Gospel Story Finder

by David Forbes
Taking advantage of one of the hottest summers on record, about 30 young men of the Dundee Scotland Stake set up camp in an isolated region of Angus County.
Camp leader Paul Roy organized a variety of activities for each day, but the highlight of the week-long camp was a 10-hour pony trek in one of the country’s most beautiful areas. They rode into the blazing sun and crossed three heather-covered glens before taking a refreshing dip in a cool mountain stream during their lunch break.
By the end of the day, regardless of any sore muscles, the boys jumped at the chance to play a game of American-style football.
“The amount of energy these boys have is amazing. I thought after a long day on the ponies they would be exhausted. But not these boys,” said Brother Roy, a member of the stake Young Men presidency.

The events of 23 June 1994 stunned Elder Holland. There had been no particular sense of foreshadowing in President Hunter’s invitation to a 7:30 A.M. visit. But by midday, Elder Holland had been called to serve in the Quorum of the Twelve, had been introduced in the quorum by President Hunter, and had been ordained by the President.

At the time of his call, he marveled at the vigor of President Hunter in handling surely and rapidly the events of the morning. It was evidence “that the Lord had worked a miracle in the life of Howard W. Hunter,” Elder Holland says. He speaks of feeling a powerful witness that President Hunter had been strengthened to lead the Church. “I saw the hand of the Lord on him.”

Each time I would visit an older widow whom I had known for many years and whose bishop I had been, my heart grieved at her utter loneliness. A favorite son of hers lived many miles away, and for years he had not visited Mother. Mattie spent long hours in a lonely vigil at her front window. Behind a frayed and frequently opened curtain, the disappointed mother would say to herself, “Dick will come; Dick will come.”

But Dick didn’t come. The years passed by one after another. Then, like a ray of sunshine, Church activity came into the life of Dick. He journeyed to Salt Lake to visit with me. He telephoned upon his arrival and, with excitement, reported the change in his life. He asked if I had time to see him if he were to come directly to my office. My response was one of gladness. However, I said, “Dick, visit your mother first, and then come to see me.” He gladly complied with my request.

Before he could get to my office, there came a phone call from Mattie, his mother. From a joyful heart came words punctuated by tears: “Tom, I knew Dick would come. I told you he would. I saw him through the window.”

Years later at Mattie’s funeral, Dick and I spoke tenderly of that experience. We had witnessed a glimpse of God’s healing power through the window of a mother’s faith in her son.

In July 1993, Alla, Alex, and I were sealed as a family in the Stockholm Sweden Temple. As we knelt at the temple altar, surrounded by friends, including Reid and Donna Johnson, the temple president and matron, the warmth of our initial conversion came to us again. We had been like cold, wet, miserable, lost kittens; but in the Church we had found shelter, warmth, and nourishment. The gospel had helped us open our frozen hearts and closed eyes and begin to see truth and to love.
We spent a week at the temple doing proxy work, including the work for Alla’s deceased grandparents, and we discovered we have a lot of work yet to do in the temple. The happiness we feel as members of Christ’s Church has not peaked. The longer we serve in the Church, the more happiness we seem to experience. It has been an unexpected and wonderful surprise to know true joy.

It was during this period of professional uncertainty that I met the woman who would become my wife. I fell ill with malaria while visiting a friend in Mamfe for a festival, and his sister, with immense kindness, nursed me back to health. We grew close, and she eventually became pregnant with our first daughter, Miracle. We would have four children together before formally marrying in 2014, a process involving the traditional payment of a bride price, which she faithfully helped me save for over time.

Not long ago, Father Paul Showalter of Nauvoo shared with us an interesting insight on the Prophet Joseph Smith that came from the early Catholic history of that area.
When the Saints began to settle in Nauvoo and surrounding areas, a French Catholic priest by the name of Father John Alleman, who lived in neighboring McDonough County, needed transportation to visit a sick parishioner. Joseph provided him with ferry service to cross the river and a carriage to his destination.
As an expression of respect, Joseph commented, “The priests attend to their people faithfully and mind their own business, whereas others are continually bothering the Latter-day Saints.”

To explain why I was so stirred by our son’s response, I must share a story about his older brother, born shortly after my father’s death. We gave this older son his grandfather’s name as a middle name. He felt awkward about that old-fashioned name in his early years and didn’t use it. But when he took up debate in high school and learned that his grandfather had been a champion debater in the 1920s, he began feeling a tie to his namesake. My father had kept a personal journal during much of his adult life, and one day I showed my son an entry describing his grandfather’s big debate. I left that journal with him, hoping he would read it.
He was a good boy, but he wasn’t easy to rear. We prayed for patience. We prayed that the seeds of faith would take root in his heart, but we knew we couldn’t force that process. I thought during those days about my own older brother, who died in an accident during his turbulent adolescence. How my parents had prayed and grieved for him! Then one night my son left me a simple note: “I never want to do anything that would hurt you and Mom the way your brother’s problems hurt your parents.” I wondered how he could have known of something so personal from a generation ago. Then I remembered the journal, but I chose not to ask more.
A few weeks later, our son worked his way through a particularly trying experience and came to us late at night to tell us what had happened: “Dad, I never knew Grandpa Hafen, but I felt he was there, helping me.” I held him close that night, and I told him more about his grandfather.
Not long afterward, he was deciding how he should respond to a mission call. We were in southern Utah for a family reunion. One afternoon, with no explanation, he drove alone to the isolated little canyon where his grandfather had loved to ride his horse—the place, in fact, where he had passed away. Our son had read of this canyon in the journal and had seen it from a distance but had never been in it. In a secluded spot there, he knelt and asked the Lord’s help in sorting through his questions about his faith, his mission, and his life. At his missionary farewell, he alluded to the sacredness of that day and described the deep assurance and sense of direction he had carried from his grandfather’s canyon. Now, some years later, with children of his own, he reflects in his life that same assurance and direction, and I know the joy my father must feel.

There is one sport that everyone in Brazil loves—soccer. And there is no bigger soccer event than the World Cup. So when Fabiana Silva, a member of the Brasil Ward, Vitória da Conquista Brazil Stake, won a contest and got to attend the 1998 World Cup in France, she was thrilled! But she had no idea it would become a missionary opportunity.
The other contest winners couldn’t help noticing Fabiana’s standards as they attended soccer game after soccer game, and Brazil headed to the final game against France. They respected her modest dress, her positive attitude, and her clean language. That respect turned to disbelief, though, when she told them she would not be attending the championship because it was going to be held on Sunday.
Despite pressure and even ridicule from the group, Fabiana stood firm. Sunday found her reading scriptures in her hotel room because she didn’t know where to find a local chapel. Brazil lost; the group went home.
A few weeks later Fabiana was surprised to receive a letter from Fábio Fan, another contest winner from across the country. He told her he was impressed by her standards and that he was investigating the Church. Later he sent another letter—he had been baptized. Fábio then helped bring members of his family into the Church and served a mission.
Fabiana also served a mission, to Campinas, Brazil, where she was well prepared because she had already learned that “the most effective tract we will carry will be the goodness of our own lives and example.”1

Several years ago I spoke at a meeting for members and investigators in the Peru Lima South Mission. I don’t know why I started talking about revelation and the importance of having a prophet. But as I did, I noticed two young men on the first row listening attentively and taking notes. After the meeting, those two young men came to me and said, “You talk about prophets and about revelation. We thought that there weren’t any prophets after John the Baptist.” The young men had been sent by the local priest to find out what I said. I had to leave on an airplane soon and didn’t have time to explain more about prophets and revelation. However, I did tell them that if they wanted to have personal revelation, they should read the Book of Mormon and follow the counsel in Moroni 10. I gave them each a Book of Mormon and marked Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5]. Three months later, I received a letter from those young men telling me that they had been baptized. One year later, I received another letter saying that they were both preparing to go on missions. The Book of Mormon was what converted them.

With the expansion of the Church in Europe, there are countries where the Church has been for no more than 15 years. During our visit in 2005, I spoke with a mission president serving in his homeland of Russia who had been a member for only seven years. He told me, “The same month I was baptized I was called as a branch president.” Did he feel overwhelmed at times? Absolutely! Did he try to implement the full range of Church programs? Fortunately not! How did he grow so strong in such a small congregation in such a short time? He explained, “I knew with all my soul the Church was true. The doctrine of the gospel filled my mind and my heart. As we joined the Church, we felt part of a family. We felt warmth, trust, and love. We were only few, but we all tried to follow the Savior.”
The members supported each other, they did the best they could, and they knew the Church was true. It was not the organization that had attracted him but the light of the gospel, and this light strengthened those good members.

Every Christmas Eve my wife serves my favorite dish, clam chowder. We added the chowder to our holiday traditions not only because we enjoy the taste, but because it reminds us of the Savior’s infinite love for us. After the last bite, we tell the clam chowder story, which happened years ago when our children were young.

It was a Monday evening, and I was on my way home from work, looking forward to a fun and relaxing family home evening with my wife and children. As I walked toward the back door, I anticipated the children playing nicely and dinner waiting on the table. Not so.

My wife, Joy, had arrived home just before I did. She had had a busy day, and now each of our children was trying to get her attention. As we began to sort out their needs, it seemed each had homework that had to be completed that evening. Joy was exhausted, we needed to prepare dinner, we needed to hold family home evening, and Joy had also committed to prepare clam chowder for 60 women who would attend the Relief Society luncheon the next day.

We divided up the tasks. Joy fixed dinner, I helped the children with their homework, and we held a short family home evening. I then put the children to bed while Joy started the clam chowder. The children were all tucked in bed by about 9:30. I walked into the kitchen, and Joy was busily preparing the ingredients for the clam chowder. The process is quite lengthy and somewhat tricky. The chowder must be constantly stirred at the right temperature, or it will burn.

Joy had to leave at 8:00 the next morning, so the chowder had to be finished that evening. I asked her if she would like me to help. She said she could handle it, so I went upstairs to work on my electronics course.

About 11:30 Joy came into the room with a small bowl of chowder. I was in the middle of soldering a part in a circuit board. When I looked up she was gone. There sat the steaming bowl of heavenly soup. I put a big spoonful in my mouth, expecting ecstasy. I was startled. I couldn’t believe what I was tasting. It was terrible! It tasted burned. Surely this couldn’t be. How could I tell my wife?

Gathering all my tact and courage, I went downstairs. She was sitting in the kitchen, looking forlorn and tired. I said as gently as I could, “Honey, there’s no way you can serve this. It’s burned.” She looked up and started to cry. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice. I was stirring and stirring, and all of a sudden I noticed black flecks coming to the top. I quickly took it off the stove and poured it into another pot, hoping I had caught it in time.” The tears flowed freely, and she looked hopeless. “I am so tired, it’s so late, and we don’t have any money to replace the ingredients. What are we going to do?”

I put my arms around her and told her she needed to go to bed. She said, “But I can’t. I still have carrots to peel and cut up.” I walked her to the bedroom. We had a prayer, and she got in bed. She was already asleep when I closed the door and headed for the kitchen, wondering what I could possibly do.

I grabbed the cookbook and looked for “burned milk products” in the index. Nothing. I even tried calling an all-night radio program that discussed all sorts of topics. I couldn’t get through, so I went back to the sink and peeled carrots. It was full panic time. I had done all I could do. Only one option left. I went into the dark living room and knelt down.

I felt a bit uncomfortable asking about such a trivial matter. But it was not trivial to Joy. “Heavenly Father,” I began, “I know there are many people with big problems. But I have no other place to go. I have done all I know how to do. This problem is very big to my wife, and that makes it important to me. She is faithful and tries to do all she is asked to do.” I took a deep breath. “Please, Father, take the burned taste out of the clam chowder before morning. Please forgive me for asking such a trivial thing, but please help my wife.” With that I went to bed.

About 6:30 a.m. my wife sat up in bed and said, “What am I going to do?” I told her the carrots were done, and she needed to get dressed and go try the chowder. She dipped out a small amount into a pan and heated it. As she tasted it she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “There are no black flecks and no burned taste. What did you do?” I told her what I had done, and we both realized the blessing He had granted us. We knelt in prayer and thanked our Heavenly Father for His love and concern for us.

What process did the Lord use? I don’t know. Why did He grant this petition? I don’t know. All I know is that He said, “Ask, and it shall be given you” (Matt. 7:7), and I believed Him. And this time He granted the blessing.

Oh yes, the clam chowder was served to the sisters. They all commented on how delicious it was and asked for the recipe.

We find the Christmas season the best time of year to remind ourselves and our family of how much the Savior cares about us and that, to Him, even little things matter.

The workbook, Addiction Recovery Program: A Guide to Addiction Recovery and Healing (item no. 36764), outlines the 12 steps and the principles associated with them. Each step has a scripture study section with questions to ponder and space for writing. One participant says that the straightforward approach of the 12 steps gave him hope. By the time Clifford awoke from a coma caused by a drug overdose, his marriage and career had ended. He wondered how he could ever put his life back together. “To have the gospel in little bite-sized steps, 12 of them—I could do that,” he says.
Many say that steps four and five, which focus on personal inventory and confession, are the most challenging. But it depends on the individual. Paula, who struggled with compulsive eating and overdependence in her relationships, worked hardest on step eight—forgiving and restoring relationships—as she tried to forgive her abusive father. She says now, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this miracle in my life: to love and forgive.”
The change that has happened to me is I’m not miserable all the time. Sometimes it’s not easy. Perhaps the Lord doesn’t see fit to take it all from me right now, but He strengthens me so I can bear it patiently and cheerfully, and I can progress. He lightens it just enough that I learn the most that I can.
The gospel teaches that grace comes through the Atonement of Jesus Christ (see Ether 12:27). Grace is an enabling power that makes recovery possible. It is “divine means of help or strength” that helps us do good works we wouldn’t be able to do or maintain by ourselves.2
Suzanne, who went through the program herself before becoming a Church-service missionary, says, “I knew that God could tell me what to do, but I never knew He had the power to help me do it. Now I understand the grace that comes through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”
Through grace, participants regain the hope they have lost. One participant, Edward, grew up in the Church, but his childhood insecurities left him feeling that he wasn’t as good as other people. He says, “I didn’t understand the Atonement, and I didn’t love myself, so nothing really mattered.” When he was in his 20s, he started drinking and using drugs in an attempt to dull his negative feelings—a pattern that continued for 20 years.
When he was arrested a second time for drunk driving, he was ordered to get treatment. In the Church’s program, he learned that receiving forgiveness and regaining a sense of self-worth were possible. He attended church every Sunday, studied the 12 steps, and applied these gospel principles and actions to his life. He became willing to turn his life over to Heavenly Father and, in the process, learned how to love himself and how to let the Atonement work in his life. “I couldn’t overcome all these things by myself,” he says. “The Savior can do for me what I can’t do for myself.”
Those who struggle with addiction aren’t the only ones who can experience a mighty change: loved ones find that as they apply the 12 steps to their own lives and attend recovery meetings, they can experience the blessings of the Atonement in regard to their own grief. In some areas the addiction recovery program provides support groups for family and friends, who discover that the Savior can heal them of the pain, anger, and guilt that loved ones sometimes feel.
When Deborah learned of her son’s drug addiction, she was plagued by feelings of guilt as she thought about how she could have been a better mother. Then she discovered that she could apply the steps to herself. She says, “What I learned in the program is that no matter how my son is doing, I can still be happy and have Heavenly Father in my life.” She adds, “On the outside I look the same, but my life has completely changed on the inside.”
Shannon, whose husband faced a pornography addiction, attended the support group for spouses. As she participated, she noticed a change in herself as well. At first she focused on the pain she felt over her husband’s addiction. But then, as she started learning and applying the steps, a miraculous change occurred. She says, “I began talking less and less about my husband and more about what I had learned from each step. I began to see how the Lord was working in my life.”
In the past I was able to abstain for periods of time. I’d get myself back in good standing with the Church and serve in callings, and everyone would tell me how great I was. But I didn’t feel great on the inside at all. And that’s why abstaining is just one part of it. True recovery is not doing it and not wanting to do it because our nature is changed.
Mark learned that through the Atonement, individuals can not only stop their addictive behaviors but also heal the underlying causes of their addiction. And with the help of their priesthood leaders, they can repent and bring the blessings of the gospel back into their lives. Doug LeCheminant of LDS Family Services clarifies the objective of the program: “Our end goal for those in the program is that they will be able to make and keep temple covenants—not just stay sober.” The sweetest fruits are activation, baptism or rebaptism, priesthood advancement, temple ordinances, and restoration of blessings.
Steve, who found himself in jail wearing his church suit, says, “Today I’m clean and sober because of my Heavenly Father and the 12 steps.” His activity in the Church is especially meaningful to him. “I am a father. I am a priests quorum adviser. I am also a facilitator because I want to give back to a program that gave so freely to me.”
Every day I seek my Heavenly Father in prayer and through the scriptures. In the morning I read books about recovery, and I write my feelings and my impressions. I call a support person in the program to help clarify my thinking. I go to the meetings. I try to serve. And I have never relapsed on a day that I have done those things.
Those daily tasks keep Mark spiritually well. Others who have been through the program have discovered the same truth: maintaining spiritual strength requires continuous effort. No one is completely safe from relapse, but through daily gospel living, those who struggle with addiction come unto Christ and receive strength and hope.
“I’m learning bit by bit, precept upon precept,” says Mark. “My nature is changing, and it’s the first time since this started that I can say I have hope. I truly believe that I never have to relapse again.”

Mentoring a young woman was especially important to Jodi E., 18, who was working on her Honor Bee. She arranged to mentor her niece, Kylie J., 13, who had recently entered the Young Women program.
Having an aunt in Young Women helped Kylie overcome shyness. “I would have been more nervous without Jodi’s help,” says Kylie.
Both young women discovered a need within their own Young Women program, and they worked together on a 10-hour value experience for Faith.
They made pocket-size booklets about the Young Women values and theme that could easily be attached to a key ring or carried around in a scripture bag or purse (see top right). The first page of the colorful, nine-page booklets had a copy of the Young Women theme, and each of the other pages focused on a value with its corresponding statement from the Personal Progress booklet.
Jodi helped Kylie lay out the template on the computer and laminate each page after they were printed. Kylie cut, glued, hole-punched, and bound 20 booklets and passed them out in class. Working on this project helped Kylie become comfortable around her new peers and “learn about each Young Women value and how they all tie into the gospel.”
Jodi is about to earn her Honor Bee, but receiving a new charm is secondary to what Jodi says is truly accomplished. “Ultimately it’s fun to get the medallion at the end,” says Jodi, “but I like doing Personal Progress because it strengthens me as a person and keeps me committed and constantly doing something to remind myself of the gospel and the Savior and what I want my life to entail.” That includes making covenants in the temple.

“Carson is here today,” James’s mom said, pointing to a boy in the hallway by the Primary room.
James groaned. Carson was wearing jeans and an old shirt. James knew his mom and dad would never let him wear anything like that to church, but they would never let him get away with a lot of the other things Carson did either.
Last week at school, Carson had been kicked out of class for talking back to the teacher. He always made fun of the way James dressed and gave him a hard time for being the shortest boy at school.
“What if he yells at Sister Win or starts a fight?” James asked.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Mom said. “Carson has never been to church, and he’s probably nervous.”
When class started, Sister Win asked who had brought their scriptures. James raised his hand along with the rest of the class, but Carson shook his head. He looked embarrassed, which surprised James. Carson usually made a joke when he didn’t do his homework. But the more James thought about it, the more he wondered what it would be like to go to a new church for the first time.
Sister Win handed Carson her scriptures to use. When it was Carson’s turn to read a scripture, James began to worry. What if Carson tossed the scriptures on the floor or refused to read?
But Carson didn’t do any of those things. He stared at the words on the page and scowled. After a moment, James realized that Carson couldn’t read very well. James had never noticed this before at school.
What do you think James will do? Will James laugh at Carson? Will he ignore him? What would you do if you were James? Turn the page to find out what happened.
James leaned over to Carson and whispered, “Verily.”
Carson looked surprised, but he said the word and continued reading the verse. When he struggled with a word, James helped him with it. At the end of his turn, Carson looked over at James and gave a small nod.
James wasn’t sure if things were going to be different at school after this. The funny thing was that he didn’t care. He felt good knowing he had helped a boy who always gave him a hard time, and nobody could take that feeling away.

Saturday was a special day for the Olson family, who lived in a sprawling old farmhouse in a little western Canadian town nearly seventy-five years ago.
The ten brothers and their sister knew that Saturday was the day to get ready for Sunday, and everyone was expected to help. Some were assigned to care for younger children, while others helped Father with the outside chores. Indoors, there was washing, cleaning, and baking to do, for even the food to be eaten on Sunday was prepared on Saturday.
Aromas of freshly baked chicken, warm spice cake, and homemade bread were tempting, but everything was carefully wrapped, covered, and put away for Sunday dinner.
After the baking was done, teams of boys helped Mother scrub and clean the kitchen, while their only sister ironed freshly laundered white shirts with the old flat iron that had been heated on the big black coal stove. Sheets were changed and bedrooms tidied, and when the house was finally ready, it was time for the last Saturday chore—the bath. Two or more boys at a time had to share the large round wooden tub of hot soapy water.
After the last child was scrubbed and in his nightclothes, Mother served a favorite treat—hot cider with fresh buttered popcorn or homemade doughnuts. Afterward Father gathered the family together to give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the blessings of that day. Finally the children would climb into bed clean, tired, happy, and ready for the Sabbath day.

I live in Douala (Cameroon) and I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I joined the Church when I was 12 years old and back then I lived with my mother, Kameni Lauris, and my little sister, Awasiri Grâce. We used to attend a Pentecostal church which was very far from our home. The cost of getting there made it very difficult for us to attend.
My mother was someone who loved the Lord dearly. Whenever it was not possible for all of us to attend together, she would ask me to go with my little sister to another church near our home. As we went out on Sundays, I could navigate towards the nearby church while calculating the time it would take my mother to leave the house! Then I would go back home without attending the nearby church. At that time, I did not like religion at all because I could not understand much about it.
A friend to my mother, who looked after my little sister when my mother went to work, introduced us to Elder Holland and Elder Rambeleson. These two missionaries came to visit us at home. I still remember the first time I attended a sacrament meeting and saw young men like me participating in passing the sacrament. Afterwards, I attended the Primary and saw how much fun the kids were having. I felt a sense of belonging and knew I would never miss out on a Sunday.
When I got baptized, I immediately wanted to leave the Primary to go to Young Men and be able to begin my priesthood service. I started to really know my Heavenly Father and my identity. I helped clean the building on Saturdays, and came very early on Sundays, sometimes even before the building was open. As I grew older, my desire to serve a full-time mission grew likewise. Through seminary and institute, I was able to prepare for my mission and had the privilege to serve in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission from 2021 to 2023. I’m grateful for the restored gospel and for the joy it has brought to me and to my family.
I know that Christ lives, and that He is sitting down on the right hand of our Heavenly Father, that He knows and loves us all. I know that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. I know that we are led by a living prophet who receives revelations from God.

We lived on a hill, but it wasn’t so steep that it couldn’t be used for pick-up games of baseball in the spring and summer. The street was the ribbon that tied together the lives of each boy on our block.
After supper was over, the boys would gather on the same corner, and when enough were there, we’d pick sides. We used a rubber ball that we bought at Mr. Pinelli’s variety store for a quarter. We’d play baseball until it became dark.
One breezy June evening, Ricky Cray, the best hitter on the block, was up to bat. My best friend, Chuck Grable, was next to me in the “outfield,” which was the stretch of road between Mr. LaSalle’s and Mr. Kominski’s.
Ricky sized up a belt-high pitch and plastered the ball a good 20 feet beyond my grasp. I put my head down and furiously chased the ball. Suddenly, I came upon two sets of the shiniest black shoes I’d ever seen. I looked up and there were two young men in suits, smiling. One of them was holding the rubber ball.
“Lose something?” he said cheerfully. He flipped the ball to me and I heaved it toward my friends, just as Ricky crossed home plate.
Chuck came over to me. “Who are those guys? That one made a nice catch.” We didn’t see men in suits in our neighborhood often.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re selling something. Like books.”
“I think they’re police,” confided Chuck.
“No, they’re too young. And they’d be more secret. Look, they’re stopping at every house on the street.”
The next hitter popped a lazy fly ball toward Chuck who easily snagged it. We went to take our turn at bat. Home plate was near our house, and the two men in suits were just stepping to the door.
Father answered. I heard one of the young men say they were from a church and they had a message about families. Father sized them up.
“Are you selling something?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied the one who had fielded the ball.
“Are you honest?” Father asked. It would have been an odd question from anyone but my father. That’s the way he was, a man who took himself and others at face value.
“Yes, sir, we try to be,” the same man answered without hesitation.
“Are you boys from around here?”
“No. Elder Cone is from Bountiful, Utah. And I’m from Boston.”
Father smiled. “Then come into my house. I’m Joseph Rosa, and this is my wife, Leslee.” As soon as the one said he was from Boston, I knew my father would invite them in. A little thing like that, being from Massachusetts. Yet it changed our lives forever.
We saw the young men in the suits and white shirts many times over the following weeks. Father and Mother listened to them, prayed with them, studied with them, and fed them pasta until they almost could no longer get into their suits. When the elders came, Father pulled me out of the baseball games. “If what they say is true, then you need to hear it also,” he told me. I could see how important this was to my parents. Father’s eyes blazed as the missionaries taught us. “Yes, that seems right. I’ve always believed that,” he often said.
“We have reached a decision as a family,” Father told the missionaries one night. They both looked nervously at each other. “We would like to be baptized.” The two young men almost leaped into the air. The following night, Father and I went to a department store and bought our church clothes. A week later, the four of us were baptized. Never again did my parents talk about the missing piece. We had found it.

Some people have dogs to love—big ones, silky ones, spotted ones. Some people have cats to love—big ones, furry ones, stripy ones.
Some people have goldfish to love. Some people have canaries. Some people have brothers, or sisters. I didn’t have anybody—no dog, no cat, no goldfish, no canary, no sister, no brother. It was terrible.
Everybody needs somebody—somebody to hide with in the dark when everything’s creepy, somebody whose nose turns red with yours when it’s cold, somebody to slosh through the rain with. It’s pretty lonely without anybody.
“Hello, Jimmy,” I said to myself every morning. “Good night, Jimmy,” I said to myself every night. Nobody ever answered me.
When my teeth chattered and I said, “Brrrr!” nobody ever said, “I’m c-c-cold t-too!”
When I watched a scary show on television and I grew goose bumps, nobody else grew goose bumps with me. Nobody else shivered. Nobody else said, “I—I’m SCARED!”
Then Mommy talked to me one night. She told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister. “Next month,” she said.
“Whoopee!” I said. “That’s what I want.”
I waited a month, a whole month more. Then my baby brother came. He was a little red thing all wrapped up in blue blankets. “Hi,” I said.
He didn’t answer. He screwed up his eyes. He made his fists into little balls.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Waaaa!” he answered. “Waaaa!”
I tried to talk to him, but he didn’t even hear me. I didn’t even hear me.
I made a face at him to make him laugh. He didn’t laugh. He turned purple and cried—again. “Waaaa! WAAAA!”
I didn’t laugh either. He made so much noise that I couldn’t even think.
He smelled funny too.
He couldn’t blow bubble gum. He couldn’t eat ice cream. He didn’t even have much hair, just some fuzz. He couldn’t walk or run or talk.
“Good night,” I whispered to him. He was already asleep.
That night I heard him. It was dark.
“Waaaa!” he yelled. “Aa-aah!”
“Waaaa,” I said. “Waaaa. Waaaa. Waaaa.” Nobody paid any attention. Nobody laughed either.
So I still didn’t have anybody to play with. When I laughed because the grass tickled my elbows, nobody laughed beside me. When I jumped into bed and the springs plunked, nobody plunked beside me.
But after a while …
When I leaned over the crib to tickle my brother’s toes, he smiled at me.
When I helped Mommy hold his bottle, he wrapped his fingers around my finger. I couldn’t get away. I didn’t even try.
When I walked my fingers over his stomach, he kicked his feet because it tickled.
When I blew at the funny, fuzzy hair on top of his head, he waved his hands. He laughed. I laughed too.
And when he cried, Mommy sat him on my knee.
“Waaaa!” he said. “Waaaa!”
Mommy wrapped my arms around him. His tummy felt warm and round. “Don’t cry,” I said. “Please don’t cry.” I joggled him. He couldn’t joggle back. He stopped crying, though, and leaned against me. He pinched the skin on the back of my hands with his fingers. He kicked his heels on my legs.
“Hold him tight,” Mommy said.
I did. I held my baby brother tight. And I wasn’t lonely anymore.

“Come on, Sam,” Jeremy said as he walked along the old dusty roadbed with his friends. “Nobody will know but us.”
Lagging behind the group, I thought about the conversation Jeremy and I had had that morning. He had told me about his plan to steal watermelons from Brother Vargas. I knew stealing was wrong, but I thought if I did what he wanted, we would be friends. So when he had finished talking, I told a lie. “I know all about stealing. It’s easy. I’ve done it before.”
“You have!” he had exclaimed, looking surprised. “Wait until I tell the other guys.” After he had told everyone in the group, they looked at me with renewed interest. I liked that, but now I was in trouble. I didn’t want to steal anything, especially Brother Vargas’s prize watermelons.
Brother Vargas was as old as my grandpa, but he had been my only friend when we first moved to Fawn Creek. He knew I was lonely and needed a friend. And I knew that the money from his melon field made up most of the income he and Sister Vargas lived on.
“Hurry up, Sam,” one of the kids called over his shoulder. “Brother Vargas will be back soon to pick up another load of melons. If we don’t get to his field before he does, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Oh, well, I thought, walking faster, I need friends my own age. Jeremy’s in my Primary class and my Scout troop, and all the guys like him. If we become friends, I’ll have a lot of guys to hang around with. Besides, Mom thinks he’s a good friend. So did I—until now.
When I caught up to Jeremy, he began making plans. “Clint, you be the lookout. If anyone comes, whistle. Brett, you take Sam and head for the nearest row of melons. Jeff and I will be right behind you. Remember, we won’t have much time, so don’t be too choosy. Just get the biggest ones you can carry.”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed, licking his lips. “We already know how good they taste.”
“What if we get caught?” I asked.
“Getting nervous?” Brett questioned.
“Not me,” I lied for the second time in a half hour. “You’re right; we’d better hurry.”
The real reason I wanted to hurry had nothing to do with taking melons. The truth was, I didn’t want to see the way Brother Vargas would look at me if he caught me robbing him. We were friends, and true friends take care of each other. I was starting to feel awful.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Jeremy said. “No one will find out.”
How did I get into this situation? I wondered. I needed someone to blame. So I blamed Mom. It’s her fault we moved after Dad died.
“Yeah, sure,” I muttered under my breath. “And look at what you’re doing.” I knew why Mom had sold the house. She didn’t want to go to work and leave me home alone. She’d loved that old house, and I knew she didn’t want to move away from her friends any more than I did.
“Sam, you’re dragging your feet again,” Jeremy said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, as I sent a rock flying across the road with the side of my foot.
When we finally reached Brother Vargas’s melon field, I knew I had made the worst decision of my life. But I didn’t know how to get out of it. Then the words to a song we were learning in Primary popped into my head. I began to sing softly:
“Choose the right when a choice is placed before you. In the right the Holy Spirit guides; And its light is forever shining o’er you, When in the right your heart confides” (“Choose the Right,” Hymns, number 239).
When I got to the chorus, all the boys began to sing with me. When we finished, I knew I had to say something. “We can’t do this!” I declared looking first at the guys and then at the melon field. “This just isn’t right.”
“But you said you’ve stolen things before,” Jeremy said accusingly.
“That was a lie,” I admitted. “I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life, and I don’t want to start now.”
“Neither do I,” Clint said, walking over to stand next to me.
Surprised, I turned to Clint. “I thought you had stolen before. You even said you knew how good Brother Vargas’s melons are.”
“We lied, too,” Brett admitted. “Brother Vargas gives my family watermelons from his field every year.”
“Yeah, and they sure are good!” Jeff said, almost drooling. “He gives melons to anyone who wants them.”
“Then why were we going to steal them?” I asked, almost shouting.
“We thought it would be fun,” Clint said as he dug the point of his shoe into the loose dirt.
“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed, his voice a whisper. “But it sure doesn’t seem like fun now.”
When Brother Vargas drove up, we were sitting in the shade of the big metal shed still talking about his watermelons.
“Hi, boys,” he called. “It’s good to see you. I could sure use your help putting another load of melons on the truck.”
Feeling a little guilty, we asked him how we should do it so we wouldn’t damage the melons. Two hours later, after the truck was loaded, he offered us jobs for the rest of the summer. Then he said, “Each of you take a watermelon home to your families.”
“My family is going to love this!” Brett said excitedly. “Just yesterday Dad said his mouth was watering for a taste of Brother Vargas’s melons.”
“Mine, too,” Clint said with a big grin.
After Jeff, Clint, and Brett headed for home, only Jeremy and I were left.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I guess I just got carried away.”
“I’m sorry, too, Jeremy. I’m glad we finally made the right decision.”
Jeremy’s whole face lit up. “So am I! Now we can eat watermelon without feeling bad—and we have jobs, too! It doesn’t get much better than that!”

Throughout my life, I have been blessed by such women. My departed wife, Dantzel, was such a woman. I will always be grateful for the life-changing influence she had on me in all aspects of my life, including my pioneering efforts in open-heart surgery.

Fifty-eight years ago I was asked to operate upon a little girl, gravely ill from congenital heart disease. Her older brother had previously died of a similar condition. Her parents pleaded for help. I was not optimistic about the outcome but vowed to do all in my power to save her life. Despite my best efforts, the child died. Later, the same parents brought another daughter to me, then just 16 months old, also born with a malformed heart. Again, at their request, I performed an operation. This child also died. This third heartbreaking loss in one family literally undid me.

I went home grief stricken. I threw myself upon our living room floor and cried all night long. Dantzel stayed by my side, listening as I repeatedly declared that I would never perform another heart operation. Then, around 5:00 in the morning, Dantzel looked at me and lovingly asked, “Are you finished crying? Then get dressed. Go back to the lab. Go to work! You need to learn more. If you quit now, others will have to painfully learn what you already know.”

Oh, how I needed my wife’s vision, grit, and love! I went back to work and learned more. If it weren’t for Dantzel’s inspired prodding, I would not have pursued open-heart surgery and would not have been prepared to do the operation in 1972 that saved the life of President Spencer W. Kimball.