In addition to preparing and passing the sacrament, one of our assignments was to sweep the cigarettes and empty beer cans out of the rented upstairs room we met in. My father always saw to it that I arrived early in order to have plenty of time to clean the hall before the people came.
It was a friendly little group. Everyone called each other by their first names, as I recall. Reverence and respect were not the chief characteristics of our congregation. But we did things together and loved the Church in our own way.
Father had a great problem. He wanted his children to love the Lord as he did. He wanted to give them a vision of the Church as it could be and indeed as it was in more highly developed parts of Zion. He was concerned about enlarging our perspective. He wanted to insure our understanding of what it meant to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He knew, consciously or otherwise, that it wouldn’t do much good for him just to talk to us about it. He knew that we, as most children, were more impressed by what we did and what we saw.
Shortly after we moved to Wyoming, the Church announced plans to observe the centennial of the pioneers crossing the plains. In the summer of 1947 it was decided that a group of Church dignitaries would retrace the route of the original pioneers, stopping at many of the principal landmarks along the way. Accordingly, a caravan of automobiles and interested persons started in Nauvoo and returned across the original pioneer trail, commemorating various historic encampments. The group was accompanied by Elder Spencer W. Kimball, then of the Council of the Twelve.
At a family meeting one Sunday afternoon after sacrament meeting, my father announced that we were going to go join that caravan. He had plotted the trajectory of the group and determined that the closest point to our home would be at Independence Rock, a landmark on the Mormon trail in central Wyoming. I had mixed feelings at the time about making the trip. I couldn’t see too many reasons for leaving home and traveling several hundred miles in the heat of the Wyoming summer. However, as we discussed it in family council, father’s enthusiasm affected us all. My younger brother and sister became enthused about the project, and I was outvoted. That sometimes happens in family councils. We began to make plans to intercept the caravan. Rather, father made the plans, and we accepted them.
He had known President Kimball years before in Arizona. He told us that it would be a fine thing to join the caravan and see Brother Kimball again. Even I began to get excited. He told us as children that this would be a marvelous experience. We were promised an opportunity to meet one of the apostles of the Lord.
In those days this didn’t happen very often. The chances of a General Authority of the Church wandering into our part of Wyoming in 1947 were almost nonexistent. Our family had had little contact with the Brethren as we moved from place to place. This became something to look forward to.
One bright summer day we left home. We packed a lunch and the family into an old 1939 Studebaker automobile and journeyed to Independence Rock. It was a long, hot trip. When we arrived some hours later, we parked our car. Looking around we could see in the distance a group of men surrounding a large, rocky mound that could be seen for miles in all directions. My brother and I accompanied our father. I remember walking through the sagebrush and grass toward the group of people by the rock. I remember distinctly approaching the man who is now the President of the Church. I remember the recognition accorded to my father, and I remember the words that were spoken.
My father said, “Elder Kimball, do you remember me?”
That was the first time in my life I could remember anyone being called “elder” anything. That was the heritage of our friendly, little branch, I suppose. My father’s words seemed very strange to me.
Elder Kimball turned to my father and said, “Brother Howard, how good to see you again.” Then he asked, “Are these your boys?” Father said, “Yes.” Elder Kimball said, “It is so kind of you to come.”
I stood there waiting for something momentous to happen. Something like “Dr. Livingston, I presume.” But that was all. That was all. I don’t remember anything else being said. I remember that Elder Kimball was busy. Others were making demands upon his time, and there were ceremonial functions to be performed. There may have been other things said to my father, but I don’t remember them. I was disappointed that we had come so far and looked forward with so much anticipation to a conversation that was three sentences long.
We participated in the festivities of the occasion. Afterwards we ate our lunch on the plains, climbed the rock, and noted the inscriptions that had been made by pioneers. It turned out to be not such a bad day after all. Late that evening we returned home. We resumed our routine lives. I remember thinking then that it might have been easier to watch the event on television. I felt let down at the time.
And I don’t believe it made a bit of difference to the Church or to Elder Kimball that we made that trip. But it made a difference to my father. The reward of renewing that association was important enough to him to cause him to make the journey. He let us know that we had been a part of a great event and that we had been privileged to have a glimpse of a great heritage.
I have thought about that excursion many times since. I have come to realize that it was my father’s love for the Lord and the Church and the Lord’s servants that caused him to want to make the trip. I realize that he loved the General Authorities and sustained them. This awareness, which grew in me over the years, meant much more to me than all the telling he could have ever done.
The fact that he would involve us and the fact that by his example he taught us what he thought about the gospel of Jesus Christ have since that time become great lessons for me. He taught me, and I have learned, that you cannot be a passive member of the Church. I learned that association and fellowship with great men are worth whatever price you have to pay to attain them. They are worth enduring heat; they are worth a long trip; they are worth temporary inconvenience. They are the lasting things of life.

Others John has taught have also found ways to personalize their instruments. Freida Maize from Shiprock, New Mexico, carved an “S” on her flute to stand for her home town. Ray Delgarito of Crown Point, New Mexico, fashioned part of his in the shape of a quail. And Jackie Smith of Dustin, Oklahoma, carved a thunderbird and other tribal symbols of the Creeks and Seminoles on her flute.
“The thunderbird symbolizes power, and to me music is a powerful way to influence people. In my tribe and every tribe it plays a vital part because it is involved in everything—religion, everyday singing, powwows, war dances. Everything is tied in with some form of music or other.”
She explained that her mother, who is not a member of the Church, heard her playing the LDS hymn “I Need Thee Every Hour” on the flute and asked her about its meaning. “I was able to show her that she can kneel before God and meet him any time, every hour.”

I remember one night when a friend, Adam, and I couldn’t find dates, so we called up a young couple we knew and announced we wanted to give them a night out. We picked up their kids, took them to an animated movie and then for ice cream. The kids loved the movie and the ice cream. There was mint chocolate chip and rainbow sherbet everywhere. Before we dropped them off, we played Superman and twirled them around in circles until we were totally dizzy. The whole night was cool—cool-aid.