Gospel Story Finder

It seems like not so long ago I was but a boy, young and green with eyes unmellowed, but believing I was indeed extremely wise. I was no expert at baseball, but my bedroom was adorned with photographs of baseball heroes—especially those of Pete Dillard. Pete was a famous professional player whose parents lived in our town, and he came every summer for a week with his family to visit them. It was kind of fun to see him around town, shaking hands with everybody and sometimes joining in a neighborhood game and signing autographs afterward. But I never seemed to get close enough to him to even say hello. One day when I was approaching a crowd of fans around Pete, I overheard a boy say, “Hey, Pete, how did you ever get so good at baseball?”
Pete shrugged his shoulders modestly, smiled, and said, “Lots and lots of practice.” But then he paused for a while as if he remembered something and added, “Maybe it’s because I once had a Sunday School teacher who loved me. All of us called him Chief.”
And then Pete was gone.
Most of my experiences with baseball consisted of playing games with my dad and a sprinkling of friends on hot summer evenings. When Dad didn’t have meetings or if he didn’t have to work late at the office, he usually spent some time with me. After dinner we often played catch out in our front yard until way after the street lights blinked on. I still remember his calm, deep voice as he called out to me, “Good throw, Son” or “A little higher, boy” or “Nice curve, John.”
Then other boys would come straggling over one by one and stand and watch us, and Dad would stop the game and invite them to join us. If we eventually accumulated enough people, we’d begin a game of baseball. Everybody liked my dad—almost as much as I did.
There was a boy who lived directly across the street from us, Homer Johnson. He had a mop of red curls, pale thin skin that revealed his veins clear through, and thick, thick glasses. He hardly ever came out of his house. My mother said that he had had a lot of illness. But every so often I’d see his piercing eyes watching us from an upstairs window as we played ball. I’d try not to feel those eyes, but I could not ignore them.
One day just when we had chosen up sides for a game, my team was short one player. But that didn’t matter, because I had all good players. Then suddenly Dad turned his head and said in his calm, deep voice, “Oh, hello there, Homer. Want to join us?”
I reeled around, and there was Homer standing across the street in front of his house, his hands in his pockets. He fidgeted a lot, but slowly he dragged his feet and crossed the street. As he neared, I noticed that he was thinner and smaller than he looked to be from his window … and he didn’t look very strong.
I turned toward my father. “Dad …” I tried to whisper. But he had already walked over and put an arm around Homer. Now they were both walking toward us.
“John needs one more man on his team,” Dad was saying. “You can be an outfielder for now.”
I felt my ears burn. Dad caught my eye, and I think he knew how I felt—he always did. But there was something in Dad’s look that silenced me. I picked up my ball and mitt and stomped off to my position.
The other team scored two home runs. And then it happened. Someone smacked the ball out into the field toward Homer. I saw him position his hands to catch the flying ball, and then … splaatt! His glasses flew, and he was holding his nose, with blood dripping from beneath his hands. Dad had him lie down on the grass to stop the bleeding. Then he sent him home to wash up. Fortunately his glasses hadn’t broken.
After Homer left, I said, “Dad, he’s no good as a player. He shouldn’t be on anyone’s team ’cause he’ll make it lose.”
Then in a low voice so no one else could hear, Dad said, “He’s a child of God, John. Always remember that.”
I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everybody, so I just tromped off and continued playing ball, but my ears were burning. I didn’t say anything else for the rest of the evening. I resented being preached to.
Homer didn’t return the next day or the next. But the following week he was back again, standing in front of his home, fidgeting and staring at us. As we pitched and threw and shouted on my lawn, I could not help but feel two penetrating eyes on us. Then I heard Dad’s voice inviting him to join us, and again I felt my ears turn hot. As I glanced over at my father, I saw a pleading look on his face as he gazed back at me.
That night I lay in bed, wide-eyed. I had thrown off the covers, and still my bedclothes stuck to my back. I heard a rustle. Standing in the doorway was Dad. “You still awake, Son?”
I nodded, and hoped that he could see my response in the dark. His large angular figure came toward me, his gentle eyes sparkling in the dark. I thought of Homer and looked away.
He sat beside me, and I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Son …” he began softly. “Things are getting tight at the office, and I’ll have to stay late at work for a while.”
My heart fell.
“But I have one day reserved just for you,” he continued. “Pete Dillard is going to be in town in a couple of weeks, and they’ve asked him to speak at a fund-raising dinner for crippled children. I have two tickets for you and me.”
Suddenly I was smiling. “Dad!” I shouted. “You mean I get to see Pete Dillard for real! Boy, oh, boy! Wait until my friends hear about this!”
Even though I had this exciting event to look forward to from that day on, things were not the same when my friends and I got together to play ball on the front lawn. Without Dad, we often got into squabbles, and one of the fellows would go home mad. Sometimes Homer would stand at his front door, watching us. But nobody invited him to play ball. So he just stood there all the time with his piercing, piercing eyes.
At last the day of the dinner came. There was Pete in the front of the hall, shaking hands with people and looking really interested in what everyone had to say to him. I don’t remember what was served. My only thoughts were about the baseball that I set beside my plate for Pete to autograph after the dinner.
When it was time for Pete to talk, he arose confidently. He didn’t give the speech we all expected, but said only a few words. Again he mentioned Chief, the Sunday School teacher I had heard him talk about sometime ago.
“I was awkward and clumsy as a boy,” Pete said, “but it was the confidence that Chief had in me that gave me what I needed in my long struggle to become the person that I wanted to become.”
Then he sat down. People began crowding around for autographs. I picked up my ball and started up front. Suddenly I realized Dad was next to me, waiting to meet Pete too.
Finally our turn came. I held my ball up for Pete to autograph. But Pete was staring past me with a funny look on his face, arms outstretched.
“Chief!” he cried. “What are you doing here?” And he threw his arms around my dad.
“I’ve lived here for five years,” Dad replied. “I’ve tried to get hold of you every time you’ve been in town, but you’re an awfully busy man!”
On our way home in the car, many unanswered questions filled my mind. But somehow I couldn’t seem to find the right words to express them. All I could say was, “Dad, you’re great, you really are. Even Pete Dillard thinks so.”
The next evening seemed so empty without my father. I stood in front of my house, waiting for the neighborhood boys to start coming by to play ball again. Idly I tossed a ball into the air, marveling over the happenings of yesterday.
Suddenly I became aware of two piercing eyes upon me. I tried to ignore them, but they were there nonetheless. Then the scene of Pete Dillard embracing my Dad flashed through my mind, and the word Chief! seemed to ring out loud and clear. And I realized then that I yearned to be like my dad.
I found myself slowly crossing the street, walking up the steps of the house opposite mine, and knocking on the door.

Years later, when Sister Ellis and I had young children and I was starting a new career, my employer changed medical insurance plans. The old plan would end on June 1 and the new one would start on July 1, leaving us without insurance for one month. We did not know what to do, but at that point we remembered a talk by President N. Eldon Tanner (1898–1982) in which he counseled Church members to always have health insurance.3
I talked with the company, and we negotiated a contract to ensure continuous insurance coverage throughout June. On June 28 our oldest son, Matt, fell off the high diving board at the neighborhood pool and hit the concrete deck. He suffered a fractured skull and a brain concussion. He was rushed by helicopter to the hospital, where he was treated by specialists. The costs were astronomical and would have ruined us financially. Fortunately, health insurance paid for most of his treatment.

Jesse Austin of Lyons, Colorado, made a great friend in Brandon Harris of Ogden, Utah, at the wheelchair sports camp they both attended in Denver.
Brandon set five records at that meet in swimming and track and won many medals. Jesse won ten medals and set a record in the discus throw.
Both boys are paraplegic, but that doesn’t slow them down. Jesse pushed himself 50 miles in five days on the Oregon Trail to earn his 50-mile patch and his Historic Trails Award. He also goes to the temple with the youth from his ward to do baptisms for the dead.

After experiencing some unexpected financial obligations as a single woman, I knew I needed to find a second job. Soon afterward, Marty, a sister in my ward, approached me and asked for my help. She and her husband were going on a mission, so she had to give up her job. She explained that every Saturday she helped an elderly woman, Ruth, who lived in an assisted-living complex. Marty offered me her job and told me that Ruth would pay me for my work.
The following Monday, Marty and Ruth explained my tasks, and I began my work a few days later. I started by gathering Ruth’s laundry and carrying it upstairs to the laundry room. Soon after I began, Ruth rushed in and shouted at me. She told me that I was never to wash her clothes without first asking.
I was doing only what she and Marty had asked me to do. Frustrated and hurt, I fought back the tears. I told myself that I didn’t need any more stress or problems in my life. I would have walked out that very moment had I not promised Marty that I would care for Ruth while she was away.
Week after week Ruth shouted angrily at me over everything I did. It seemed that I could never please her no matter how hard I tried.
I started praying for strength to endure Ruth and her harsh words, but nothing changed. I continued to resent having to help her.
Then one day I changed my prayers. I stopped praying for myself and started praying for Ruth. I asked Heavenly Father to help me understand her needs and how I could help her.
From that day forward everything changed. My heart softened, and my love for Ruth grew. Ruth changed as well. She opened up and shared her life, her joys, and her sorrows. She told me she missed her family. She told me of the wonderful things she had done in her past but could no longer do. She told me she was lonely and sad.
I began to look forward to seeing Ruth each week, and she looked forward to seeing me.
My experience with Ruth taught me a valuable lesson. When I truly served with my whole heart, I came to understand President Spencer W. Kimball’s (1895–1985) teaching that “in the midst of the miracle of serving, there is the promise of Jesus, that by losing ourselves, we find ourselves” (“Small Acts of Service,” Ensign, Dec. 1974, 2).

“At the end of the 1980s, … life was good [for me and my family], and everything seemed to be as it should be—until one day an old friend came to visit us.
“At the conclusion of his visit, he made a comment and asked a question that unsettled my convictions. He said, ‘Carlos, everything seems to be going well for you, your family, your career, and your service in the Church, but—’ and then came the question, ‘if you continue to live as you are living, will the blessings promised in your patriarchal blessing be fulfilled?’
“I had never thought about my patriarchal blessing in this way. I read it from time to time but never with the intent of looking toward the blessings promised in the future and evaluating how I was living in the present.
“After his visit, I turned my attention to my patriarchal blessing, wondering, ‘If we continue to live as we are living, will the promised blessings be fulfilled?’ After some pondering, I had the feeling that some changes were necessary.”

It was just a few days before Christmas, and we were newlyweds traveling home for the holidays. It was a 42-hour drive by car, but that didn’t discourage us at all because we were so excited to be home with our families again! We had been on the road all day and most of the night when we came upon a terrible snowstorm. We found ourselves in a blinding blizzard, and the snow was growing deeper on the highway with each passing moment. The night was pure black. We couldn’t see where we were going, and because of the deep snow we couldn’t see the lines on the road. This was a frightening situation!
Suddenly in front of us we began to see a huge semitruck going slowly and steadily ahead. We could barely make out his taillights, but seeing them gave us hope. My husband, who was driving, fixed his eyes on the lights from the truck, and we drove along in the tracks it made through the deepening snow. Our panic subsided somewhat with that guide up ahead, because he knew the route, he sat up higher than we and could have a better view, and surely he had communication equipment if it was needed.
With prayers on our lips and white-knuckled hands holding on, we followed that light through the storm. We passed many cars off both sides of the road before we sensed that the truck was slowing down and pulling off the highway. In an act of faith, we followed him and soon found ourselves, to our great relief, in a place of safety, a place of refuge. We were so very thankful! We could hardly wait to tell the driver of the truck how grateful we were for his help—for leading the way.

What I didn’t mention during this address was that I knew this promise was true because I was in the midst of completing this very same assignment myself for the first time.
On December 1, 2016, I obtained a new set of scriptures and proceeded to begin the same assignment that I would later extend to young adults in January. When I finished the assignment six weeks later, I had looked up and marked more than 2,200 citations from the four books of scripture.1
For me, to be able to accomplish this assignment was just thrilling!
Something I found to be most insightful was that the Savior was telling us about Himself through these various periods of time—Old Testament, New Testament, the Restoration period, and our day. In all books of scripture, the story is the same and the Storyteller is the same.
I have devoted much of my 93 years to learning about the Savior, but rare are the occasions when I have been able to learn as much as I did over this six-week study period. In fact, I learned so much about Him from this study that I am planning to share much of it in other upcoming addresses that I am currently preparing.2
Upon beginning this assignment, I didn’t expect that this study would help me to receive a new testimony of the divinity of the work of Joseph Smith—but it did! The revelations recorded by Joseph Smith and the insights found in the Bible are amazingly consistent. It was so enlightening for me to see this in my study.
Joseph Smith wouldn’t have possibly had time to correlate and cross-reference with the Bible at the rapid rate at which he was translating the Book of Mormon—but it’s all here!
So not only do I now have a greater testimony of the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, but I also have a reaffirmation of my absolute conviction that the system Joseph Smith had for translating the Book of Mormon was a gift from God.
I know how you feel. I thought the same thing of myself—that there’s no way I can have time to do all of this. I needed to remind myself that a comment like this is not a faith-promoted comment. A faith-promoted comment would be “I know I don’t have time for this, but I’m going to make time for it. And I’ll fulfill it with what time I have.”
Each of us who takes this challenge will finish in our own time frames. For me, much of the joy of this came from getting it all done in just six weeks. This intense study over a relatively short period of time allowed me to appreciate the complementary nature of the learnings to be found in the Old Testament, the Book of Mormon, the New Testament, and the Doctrine and Covenants.
To those of you who feel you don’t have time, if you will make a sacrifice, you will be well rewarded and very, very grateful for the change of perspective, increased knowledge, and improved depth of your conversion. I know this is true because I have seen the same rewards in my own life.

There is a silver-haired Argentine sister who knows the Shepherd. She has given a long life of service to the Lord, his Church, and her fellowmen.
The first time Sister Mellor attended a Mormon church service, she was brought by the missionaries. They felt that she was the most sophisticated, cultured, and best-educated investigator they had ever met. They held a few meetings in her lovely home, and when they invited her to accompany them to a Sunday Church meeting, she readily agreed. The service was being held in an old building. The members attending were of somewhat humble circumstances compared to the new investigator.
The service did not go well by the standards of the two missionaries hoping to impress their guest. The branch leaders had just been recently called, and they were still learning their duties. There was some confusion at the pulpit. There was an interruption at the sacrament table at the most sacred moment. The sermons seemed to be less interesting than those desired by the eager missionaries. The reverence was threatened from time to time by children moving or crying. There was no organ to provide deep, religious sounds. The missionaries agonizingly thought of the negative impressions their elegant investigator must be receiving. They knew she normally worshiped in a very fashionable cathedral where everything would have been highly professional and the congregation would have been of the highest stratum of local society.
On the way home, one of the missionaries began to reflect his embarrassment. He explained: “Please excuse our present building. Some day we will build a lovely new chapel here.” Then he added: “Please excuse our new leaders. We have a lay priesthood, so we take turns conducting, and the new leaders are still learning how to conduct services.” He was just about to give another excuse when Sister Herta Mellor turned to him and said somewhat sternly: “Elder, don’t you apologize! It must have been like this at the time of Christ!”
With her spiritual eyes and her knowledge of the Shepherd acquired through studying the holy scriptures, she saw through centuries of tradition. She saw past cathedrals and organs. She saw back through the corridors of time to the Shepherd meeting with his humble fishermen-Apostles, with some sinners, and even with leper outcasts. She saw the early Saints meeting in a small, rented, upstairs room. She saw children, with the Savior smiling at them lovingly. Because she knew the Shepherd, she could say with profound and deep insight, “It must have been like this at the time of Christ.”
She exemplifies to me the admonition which many have followed: “Fill your mind with thoughts of Christ, your heart with love of Christ, and your life with service to Christ.” Today there stands a lovely chapel, presided over by a well-trained lay bishopric, where Sister Mellor first attended church about thirty years ago.

Christine (8) and Spencer (6) Harris and their family saved their money for a long time so that they could be with their grandparents in Rarotonga at the end of their mission. One of the Cook Islands in the Pacific Ocean, Rarotonga is part of the New Zealand Auckland Mission. It was a long distance to travel from their home in Seattle, Washington. In fact, the family flew on three different airplanes to get there. First they flew to California, then to Tahiti, and then on to the beautiful island of Rarotonga. They had not seen Grandma and Grandpa Harris for nearly a year and a half, so it was wonderful to be together again.
On the island, they explored the sites, including the wonderful beaches and warm, blue lagoons. Christine and Spencer liked to snorkel within the coral reef and see the thousands of colorful fish. They had fun collecting seashells and coral. The children also enjoyed eating the unusual, but delicious fruits and fresh coconuts on the island.
Meeting the many nice people to whom their grandparents had taught the gospel was heartwarming for the children and their parents. On Sunday, they attended church. Christine and Spencer found it comforting to sing the familiar Primary songs in the unusual setting of an open-walled church with exotic birds and chickens around it.
When the children found out that their father and grandfather were planning a special hike that included them, they were thrilled. The hike would take them across the island, through the tropical jungle, over some old volcanoes, to a sharp mountain peak called Mount Te Manga (The Needle). Even though it was a difficult hike that was ordinarily just for adults, their father thought that the children were prepared.
It was a perfect morning for a hike—clear and sunny, but not too hot. The children were up early to help make lunches and pack their gear. The four hikers said good-bye to the other family members, who would spend the morning at the open market and then pick them up on the other side of the island in the afternoon.
The hikers walked along a scenic valley road, past a papaya plantation and a lush farm, to the trailhead (the place where a trail begins) at the base of a volcanic mountain. The trail led them through a large green forest of ferns, across several streams, and then up a steep stairway of tangled tree roots. Christine and Spencer took turns leading the hike and had a contest to see who could spot the most lizards along the trail.
Eventually the group entered the heavy overgrowth of the dense, tropical jungle. The gigantic leaves and vines that surrounded them were amazing. But they soon realized that they were no longer on the trail! Everyone looked all around for the path but could not find it. They tried to backtrack to where they had come from, but it seemed like the more they hunted for the path, the steeper and thicker and more difficult the jungle became. Father and Grandfather were very frustrated. Eventually they found a stream and started to follow it down the side of the mountain. But the vines and jungle growth were so dense that it soon became impossible to travel any farther.
Although they didn’t complain, Christine and Spencer were not having fun anymore. They knew that they were lost. To make things worse, Christine had stumbled on a root and hurt her leg, and Spencer was tormented by swarms of mosquitoes. The group searched for the missing trail for about two hours and were getting scared.
Grandfather said, “We need to pray. We need Father in Heaven’s help to guide us back to the path.”
Everyone humbly knelt in the steep, thick jungle by the stream with the mosquitoes buzzing around them. Grandfather prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help them find the trail. Everything became quiet and peaceful. Grandfather rose to his feet and started walking. Christine, Spencer, and their father followed. In less than five minutes, they were standing on the hiking trail! In astonishment, they all shouted for joy. Everyone knew that they had been guided by an answer to prayer.
It didn’t take long for them to hike up the ridge to a spectacular, breathtaking view of The Needle. At the base of the peak, they stopped to rest and have lunch. But first they prayed again to Heavenly Father to thank Him for guiding them to safety.
After lunch, they hiked down the trail and along the rugged mountainside and on to the other side of the island. They met the rest of their family by a beautiful waterfall. Christine and Spencer told how they had lost the trail in the dense jungle and how, through an answer to Grandfather’s prayer, they had found it.

When the various projects were well into their second year, Brother Kamauoha reported that the people really learned that a job is not done until it is complete. After building roads, bridges, and the steps to the waterfall, the people at Sauniatu had to put in a culinary water system. They wanted to pipe water from a spring. They had no money for pipe, so they dug up some old pipe that had been used years before and cleaned it in the river. Then they painted the usable pieces. They only had enough good pipe to make a straight line from the spring to the village. Seventy-five feet of lava bedrock lay in the path of their trench.
“I told them, ‘We have enough good pipe to make a straight pipeline. So if you want water and you want it badly enough, then you’ll have to cut through the bedrock to the spring!’ A big Samoan man named Faleoo Itopi, who had worked extra hard on every project said, ‘Why, after what we have done, this little bedrock is nothing.’
“We worked into the nights with lanterns. Faleoo’s hands were bleeding, but he set an example for the students and showed them how to work. He was that way in all of his projects. When he built roads, he always built them too long rather than too short. He never took a shortcut because his heart was in the right place.”

A joint sports experience they remember is the football game when each of them made a touchdown. During another game, they all recovered the same fumble. Doug got to it first, then Dan drove in on top of him, followed by Dave.
“I guess sometimes we have an advantage,” says Dan. “We can usually figure out what each other would do in a situation.”
However it is that they do it, their coaches like it. El Modena’s football coach, Bob Lester, has only one complaint—“I wish they were quintuplets!”

I drummed my fingers on the wooden chair’s narrow armrest, then twisted to the right and looked at the photograph of the First Presidency hung on the light-blue wall. Calm down, I said to myself. After all, I had requested this visit. I could hear a familiar voice grow louder as the bishop left the clerk’s office, crossed the hall, and came inside. He smiled and said, “Well, Jeff, how are you doing?”
“Fine, just fine,” I said out loud while thinking to myself desperately, What am I doing here?
Bishop Smith pulled his heavy chair from behind his strong, heavy, dark desk, put it alongside me, sat down, and smiled again. Bishop Smith was a big man, very round, and when he smiled, his whole body seemed to radiate right along with his face. I basked for a moment in all that warmth and then said, “Actually, bishop, I guess things aren’t all that great. I’ve thought a lot about our talk last month, a lot about a mission. And, well, frankly I just can’t go.”
“You don’t think you can go?”
“Yeah. I’m 22. I’d be 24 when I get back. I’d be too old.”
“Too old for what?”
“Oh, bishop. You know, I just graduated from state university. I’m a pretty good botanist. How can I work with someone who was a junior in some high school when I was worrying about passing Professor Gotlieb’s Advanced Plant Pathology? I can tell you anything you want to know about wheat germs.”
Bishop Smith looked at me for a moment, leaned forward, and asked in a gentle manner, “Is that your real reason?”
I wasn’t ready for that question. I had hope for a cheery smile and ready agreement. “Well, yes. Mainly,” I stammered. “I mean, basically.”
“Jeff, we’ve had some serious talks, you and I. Tell me, what are some other reasons to go with this basic reason?” The chair creaked as Bishop Smith leaned back.
“Oh, you know.” I spread my hands out in front of me and then picked some lint off my slacks. Bishop, I haven’t exactly made the best decisions in my life. Being inactive for seven years didn’t help any. How can I say to some investigator, ‘I just loved Sunday School when I grew up,’ or ‘I’ve always believed living the Word of Wisdom was important’? How can I talk about goals or loyalty or testimony?”
“Converts can talk about testimony and goals and loyalty, and they weren’t always active members.”
“But they choose to join, not to leave.”
“You chose to come back.”
I didn’t have anything to say at that moment, and all I could hear was a rustling out in the hall. After a moment the bishop said kindly, “I don’t quite understand. Are you worried about worthiness?”
“Bishop,” I replied firmly, “I’ve got my life going again. I have nothing to hide. I know the Lord loves me, and I love him. But at every sacrament meeting or general conference or whatever, I hear that the Lord wants only the best, the strongest, the most reliable to be his missionaries.
“I think in a small way I see, Jeff.” Bishop Smith paused and tapped his thick fingers against each other. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”
“Only a little. I guess I haven’t said much at all. At least I told him I was coming here tonight.”
“Jeff, maybe it’s time to talk to your dad. I know him; he’s a good man. Talk to him and then come and talk to me again. Okay?”
The interview hadn’t gone quite as I had planned it. Suddenly I really didn’t know what to do. “Okay,” I said, and we stood up. Bishop Smith walked me to the door, and just after he shook my hand, he gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“Remember,” he said, “come and talk to me again.”
As I left the building, I considered going to see some friends. I even thought about going up on the university campus and walking through the greenhouses. Although I had already graduated, I was still helping Professor Gotlieb work with some sunflower research. And then I decided to talk to my dad.
My parents are pretty understanding. We’ve always talked together fairly well. When I quit going to priesthood, and then Sunday School, and then Church completely, they never threatened or yelled at me. I’m sure they felt unhappy inside, but I always knew they loved me. I never really ignored my parents, but I had friends and things at school and got pretty busy. In fact, when I first started going back to church, because of two great home teachers, I didn’t say much about it to my parents. I remember the little pause the first time after I asked them to attend church with me at the institute, and then my dad said, “Are you sure?”
I was surprised when I got home and found the lights off and the car gone. But I noticed the backyard light was on, so I got out of my car and went around the side. Out back I saw my dad working on his pride and joy, his small, old sailboat. When I was little we would go sailing on Lake Lourraine, up north. The boat really wasn’t very much. Only one at a time could get in it, but we all liked to try it, even if we spent most of the time in the lake and not the boat. As everybody grew older, everybody got busier, and we didn’t take the boat out much. Finally, it sat pushed against the garage until my youngest brother scraped it with the car; then, we hid it under some waterproof canvas behind the house. Now that all the kids are gone, my dad’s interest in sailing has increased again. Late last year he started to work on the boat. A few weeks ago, I helped him paint it white.
“Ship ahoy,” I called as I walked around the house.
“Hey, what a surprise! Just what I needed, another hand.”
“Sounds fine. I was in the area and thought I’d come by. Where’s mom?”
“Oh, she’s over at the neighbors. Did you just see Bishop Smith?”
“Whatever happened to not asking direct questions?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about you tonight. Here, help me sand a little.” My dad gave me some yellow, fine-grade sandpaper. We both started to work.
“Well,” I said, “do you want to know what we talked about?”
“Whatever happened to subtlety?”
I smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you tell him you’re too old?”
“Yes.”
“Was he fooled by it?”
I looked quickly at my dad. He was grinning at me. “No,” I said, “bishops aren’t fooled by much of anything. I guess dads aren’t either.”
“I guess not. So, what are your plans?”
I walked over to the back steps and sat down. “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”
“What’s more important is what you think. It’s up to you Jeff. You and the Lord. Have you ever talked to him about your future, about a mission?”
The words weighed on me, and I played with a stem of grass I had pulled up. “No,” I said quietly, surprised that the night was so still.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t answer or want me. I’ve let him down before.”
My dad started sanding again, and I looked up at the sky and saw Venus burning brightly. “Isn’t she a beautiful boat?” my dad said.
I was glad to change the subject. “She sure is. A real beauty.”
“I hope you’ll go sailing with me sometime.”
“You can depend on that.”
“She might sink on us, you know.”
“Oh, no,” I laughed. “She’ll float just fine.”
“Well, she used to be a wreck.”
“But look at her now,” I said. “We’re proud of her. I’d be a fool not to sail in a boat as good as this one.” I paused for a moment and looked straight at my dad. “You know, I get the feeling you want to tell me something.”
“Son, we’d all be in pretty bad shape if we couldn’t start over when we make mistakes. We wouldn’t have a chance to become better.”
“I know, dad.”
“Why don’t you ask the Lord, Jeff. You might be surprised.”
“Do you think he’ll answer me?”
“I promise you he will.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking at my dad’s hands still holding the sandpaper. “I mean it.”
“You know, Jeff, maybe you’d like to fast before you ask. Your mom and I would be glad to fast with you.”
We sanded some more, and I told my dad about work with Professor Gotlieb. When mom came home, we talked about fasting together. My parents supported me, and we agreed to do it. As I drove to my apartment, I could smell the scent of rain on the pines in the mountains mixed with apple tree blossoms. I thought of some things I’d like to do before I fasted. And for the first time, way back in my mind, I knew I’d be calling Bishop Smith soon, sooner perhaps than even he expected. And this time, I wouldn’t be going to his office with any excuses.

Annie liked going to garage sales with her mom. One Saturday they found some jeans for Annie and some clothes for her brothers. Annie wore the jeans to school the next Monday.
In the cafeteria Jenny pointed at Annie. “I saw you at our neighbors’ garage sale. You bought those jeans there.”
Annie nodded. “Aren’t they great?”
“You wear other people’s old clothes,” Jenny said, laughing with her friends. “Garage-Sale Annie!” she mocked. The other girls started to chant the name too.
Annie quickly picked up her lunch tray and took it to the counter where the trays were stacked. In class she kept her head down and did her work. After school she hurried home.
She found Mom looking at a picture book with Annie’s baby brother, Hyrum. “Can we go shopping at the mall on Saturday?” Annie asked.
Mom looked up. “Why do you want to go to the mall?”
“I’m tired of going to garage sales,” Annie said.
“I thought you liked going to garage sales with me,” Mom said.
“I did, but one of the girls at school saw us at the garage sale on Saturday, and she told everyone I was wearing other people’s clothes. They started calling me Garage-Sale Annie.”
Mom put Hyrum on the floor and set a plastic truck in front of him. “I’m sorry, Annie,” Mom said. “That must have hurt.”
Annie nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Let me ask you something,” Mom said. “Is there anything wrong with buying clothes at garage sales?”
Annie shook her head.
“Did you like the jeans?”
“Yes, but why can’t I have clothes from stores in the mall like my friends do?” Annie asked.
“Your dad and I decided there are more important things to spend money on than brand-new clothes,” her mother said.
“What things?” Annie asked
“Things like paying tithing, saving for missions and college, and letting me stay at home with you and your brothers,” Mom answered.
Annie looked at Hyrum on the floor playing with the truck and smiled when he gurgled at her. Maybe Mom was right. Their money could be used for more important things. Maybe shopping at garage sales really was a blessing for their whole family.
“I guess I didn’t think of those things,” she whispered.
Mom hugged Annie tight. “I know it’s hard,” she said, “but sometimes we give up certain things so we can do other more important things.”
Annie thought about it some more throughout the day. “I’m glad we pay tithing and save money for other things,” she told Mom as she went to bed. “And I’m proud of my new jeans.”
Soon Annie wore the jeans again, this time with a bright blue shirt. When the other girls called her Garage-Sale Annie, she only smiled.

“For I remember the word of God which saith by their works ye shall know them; for if their works be good, then they are good also” (Moroni 7:5).
My bishop, a great friend and example to me, continually invited me to minister with him even when I was no longer attending Church. He was such an important person to me that I couldn’t refuse his invitations. We had countless wonderful experiences serving those whom we visited, and he always offered to share gospel insights with them so that I would not be uncomfortable.
He served me while also inviting me to serve others, and that made a huge difference in coming back to Christ.

During World War II, I was in cadet training at Thunderbird Field near Scottsdale, Arizona. We would on occasion go into Phoenix on the weekend, and on Sunday afternoon, we would be finding a way back to our base. Scottsdale, Arizona, in those days was a rural suburb of Phoenix and consisted of not much more than two street crossings.
One Sunday, several of us were not able to get a ride, so we began the long walk back to the base. As we were hiking along, an old car drew up and a gentleman offered us a ride. There were more of us than could get in his old car, but there were small steps by the doors on which we could stand, and so he drove slowly along as we chatted. Several complained about the desert and how dry and dead and lifeless it was. Finally, he stopped the car and said he wanted to show us something.
He then told us he was a teacher of natural sciences, and we spent some time walking into the desert. He showed us plants and animals and living things and opened our eyes to a new world. He pointed out shriveled and supposedly dead plants.
Then he broke off a piece of a branch and held it up to us. “This,” he said, “is not dead. It is just dormant. There is life in it.” And then he explained that when the right conditions came, it would bud and bloom and become alive again.
That lesson made a deep impression on us. We had thought the desert was barren and lifeless, but he showed us that there was life there if we knew how to look for it. In the same way, the teacher must learn to see beyond the obvious and use familiar things to teach deeper truths.

But most of all, I remember sitting in a merciless rain on the hill with a sister and her companion while she, with joy filling her eyes, told me how happy she was to be in pageant and related to me a personal incident that had happened to her a few days before.
It was a brisk morning in Palmyra, and she and five other sisters who were staying with a nonmember family during pageant were waiting for the bus that would take them to the rehearsal on the hill. Across the street, a young boy was tossing a baseball up and down in the air. It had been over a week since she had last been with her family in the West. She missed her little brothers and her home.
Before she knew it, she was across the road and asking the young lad if she could play catch with him. The boy’s eyes lit up, and he thanked her for asking him.
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?” he asked jubilantly.
“Yes,” she replied, wondering why this eight-year-old youngster was asking.
“I love Mormons,” he added, as if in answer to her thought. “You’re all so nice. You dress nice. You look nice. And all of you are always fun to be with when you come for the pageant.”
Possessed with the true missionary zeal of the pageant and touched by the boy’s comment, this sister asked if he would like to have two “representatives” come to his house. The answer and the feeling that emanated from him brought tears to her eyes.
“That’d be great! But my mother wouldn’t like it. See, Daddy died a little while back, and she doesn’t really want to see anyone. But I keep working on her.” At this point, the boy stopped playing catch, looked at her with the surety and faith that only an adolescent can possess, and said, “I’ve seen the pageant every year, and I pray in secret every night. I love Jesus, and I know Mr. Smith found those plates over there. Someday I’m gonna be a Saint too, and I’m gonna be in pageant and tell everybody what I believe.”
From the mouth of a child, the Lord had given her all the encouragement she could need to be an example. And being an example is the key to the miracle of the pageant. No one thing influences the effect and success of the pageant more than the spiritual atmosphere present on the hill. For this reason, during the performance, participants who are not on stage maintain reverent silence. The result is an astonishingly spectacular pageant that has awed, thrilled, and inspired millions of viewers since its inception thirty-four years ago and has received news reports in papers in all of the fifty states and many other nations, in addition to widespread television and radio coverage. For anyone not to be deeply inspired by pageant, he would have to have water instead of blood in his veins.

When I selected the painting of the Savior, a couple of my brothers and sisters snickered. Items that they thought were more valuable still remained among the things that had belonged to Mom and Dad.
We were gathered at our childhood home, where Mom had been living when she died a few weeks earlier. Dad had passed away five years before, in 2001. Now it was time to divide up their belongings. We drew numbers and selected items, the person with the lowest number making the first pick.
The bedroom set went first, followed by the refrigerator, dining room table and chairs, and late-model car. I selected the piano, even though I don’t play. We had enjoyed music in our home when I was growing up. Dad often served as ward music director, and both my parents sang well. My father, who was a big man with a powerful voice, never turned down an opportunity to sing. The piano meant a lot to me, as did the painting of the Savior.
When I chose the painting, which was framed alongside a copy of “The Living Christ: The Testimony of the Apostles,”1 it was hanging on the wall of the family room, where we were sitting.
At such a time I couldn’t help but think about the Savior, the plan of salvation, and how much my parents meant to me. And I couldn’t help but feel gratitude for the way they had raised us, the gospel they had taught us, and the example they had set for us, including their willingness to serve.
These thoughts crowded upon my mind as we finished dividing up my parents’ belongings. After returning home, I looked for the right place to hang the painting of the Savior. As I flipped it over, to my surprise I saw that it had been dedicated to my father: “We will always remember Bishop Taylor as a big man with a heart to match.” It was signed by our stake presidency: “President Cory, President Carter, President Stubbs.”
Suddenly the painting became even more valuable to me. Today it hangs on a wall in my home above my parents’ piano. There are still some things at our old home that I selected but haven’t picked up. It doesn’t matter. I have the things of greatest worth.

Architecture and the dental profession constitute an unlikely combination, but this unorthodox blending of occupations makes life interesting indeed for Jacinto Lambino Ledesma, a 37-year old Tarlaqueño from Paniqui, who holds a degree in Architecture (MLQ University, Class of 1966).
If one visits a dentist and sits snugly on a dental chair that somehow eases the fear and pain commonly associated with the ministrations of a dentist, there is a good chance that the patient is sitting on a functional Ledesma dental chair that has been designed with a lot of psychological factors thrown in.
He cannot fill a cavity or fit a dental brace and yet his name is now a by-word in the dental profession in this country, with about 500 satisfied practitioners and users of the Ledesma chair endorsing the product of a Mormon’s ingenuity.
Not one to sit on his laurels, Bro. Ledesma forged on by inventing the first hydraulic dental chair and unit with X-Ray, panoramic light and switchboard, earning the privilege to display his invention in the National Science Development Board pavilion during the last National Inventors Week.
Bro. Ledesma is married to Julieta Villanueva Bulan with whom he was sealed at the Salt Lake City Temple (see companion article, back page of this issue: Vignette). They have four children: Judith Marie 10, Joseph Jude 7, Jesus James 6, and Jerome John 5. It is interesting to note that the first names of all members of the family begin with the letter J, reflecting a partiality for the tenth letter of the alphabet which he cannot yet explain to this day.
His first contact with missionaries is a story by itself. Brother Jay, as he is fondly called, had just been from a religious mini-course which was then the fad in the early 70’s, and it was this opportunity to be inquisitive about Jesus Christ that led him to seek spiritual enlightenment. He found it when two missionaries (Elders Gleave and Johnson) knocked on his door before Christmas of 1971.
The first question the senior Elder asked was “Do you want to know more about Jesus Christ?”—a question which he coincidentally was asking himself a few minutes before the Elders came into his life. It was as if God directed the two Elders to knock on the door at a very precise and opportune moment.
On February 12, 1972, or two and a half months after that inspiring meeting, Bro. Ledesma was baptized by Elders Adrian Pulfer and Bartolomew Birkett at the Buendia chapel.
And life has never been the same ever since for the architect turned equipment manufacturer-inventor—and Mormon missionary, whose secret formula for success, as featured in the August 27, 1977 issue of Focus (a nationally circulated weekly magazine), is the belief that challenges in life can be met and surmounted with strong faith in God and self-discipline, coupled with self-confidence and a spirit of unselfishness—the use of one’s endowments to help others find fulfillment in their lives.

Illustration by Carolyn Vibbert
When I was six or seven years old, I knew I wanted to be an oceanographer. I focused on my goal, worked hard, and got into a good college. I took several courses in zoology and loved it. But as I got further into my studies, I became fascinated with the human body, particularly on the cellular level. I decided to become a pathologist.
I soon met my future husband, and we decided to get married. Having a family was always part of my plan, but while I knew I could be a great doctor and a great mother, I felt that I couldn’t be great at both at the same time. Because family is essential to the Lord’s plan of salvation, I decided to become a mother first. I figured that once my kids got into school, I could go back to school myself.
When my youngest child entered kindergarten, I began the application process for a PhD program in nutritional studies at the University of Texas in Austin. Just before submitting my application, I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant with my seventh child. I was in my 40s, and by the time this child entered school, I would be nearly 50.
“A little late to start a new career that takes extensive schooling,” I thought.
All at once I saw my life’s career dreams crumble around me. As I began to despair, a scripture came to my mind and my heart: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). I had always considered this scripture to mean one person dying for another, but now it means so much more.
I realized that the greatest love I could show was to lay down the life I had planned for myself and give my time and energy to raising my children. I felt that for me, this was what the Lord would have me do. Yes, I could have helped a lot of people as a doctor, but I also know that the greatest eternal impact I can have is in the lives of my own children.

Beth walked into her grandmother’s living room and stopped short, staring at dozens of brightly decorated Easter eggs. “Gram!” she gasped. “I never knew you had so many!”
“Yes, I do have a lot,” Gram said, looking around. “I’m glad you came, dear. You can help me sort through them. I told the children’s librarians that this year they could have the display earlier.”
Beth knelt in front of the sofa where several eggs were lying. “Oh, Gram, I remember this one. Didn’t the Phantom give it to you?” She carefully held up a sequin-encrusted egg.
“Yes, and it’s one of my favorites. I got it about ten years ago. I’ve decided to make a special display this year of eggs from the Phantom—in his memory.”
Beth stared at her grandmother. “What do you mean ‘in his memory’? Was Gramps the Phantom?”
“Yes, Beth, it was Gramps. Every Easter morning from the time we were married I found a tiny basket with a handmade Easter egg in it on the doorstep.” Gram’s smile started to waver a little. “Every egg was different. Easter just won’t seem the same this year without the Phantom. That’s why I decided to let the library have the display early. There won’t be a new egg to wait for this year.”
Beth got up to hug her grandmother. “Did Gramps know that you knew that he was the Phantom?” she asked.
Gram wiped her eyes on the corner of the apron she was wearing. “Oh, I’m sure he suspected I knew that it was him, but I never let on. It was kind of a delightful game that we played with each other. Every year before Easter he’d spend hours in his workshop and never tell me what he was doing. I’m sure he practiced on a lot of eggs. You know what a perfectionist he was.” Gram laughed through misty eyes. “I’d give a lot to know what he did with all those eggs!”
Beth laughed too. “Did Gramps fix breakfast a lot?”
“Now that I think of it, he did. And I’ll bet you can guess what we usually had.”
“Eggs!” Beth shouted.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly as they sorted and packed the eggs. Gram had a story to tell about each one.
A look of understanding spread across Mother’s face. “Were you helping Gram get her eggs ready for the library display this week?”
Beth nodded. “And do you know what? I found out that Gramps was the Phantom all along. Did you know that, Mom?”
“Did I ever! I remember all the eggs we used to eat. It’s a wonder I didn’t sprout feathers when I was growing up!” Mother smiled at the memory. “I never let on to Gramps that I knew though. It would have spoiled his fun. He got such a kick out of surprising Gram.”