Gospel Story Finder

It was a happy, carefree time in my young life until on such a day, sorrow and tragedy brought me closer to God in humble, sincere prayer. In the summer of my thirteenth year, on a July night, I eagerly joined some neighborhood friends to light fireworks. Five of us took turns igniting the colorful assortment of Roman candles and rockets and firecrackers. Each was a new surprise with its burst of sights and sounds through the evening sky.
Not all of our fireworks worked as they should have. Most, in fact, were what we called duds. They sputtered momentarily, and then died. We set the duds aside until we had tried to light all of the fireworks. We had so many defective ones remaining, we wondered what to do. We couldn’t just throw them away. What if we emptied the powder from all of them into the cardboard box? We could toss in a match and have one gigantic blast!
Fortunately for us, our idea failed—at first. The match was tossed; we quickly ran away and waited. Nothing happened. Pressing our luck, we tried a second time, using a makeshift fuse of rolled-up newspaper. Again we anxiously waited at a distance. Again, to our good, nothing happened. That is when we should have quit. Foolishly, we gave it one more try; this time my friend Mark and I huddled around the box to keep the flame from being extinguished by the evening breeze.
Then it happened! The “gigantic blast” we thought we wanted exploded with fury into our faces. The force of the explosion knocked us off our feet, and flames from the ignited powder burned us severely. It was a tragic scene. Responding quickly to the screams and cries of the injured youth in her driveway, our friend’s mother gathered us into her home. “First we will pray,” she said, “and then we will call the doctor.”
That was the first of many prayers I remember being offered for us. Soon after, I felt my face, hands, and arms being wrapped in bandages. I heard the voices of my father and my doctor administering a priesthood blessing to me. I heard my mother’s voice many times, pleading with Heavenly Father to please let her son see again.
I had been taught very early in my life to pray. Mother and Father had made prayer an important part of our family life. Not until that day, however, did it become so meaningful to me. In those frightening moments I found peace and comfort through prayer.
Following the incident when I was badly burned, I had felt with a surety that I would be healed. From the moment that first prayer was offered in my friend’s home, I felt a comforting peace. While the doctor treated my burns, I hummed a hymn, finding comfort in these words:
When sore trials came upon you,
Did you think to pray? …
Oh, how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day.
So, when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
[“Did You Think to Pray?” Hymns, 1985, no. 140]
Each day when the doctor changed my bandages, my mother would ask, “Can he see?” For many days the answer was the same: “No, not yet.” Finally, when all the bandages were permanently removed, my eyesight began to return. I had anticipated that time with anxious expectation. The peace and comfort I had earlier felt gave me assurance that all would be well. However, when my vision cleared enough for me to see my hands and face, I was shocked, unprepared for what I saw. To my terrible disappointment, I found that all was not well. Seeing my scarred and disfigured skin brought great fear and doubt into my mind. I can remember thinking, Nothing can help this skin to be healed—not even the Lord.
Gratefully, as my prayers and the prayers of others continued, I felt the gifts of faith and of peace restored, and then, in time, my eyesight and my skin were healed. My friends who were injured were also blessed with complete recovery.

Two weeks ago I shared with the freshmen during their orientation one of the most sacred moments I have experienced on this campus. I wish to share it again because it illustrates the blessing and power of this university as a temple of learning. Almost two years ago the Palmyra Temple was dedicated. Prior to the dedication First Presidency instructions were for students to gather in local Provo chapels to view the services. After some investigation it was determined that few students would be able to attend because local Saints would fill the chapels. Consequently I asked President Hinckley if the services could be shown in the Marriott Center. Although there was some concern that it would be difficult to feel the spirit of the services in this large space, permission was granted.

Students with recommends were asked to be in their seats at least 30 minutes before the services began. The outside doors of the building were locked 20 minutes before. I arrived early and took a seat on the floor. As I entered this space through one of the tunnels, I immediately noticed the extreme quiet in the room. There were no sounds. There was no whispering. Almost every student had a set of scriptures, and each was quietly reading or pondering the events of the next two hours. A quiet, reverent attitude prevailed throughout the dedication. Following the dedicatory prayer, 20,000 students stood in this arena and with white handkerchiefs waving repeated the Hosanna Shout. It was electric! The sea of handkerchiefs was like fields of grain waving in the wind. I have attended a number of temple dedications, but not one like that.

Following the closing hymn and prayer, the Holy Spirit pervaded every corner of this room. We watched President Hinckley and others depart the celestial room of the Palmyra Temple. I then approached the microphone and excused those in attendance to return to their classes. The few of us on the floor stood and waited for the audience to leave. But no one moved. After another minute or two I returned to the microphone again and invited those in attendance to return to class. Slowly, quietly, people arose and left the building. It was one of the great, spiritual moments of my time at the university. This building literally became an extension of the Palmyra Temple during those two hours.

Chris and Byron shared everything—their toys, their clothes, their books, their bedroom, and even their colds.
“I’m bored,” sniffed Chris. “I wish we could go outside.”
“There’s nothing to do in the house,” Byron said, coughing.
“Nothing at all,” Chris agreed, “except ride my horse.”
“You don’t have a horse,” Byron declared.
Chris wiped his nose. “I do so.”
“Prove it!”
Chris opened the door to their bedroom and pointed. “See?”
Byron blinked his eyes hard. “There’s nothing there but our bunk beds.” He snorted and started to turn away.
Chris walked over to the bunk beds and said, “Good horse,” as he gently patted one of the headboards.
Byron stopped and stared at the beds.
“Want to ride him?” Chris asked. “Or are you afraid he’ll buck you off?”
Byron stepped a little closer. “He’s your horse. You go first.”
Chris slowly climbed up the ladder and sat on the bed very carefully. He gripped the bedpost and whispered, “Giddy-up, horse.”
Nothing happened. He looked down at Byron.
“Try it again,” Byron urged.
“Giddy-up, horse,” Chris said louder.
Still nothing happened.
“Wait a minute,” Byron said. He lay on the bottom bed and lifted his legs up until his feet were touching the underside of the top bunk. “Now try kicking the horse,” he suggested.
Chris put one foot over the side and kicked the side rail. “Giddy-up, horse!” he yelled. With a little help from Byron’s feet, the mattress bucked up and down. “Yippee! Wahoo!” Chris bellowed.
Suddenly Mom appeared in the doorway. “Byron! Chris! Stop that right now before you break your beds,” she scolded, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Chris swung his legs over the side. “What do you think?”
Byron sneezed, wiped his nose, and stood there staring at the beds for a long time. “I don’t think you have a horse,” he finally said. “What you have is a tree house in the middle of a dark, scary jungle.”
Chris screeched, “Look out behind you! There’s a tiger!”
Byron scampered up the ladder. “Where?”
Chris pointed his finger at Cat, who was sitting in the corner, busily licking his paws. Cat looked up at them with big, gleaming, hungry, yellow eyes.
“Should we shoot it?” Byron asked.
“No guns,” Chris reminded him.
Cat stretched, then stalked toward the bed.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at us. Let’s get out of here before he decides to eat us.”
Byron pulled a long string out of his pocket and made a loop in one end.
“Here comes an elephant!” he shouted. “I’m going to capture it.” He swung the string over his head and neatly lassoed the bedpost. “Got it!”
The boys rode the big elephant away from the man-eating tiger, out of the jungle, and across the hot, white sands of the desert. The string slipped down in front of the bed and mysteriously came alive.
“Rattlesnake!” Chris exclaimed.
The elephant reared back, and the boys almost fell off. They had to hang on tightly while the elephant galloped past the rattlesnake.
“Whew! That was close,” Chris said.
Soon they came to a big lake.
“Let’s leave the elephant here and take a boat across the lake,” Byron suggested.
“Good idea,” Chris agreed. “I’ll go out on deck and steer the boat out of the harbor. You hoist the anchor.”
The boat hadn’t gone very far before it ran into a big storm. Hundred-foot waves crashed onto the boat and tossed the boys back and forth.
“Better head for port,” Chris shouted down to Byron.
When they were safely anchored in the harbor, Byron suggested that they take an airplane back home and get something to eat.
“Coming in for a landing,” Chris announced. “Check the landing gear.”
Byron learned over and looked under the bed. “There aren’t any wheels. Prepare to make a belly landing, and hope that the plane doesn’t explode.”
The plane skidded and jumped across the runway and came to a jerky stop.
“Everyone out before she goes up in flames!” Chris yelled. He and Byron bailed out just as the doorbell rang. They ran to open the door. It was George from across the street.
“Come outside and play,” George said.
“Can’t,” Chris sniffed. “We have colds.”
Byron coughed. “I wish we could go out,” he said. “There’s nothing to do in the house.”
“Nothing at all,” agreed Chris.

Kyle Dopp, who served in the Scotland Edinburgh Mission, said he had an experience which brought a new focus to his scripture study. “One of our investigators, Carol, was studying with missionaries from another church when we started to teach her. We explained some of the basic doctrines of the gospel. She said what we had taught her would make an interesting discussion with the missionaries from the other church. She had a study session planned for Monday.

“We gave her a Book of Mormon, read her the promise in Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5], and scheduled an appointment for Tuesday. The next week when we arrived, Carol was waiting for us—and so were two men. She had changed her study session from Monday to Tuesday.

“We sat down and began talking about the differences in our beliefs. We talked and talked, and I remember not being very well informed on their doctrines or even our own. I wasn’t able to cross-reference my scriptures well enough to know what was going on.

“Carol finally brought our discussion to a close and asked the two men to leave. ‘I want the Mormon missionaries to stay for just five minutes,’ she said.

“‘Oh, here we go,’ I thought. ‘She’s going to tell us to take a hike and give the Book of Mormon back to us.’ The two men left, and I asked her if she was completely confused.

“‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I’m not confused. I know now just what I want. Up to this point I thought the other church I was studying had all the truth. But I can see now that I have to read the Book of Mormon because I know there is more. I need to know what is actually true.’

“She said her views about a premortal life and the personality and nature of God were very similar to what we had taught her. She already believed in those things, but she couldn’t defend them against the other church because she didn’t have any knowledge of the scriptures.

“We came in, and with a basic knowledge of what the scriptures actually teach, were able to explain to her those basic doctrines. The Lord blessed her to be able to see the truth through the confusion of the discussion that Tuesday, and she knew then she had to investigate to find more truth.

“I received a transfer when Carol was still reading the Book of Mormon, but I later heard that she and her husband were baptized.”

This experience changed Kyle’s focus during his scripture study. He felt he could have used the scriptures more effectively by being able to cross-reference. Tying together several scriptures to explain one doctrine gives a fuller meaning and brings greater understanding of the topic.

“I realized you can’t just take one scripture out of context to prove what you believe or teach. You have to give the whole picture, supporting the scripture with the events that were going on when it was written.

“I studied more intently after that experience. I studied for a purpose—to answer questions. I wanted to learn something—not just read.

In closing, I wish to illustrate with a modern-day story the trust that we may place in the Savior. I know that faith in Christ and obedience to the principles of the restored gospel bring answers to prayers and divine help when the hour is darkest. The story that follows concerns a young girl, the fourth child in a family of six children. Her name is Heather. Three of the children, including Heather, suffer from a rare disease called glutaric acidemia. In each case, the onset of the disease occurred during the first year of life when an enzyme attacked the brain, causing paralysis. The disease results in acid forming in the muscles, similar to that which occurs following a period of intense physical activity. The problem faced by the children is that the acid never leaves and causes great pain. Cindy, the first child with the disease, died just over one year ago at the age of 23. She was one of the oldest living persons known with the disease. At death she weighed about 40 pounds.

Soon after Heather’s birth, the parents realized that she would be physically handicapped and that her spirit would be housed in a body with great restrictions. As she grew, she was confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak, and could only send messages with her eyes. A direct gaze and a smile meant yes. A blink meant no. Despite the handicaps, one could feel the vibrant spirit inside.

As Heather progressed, it became obvious to the parents that she was extraordinarily bright. She would play guessing games with the family using her limited means to communicate. When she was old enough, the parents enrolled Heather in a special school to see if she could learn to speak. The teacher was a gifted therapist. One morning as Heather and the teacher visited about the prior weekend, the teacher learned that Heather had attended Primary. The teacher then sang for Heather “When He Comes Again” (Songbook, p. 82). The expression on Heather’s face revealed the delight within her. When the teacher asked Heather if she had a favorite song, the young girl’s wide eyes and engaging smile left little doubt. But what was the song? Through a series of questions, the teacher learned that Heather’s song was one she had heard in Primary. She wasn’t sure which songbook it was in, but it was about Jesus. The teacher sang all the songs she could think of, but to no avail. However, Heather was not about to quit—she wanted to share her favorite song. At the end of the day, the two were still searching. The teacher agreed to bring her Primary songbooks to school the next day.

On the following morning, Heather and her teacher continued the quest. From the first hymn to the last, the little girl blinked her eyes indicating no. They were still unsuccessful. But Heather was not about to give up. She wanted to share her favorite song. Finally, the teacher told Heather that her mother would have to help her find the song and then they would sing it. The next day Heather arrived with the green Church hymnal tucked in her chair, but there was no marker. So they began with the first hymn. The teacher would sing the first part of each song and Heather would give her answer. After the first 100 hymns, there were 100 no’s. After 200 hymns there had been 200 no’s. Finally, the teacher began to sing “There is sunshine in my soul today . . .” (Hymns, 1985, no. 227). Heather’s body jumped, and a big smile crossed her face. Her eyes gazed directly into the teacher’s, indicating success after three days of searching. Both teacher and student rejoiced.

As the teacher sang the first verse and began the chorus, Heather mustered all her strength and joined in with a few sounds. After finishing the first verse and chorus, the teacher asked if she wanted to hear the rest of the verses, and Heather’s eyes opened wide with a firm yes. The teacher began to sing:

There is music in my soul today, A carol to my King, And Jesus listening can hear The songs I cannot sing.

Heather’s reaction to these lines was so strong that the teacher stopped. As the reality and significance of the words pressed on the teacher’s mind, she wondered if those lines were the reason Heather liked the song? The teacher asked: “Heather, is that what you like about the song? Is that what you want me to know? Does Jesus listen? Does he hear the songs you cannot sing?”

The direct, penetrating gaze was a clear answer.

Feeling guided by the Spirit, the teacher asked, “Heather, does Jesus talk to you in your mind and in your heart?”

Again, the child’s look was penetrating.

The teacher then asked, “Heather, what does he say?”

The teacher’s heart pounded as she saw the clear look in Heather’s eyes as the little girl awaited the questions that would allow her to share her insights.

“Does Jesus say, ‘Heather, I love you’?”

Heather’s radiant eyes widened and she smiled.

After a pause, the teacher asked next, “Does he say, ‘Heather, you’re special’?”

The answer again was yes.

Finally, the teacher asked, “Does he say, ‘Heather, be patient; I have great things in store for you’?”

With all her strength, Heather’s head became erect and her eyes penetrated the teacher’s soul. She knew she was loved, she was special, and she only needed to be patient. (Story adapted from Jean Ernstrom, “Jesus, Listening, Can Hear,” Ensign, June 1988, pp. 46–47.)

Mama wiped down the countertops in the kitchen while Nicole and her cousin Cassidi sat on the floor in the living room, playing quietly. Nicole and Cassidi were both five years old, but Nicole was small for her age.
Nicole and Cassidi agreed on a book from the bookcase, and Nicole began to read aloud. Cassidi sat across from Nicole with her legs crossed and listened closely to the story. The book had pictures, and each time Nicole finished reading a page, she faced the book toward Cassidi so that her cousin could see the picture, too. The girls were having a great time until halfway through the story. Then a look of sadness came over Cassidi’s face, and she began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Nicole asked.
“Nothing,” Cassidi said quietly, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“If you’re sad, it makes me sad, too, Cassidi. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Still sniffling, Cassidi nodded. “Nicole, you are so smart. You can read, and I can’t.”
Nicole lowered her head and closed the book. She felt very sad because Cassidi was unhappy. Mama wanted to rush in and comfort Cassidi; instead, she watched quietly from the kitchen.
Nicole’s eyes grew big, and a smile appeared on her face. “Cassidi, you are the best two-wheel-bicycle rider I’ve ever seen!” she said boldly. “I can’t ride a two-wheel bike at all,” she added, looking into Cassidi’s tear-filled eyes.
A big smile grew on Cassidi’s lips as she wiped the remaining tears from her face. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Nicole. They hugged each other tightly.
“I feel better now,” Cassidi said. “Thank you, Nicole.”
Nicole answered with a smile, and the girls continued to play.
Mama’s eyes filled with tears. She realized that the girls understood better than most grown-ups what it means to love one another as Jesus Christ would.

A mission president told the story of an unsuccessful missionary serving in one of the European missions. After giving the elder several transfers and still consistently receiving poor reports, the president decided to call the missionary in for a special interview. He asked the young man, seemingly so eager to do the Lord’s work, why he found it so difficult to become involved with his assignments. The missionary replied that he just could not keep his mind on missionary work.
Probing deeper, the mission president discovered that before the young man left home, he had become friends with a lovely young girl. They had spent a lot of time together—with friends and family—and had grown to enjoy each other’s company. Though they were smart enough not to make any commitments, both said that they hoped they would find each other’s company equally as enjoyable when he returned.
There was nothing out of order with that, the mission president concluded; so he looked for something deeper. When the president asked how often the young man heard from this young lady, the missionary told him that the girl called on the phone frequently, wrote lengthy letters daily, and sent expensive packages every week.
“She misses me terribly,” the missionary said, “and I wonder if I can wait the rest of my mission to see her again.”
The mission president concluded his story by saying, “Her selfish immaturity ruined his mission. He worried so much about her that he had no time or energy to worry about, and more important, grow to love the people in the field.”

In Japan, I grew up learning about things that didn’t make sense to me. So, before I joined the Church, I had questions about the universe and the purpose of life.
When I started taking lessons from missionaries, I felt overwhelmed by questions. I explained that I had searched for answers from so many different sources but never felt settled on what I’d found. They taught me that I could always rely on the Lord to lead me to truth.
Since then, I have always been able to seek answers from Him and follow the Spirit to continue deepening my testimony.

A friend of mine from South Carolina has demonstrated that even multiple problems can be overcome when one is true to his faith in God.
Laurie Polk is a dwarf. From the time of his birth, life has been a challenge. When he became old enough to go to school, he pedaled himself on a tricycle in order to move about and keep up with the other children. When his short legs kept him from playing games and participating in athletics, he busied himself in preparing for a vocation in the business world. To obtain employment, he found it necessary to persist and to prove himself. When a job opportunity finally came to him, he found joy in life through his love for his work.
Then another challenge arose. Laurie Polk, already extremely limited in his physical mobility, lost the sight in one eye. Nearly complete loss of the use of his crippled, dwarfed legs followed shortly thereafter. Then, as if that were not enough of a trial for any man, the retina of Laurie’s other eye became detached and complete blindness encompassed him.
Where did Laurie Polk gain his strength to overcome such darkness and despair? Through the power of faith in God, Laurie Polk has learned the meaning of life. In his thirty-four inch frame, he possesses a strength not unlike the sons of Helaman, through which he not only overcomes the personal challenges he encounters—he actually finds joy in living. He knows he can solve any problem by putting his life in harmony with God and serving his fellowman. He says, “With the help of the Lord there are no problems, only challenges.” Laurie Polk is now a high priest group leader in the Charleston South Carolina Stake.

The first story occurred many years ago when I was in graduate school studying economics. I took a course from a very famous and prominent professor named John Dunlop. I studied hard in that course, and I prepared diligently for the final exam. I also prayed for help and guidance. The day for the exam came. The final exam in that course was unusual. Instead of giving us essay questions or problems to work, Professor Dunlop simply gave us two recently published papers and asked us to critique them. I began to read. As I read, I experienced something I will never forget. I saw clearly, as though someone had laid it all out before me, exactly what the authors were trying to do, where the weaknesses in their argument were, and what I should write about their work. I began to write. I wrote and wrote and wrote. The words just flowed. It was like there was a conduit running from my brain down my arm through my hand into the pen and onto the paper. It felt like the words were just flowing down the conduit. I then picked up the second paper, and the same thing happened. I knew as it happened that the Lord had blessed me beyond my own ability. I experienced what the Prophet Joseph once called “pure intelligence” flowing from the Spirit to teach me and help me. At the end of that exam I knew that what was written in those blue books was beyond my own capacity.

It has been 31 years since that experience. I have had that experience many times since. I hope and pray that I shall have it many times in the future. As I look back on the day of that exam, I can see the hand of the Lord at work. Because of that exam Professor Dunlop opened many doors for me. Those experiences bear witness to me of the truth of the promises of the Lord, and of the importance of seeking knowledge and learning by study and by faith.

To illustrate, I spoke recently with a friend and graduate of our marriage and family therapy program. I’ll call her Kate. During our conversation, Kate recounted to me an inspiring story in her work as a therapist. She had recently received a note from a couple she had helped five years ago, and they expressed their appreciation for her efforts.

“Thanks for not giving up on us,” the note said. They were doing great. She said that this temple-married couple first came to her with a set of common but serious problems. He had returned from his mission and quickly married a young woman whom his parents wanted him to marry. A baby came within a year. He was feeling smothered and regretted his quick marriage and lack of freedom. He began spending most of his time away with friends. She was needy, lonely, and depressed. They sought professional help, but after working with my therapist friend for six months, nothing was getting better. At one critical session, the couple begged the therapist to acknowledge the failure of their marriage and justify their strong, mutual desire to get divorced.

“We just can’t do it,” they said.

Kate’s trained professionalism covered her natural response: “You’re telling me?!” Kate said she was as frustrated as the couple was. At that time she did not have a great deal of clinical experience, did not know what else to do, and felt that there was no way to save this marriage. Perhaps it was time to end marriage counseling and begin divorce counseling. Kate herself had experienced the divorce of her parents growing up and had survived. She was no stranger to divorce. But something stopped her natural response. Instead, she gently refused to provide the justification the couple wanted. She appropriately placed the burden back on them. “You are the ones who have to decide to break your covenants,” she said. “You are the ones who will have to live with the decision.”

The couple returned two weeks later. They were strangely affectionate and responsive to each other. The therapist asked for an explanation. The husband responded: “I thought a lot about it. I just decided I was going to be committed to this marriage. That’s all.” With that commitment they began working on their challenges together, with Kate’s help, and resolved their problems. Perhaps there is nothing terribly unusual about this therapeutic incident. But I can’t help but wonder what another therapist, one without a strong faith in the eternal nature of families, would have said at that critical moment when an eternal family hung in the balance.

Jackie didn’t like Mrs. Baxter very much.
When Jackie and her friend Tara played in the street, Mrs. Baxter shouted at them to be quiet. She chased Tara’s kitten away with her newspaper. And when Jackie’s Frisbee landed in the grumpy neighbor’s window box, she wouldn’t give it back.
So when Jackie and Tara saw Mrs. Baxter come out of the grocery store and something flutter from her open purse, they didn’t run to pick it up for her.
“She’s mean,” Tara said.
“The meanest lady in town!” agreed Jackie. “She wouldn’t even listen when I said I was sorry that my Frisbee broke her flowers.”
They watched Mrs. Baxter put her sack of groceries on the hood of her car and rummage in her purse. She pulled out her keys, unlocked the car, put the groceries in the trunk, and drove away.
“She doesn’t know she dropped anything!” Tara exclaimed, watching the big black car turn the corner.
Jackie ran to see what Mrs. Baxter had dropped. “It’s a five-dollar bill!”
“Too bad for her!” Tara said. “Finders, keepers—losers, weepers!”
“We can’t keep it!” Jackie looked at her friend in surprise. “We saw her drop it. We have to give it back!”
“What about your Frisbee that she kept?” Tara said. “She owes you for a new one! It isn’t stealing!”
“Well …” Jackie looked at the five-dollar bill. Quickly she stuffed the money into her pocket. “I guess it wouldn’t be stealing if I get a new Frisbee with it. Come on, let’s look for one.”
There was a sports store nearby. The girls squeezed past a display of gleaming bikes and headed toward the Frisbees.
“I wish she’d dropped a five-hundred-dollar bill!” whispered Tara. “Then we could both get new bikes!”
That would really be stealing, Jackie thought. Keeping five dollars is a lot different from keeping five hundred dollars! Or is it? She tried to ignore the tight feeling in her stomach. Of course it wasn’t stealing—Mrs. Baxter owed it to her.
“How about this one?” Tara held up a brightly colored Frisbee.
Jackie put her hand in her pocket, twisting the five dollar bill around her fingers. She thought about her mom and dad. What would they think of her if she spent the money?
Tara was waiting for her answer. “I’m not going to buy a Frisbee,” Jackie said. “It’s Mrs. Baxter’s money.”
“Wait—”
Tara tried to say something, but Jackie didn’t listen. She knew that her friend was saying that it was stupid to give the money back.
Hurrying out of the store, Jackie unlocked her bike and rode off. As she turned into her street, she saw Mrs. Baxter climbing the two front steps to her apartment building, struggling to get out her key with one hand while still clutching the grocery sack.
Jackie hesitated. She’ll probably just yell at me, she thought. Maybe Tara’s right.
Mrs. Baxter was inside by the time Jackie set her bike down and walked slowly toward the door. As she passed the window box, she noticed the broken geraniums. They had been propped up on sticks and tied in place with green yarn. Mrs. Baxter may not like children and kittens, but she loves her flowers.
Jackie stared at the doorbell. Slowly she lifted her finger and pushed. Was that thumping sound her heart pounding, or was it Mrs. Baxter’s footsteps? It was Tara running up the path to stand beside her. Jackie smiled at her friend.
The door opened two inches and Mrs. Baxter peered out from behind the security chain. “What do you want?”
“You dropped this by the supermarket.” Jackie held out the money. As she passed it through the gap in the door, Mrs. Baxter grabbed it, then slammed the door.
She didn’t even thank me for returning the money! She’ll probably always chase the kitten and shout at us and keep our Frisbees, Jackie thought.
Jackie still didn’t like Mrs. Baxter. But she liked herself. Mrs. Baxter may not like me, but I’m glad that I returned the money. She was sure that Heavenly Father was pleased with her, too, and that was what mattered.

As a teen I studied in a technical school for young men. It was hard to be a member of the Church in an atmosphere where there were other beliefs or no beliefs at all. Being the only member in school was difficult because I felt alone; I felt different. My classmates were relatively good, but many didn’t share my principles.
I remember well one time when they wanted to get me to smoke. They didn’t say it directly. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette while we were in our classroom waiting for the professor. We weren’t supposed to smoke inside the school.
I was sitting in the back. The guys at the front of the room lit the cigarette, and they each took a puff and passed it on. Everyone was watching to see it get to me. Finally the guy in front of me took a puff and turned around.
I didn’t take the cigarette.
He said, “Come on. Go ahead.”
“No, I’m not going to smoke.”
He took the cigarette and put it to my mouth. So I hit him. He hit me back. Then almost everyone in the room started to fight, though we quickly calmed down before the professor got there.
Now I’m not saying that was the right way to respond, but I was only 13. I didn’t know how to respond. I just knew no one was going to make me smoke.
After class I found the boy I had hit and asked his forgiveness. With some emotion, he told me, “No, I’m the one who needs to ask your forgiveness.”
If I had lowered my standards, would the Holy Ghost have stayed with me? Or would I have lost my guide?
By choosing the right, I allowed the Holy Ghost to be my companion. With Him as my guide, I had help making the right decisions, and my testimony was strengthened.

Our being here reminds us of those days when we were where you are now in your schooling. We had three important goals. One was to get married. Then, once married, our next goal was to get by financially. Then our goal was to get through. We got married when Sister Nelson was an undergraduate student and I was in my second year of medical school.
Because I was under legal age, parental consent was required. My father was very amused when I called him away from his work to sign for me so I could get a marriage certificate. With Sister Nelson’s (and parental) help, we were able to make it through medical school after we each received our baccalaureate degree. I then informed her that it was customary to have a year internship. Following that I was determined to specialize, and I let her know that it would require additional training.
I’ll confess to a bit of naivete. If we had known that the interval between my getting my doctor’s degree and our finally going into practice would be twelve and a half years with six children added, we might not have been quite as enthusiastic in the beginning. So I pay great tribute to her for her role in our partnership. I owe so much to her.

For me as a young teenager, school was about putting on an act. You know, the way the bad guy in the movies delivers the smooth, clever lines and comes off super cool in the process? I yearned to be able to do that. I tried to rule the screen just like the best of the bad guys. I pretended my morals were low because I wanted to impress my friends at school. I loved the sound of laughter when I used inappropriate language or joked about people.
I wanted to be the one audiences rooted for. So I figured out how to be a people pleaser. I became a regular comedy act in my biology class, managed to convince my volleyball team I was a party animal, and demolished my reputation as an innocent, naive young woman. I thought, “I don’t want my friends to think I’m a goody-goody!”
Since I wasn’t actually committing the serious sins people thought I was, I desperately tried to convince myself that it was OK to have a rough attitude. I was so wrong! My real-life movie-screen hit reached the point that I couldn’t stand to watch it myself. The more popular I became, the less I liked the character I played.
One day, two of my friends were talking about a sweet, friendly athlete named Jennifer who wasn’t embarrassed to stand up for her beliefs. One of my friends, the most gorgeous, popular, and smartest girl in the seventh grade, said, “Jennifer is so different. I wish I was brave enough to believe in my church like she does. She’s the only person I know who lives her life like that.” I was stunned.
“How could she say something like that without even mentioning me?” I wondered. “After all, my church has high standards!” I was furious that she hadn’t even considered me a good example. Then, suddenly, I felt like I was sitting on the front row of a movie theater showing my life as the main feature.
I reflected on the poor example I had been to my friends. What kind of kid was going to watch me and think, “I wish I was brave and unique like her”? I really disliked who I had become.
Changing my character and reputation was a long process, and I’m still trying to keep my mouth shut instead of blurting out crowd-pleasing insults. But I realized I could make my friends laugh without hurting someone else’s feelings, and I could leave the room during a crude joke without being ridiculed. No one has to be a “bad guy” to have lots of friends. I changed my attitudes and behaviors because being at peace with what I believe is so much cooler than trying to hide who I am.

Other happy memories for Jared and his mom took place in April and October 1990 when they attended general conference in Salt Lake City. Since only one family member could sit in the special section of the Tabernacle with Sister Anderson, Jared was chosen. Sister Anderson sat in her wheelchair near the railing and Jared was assigned a place on the front row. He attended her every need, including wrapping her legs and shoulders in shawls for warmth and quietly massaging her feet as they went into spasms.
In the last session of conference in October, Sister Anderson began having a seizure. Jared sensed her distress and immediately put the medicine in her mouth, averting a problem. One of the hosts in the Tabernacle said, “I’ve played a lot of football in my day, but I’ve never seen a bigger man than you were in the way you showed compassion to your mother today.”

Our recent Gong family reunion included a fun talent show, complete with a dad jokes contest.
But this contest was unusual. On one team was Grandpa (me) and two of the grandchildren, ages 12 and 11. On the other team was an artificial intelligence (AI) program prompted by a cousin to tell dad jokes in the style of Gerrit W. Gong. Grandpa Gerrit Gong versus AI Gerrit Gong.
The grandchildren and I went first.
What do you call a dinosaur who crashes his car? Tyrannosaurus Wrecks.
AI Gerrit Gong was instructed—think like Gerrit W. Gong. Talk like him.
AI Gerrit Gong—“Here is a dad joke as if spoken by Gerrit W. Gong, embracing his warm, thoughtful, and uplifting style: Why did the humble tree make people smile? Because it was rooted in love and reached out with branches of kindness. Like that tree, we too can find strength in our roots and joy in extending kindness to others.”
Well, what do you think? That’s why they’re called dad jokes.

When Bennett was ten and Kevin 13, they decided there were better things to do after school than just play driveway basketball, so one day they took a two-mile hike up a nearby mountain. That tiny crack in their routine broke the dam wide open, and since then they’ve hiked thousands of miles. Almost every day finds them out-of-doors, and they’ve climbed every mountain in the area many times over. Their compulsion to be up and doing has carried them into rock climbing, snow climbing, hiking, camping (including snow cave and igloo camping), fishing, hunting, spelunking, ice climbing, outdoor photography, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, fossil hunting, and other miscellaneous adventures hard to classify. On, over, around, under, in, among, through—it’s hard to think of a preposition they haven’t tried out on a mountain.

1838 My brother Don Carlos and my cousin George A. Smith returned [from missions through Kentucky and Tennessee], having traveled fifteen hundred miles—nine hundred on foot, and the remainder by steamboat and otherwise. They visited several branches, and would have accomplished the object of their mission had it not been for the troubles at Far West.
When nearly home they were known and pursued by the mob, which compelled them to travel one hundred miles in two days and nights. The ground at the time was slippery, and a severe northwest wind was blowing in their faces; they had but little to eat and narrowly escaped freezing both nights.

He walked into the seminary classroom somewhat frightened, maybe a little belligerent, certainly not at ease. He came because most of the students in his grade came to seminary, but he came alone. Few spoke to him; no one walked with him. He had almost no friends.
For one so young his life had been a most difficult one. His father had been killed in a drunken brawl. His mother was not interested in sending her children to church, and she was not really interested in sending them to school. She was on state welfare, and much of that money was used to purchase liquor for herself and her boyfriends. There were two other children in the family; all three had different fathers.
Even the most basic material goods were lacking in the home, including adequate food and clothing. The boy had only a sweater to keep him warm in the cold weather. As he walked to school, he would take the sweater off as he approached the building because it had large holes in it and he didn’t want his peers to see. He wore no socks because he had none. His hands were rough and chapped because the house had only cold water and no soap with which to wash. This boy was thin and lacked vitality. He lived in an unkempt area on the far side of town and was uncomfortable when he visited any other section of the community.
The first day of class I invited him to sit on the front row. He did so willingly but not comfortably. I tried to make friends with him, but it was very difficult. He appeared to trust no one.
After school had been in session for several weeks, I asked if he would like to give the prayer. He quickly and emphatically refused. I later learned that he had never heard a prayer until his first day in class. He had never been to church, he had never belonged to the Boy Scouts, he had never held the priesthood. As the days passed there was little change in his willingness to communicate, to smile, or to seek friends.
A month before the Christmas holidays, one young lady requested class time to present a matter of concern. The young man was absent that day, and as she stood before the group her message was simply, “We are not friendly with him, we do not speak with him, we do not walk with him, we do not associate with him. This seems to me to be very wrong. After all, he is important too.” Then she suggested they could and should be friendly to him and help him to understand how important he was—his importance to them and to himself. They all agreed to respond to her recommendations. Then she suggested that they each contribute a small amount of money toward buying him a coat for Christmas. This they also willingly accepted.
One did not have to be told they were succeeding. It was in his eyes, in his walk, and in his smile. It was obvious to everyone that there was a change in his life. He walked a little taller. He was able to look others in the eye and smile as he extended a friendly greeting.
One day there was a note on the teacher’s desk which read, “If you cannot find someone to give the prayer today, I will,” and he signed his name. Strangely enough no one would give the prayer that day, so I called on him. He did not close his eyes. He did not fold his arms. He did not bow his head or do any of the things we normally do in prayer. He simply looked up to the ceiling with his hands by his side and said, “Please, God, help us. Amen.” No one smiled. No one coughed. No one said a word. It was a wonderful prayer to him and to every member of the class.
Two or three days before the Christmas vacation, the young lady who had proposed the plan came to class with a beautifully wrapped Christmas package and again requested class time. She stood and thanked each of the students for their kindness and their willingness to respond to her earlier suggestions. Then she spoke for just a moment about the value of individuals regardless of their status in life, their home background, their scholastic abilities, or their popularity. She said that every one is very important. The young man, a bit suspicious at first, suddenly became aware that the young lady was about to involve him in a new experience.
After some moments, she took him by the arm and had him stand by her side. She told him how much they appreciated him and how valuable he was to the class. She said they all appreciated him and were pleased he was their friend. By now he had tears in his eyes, but so did the teacher and most of the class. She then laid the package in his arms, and the tears increased. After a moment or two passed, another young man in the class said, “If you will open the package, you can see what’s in it.”
Slowly, methodically, with great care and a desire not to tear the paper, he opened the package and held up a beautiful jacket. He continued to display his emotions and so did the class. After some moments, the same boy said, “If you’ll unzip it you can put it on.” He opened the zipper and slowly put his arms into each sleeve, pulling the jacket around him and displaying a happy smile through the tears. He wore the coat every day until the last week in May.
Something had happened in his life that had never happened before. Someone gave him something, and in that gift was an expression of appreciation and love that he had never known. He later related to some of us that he had only had one Christmas present in 14 years, and that had been an orange.
Needless to say, the young man’s life had changed. He became happy in his schoolwork, he participated in many activities, the other students enjoyed him, and he made many friends. If the story ended there it would be a great story, and the young lady who recognized the worth of a soul would have performed a miracle. But the miracle continued. This young man filled a mission, married in the temple, and is the father of two lovely children. One of the other children, his half sister, has also married in the temple. She and her fine husband are both active in the Church. The third child, a half brother, also filled a mission and has completed his college work. And the mother—oh yes, the mother. She reports that each night she thanks her Heavenly Father for many things, including a young lady who knew the value of her son and was willing to make her feelings known. Secondly, she thanks her Heavenly Father for the great principle of repentance and forgiveness. Third, she thanks him for her membership in the Church, for a loving Savior who helped a family change. Then she thanks him for the privilege of being the secretary in her ward Relief Society and for the love and kindness of all her sisters there.
Yes, he was someone special, and the class was special.
Perhaps the most significant lesson learned from this beautiful, shared experience was a clearer, deeper meaning of those forceful words of the Savior to the Prophet Joseph: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (D&C 18:10).