Gospel Story Finder

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

David Smith of Spokane, Washington, thinks with his hands and keeps on tinkering with wires, lights, and component parts until he figures out anything from a coin-tossing game to a completely new kind of computer. Dave estimates that his award-winning computer design can solve problems twice as fast as current computers. It is in the process of being patented. His “Tract-Computer,” cited by the U.S. Defense and Space Departments, cost Dave 4,500 hours and $1,200. He built it all from scratch and all on his own. Dave is the son of Mr. and Mrs. A. H. Smith and is quick to claim the blessing of Church membership, because it keeps him “alert and in touch with inspiration.” He’s earned his Duty to God award and has been a cross-country track man for his high school.

They had lunch in the cultural hall after the morning meeting. As he sat down at a table, Scott’s companion called over to him, “Hello, oh hairless one!”

The elders within hearing range smirked.

“My companion is the only one in the mission who takes 30 minutes to wash his face. It’s because it goes clear to the back of his neck.”

More laughter.

Scott ate quickly and left. He found the chapel open and vacant, so he sat down and began reading the scriptures.

“Looks like you’re busy as usual.” Scott looked up to see the wife of his mission president. “Are you all right?” she asked with kindness.

“Do you know any way to make hair grow back?” he asked her.

“The elders can be cruel, can’t they?”

He felt the pent up frustration pouring forth as he talked to her about his problems.

She listened to him attentively, and just talking about it made him feel better.

Missionaries began to file into the chapel for the meeting. Before she left to go up on the stand, she showed him a book she was reading. “It’s by Brother Stephen Covey. Look at his picture on the inside cover. You can see he’s bald, but do you see any fear or shame on his face?”

“No,” Scott said, looking at the picture.

“He’s a very positive man and, I think, handsome too. You know, Elder, you really have a nicely shaped head.”

“I do?” Scott said.

“Sure you do. It’d be a shame to hide that with hair.”

The next morning Scott cut his hair very short.

“What have you done?” his companion gasped as he came out of the bathroom.

“I’ve decided to quit hiding my good looking head.”

While Peter was lying in the hospital as a 19-year-old trying to figure out his future, he asked himself, “What one thing would I have to accomplish that would mean I had overcome my problems?” He was influenced by some books on selling that his friend had read to him before his bandages were removed from his eyes. He decided that if he could be a successful life insurance sales manager that would mean (1) he was able to develop a good relationship with people individually, (2) he would have gained an education, and (3) he would have proven his credibility and ability in one area.
With this goal in mind, Peter began researching insurance companies. He contacted 59 companies and was not offered a single job. He finally landed a position as a planning manager for an insurance company. He had his toe in the door. Through persistence, hard work, and going to school at the same time, Peter began learning the business.
By the time Peter and Marj were married, he had paid off all his debts to doctors and hospitals, but he was starting married life with no assets except his confidence and attitude. In 10 years he has built all that he and his family have from scratch, by determination and discipline. From an accident that could have been devastating to any future accomplishment, Peter Jeppson struggled against adversity to become a successful businessman, church leader, husband, and father. He is now the owner of his own insurance and investment agency, has served on the General Board of the Young Men, and has four children, two daughters and two sons.

Bobbie sat on the edge of the pool, looking at the warm, clear water. She remembered that last summer she had run into the waves at the beach. And at the neighborhood pool, she had stood in the shallow end and stuck her head underwater. She had even opened her eyes to count her fingers. This year she had learned to float around in the deep end of the indoor pool.
But today Bobbie just sat on the edge of the big indoor pool and worried. She watched some of her friends kicking up and down the pool lanes, holding onto blue and red kickboards. Bobbie had already done that. In fact, last week Bobbie had kicked all the way down and all the way back in the pool. She secretly thought that she might be the best kicker in her class.
Others in her class were in the shallow end, practicing their overhand strokes. Bobbie could lean over and do a really good crawl stroke. Her swimming instructor had told her how nicely her arms curved when she pulled them through the water.
Another small group was working on breathing. They blew into the water, then breathed in, then blew, then breathed in. Bobbie knew that she could do the breathing. She had worked on that in the bathtub as well as at the beach and in the pool.
Bobbie looked at the depth marker—10 FEET. She looked up at the sign over the door—THIS POOL IS 75 FEET LONG.
I can breathe correctly, and I can kick a good, strong kick, she thought. And my arms don’t get tired.
Just then the buzzer sounded for class to be over. Slowly Bobbie got up from the steps. If only I had a little more time … She really hated to get dressed and go home. Mother wouldn’t say anything. She would smile at Bobbie, sort of raise her eyebrows expectantly, and have an encouraging twinkle in her eyes. But Bobbie would have no beginner’s swimming card to show.
All that week Bobbie walked to the pool, she put on her swimsuit, grabbed a kickboard, and kicked up and down the pool. She practiced her arm strokes until she was quite sure no one could do them any better. She blew bubbles and breathed in, and she even sat on the bottom of the pool in the shallow end.
But each time Bobbie went over to the deep end of the pool and thought about jumping into ten feet of water, she knew she just couldn’t do it.
Every once in a while, Bobbie saw her swimming instructor smiling at her. When Bobbie felt that she was ready to put her arm strokes and her kicking and her breathing all together and swim the length of the pool, her instructor would be right there beside her. So Bobbie wasn’t afraid of sinking.
Bobbie started thinking about just why she couldn’t jump into the deep water and swim to the other end. I must be afraid of something. I wonder what it is. It isn’t the water. It isn’t my teacher, and it certainly isn’t Mother. It’s not my friends, either. Some of them still haven’t learned how to breathe or kick or do the arm strokes. Bobbie thought about all the people who would love her whether she learned to swim this summer or not.
Suddenly Bobbie realized that there was one person she had not thought of—herself. I’m afraid because I don’t want to fail. As long as I don’t try to swim, I can tell myself that when I do try it, I’ll be the best one in the class. But once I jump into that water, maybe I’ll find out that I can’t do it.
Bobbie looked up at the clock. Class wouldn’t be over for another half hour. She left the pool area, went into the dressing room, faced herself in the mirror, and said, “Bobbie, just go do it. Even if you don’t make it today, you can try again tomorrow. The important thing is to try. You’ve got to believe in yourself.”
The mirror Bobbie looked back at the real Bobbie. They smiled at each other.
Walking quickly back into the pool area, Bobbie stood by her swimming teacher and said, “I’m ready to try.”

“Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, turn around.
“Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the ground.
“Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, show your shoe,
“Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, better skiddoo.”
A warm breeze blew gently as the red and blue jump rope made a friendly slapping noise each time it hit the sidewalk.
“Your turn, Jill,” Kerry said, hopping away from the swishing rope.
“No, thanks,” Jill said. “I don’t feel like jumping today. You take my turn, Tina. I’ll keep turning.”
“OK,” Tina agreed, handing her end of the rope to Kerry.
“What do you want to do?” Shelly asked.
“Oh, Down in the Meadow, I guess,” Tina said. “But not too fast. I’m wearing my good shoes, and I don’t want to scuff them.”
“Down in the meadow where the green grass grows,
There sat Tina as pretty as a rose …
One, two …”
“I’m getting tired,” Tina puffed as she counted, “Sixty-four, sixty-five …”
“Come on, Tina!” Jill cheered. “You can do eighty easily.” She turned her end of the rope carefully, making sure it hit the sidewalk each time.
“Seventy-nine, eighty!”
Tina smiled and jumped out. “Whew! I did it. Want to jump now, Jill?”
“No, thanks. Go ahead, Shelly. I’ll still turn.”
“Jumping rope again?” Tommy asked with a sneer. “Don’t girls know how to do anything else?” He laughed mockingly and turned to the boys with him. “Come on. Let’s play softball.”
“You just play softball because you can’t jump rope,” Kerry retorted. Tina jumped eighty times doing Down in the Meadow. Can any of you do better than that?”
“I bet I can,” Jim said.
“OK, let’s see you do it.” Shelly and Jill got the rope going again.
“Down in the mead—” The girls giggled as Jim missed.
“Come on,” Tommy said. “This is sissy stuff. Everybody knows that all girls can jump rope. They’re born knowing how.”
Jill frowned as Tommy and the other boys ran off and chose sides for a softball game.
That evening at dinner, Jill asked her mother, “Can you jump rope?”
“Well, I haven’t for some time, but I used to when I was in grade school. Why?”
“Did you always know how? I mean, did you have to learn?”
“I don’t really remember,” Mother replied.
“Tommy says that all girls are born knowing how to jump rope. Is that true?”
“I don’t think so, Jill.”
“What’s the matter—can’t you jump?” Jill’s brother, Michael, asked.
“No,” Jill said, staring at the peas on her plate.
“You can’t?” Michael laughed. “I’ll bet you’re the only girl in third grade who can’t. Boy, that’s funny. Wait till I tell Bobby and Pete!”
“Oh, please don’t tell them!” Jill pleaded. “Not even my best friends know. I give up my turn each time, and pretty soon the bell rings and nobody knows.”
Seeing the tears in his little sister’s eyes, Michael said, “I won’t tell, I promise.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
When Jill came home from school the next afternoon, she found a box wrapped in red polka-dot paper on the kitchen table. The tag read, “To Jill.”
Jill removed the puffy white bow and red paper. She lifted one corner of the lid cautiously, in case it was a joke from Michael. In the box was a brand-new jump rope. On the end of each wooden hand grip were Jill’s initials, J.M. “This is fantastic!” Jill exclaimed. She read the neatly printed card in the box: ‘To Jill from Michael. Sorry I hurt your feelings.’
“Sometimes big brothers are all right,” Jill told Mother. “I’ll be outside learning how to jump rope.”
Jill adjusted the rope to the right length. She swung it behind her back, took a deep breath, and turned the rope over her head. One foot jumped neatly as the rope came around, but the other foot got caught.
“Oops!” Jill started over.
The next time neither foot cleared the rope.
“Rats!” She tried again and again, but each time the rope failed to make a full circle.
When Mother called her for dinner, Jill said disconsolately, “I can’t do it. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t do it. I’ll never learn.”
“But you’ve only tried once,” Michael argued. “You have to practice.”
“Tina and Kerry can jump,” Jill said. “So can Shelly. They don’t practice. Kerry can even do lots of hot peppers.”
“Some things come easier to some people than to others,” Mother said consolingly. “You can draw better than they can, for instance. Just keep practicing and be patient.”
The next day after school, Jill managed to jump the rope a few times. After dinner she practiced until it was dark.
“It’s no use,” Jill said angrily. “I’m going to be awful at field day next week. Tina and I are partners for the jump-rope contest, and I’ll embarrass us both!”
“You have to keep practicing,” Michael advised her wisely.
“You’re doing better. A few days ago you couldn’t jump at all.”
The next day when Jill started to practice, she jumped several times before she missed. By the end of the evening she had jumped twenty-eight jumps in a row! But by the end of the week, the best she had done was fifty-two jumps.
On the morning of field day Jill thought about pretending to be sick so that she wouldn’t have to go to school. This is the day that everyone will find out that I can’t jump rope very well, she thought. Tommy is really going to tease me. Jill purposely went to the back of the line while the judge explained the rules. Each contestant would jump alone as many times as he could. His score would be counted and added to his partner’s score.
Tina’s going to hate me, Jill thought. By the time their turn came, the score to beat was 191, jumped by Kerry and Shelly.
“You go first,” Jill said to Tina.
Tina swung her rope behind her back expertly.
“One, two …” the judge counted.
She doesn’t even watch the rope, Jill noticed.
“Seventy-four, seventy-five—” The rope caught on Tina’s heel.
“Seventy-four,” the judge said, marking the score on his clipboard. “Next.”
“Sorry,” Tina said. “Come on, Jill. I’m counting on you.”
“But I’ll have to jump almost a hundred twenty times for us to beat Kerry and Shelly’s record!”
“You can do it!” Tina said.
“I’ve never even jumped half that many times!” Jill faltered.
“Well, do your best,” Tina said.
Jill slowly swung her rope back.
“One, two …” the judge counted. And before Jill could really think about it, the judge was counting, “fifty-four, fifty-five …”
Jill kept turning the rope and jumping.
“Ninety-four, ninety-five …” Jill’s heart was thumping hard. Maybe I can do it, she thought. I’m still jumping.
Half the school were crowded around Jill now, and her classmates were counting excitedly with the judge.
“Go, Jill” Tina screamed.
“A hundred nine, a hundred ten …”
The crowd surrounding Jill screamed and clapped when, gasping heavily, she reached 118.
“First prize goes to Tina and Jill,” said the judge, pinning a blue ribbon to Jill’s sweater and another one to Tina’s blouse.
“You were fantastic! You’re a jump-rope genius,” Tina said, hugging her friend.
“Mike told me the secret,” Jill said, glancing proudly at her beaming brother. “You just have to keep on practicing.”

When Walnetta’s family migrated from Fiji to Devonport on Auckland’s North Shore a few years after the Second World War, her father, Oscar P. Broederlow, and his family, were the only known members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in that area. But the missionaries set to work and soon there were enough new converts to hold meetings in the Devonport Labour Hall, arranged by Walnetta’s mother, Hilda E. Lobendahn Broederlow.

A few days ago, I visited Florida, USA, after Hurricane Irma hit. I met a group of Latter-day Saints who were helping clean up. They had left Georgia at 4:00 in the morning, driven for hours, worked into the night, and worked again the next day!
As we were leaving, a man walked up to our car and said, “I’m not a member of your church. I can’t believe what you have done for us. God bless you.” Other members of the Church from that part of Florida went hundreds of miles to another part of Florida that was hit even harder.
I have heard that some people have started calling the Latter-day Saints who are wearing the yellow Helping Hands T-shirts “the Yellow Angels.”

When Ashley Rabon told his parents that he was going out “with a Mormon girl,” he assured them he wasn’t going “to join.” But after the wheels were set in motion and Ashley, who was at college at Appalachian State in Boone, North Carolina, at the time, began taking the missionary discussions, that plan changed.

“After the missionaries committed me to baptism during the second discussion, I called home and told [my parents] I was going to get baptized,” says Ashley. “They weren’t too thrilled with the idea.”

A year later, when Ashley started to feel he should serve a mission, things with his family really got tough. “They were not happy about it at all. I told my dad, and my dad was probably angrier than I had ever seen him in my life,” says Ashley, who is currently serving in the Utah Salt Lake City Mission. “My mom begged and begged me every day not to do this.”

But Elder Rabon was ready to serve. “Every time I had a dispute with my parents, especially with my father, the first thing I would do was go to my room and pray that the Lord would soften their hearts,” he says.

For a while, the contention remained. “I have the most wonderful family you’ll ever meet. But every time I told my parents I was going on a mission, there was an instant waterfall (tears) from my mom and my dad went straight to fury. I just knew that everybody has their things they have to go through to go on a mission.”

Although his mission call had already come, and although Elder Rabon was committed to serving, it didn’t make it any easier with his nonmember parents. “It was really difficult. I was just thinking about how my family was going to be while I was gone,” he adds.

Then, when it seemed that he’d end up leaving without his parents’ support, they suddenly reversed their stand. Elder Rabon describes the day before he went into the MTC: “My dad comes home from work, and he’s walking down the hall toward me with tears just running down his face. He puts his arm around me and says, ‘What can I do to help you?’”

Elder Rabon’s father went on to detail how much he was going to miss him and how he was having a hard time dealing with his son’s imminent departure. Hearts had been softened. “Since I’ve been [a missionary], I’ve received very spiritual letters from my family that I didn’t expect,” he says.

As Elder Rabon makes his way around his area on the east side of Salt Lake City with his companion, he says he’s still amazed that he’s actually a missionary. Three years ago he knew next to nothing about the Church. And today he’s teaching the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. “I know if you have faith in the Lord and you do what he asks you to do, he’s always going to see you through. This is where the Lord has really blessed me.”

Paolo trudged home from school.
Saturday was his tenth birthday. Back home in Mexico, his family had celebrated birthdays with a big party, inviting many of their friends and relatives. His mother would prepare a large meal of wonderful foods, and his father would give special presents.
Ever since his family had moved to a small town in Colorado last fall, money had been scarce.
It was not the big party he would miss or even the presents. It was the way of life—the traditions and customs—that tugged at the empty place in his heart. His family still practiced some of the old ways, but it was not the same.
He stopped at the bakery where his father worked. Though his father had been a professor at the university in Mexico City, he had not been able to find a teaching job in the United States. He’d taken a job as a doughnut and bread maker at the local bakery.
“No work is to be ashamed of if it is honest and helps people,” his father had said when Paolo asked him about it. He’d pointed to the loaves of freshly baked bread. A rich, yeasty smell filled the small shop. “I bake good bread. It helps the people who buy it, and Mr. Patterson, who owns the store. Someday, I might be able to teach in the United States, but until then, I am content.”
Paolo had nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.
He thought about that as he stepped into the small bakery. He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of cinnamon and sugar.
His father smiled. “Paolo, I am glad you came.”
Paolo climbed on top of a tall stool and watched as his father wiped down the counters and polished the glass display cases until they gleamed.
“There.” His father hung up the towel. “Would you like to try my new creation?”
Paolo bit into the savory pastry his father handed him. “It is good.”
Paolo and his father walked home together. Someday, maybe, there’d be enough money to buy a car. For now they walked or took the bus.
Paolo waited until they were almost home when he said, “We do not live like we did in our country.”
“You will have a birthday party this year,” his father said, guessing Paolo’s thoughts.
“It won’t be the same,” Paolo muttered.
“Because we do not live in a big house?”
Paolo started to deny it and then hung his head. “I wish we had never left Mexico. That was our home.”
His father stopped and gestured to their modest one-story house. “This is our home now. It is a good place.”
Paolo looked at the rented house where his family lived. It was small and run-down. He had not invited any of his friends to visit because he was ashamed of it. In Mexico, their home had been much nicer, a place he could be proud of.
He hadn’t told his parents of his feelings. He knew they would be hurt.
“Paolo, you have not invited anyone to your birthday party,” his mother said as he set his books on the kitchen table.
He pretended to be very busy in making himself a snack, avoiding meeting his father’s gaze.
“What is it, Paolo?” his mother asked. “You do not laugh or smile as you once did. Are you so unhappy here?”
The worry in his mother’s voice caused him to flush with guilt. “I am happy. I just haven’t made friends yet.”
That was not true and his conscience nagged him. David, a boy at school, had invited Paolo to his home several times. David lived in a fine house. Paolo could not invite his friend to the shabby house where his family now lived.
His mother’s eyes were shadowed with pain. “You are ashamed of your papá and me. Of where we live.”
“No, Mamá. I could never be ashamed of you.”
“But you are embarrassed by our home, aren’t you?”
He wanted to deny it. A look at Mamá’s face convinced him she would not believe him. “I will invite someone,” he said.
The pain in her eyes eased. “Good. I will prepare a special meal.”
“Ten is an important age,” his father said, his dark eyes serious. “Two years ago you were baptized. In two more years, you will receive the priesthood and be ordained a deacon.”
The words of the blessing his father had given him at the time of his baptism sounded clearly in Paolo’s mind: “I bless you with the knowledge to choose your friends wisely. Remember that the friends you make can influence your choices. Be an example to them and let your light shine.”
At the time Paolo had thought the blessing was to warn him of those who might try to tempt him to forget his principles. Last year a boy in his class had dared Paolo to steal something from a store. Paolo had walked away and avoided the boy after that.
For the rest of the afternoon and evening, Paolo worked hard to help around the house. He polished the furniture, swept the kitchen floor, and washed the dinner dishes while his sisters dried.
“Thank you, Paolo,” his mother said, looking up from where she was rolling out pastry. “We will have a good party on Saturday. You will see.”
The following day at school Paolo asked David, “Would you like to come to my birthday party on Saturday?”
A smile creased David’s face. “Sure.” He punched his friend lightly on the arm. “I was wondering when you were going to ask me over to your house.”
When David arrived on Saturday afternoon, Paolo tried to see his home through the eyes of his friend. Richly woven rugs brightened the floor. Pillows, embroidered by his mother, covered the furniture. The house smelled of frijoles and spices and simmering meat. The old house no longer appeared so shabby as laughter and the aroma of good food filled it.
He introduced David to his parents and little sisters and was pleased when David joined in the fun of knocking down the piñata.
Once again Paolo recalled the blessing at the time of his baptism. Now he realized that, in addition to the warning, the blessing also encouraged him to make and appreciate good friends like David.
“Your family’s great,” David said between bites of frijoles.
“Yeah,” Paolo agreed. “You’re right.” The things he had worried over no longer seemed important. He had what really mattered.

Myra clicked the mouse as fast as she could. Her character, Galina the elf queen, was trying to defeat the huge ice dragon. Her friends from school were online too. They were playing elves and fairies in the game.
Flashes of color burst all over the computer screen. This dragon was tough!
“Almost there, almost … Yes!” She jumped up and pumped her fist in the air.
The chat box on her screen lit up with messages.
“Awesome job!”
“Let’s do it again!”
Myra smiled. She loved playing Quest Planet with her friends. “Just need to drop off this treasure first,” Myra typed.
Ping. A new message popped up. “Pancake1000 would like to be your friend,” she read.
Myra frowned. She was only supposed to play online with friends from school. But maybe this was someone else she knew. She clicked “Accept.”
Ping. “Hi! I’m Ethan. What’s your name?”
I don’t know any Ethans, Myra thought. But maybe it would be OK to talk to him.
She bit her bottom lip. “I’m Myra,” she typed.
For the next few days, Myra played and chatted with Ethan online. He was really good at the game and showed her where to buy supplies for her character.
“Where do you go to school? I go to Jefferson,” Ethan said.
Myra paused. That was a school near hers. Maybe he knew some people from her school. She started to type “Woodberry.” But then she got a sick feeling in her stomach. She remembered how her parents always said not to share any personal information with people she didn’t know—like her full name, address, or school. She also knew to never send pictures of herself.
Ethan said he was her age and lived nearby, so maybe it was OK to talk with him. She still wasn’t sure, though.
So instead she typed, “Do you want to visit the Enchanted River? I need some vanishing stones.”
Pretty soon Myra noticed a pattern. Whenever she chatted with Ethan, he’d start out talking about the game, but then he’d ask questions about her real life. He always asked her for more information.
One day Ethan wrote something that made Myra really uncomfortable. She tried to change the subject. “I’m going to the Fairy Realm for some unicorn hair.”
Ping. A message popped up. Then another. And another. Myra ran out of the room to find Dad.
“Dad?” Myra said.
Dad looked up from a book. “What’s up?”
“I was playing my game …” Myra gulped and looked down. “Someone is sending me bad messages.”
Dad looked at the messages while Myra tried to look anywhere but the screen. Her insides felt like they were being squeezed. She wished she had never accepted Ethan’s friend request.
“I’m glad you told me. I’ll report him to the website and block him from your account. I’ll call his parents too. Is he in your class?”
Myra’s voice was soft. “I don’t know him … I’m sorry.”
Dad hugged her. “Do you remember why you should only play online with friends you know in person?”
Myra nodded. “To stay safe.”
“That’s right. It’s easy for people to lie about who they are online. I’m sure there are lots of nice kids on Quest Planet. But it’s safer to only play with kids you know.”
Myra was quiet for a few moments. “OK. I’m sorry.”
Dad gave her another hug. “I’m proud of you for telling me when something made you uncomfortable. That took courage. And it’s always a good choice.”
Now Myra really felt brave, just like Galina the elf queen!

But the boys did their part too. “We recruited everybody to be in the troop,” said Brother Steurer’s son Rodney, 14. His brother Geoffrey, 13, and another Scout, Mark Choate, 15, said that soon their friends Michael Bradfield and Neil Hammock were part of the troop, and of course they asked lots of questions about the Church. Now both Mike and Neil are not only Scouts, but also members of the deacons and teachers quorums, both serving in leadership positions.

When my family lived in Seoul, South Korea, we were within walking distance of the school my youngest son attended. My wife could have driven him to school every day, but she enjoyed the time walking to school with him. Twenty minutes is a long time to talk, so they would often sing hymns and Primary songs too.
“Would you teach me a song you learned from Primary this week?” my wife would ask. Sometimes she knew the songs already, but Sun Yoon would sing loudly and proudly. He liked teaching his mom his favorite Primary songs.
They had a good time together on those walks. One day my son observed, “Mom, I want to live in a world where I can hear hymns and Primary songs everywhere I go.”
Many places in South Korea had large speakers that blasted popular songs that sounded very different from the sweet songs my son and wife sang together. Sun Yoon found that singing good songs tuned his mind to enjoy good music. He had good songs in his heart.

Happily, my wise parents put great heroes in my path as a boy. My dad took me to Yankee Stadium only once to observe my baseball hero play, but every Sunday he let me observe a priesthood man who became a hero. That hero shaped my life. My father was the branch president of the little branch which met in our home. By the way, if you came down to the first floor on Sunday morning, you were in church. Our branch never had more than 30 people in attendance.
There was a young man who drove his mother to our house for meetings, but he never came into the house. He was not a member. It was my father who succeeded by going out to him where he parked the car and inviting him into our home. He was baptized and became my first and only Aaronic Priesthood leader. He became my priesthood hero. I still remember the wooden statue he gave me as a reward after we had completed a project to cut firewood for a widow. I have tried to be like him whenever I give justified praise to a servant of God.

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

When Heber J. Grant was 10 years old, he took a singing class.
Teacher: You can’t carry a tune, Heber. You’ll never learn how to sing.
Years later Heber heard Horace S. Ensign sing.
Heber: I would give you three months of my spare time if I could learn to sing one or two hymns!
Horace: Anyone can learn to sing. Are you willing to practice?
After two weeks, Heber had learned to sing “O My Father.” Two months later he could sing four other hymns.

Jamie was the smallest nine-year-old in the Regional Junior Olympics, and it was kind of scary competing against larger boys. But Jamie was pretty good at push-ups and had won first place in his Cub Scout contest. He grinned broadly at Mom, Dad, and his sister Karen, who had come to cheer for him.
At the signal, Jamie pushed up and down with all his might. Soon the perspiration was rolling down his face, and his shoulders strained until he thought they would surely snap. Up and down, up and down, with the judge counting each push-up.
“Time!” shouted the judge, and Jamie collapsed on the grass.
“Fifty-two for Jamie Roberts,” announced the scorekeeper and everyone clapped. Jamie had done more push-ups in one minute than anyone else his age.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Dad said.
Jamie beamed. He had really done it, and it was fun!
Next came the 100-yard dash. I should really do well here, thought Jamie. I’m a pretty good runner. Brother Brown had challenged him, “We’re counting on you for a blue ribbon in the race, Jamie.”
“Run really fast, Jamie!” cried five-year-old Karen.
The boys were divided into six groups, and the winners would compete in the final races. Jamie raced three times, winning each race. He was hot but not really tired.
Every boy in the race was eager to win. Their faces looked strained and some were panting as they lined up, one foot on the chalk line, the other stretched out behind in a starting position. Jamie spaced himself between two taller boys, crouched low, and waited for the starting whistle. When it came, he was off down the field. He couldn’t ever remember running so fast. His head was back and he felt the wind in his face from his own speed. Every part of Jamie strained to go faster, faster, and he felt the two boys right behind him and heard their heavy breathing. He knew he was ahead and meant to stay there.
Then it happened! One foot slipped in a low spot on the field, just enough to throw Jamie off balance. His feet tangled together and before he could put out his arms, the ground seemed to rise up and hit him squarely in the chest. The next thing he knew he was gasping for breath and spitting dry, bitter dust from his mouth. He heard the crowd cheering for the winners and knew that the race was over and that he was lying in the dust twenty feet from the finish line.
He dragged himself off the field and hid his face in his hands, wishing he were someplace else.
An official put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder and said, “Run and get your card signed, Jamie. You can still get points for finishing if you hurry.”
Jamie stumbled numbly across the finish line and handed his card to the judge. How everyone must be laughing, he thought. How dumb I was to think I could win anything. He turned to Dad. “Let’s go home. I don’t want to be in any more contests.”
Dad put his arm around Jamie as they walked off the field. “Son, we can go now if that’s what you really want. I know you’re disappointed, but the real winners aren’t always those who cross the finish line first, they’re the ones who hang in there even when it’s tough.”
“But Dad, I hurt all over. I’m going to be sick.”
“Let’s sit down and rest with Mom and Karen while you think it over. Then if you still want to, we’ll go, OK?”
“I guess so,” Jamie answered. His knees stung where he had fallen on them, his stomach felt tight, and the words, “We’re counting on you for a blue ribbon,” kept repeating in his head. But I’ve failed, he thought. I can’t throw the softball now. I just can’t. Tears and dust stung his eyes. He wished that somehow he could disappear.
“Drink some lemonade, Jamie, you’ll feel better,” Mother said as she offered him a cup.
The cool liquid felt good on his dry throat. Mother handed him some napkins to wipe the dust from his face. What will Brother Brown think if I quit now? he wondered. I know I can’t bring home a blue ribbon, but I can still finish.
“I guess I’ll stay after all, Dad,” he mumbled. Then he crossed the field to where the softball throw was already in progress.
Jamie managed the softball throw but not well enough to be a winner. Still it was better than he had expected.
Only the standing long jump remained. Jamie was hot and unhappy. What does it matter? I’ve already lost, he thought.
Karen tugged at his shirt. “Jamie,” she cried, “look how far that boy jumped.” The boy had jumped six feet and the crowd cheered. “You can jump farther than that, Jamie. I’ve seen you do it.”
Jamie looked into Karen’s warm, trusting eyes, and tears started up in his own all over again. He knelt beside her. “Karen,” he said, “I don’t care if I win this contest or not. I don’t even care if people laugh at me. But if you think I’m a good jumper, I’ll jump as far as I can just for you, OK?”
“OK, Jamie. Do it! Do it!” Karen encouraged.
“Your turn.” Dad patted him on the back. “Go out there, Jamie, and good luck!”
Jamie ran out, feeling better now, hardly tired at all. Waiting for the jump, he placed his feet slightly apart, toes on the starting line. He bent over, like Brother Brown had taught the boys to do, and swung his arms. “Here I go,” he said to himself. One—his arms came up and back. Two—up farther now, giving him momentum. Three—Jamie hurled himself forward through the air.
He landed in a cloud of sawdust, his feet stinging. Fall forward, he reminded himself, as he dropped to his knees. He heard cheering, this time for him, and watched in amazement as the judges measured his jump.
“Six feet, eight inches. Longest jump of the day,” the judge announced. Jamie could hardly believe his eyes and ears.
Karen ran right out onto the field and hugged her big brother. “I knew you’d do it, Jamie, I knew it,” she said, beaming.
Jamie was excited about winning the jump, but he was even happier because he hadn’t disappointed Karen, who believed in him.
When the judges were ready to announce the winners, Jamie listened quietly as the ten-year-olds received their prizes. He knew he wouldn’t receive one because of the race, but he was glad about the long jump anyway. Then came the nine-year-olds. First and second places went to two boys from another town.
Finally, the announcer said, “We have a tie for third place. Paul Brady had it wrapped up, but because Jamie Roberts did so well in the long jump, he earned the same total score as Paul. Congratulations to both of you.”
Jamie’s dad pushed him to his feet. “Go on, son, that’s you.”
He didn’t know how he got to the judge’s stand, but when he did the judge hung a bronze medal around Jamie’s neck and shook his hand.
“Do you suppose Brother Brown will be disappointed that I didn’t win first place?” asked Jamie.
“I’m sure he’ll understand,” Mother answered, smiling. And Dad agreed.
Karen danced up and down. For once she was speechless with excitement.
Jamie flopped on the grass and pulled Karen down beside him. “Hey, squirt, how would you like to wear my medal?” he teased.

Rebeccah Davis, 15, has also learned keeping your word is one of the most important parts of a job. She is working after school, baby-sitting. Her commitment to her employer has meant no school sports, fewer get-togethers with friends, and less time for herself.
“The lady I work for counts on me. Since I agreed to do it I need to be dedicated,” says Rebeccah. And because of that dedication, she’s noticed improvements in herself.
“At first I was one of those baby-sitters who sat and watched TV and let the kids do whatever they wanted. But then I started to care for the kids, and I have become a more responsible person. I play with them, take care of them.”

Thank you for publishing the June 2001 special issue about standards. As I read it, it was as though the whole issue was written for me. In particular, I wanted to thank you for the article “Speaking of Kissing.” A year ago at Especially for Youth, I made a decision to not kiss until I was married. The past year when thinking about that decision, I worried that by refusing to kiss I might offend someone. That article caused me to realize my decision would not offend a young man willing to honor my standards. Thank you again for that issue and for that article.
Becky KendallRichardson, Texas

My father had a unique experience when he was the age of a priest. There were no high schools where he lived, and he wanted an education. He received permission from his father to leave the farm and seek his education elsewhere, but he had to make it on his own. Arriving in Salt Lake City, he heard of an employment position being offered in the home of President Joseph F. Smith. He was hired to care for the prophet’s two cows. In our family home evenings we would want Dad to relate experiences about his early life of living in the home of the prophet. We would hear him make reports like this:
Sister Smith instructed my father in his duties, explaining that the cows “were aristocrats, and you must treat them well. You are to keep them so clean and train them so well that if I should ever at any time conclude to move them into the parlor, they would be clean enough to enter.” Dad said he understood milking but not laundering cows.
Before milking each morning and night, they were thoroughly washed and dried with hot water, soap, and towels prepared for that purpose. They were fed the best of hay and milked at exactly the same hour twice a day.
In addition to his duties with the Smith family and their “aristocratic” cows, my father was asked on occasion to do some housework. He would tell us stories like this: “One frosty morning I washed the steps leading to the official residence of the President of the Church. It nearly led to his downfall, for I let the water freeze before drying. Then I had to take boiling water and thaw the ice and take towels to dry the stones. The steps were nearly clean, but my classmates were passing on their way to school before the job was completed. It was a humbling experience.”
By telling these stories, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that my father was a male twin to Cinderella. The Smith family took this poor farm boy from Idaho into their home while he finished high school and attended the University of Utah. They included him in their family activities, around the dinner table, and at family prayer. My father shared with us his witness that the prophet Joseph F. Smith was truly a man of God: “When I kneeled with the prophet, in family prayer, and listened to his earnest supplications for the blessings of the Lord upon his family and their flocks and their herds, I realized that those same humiliating cows were the subject of his blessings, my feet were brought solidly to earth. … Most great men I have known have been deflated by intimate contact. Not so with the prophet Joseph F. Smith. Every common everyday act added inches to his greatness. To me he was prophet even while washing his hands or untying his shoes.”
The lessons learned taught us a great appreciation and love for a prophet of God.