Gospel Story Finder

Jerry was another guy who helped me shape up properly. He managed the health spa where my brothers and I used to do our weight lifting, and he often joined our workouts.
Jerry was no scrawny high school kid. He was a mountain of muscle. Any weight I could lift barely once, Jerry could easily lift ten times. I hated it and loved it when Jerry worked out with us. I hated it because he wouldn’t let us rest or loaf.
“One more! C’mon, you can do one more rep,” he’d yell when I was ready to rack the weights. “Don’t give up now. You can do it.” Then he’d stand over me as I grunted and strained to produce one more repetition. “Atta boy. I knew you could do it.”
I hated the hard work, but I loved the encouragement and motivation he added to our workouts. Jerry squeezed out the best in me, and I always made my best lifts when he was around.

How do three lovely young ladies who are completely deaf speak fluently with confidence and joy?
The answer? With patient faith, hard work, and tender help from parents, sisters, teachers, and their Heavenly Father.
The Ferguson sisters, Deborah, 23, Julie-Ann, 18, and Heather, 15 are from Bangor Branch, Belfast Northern Ireland Stake, and were born with hearing impairments. Two more sisters, Amanda, 22, and Gail, 20, along with parents Peter and Lillian have normal hearing. The girls’ grandparents were also born deaf and mute.
But communication is no problem for this outstanding family. Trust in the Lord and determination are working miracles in their lives.
Proof of this is abundant in Deborah’s many achievements. Her happy personality and eagerness to live life to the fullest have overcome some hearing problems. Since graduating from seminary, she has participated in the Church Scouting program, serving in assistant leadership positions.
Among other hard-earned awards are trophies of all shapes and sizes for numerous sports, including soccer, badminton, squash, and swimming.
“When we held a youth dance festival,” said Young Women president Sister Geddis, “Deborah was the best at keeping on the beat, moving perfectly with the music.” Deborah explains, “Although I can’t hear sound, I feel vibrations through the floor, and with care I can dance as well as anyone else.”
Whether dancing or studying, no obstacles will prevent Deborah from enjoying every program the Church has to offer. “I hope to be a missionary,” she says. “I love to serve and have a great desire to spread the gospel amongst other people with hearing disabilities.”
Her younger sister Amanda feels the same way. Although able to hear perfectly herself, she has seen her family achieve goals they have set and she is determined to help others less fortunate. She is taking a three-year university course in sign language for the deaf so that she will be qualified to interpret and teach.
“I’d like to begin by sharing the gospel with my grandparents, aunt, and uncles who are also deaf,” Amanda explains. “I feel they’re missing so much. I’d love to help them learn the truth.”
Learning plays an important part in sister Gail’s life too—especially in seminary. “It’s a great program. I gain such a lot. Reading the experiences of people in the scriptures has helped me appreciate my own family and their present struggles.”
Gail has an outstanding talent for dealing with children. Acting as “ears” for younger sisters for many years, she has developed patience, kindness, and sharp sensitivity to others’ needs.
Those listening ears are greatly missed by Julie-Ann and Heather for many months each year. These two leave home and family behind and attend school at the renowned Mary Hare United Kingdom Grammar School for the Deaf in Newbury, England. Due to the high academic standards, for one pupil to be accepted at this outstanding school is an accomplishment, but for two from the same family to attend is almost a miracle.
“Letting the children be educated so far away has been a traumatic experience for us all,” Brother Ferguson says. “But through prayer we found comfort and confirmation that our decision was right.”
“We all send letters once or twice a week,” says Julie-Ann, “and there’s a special telephone at school which allows three-way conversations between pupil, interpreter, and parent, so we don’t have to go too long without help from home on any problem.”
“Brother and Sister Williams from Newbury Branch pick us up for church each Sunday,” says Heather. “We enjoy that. There’s a lovely feeling among the members.”
“I love learning everything I can about the Savior and his church,” says Julie-Ann. “I do home-study seminary, and it always helps me. I find sacrament meetings a bit frustrating sometimes, especially when I can’t understand every word the speakers say. People are kind and write things down for me, but often speakers go too fast for me to get all the details.”
Both girls are excellent lip readers, however. In addition, they use hearing aids. They are becoming so expert at understanding others that they are even learning another language—French. “It’s difficult,” says Heather. “I have to concentrate much harder than students with normal hearing.”
Reading music has been part of their lives since infancy. “Our mother used to point out how notes go up and down in hymnbooks at church,” says Julie-Ann, “and if the congregation doesn’t sing louder than the piano, I can pick out the beat and sing hymns.”
“We play recorders the same way,” comments Heather. “I feel pulsation of sound through my feet and legs, and with plenty of practice, we get the tunes right. We have a good orchestra here.”
Although Julie-Ann, Heather, and Deborah use their talents to achieve results in life equal to, and often better than, those of people without hearing impairments, they are sometimes disappointed and hurt by the attitudes of many people towards their disability.
“I prefer to be treated just like everyone else,” Heather says. “It’s really embarrassing when I’m in a crowd and someone starts speaking to me very slowly, waving their arms to emphasize what they are saying. It’s as if they think I am stupid and couldn’t understand them otherwise.”
“Yes,” agrees Julie-Ann, “it’s nice to be accepted as part of the group, spoken to normally, and not stared at as if we’re odd. I often feel like telling people, ‘I’m exactly the same inside as you are.’ It makes me heartbroken and depressed when they are afraid or don’t want to understand me.”
“That’s right,” Heather adds. “I don’t always understand a question the first time someone asks. If I ask them to repeat it, they often say, ‘Oh, never mind,’ and go away! I’d rather they try again and again, so we can learn about each other. I don’t like brief conversations with only ‘Hi!’ or ‘How are you doing?’ I’d prefer to talk properly, long discussions, not too fast or too slow, but real conversations with facial expression and feeling.”
Perhaps because of a certain isolation that deafness creates for them, all three girls have developed a close, personal relationship with their Heavenly Father.
“I talk to the Lord in prayer much of the time,” says Julie-Ann. “I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit strongly and am constantly grateful for the promptings I receive. We watched a video of general conference. During remarks about keeping high standards and avoiding friendships with the wrong crowd, I felt so warm inside as the Spirit testified this was important advice. I could have cried. I didn’t want that wonderful feeling to go away.”
The Fergusons seem to be a part of fulfilling prophecy. In Isaiah 29:18, the prophet wrote, “In that day shall the deaf hear the words of the book.” [Isa. 29:18] Not only are the Fergusons hearing the truth of the gospel themselves, they are becoming well educated and prepared to share those words with all who care to listen with ears, eyes, hands, and hearts.

In the same year, Dr. Hansen made his medical discovery, two ecclesiastical leaders from different faiths first made their appearance on the Kalaupapa peninsula. One was a Latter-day Saint named Jonathan Hawaii Napela, the other a Belgian priest, Father Damien J. De Veuster, who was canonized by the Roman Catholic Church in 2009. Napela was born on the island of Maui in 1813, became a district judge in 1848, and converted to Mormonism in 1852. He was a tremendous aid to early LDS missionary work on the Hawaiian Islands as he fed and housed the elders, helped them learn his native language, and aided George Q. Cannon with the translation of the Book of Mormon. Perhaps his greatest contribution was his example as a loving husband. When his beloved wife Kitty contracted the disease, Jonathan chose to remain with her in the settlement and act as her kokua, a Hawaiian word meaning “helper.” Consequently, Jonathan wrote a heart-felt letter in his native language, Hawaiian, to the Board of Health, pleading that he might be allowed to stay with his wife:

"On August 3, 1843 I took my wife as my legally married wife and on that same day I vowed before God to care for my wife in health and sickness, and until death do us part…. I am 60 years old and do not have much longer to live. During the brief time remaining, I want to be with my wife. My wife has also lived a long life, but with this disease, it will quickly shorten her life. Such is the reason for this petition."4

Fortunately, Jonathan’s request was granted, and he spent the remaining years of his life at Kalaupapa with Kitty. While there, Napela more than just his wife. Not long after his arrival, he was called as the leader of the LDS Church on the Kalaupapa peninsula, a calling he held from 1873 until his death in 1879, from the effects of Hansen’s disease.5

Always before Dad and Mom had told us who was coming. My Dad has this thing about inviting people over to eat with us. The first time he invited someone, it was a returned missionary from Argentina. Mom fixed food from Argentina called milanesa. Before this missionary came, Dad made us learn where Argentina is on the globe, what the people and the weather are like, and what Argentina’s main exports are, so we could carry on an intelligent conversation.
Dad had such a good time that about a month later, he invited the bishop and his family to have dinner with us. The bishop had been to Hong Kong on his mission, so Mom prepared Chinese food. Before the bishop’s family came we had to be able to, you guessed it, locate Hong Kong on the globe. We also had to learn the books of the Old and New Testament and of the Book of Mormon. Dad thought it would impress the bishop, but it was a little hard to work it into the conversation.
A few months later Dad got really brave and invited his boss to dinner. Dad is a chemical engineer and works for a petroleum company. The company makes gas and oil and bug spray and things like that. I asked Mom if we were having petroleum products for dinner. She laughed and said, “No, stuffed pork chops.”
Before the boss came we not only had to learn about the Alaska pipeline, off-shore drilling in the Gulf of Mexico, and how to squeeze oil out of rocks called shale, but we also had a review of manners and etiquette.
We spent days putting napkins on our laps, keeping our elbows off the table, chewing with our mouths closed, speaking only when spoken to, etc. The boss turned out to be very nice, and he seemed to like us.
A few months later Dad was at it again. It began when a notice came in the mail that one of the senators from our state, Senator Brown, would be in town to give a lecture about what was going on in Washington, D.C. When Dad mentioned that he was going to call this senator and invite him to dinner, we all begged him not to do it. Mom said senators don’t have time for such things. But Dad was undaunted (that’s one of the week’s vocabulary words) and called the senator’s office. He even got to talk to the senator.
The senator said he was sorry, but all his evenings were busy, so he couldn’t come to dinner. Now my dad is a quick thinker and just like he’d planned it, he said, “Well, then, how about coming to breakfast?”
Senator Brown is no match for my Dad, and he certainly was not prepared for that and couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough, so he said, “Yes.” He actually said he would come.
Before he came you can imagine what we had to learn. Did you know there are 435 congressmen in the House of Representatives, 100 senators in the Senate, that a senator is elected to a term of six years and a congressman for two? We were crammed full of facts, and we got Mom’s now famous manners and etiquette review.
The morning the senator came, a newspaper reporter did too. The reporter took our pictures with Senator Brown and wrote down all about how the senator was having breakfast with this family. It was kind of embarrassing and was even more embarrassing when the picture and article were in the newspaper.
Well, Dad had not taught us one thing to impress his latest guest, and Mom hadn’t explained why we had to wear Sunday clothes. In fact, they wouldn’t even tell us who was coming.
Mom had fresh flowers, candles, and her very best lace cloth on the table. She made us work to clean every inch of the house. She even got her hair done at the beauty shop.
I said, “Hey, Mom, please tell me. Who is coming? If he’s such an important person, how could he have time to come to dinner with us?” She just smiled and asked me to refill the ice cube trays.
Soon the house was ready, the food was ready, all five of us children were bathed and dressed and ready in our Sunday clothes. There was soft music playing. Mom and Dad seemed happy and peaceful, not nervous like when our other guests were coming. It was 6 o’clock. The guest would soon be here.
At 6:30, the guest hadn’t come. At 6:45 we were still waiting. We were all hungry. “Who is this most important person, anyway?” I asked impatiently.
Just then Dad and Mom called us to the table, and Mom lit the candles. “Let’s begin,” said Dad.
“How can we begin? We can’t start without our guest! We’ve gone to too much work. Who are we waiting for anyway? The president of the United States?” I said.
“Sit down, all of you, and we’ll give you some clues to see if you can guess who our guest will be,” said Mom.
“This person is more important than the president of the United States. But even though he is so important, he knows you very well,” said Dad.
“Is this a trick?” I asked.
“Not a trick,” Dad answered.
Dad continued. “This person is smarter than my boss or the senator. He is more spiritual than the missionary or the bishop. Yet, as important as he is, I didn’t even have to make an appointment with him.”
“Let’s kneel down and have family prayer to begin our dinner and home evening,” said Mom.
Suddenly, as we knelt around the table and Dad began to pray, I got this special feeling. Then I knew. Dad and Mom had gone to all this work to teach us about Heavenly Father. He is much more important than anyone else, and we don’t have to make an appointment to talk to him.
Everyone else must have figured it out too because after the prayer we ate in silence for a long time.
Finally, Dad said, “I hope you will invite Heavenly Father to be your guest in everything you do.”

A few years ago a woman in my ward shared the following in sacrament meeting, and I share it with her permission. She said:

One of the most pervasive things I remember from living with my father is his sternness and his temper. I never felt completely safe with him. I loved my dad and I knew he loved me, yet I experienced fear when he was around. For many years I saw Heavenly Father the same way I saw my own father—as someone who, for the most part, kept his distance and was easily disappointed and frustrated at my weakness.

This sister then described what she did to help make this heavy burden light:

I have asked God many times to show me who He really is and to help me shed all my misconceptions and false beliefs so I can experience the real Him. He has responded with patience and love beyond my expectations. He has taken me by the hand, and I am slowly learning to trust that He is not distant but right here next to me. He is slowly walking me out of fearing Him and into the saving power of His love.

I know another good man who was reared in a family without the blessings of the gospel. Through a series of unfortunate events in his early youth, he was introduced to homosexuality, and gradually he became a prisoner of this addictive behavior.
One day two young missionaries knocked on his door and asked if he would be interested in learning of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. In his heart of hearts he wanted to be freed from his prison of uncleanness, but feeling unable to change the direction his life had taken, he terminated the missionary discussions. Before leaving his apartment, the two elders left a copy of the Book of Mormon with him, and testified of its truthfulness.
My friend placed the book on his bookshelf and forgot about it for several years. He continued acting out his homosexual tendencies, assuming that such relationships would bring him happiness. But alas, with each passing year, his misery increased.
One day in the depths of despair, he scanned his bookshelf for something to read which might edify and uplift him and restore his self-worth. His eye caught hold of the book with a dark blue cover, which the missionaries had given him several years before. He began to read. On the second page of this book, he read of Father Lehi’s vision in which he was given a book to read, and “as he read, he was filled with the Spirit of the Lord” (1 Ne. 1:12). And as my good friend continued reading, he too was filled with the Spirit of the Lord.
He read King Benjamin’s benedictory challenge to undergo a mighty change of heart—not a little change, but a mighty change. He was given hope by the comforting conversion stories of Enos, Alma, Ammon, and Aaron. He was also inspired by the account of the Savior’s visit to the ancient Nephites. By the time he reached the final page of the Book of Mormon, he was prepared to accept Moroni’s loving invitation to “come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness” (Moro. 10:32).
My friend contacted the Church and was taught the gospel and was baptized. Within a relatively short time, he married a lovely young woman, and they are the parents of several beautiful children. He and his wife are very dynamic and committed servants of the Lord, influencing many others for good.

Like scarlet-robed noblemen and silken-gowned ladies-in-waiting, we paraded up the stone staircase to the turrets of the castle ramparts. There, we gazed out on a meadow where, in our minds at least, armor-clad knights awaited our signal to begin a joust.
Actually, as the Young Men and Young Women of the North Shields Ward, Sunderland England Stake, gathered inside the portcullis of Warkworth Castle, we had many such images in our minds. Swallowed in the immensity of the building, now mostly a rocky skeleton of the once regal residence, we wondered what it would have been like to roam the corridors, feast in the cavernous banquet hall, or dwell in the cold, stone chambers. It was one of the best history lessons I’ve ever received.
But then, in northeastern England, you could say history’s on the doorstep. A short ride in a minibus had taken us from our homes to the banks of the River Coquet, over which Warkworth’s turrets preside. Across the stream, the hermitage also offered a lesson in history, a lesson of a different sort. We had to row across the current to visit what had been used as a chapel and as living quarters for monks supported by the locals of the town. On rock face ruins, carved markings indicated the river level during the floods of 1831 and 1900, marks well over the head of an average person. Inside, the altar, vaulted roof, and wall decorations were all hewn from the same rock that formed the shell of the hermitage. It must have taken years to carve all that detail!
Even in Tyne and Wear (our home shire, or “county”), however, history lessons don’t last forever. We had to wait at one point for the next boat to cross the river, so we played rounders (which somewhat resembles baseball) and quoits (which resembles horseshoes), and some of the group walked an “invisible dog” to a nearby shop. Sister Ann Wilkinson, first counselor in the Young Women presidency, went strolling and found an unexpected mishap when she slipped on the riverbank. “The funniest part of the day was when my mam fell in the mud!” joked her 15-year-old daughter Linda.
Besides those adventures, we also had to take time for photos, and for lunch, and to admire the remarkable trees, ancient and mangled as they intertwined. After a full day of peering at fantasy armies through castle windows and storming up steps despite the worst foes our imaginations could muster, we reluctantly piled in the bus again to head for home, thinking that the weeks of gardening, stripping wallpaper, and doing odd jobs to pay for the excursion had been worthwhile. We had grown closer to each other as brothers and sisters in the gospel. We had taken an opportunity to explore and get to know the part of the world where we live and serve our Heavenly Father. And we had learned a little about history and geography as well.
On the way home, we paused at Druridge Bay to collect shells we intended to make into gifts for our Autumn Fayre. Kevin Murphy and Helen Loynes couldn’t resist the lure of the cold North Sea, and even persuaded a few of the hardier souls, who had been jumping in the sand banks, to join them, fully clothed, for a dip in the waves. Some shivered and others smiled as we rushed, teeth chattering, back to shore, and collapsed in the rocks and sand. We knew we had to get warm, and we knew we had to get back in the bus and head for home, and we knew we had to stop giggling and laughing. But the moment seemed to last forever, and we knew that the memories formed in one day would last us until the next time we got together for a Latter-day Saint weekend in the land that is our home.

"The name Poelman is a Dutch name," Elder Poelman explained. "My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and then they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of a cold-water flat in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.
“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as were all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”
I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.
“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

“Oh no, it’s Asa’s turn to drive to the bishopric meeting,” I heard my dad grumbling to my mother.
“He’s just trying to do his share,” Mom said.
“I know. But it’s always so uncomfortable to ride in that old truck of his. There are springs in the seat that stick out and rip my slacks, and cat hair all over. He’s just too proud to skip his turn and let one of us drive.” He was still grumbling when he went into the bathroom to tie his tie.
Asa Newcomb was my father’s counselor in the bishopric. He was a middle-aged farmer, and the years had not been kind to him. His old truck was a ’49, rusty-blue cab, with a wooden bed and rails that went halfway down along the sides. My father and Asa had been counselors together before Dad was made bishop, and so Dad had been riding in the truck to meetings for quite a few years.
As a kid I had enjoyed riding with Asa’s boys when we went on Cub Scout outings, and later when we were Scouts his was the easiest truck to load with our equipment. But now I understood more of what Dad felt. It was not too pleasant to show up at the movies or a dance in that big, old truck that rattled your teeth during the entire ride and tore small holes in the back of your pants.
Maybe it was because of the truck that Dad had such a thing about pride. He was always lecturing us on being too proud or not having enough humility. In fact, we were a family of six children, and Dad was a history teacher at the local junior college, so we all felt we had plenty of humility. It was perhaps a humility imposed upon us by circumstances, but it was humility all the same. Dad always felt that Asa was “too proud” in insisting on taking his turn to drive. “A more humble man would recognize the problem and not insist on making us all uncomfortable,” he would say.
That night while Dad was at his meeting, our furnace blew up.
My two younger brothers, Ned and Phil, and my three-year-old sister, Amy, and I were in the living room watching a special on TV. My two older sisters, Beth and Ann, were in the kitchen doing dishes. My mother had just gone out to deliver a loaf of newly baked bread to a neighbor. Almost as soon as we heard the explosion, fire ripped through the corner of the kitchen above the furnace. My sisters screamed, and Ann was hit on the head by a piece of flying debris. The shock of the explosion threw all of us to the floor, and the youngest ones started crying.
“Get them outside,” I yelled at Ned. He lifted Amy, grabbed Phil by the arm, and then ran out the front door. I ran to the kitchen doorway. Beth, with tears streaming down her face, was trying to pull Ann away from the flames that were already starting up the walls. I ran in and helped her lift, and together we dragged Ann through the front door and onto the lawn. Mother and our neighbors all along the street were running toward us. In a few moments I could hear the wail of the fire siren in the distance and remember thinking that either the explosion had been heard all over town or someone had called the fire department in a hurry.
Even with the speed with which the fire department arrived, most of the house was in flames. The paramedics checked Ann and then took her to the hospital for observation even though she was now conscious. She had a big gash in the side of her head, and she kept saying, “My new haircut! It cost me $7.50.” My mother was holding Amy, Phil was huddled close to her side, and we were all crying.
The firemen poured water onto the house, and by the time Dad rushed out of his meeting and home, the fire was out.
That night we slept at Aunt Verna’s. We heard that the living room structure was all right, and part of the upstairs, but all the furniture was ruined by water and smoke damage, and Dad’s study containing his books and papers was completely destroyed. I think that was what hit him the hardest.
We had the clothes we were wearing, and maybe, after some rummaging, we would be able to find a few other things. It rained hard all night, and Mother said it was a blessing because that would mean the fire was really out.
The next morning we held a family council around Aunt Verna’s kitchen table. The first thing Beth said was, “I’m not going to wear someone else’s hand-me-downs!”
“We don’t know yet that you’ll have to,” Dad said.
And Phil said, “And I don’t want any old broken toys like they fix up at Christmastime.”
“I think we’re all rushing things,” Dad said. “We need to get out to the house and see what’s there first.”
“Helen, telephone,” Aunt Verna called from the living room. My mother had been answering the telephone all morning; usually it was someone calling to offer help or food.
This time it was Ann. Mother had called the hospital twice during the morning to see how she was. Ann could come home anytime we could go get her. Aunt Verna and Mother went in Aunt Verna’s car, and the rest of us got into our car and went back to our house to begin salvaging what we could.
The first thing we saw when we rounded the corner on our block was Asa’s truck. It was parked in front of our yard, and there was Asa and his oldest boy pulling the charred furniture into the driveway.
We got out of the car, and Dad walked up to Asa. “Asa,” he said, “you can’t take time away from your spring planting to do this today; we can manage.”
“No, Robert,” Asa said, slowly. “I knew where I was needed today. You’ve got a good, strong family, but I want to do whatever I can.”
That became the phrase of the day. Whenever anyone else showed up to help, it was always with the phrase, “I want to do whatever I can.”
The Relief Society president was there when my mother burst into tears over the exploded fruit and vegetable bottles and the melted wheat containers. The president must have said something to someone, because soon people started coming to the house with cases of canned goods. They would stack them in the garage, which was pretty much intact, and then shake Mom and Dad’s hands and leave. Dad was obviously running out of things to say to people and seemed to be repeating over and over, “You shouldn’t have. How can we ever repay you?” And all day that truck of Asa’s was in front of the house—except for the times that Asa and Dad would decide that a load should go to the dump.
My junior league baseball team showed up about the time that school let out and helped clean up the mess in the front yard. We were invited to dinner at three different homes and finally ended up at our next-door neighbor’s. After dinner Dad went back to the house to work while the rest of us watched TV and tried to relax. I followed him to the house a few minutes later.
He was sitting on the empty back steps with his face burrowed in his hands. I sat down beside him, and he looked up.
“John,” he said. “I don’t know how we can accept all this charity. Something inside me says that we should do these things ourselves.”
“But, Dad,” I said, “everybody seems to want to do something for us.”
“I know,” he answered, “but we’ve got to do for ourselves, too.”
Just then a little gray-haired lady came around the corner of the house. She was Sister Adams, a widow I had home taught. She had a cloth shopping bag in her arms.
“Bishop Andrews,” she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I had to finish these things first.” She opened her bag and got out three pairs of homemade pillowcases, the kind with embroidered girls wearing big skirts on the front and flowers and crocheting around the edges. “I think you’ll need these when you get back into your house. I’ve heard that insurance never goes far enough to cover things like linens.”
Dad stood up. “Sister Adams, you shouldn’t do this. Aren’t these the kind of things you sell to that store downtown? You can’t afford this.”
“Why, Bishop Andrews,” she said, almost indignant, “after all these years of doing for others, haven’t you learned that one needs to do these things? I need the blessings, and this is something I can do.” She turned quickly to me. “And you, John, you’ve been over to my place dozens of times to rake leaves or shovel snow. I need to do something for this family.” Then she turned to go. “You of all people should know, Bishop, that sometimes it’s better to receive than to give.” She walked away and left us there, and Dad sat down again on the steps, the pillowcases in hand.
That night in our prayers Dad thanked the Lord for all the blessings that the day had brought and especially asked that we could accept with love all the things that others wanted to do for us.
The next morning when we drove over from Aunt Verna’s, Asa’s truck was in front of the house again. He was standing and surveying the damage, and there was a big bag of potatoes on the back of his truck.
“With the help of a couple of men in the ward, we ought to be able to get things roughed in and part of your roof on, Robert, before too long. That way the insurance money will go further.” I could see Dad was thinking this over.
“Asa, why are you doing all of this?” he asked. “You don’t have the time to spend away from your work and your family.”
“I’m a proud man, Robert,” Asa said slowly, “and things have been hard for us for a long time now.” He turned away for a moment. “And, Robert, you’ve allowed me my pride. And you’ve taught me what a humble man is. You’ve always been open with me and accepted me on my terms. Now I have to try and be a little like you. A humble man helps his neighbor, like you’ve helped me. You remember that year you helped me get the potatoes in after I hurt my back? Well, understand that I’m not repaying that kindness. I’m trying to duplicate it; and because you’re a humble man, I know you’ll accept my attempt at being a servant for once.” His speech finished, he turned back to studying the house.
Dad sniffed twice, and I had to wipe the moisture from my own cheek. On his way down to the truck to get the potatoes, he called back, “Asa, I wonder if you could give me a ride in your truck over to the college. I need to check my mail and things, and my wife needs the car.”

This story happened in Malaysia.
Janeelyn swiped her thumb across the phone screen. Videos flashed by. She paused to watch one, then scrolled again. Then she stopped at another video. It had a lot of bad language, but it was funny, so she kept watching. And then kept scrolling.
“Janeelyn! Want to come draw?” Her younger sister Jojo waved a piece of paper.
Janeelyn glanced up. “Not right now.”
“OK.” Jojo frowned and set the paper down.
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Videos of cute animals. Videos of famous people. Videos of kids dancing. And a few videos Janeelyn knew weren’t good to watch. OK, maybe more than a few. Janeelyn started to feel like she should stop watching them.
But people also post a lot of good things, she thought. She’d even learned new ways to draw from a few videos.
“Janeelyn,” Mom called.
“Hmm?” Janeelyn didn’t even look up this time.
“We’re having seafood fried rice tonight,” Mom said. “Will you help me make it?”
Janeelyn loved seafood fried rice. But she didn’t want to get up right now.
“Can I just set the table?” she asked. “I can help with dishes after too.”
“That’s fine,” Mom said. “But you need to set it right when I ask you. And then it’s time to give the phone back. Deal?”
“Deal,” Janeelyn said.
Janeelyn kept watching videos. Again, she felt that she shouldn’t be looking at them. But she really wanted to see the next video. And the next. And the next. Scroll. Scroll. It was hard to stop!
At last Janeelyn put the phone down. Well, maybe she could just finish one last video . . . .
No, Janeelyn told herself firmly. The Holy Ghost had prompted her, and she wanted to listen. Her hand still hovered near the phone. It was so tempting! Janeelyn squeezed her eyes shut.
Dear Heavenly Father, she prayed silently. I’m trying hard to listen to the Holy Ghost, but I need help. I want to stop watching these videos, but I’m not sure how. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Just then, Mom called her to set the table. Janeelyn hopped up and smiled. That was one way to help get her off the phone.
Janeelyn set the plates on the table. “Mom, I saw some bad things on the phone,” she blurted out.
Mom looked up from her cooking. “What kinds of things?”
“Just like, bad words and bad videos.” Janeelyn shrugged. “But it’s not all bad.”
“What did you do when you saw the bad things?” Mom asked.
Janeelyn was quiet for a moment. She set a cup at each place.
“I kept watching,” she said. “I don’t know why. But the Holy Ghost told me to stop, so I said a prayer for help.”
Mom set a steaming platter of seafood fried rice on the table. “Sometimes it’s really hard to stop doing things even when we know they are bad,” she said. “And when that happens, the best thing we can do is pray.”
Janeelyn grinned. “So I did the right thing.”
“You sure did.” Mom handed Janeelyn spoons to put on the table. “And the internet isn’t all bad. It can help us connect with friends and share ideas. But it can be hard to stay away from all the bad things too. From now on, if you’re going to watch videos, let’s only watch them together. That way Dad and I can help if you see something bad.”
Janeelyn nodded. Next time she’d watch videos with Mom and Dad. But until then, there were lots of fun things she could do without the phone.
“Will you tell everyone it’s time for dinner?” Mom asked.
“Yup! And after dinner, I’m going to draw with Jojo!”
Illustrations by Mitch Miller

The music screamed from the radio, jerking me from my peaceful sleep. “Turn the radio down, Eric!” I bellowed.
I cracked open my eyes and watched my brother dance insanely in front of his dresser. His good left hand was clenched around an imaginary microphone, and his partially crippled right hand flapped as he twisted to the music.
“Eric!” I yelled again, and he turned toward me, gave me his sheepish grin—and turned up the radio. I lunged after him, and he bolted out the bedroom door, laughing as he ran. His straw-colored blond hair flapped as he ran, exhibiting more energy than I could ever match. I shut the door and climbed back in bed.
My brother Eric is a unique individual. He was born seven weeks prematurely and has had health problems his entire life. Two strokes, as a baby and at the age of two, left his right side partially paralyzed and destroyed a third of his brain.
When he was ten, he began having seizures, so we took him to a neurologist. After reviewing his CAT scans, the doctor came into the room expecting to see a drooling, severely retarded child. Instead, he met my brother, the electronics wizard and family clown. The doctor thought someone had accidentally switched scans. That’s because he didn’t know the miracle, my brother.
Eric’s brain damage left him with problems. He had a limited attention span and lacked many of the “normal” behavioral inhibitions. It was not uncommon to see him walk along and suddenly burst into an absurd song and dance. Those who didn’t know him thought, “Who is that?” But those who did know him thought, “That’s Eric.”
Eric was born a year and a half after I was. Our older brother, a headstrong toddler, demanded a lot of attention. Eric’s health problems also required a lot of my parents’ attention. As a result, my parents couldn’t give me as much attention as they, or I, would have liked. For years I resented Eric. “He’s a mistake,” I thought. “I’m really the youngest.” I tormented him and punched him and tried to make him miserable. But Eric always smiled at me and never hit me back.
One night I did something that made Eric cry, and when I did I felt like the lowest and the worst. Eric was watching TV. We had been fighting over something, so I started making fun of his disability. I never had before. I must have felt malicious. I made my hand look like his right hand, curled up and spastic, and I limped around and talked gibberish while I drooled.
The thing I remember most, as Eric started crying, was that he looked down at his crippled hand and hugged it to his chest. At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me, and I think I tasted what hell might be like.
Our relationship changed after that incident. As we grew older I tormented him less, and when I did, he fought back. We basically ignored each other until our family moved to California one summer.
When school started, Eric and I were the only people we knew at school, and we had to rely on each other. Instead of eating lunch by myself, I met Eric and we sat on the stone steps together. As we dug through our brown bags and munched ham sandwiches, I was surprised at the growing number of people who waved at, talked to, and sat down beside Eric. His cheery grin, relaxed attitude, and silly jokes soon had us in the middle of a noisy group of friends. Others saw in Eric what I had kept myself from seeing, and they showed me his strength, his dedication, his strange but hilarious sense of humor, and his amazing ability to shrug off pain.
One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

Twenty years ago I attended a sacrament meeting where the children responded to the theme “I Belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” These boys and girls demonstrated they were in training for service to the Lord and to others. The music was beautiful, the recitations skillfully rendered, and the spirit heaven-sent. One of my grandsons, who was 11 years old at that time, had spoken of the First Vision as he presented his part on the program. Afterward, as he came to his parents and grandparents, I said to him, “Tommy, I think you are almost ready to be a missionary.”
He replied, “Not yet. I still have a lot to learn.”
Through the years that followed, Tommy did learn, thanks to his parents and to teachers and advisers at church, who were dedicated and conscientious. When he was old enough, he was called to serve a mission. He did so in a most honorable fashion.

During the next few months, I spent a lot of time at home and had plenty of time to think. I grieved for the loss of the person I thought I would be in my later years. I grieved for the future that my wife and I had previously envisioned. I endured days of discouragement. I prayed a lot as my symptoms grew worse. My need to find positive ways of coping increased.
Then the Lord provided an unexpected source of support. My wife and I were called to be our ward’s welfare and self-reliance specialists. As part of our calling, we facilitated a group meeting on emotional resilience. I had not thought about needing the class personally. However, by the end of the first meeting, I thought, “Wow! This is for me!” We talked about avoiding negative thought patterns, being positive, controlling our feelings. It gave me some practical tools that, over time, helped me—and my wife as well—to develop a healthy attitude toward my disease.

Tired but happy after her soccer game, Gracie walked to the bleachers where her family sat. Her whole family, including her abuela (grandmother), had come to watch the game.
“You played with honor,” Gracie’s papá said as he put his arm around her shoulders.
Gracie grinned. “Gracias, Papá.”
The family piled into the car. When Papá suggested that they stop for lunch to celebrate the team’s victory, Gracie and her younger brother and sister cheered.
The restaurant was crowded, with only two empty booths available. Four players from the other team walked in after Gracie’s family and took the booth behind theirs. They began talking loudly, insulting the players on Gracie’s team.
Gracie looked at her parents and saw dismay on their faces. They were as uncomfortable as she was with the vulgar language they were hearing. She wondered what they would do.
Papá started to stand when Gracie’s abuela leaned over the back of the booth and started talking to the young people.
She didn’t say anything about their language but asked questions about their hobbies. One of the girls shyly said that she liked to knit.
“Come over to our table,” Abuela invited. “I’ll show you what I’m working on.”
The four players trooped over to join Gracie’s family at their booth. Everyone slid closer together to make room for them.
Abuela opened the knitting bag she always carried and pulled out a stocking hat. “I can make one of these in 30 minutes.”
“Could you show me how to do that sometime?” the girl asked.
“It would be my pleasure,” Abuela said.
“You’re pretty cool,” one of the boys said.
Abuela smiled. “For an old lady.”
“For anyone.” He hesitated, then looked around to Gracie’s family with an embarrassed expression. “I guess you’d like it if we didn’t talk like we did.”
Abuela patted the boy’s hand and smiled. “You are right.”
“Thanks for talking to us like we’re real people,” the girl said. “Most people ignore us.”
“You are real people. Even more important, you are each a child of God,” Abuela said. “Always remember that.”
Gracie watched a look of wonder come over the girl’s face.
The boys and girls returned to their booth and finished their meal. They left shortly after that.
Papá gave Abuela a hug. “Mamá, you are amazing. All I could think of was their bad language. I didn’t remember that they were also children of God.”
Later that night, Gracie asked Papá, “How did Abuela know what to say to those kids?”
“Your abuela treats everyone the same,” Papá said. “She knows that we’re all God’s children.”
Gracie hasn’t forgotten that lesson—nor her abuela’s example.

Fear. That pretty much sums up what I felt as I shuffled my feet and tried to avoid the soul-searching gazes of my parents. They weren’t going to like what I had to tell them at all.
I had just returned home for Thanksgiving from my first semester of college. I was telling my parents about my college experiences and new friends. But what started as an enjoyable conversation quickly turned uncomfortable when my mom casually asked the question I had been dreading: “So, how are your grades?”
Frantically, my mind began to dig for lame excuses that might help me out of the mess I was in. How had I let my grades slip so far? I had arrived at college with every intention of studying hard and doing well. But then I discovered that for the first time in my life, no one was looking over my shoulder telling me what to do. Parents that were 400 miles away meant no curfew, no chores, and no rules. I took advantage of this newfound freedom and was quickly in the habit of staying up late at night with my roommates. My life was filled with late-night movies, late-night trips to get ice cream, and late-night talks and games with roommates.
After this late-night fun, I was in no mood to wake up for early-morning classes. When my alarm blared at 6:30 a.m., I would hit the trusty snooze button and burrow deeper under the covers. I missed class a lot, but what did it matter—college teachers didn’t take roll anyway.
All of this explained why I was now sitting in front of my parents, shuffling my feet and afraid to meet their gaze. Instead of asking for forgiveness like I should have, I chose to get angry. I looked my parents in the eyes and said defiantly: “My grades aren’t good right now. But I think it’s unfair of both of you to expect me to spend all of my time at college studying. Are you trying to keep me from having fun?”
My mom looked at me and said, “It was really hard for us when you left home, but we let you go because we knew you needed an education. It’s good to have fun, but you have to remember you are at college for a specific purpose. We have sacrificed a lot so that you can have this experience.”
“Sacrifices? What sacrifices have they given up so I can go to college?” I wondered. And then I remembered. They had agreed to pay half of my tuition. Checks from my mom always arrived in the nick of time to help me meet my monthly rent payment. They were willing to let me leave and go to a strange new place because they knew I would learn from it.
As I listed the sacrifices in my mind one by one, it suddenly hit me—I had been selfish. Not once as I stayed out late or skipped class had I thought about what my parents had given up. I had forgotten what was important, and I was wasting their sacrifice because I wasn’t making the most of my education.
For the first time, I realized just what they had done for me, and I knew I could only make the most of the things they had given up for me by working hard in school.
It wasn’t until later that day that I heard it: a still, small voice in my mind that asked a simple question, “Are you discarding the sacrifice that your Heavenly Father made in allowing His Son to suffer and die to atone for your sins, just as you have been discarding the sacrifice of your earthly parents?”
Suddenly, I remembered all of the days when I had forgotten my purpose on earth. The days when I fell into bed, too tired to say my prayers, and the mornings when I didn’t read my scriptures because I thought it was more important to look nice for school.
It dawned on me that I wasn’t living on earth just to entertain myself. I was here as part of Heavenly Father’s great plan of happiness. The Savior’s sacrifice—the Atonement—was made so that you and I, and all of God’s children, could learn the lessons of earth life. Because of that sacrifice, we have the opportunity to repent and return to live with Heavenly Father again. I want to be able to say that I used my time on earth to learn and grow as He intended.

A number of years ago, when we were living in Boston, Massachusetts, I had just finished a particularly bad week. You know what a bad week is, don’t you? It’s seven bad days in a row. By the end of the week I was feeling depressed and a bit sorry for myself.
Finally, one night after my family had gone to bed, I determined to stay up longer and really go before the Lord in a more determined way than when I say my regular night and morning prayers.
As I knelt in the downstairs study of the darkened house, my circumstances made it easy to approach the Lord in the depths of humility, and I freely expressed my deepest feelings. As I prayed, I felt a need for a confirmation that He was there and that He cared. From past experiences I knew these things, but there are times when one needs the strength of reconfirmation. As I prayed and made this specific request, I had a most remarkable experience. I had had spiritual experiences before, but this, to me, was more. There was an outpouring of the Spirit so real that I could feel it. It filled my whole soul and was not just a single experience but came again and again within just a minute or two.
I came from that room that night with a reconfirmed and absolute knowledge, born of the Spirit, that not only did the Savior live, but that He knew me and cared for me with a love that was truly divine.
The influence of that experience lingered with me for days and caused me to have a feeling of genuine concern and love for my fellowmen, even people on the street whom I did not know! While previously I would pass them with little or no thought, I now felt a concern for and interest in them. Even my family seemed to be more dear to me. I felt a bond with the Saints everywhere and wanted to serve my fellowmen.
I can’t remember the trials I was facing at that particular time. They passed as trials usually do. But I will always remember the experience of that evening when the Spirit healed me. It reconfirmed to me that if our hearts are right, we can go before the Lord and in one degree or another and in one way or another he will send the healing influence of the Spirit, and that the Spirit not only heals, but it also unites. This need not be a singular experience but can happen often.

One evening President Kimball stayed late at the office, and so I continued working at my desk. It turned out that he was going to a dinner at the Lion House at 6:30 and was waiting for Sister Kimball to come and meet him so they could go to the dinner together. About 5:30, he urged me to go home, but I told him that I would stay as long as he did. He insisted, so I said, “I am torn between doing my duty to stay close to you and doing what you ask me to do.” He looked up at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, “They both ought to be the same, hadn’t they?”

Jon Huntsman, Sr., is one of the most successful businessmen in America. (His corporate jet enables President Hinckley to travel the world.) He has founded a number of companies in the republics of the former Soviet Union. Two of his former employees were in my MBA class at BYU and told me of the box factory he created in Russia to help this emerging economy. Initially the company was told it would have to pay a certain tax rate on boxes sold to Russian customers and a much lower rate on boxes shipped for resale to other former republics. After the company started producing boxes, a tax administrator came and informed the company that the rates were being increased on the exported boxes — to a point that made the company completely unprofitable. However, the official said, if certain amounts could be paid under the table directly to the tax official, he could "take care of them." It is Jon Huntsman's policy never to pay a bribe. He never has, he never will. The official was insistent. Jon Huntsman decided to sell the factory to local management for one dollar rather than pay a bribe. He lost his investment of millions of dollars but he would not compromise his integrity for money.

As I did so, I reflected on an experience at the time of the prededication showing of the London Temple in 1958.

Those who inspected the building were asked to defer any questions until they had completed the tour. In the evenings I joined the missionaries in talking with those who had questions. As a young couple came down the front steps of the temple, I inquired whether I could help them in any way. The young woman spoke up and said, “Yes. What about this ‘marriage for eternity’ to which reference was made in one of the rooms?” We sat on a bench under the ancient oak that stood near the gate. The wedding band on her finger indicated that they were married, and the manner in which she gripped her husband’s hand evidenced their affection one for another.
“Now to your question,” I said. “I suppose you were married by the vicar.”
“Yes,” she responded, “just three months ago.”
“Did you realize that when the vicar pronounced your marriage he also decreed your separation?”
“What do you mean?” she quickly retorted.
“You believe that life is eternal, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she replied.
I continued, “Can you conceive of eternal life without eternal love? Can either of you envision eternal happiness without the companionship of one another?”
“Of course not,” came the ready response.
“But what did the vicar say when he pronounced your marriage? If I remember the language correctly, he said, among other things, ‘in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, till death do ye part.’ He went as far as he felt his authority would permit him and that was till death separates you. In fact, I think that if you were to question him, he would emphatically deny the existence of marriage and family beyond the grave.”
“But,” I continued, “the Father of us all, who loves his children and wants the best for them, has provided for a continuation, under proper circumstances, of this most sacred and ennobling of all human relationships, the relationships of marriage and family.
“In that great and moving conversation between the Savior and his apostles, wherein Peter declared, ‘Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God,’ and the Lord responded, ‘Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-jona: for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven.’ The Lord then went on to say to Peter and his associates, ‘And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.’ (Matt. 16:13–19.)
“In that marvelous bestowal of authority the Lord gave to his apostles the keys of the holy priesthood, whose power reaches beyond life and death into eternity. This same authority has been restored to the earth by those same apostles who held it anciently, even Peter, James, and John.” I continued by saying that following the dedication of the temple on the following Sunday, those same keys of the holy priesthood would be exercised in behalf of the men and women who come into this sacred house to solemnize their marriage. They will be joined in a union which death cannot dissolve and time cannot destroy.
Such was my testimony to this young couple in England. Such it is to you today, my dear young friends, and such it is to all the world. Our Father in heaven, who loves his children, desires for them that which will bring them happiness now and in the eternities to come, and there is no greater happiness than is found in the most meaningful of all human relationships—the companionships of husband and wife and parents and children.

I also encourage all parents hearing or reading this message to make the Book of Mormon an important part of your home. As our children were growing, we read the Book of Mormon as we ate breakfast. This is the bookmark that we used. On the front is a quote from President Benson promising that God would pour out a blessing upon us as we read the Book of Mormon.11 On the back is this promise from President Marion G. Romney, formerly a counselor in the First Presidency: “I feel certain that if, in our homes, parents will read from the Book of Mormon prayerfully and regularly, both by themselves and with their children, the spirit of that great book will come to permeate our homes and all who dwell therein. … The spirit of contention will depart. Parents will counsel their children in greater love and wisdom. Children will be more responsive and submissive to the counsel of their parents. Righteousness will increase. Faith, hope, and charity—the pure love of Christ—will abound in our homes and lives, bringing in their wake peace, joy, and happiness.”12

Now, many years after our children have left home and are raising their own families, we can see clearly the fulfillment of President Romney’s promise. Our family is far from perfect, but we can testify of the power of the Book of Mormon and the blessings that reading it has brought and continues to bring into the lives of our whole family.