Gospel Story Finder

One day we had a special devotional about the Savior as part of our early-morning seminary class. The girl who was conducting bore her testimony of Christ, then asked each of us to share our feelings. Our teacher, Brother Pratt, added his testimony and said we each needed to know that Christ died for us individually.

As I listened to the others bear their testimonies, it occurred to me that I wasn’t really sure I had a testimony of the Savior. I had always attended church and seminary classes. And I thought that Jesus Christ was Heavenly Father’s Son and an example to follow. But I didn’t really know him to be my Savior—someone essential to my salvation.

I managed to say a few words in seminary that morning. And then I spent the next several days pondering over the experience and praying to know for myself. I received a warm feeling that the Church was true and that I should live its teachings. I felt good about that answer and decided that having a basic testimony of the gospel and living the standards of the Church would be enough. But I still didn’t understand the need for a Savior.

Then, several years later, after I had moved from home, I faced a serious crisis that left me with deep emotional and spiritual pain. Without the necessary faith in Christ to guide me, I felt lost and alone. I had stopped praying sometime earlier and had just recently decided that I would no longer go to church.

Just at that point in my life, my home teachers, Dan and Terry, came by. I was a little embarrassed because I hadn’t been to church that day and had no good excuse for my absence. The Spirit told them that something was seriously wrong, so they persisted in presenting a lesson that seemed to be especially for me. They visited with me for a while, and when it was time for them to go, they offered a powerful prayer. The Spirit lingered after them for a short time, and I felt more hopeful than I had in a long time.

I wanted that Spirit to remain. I gathered up the remnants of my faith and offered a prayer. Because I hadn’t been praying for a while, I had no real hope or expectation of an answer. But as I knelt and prayed, a black cloud lifted, and I felt an overpowering warmth come into my heart. Complete love and understanding filled the room. I was surprised at the depth and strength of the Savior’s love—how well he knew me!

There was no room for misunderstanding or doubt as he lovingly empathized with my challenges. All of a sudden, words came into my mind, telling me where I could improve. And the Savior promised me all the help I would need. I learned that there is indeed a loving Heavenly Father and a Savior, Jesus Christ, and that they know each of us as individuals. I also learned that they will give us the help we need as we extend our faith in them. And I knew that, no matter what, we must always pray.

Although I still had problems to overcome, I knew the Savior was there, ready to help. I have never felt completely alone with my problems since. I can now say, along with the hymn, “I know that my Redeemer lives.” And I am grateful.

It’d be nice to get the chance to do things over again, wouldn’t it? Well, some things. You might like to relive your happiest birthday or avoid your most embarrassing moment, but would you jump at the chance to repeat a project that involved around 100 hours of hard work?
Chanelle Cann of West Jordan, Utah, did. After finishing years of work to earn her Young Womanhood Award, she turned around and did it all over again. The revised Personal Progress book and new medallion were her inspiration.
The General Young Women presidency encouraged young women already working on the old program to transfer their hours and finish up with the new program. They didn’t expect young women to earn both awards. After doing all the work once, what was Chanelle thinking?
Actually, she was thinking ahead. She wanted the chance to grow with the right attitude, so she’d be more prepared for her future.
“When I was younger I worked on the Personal Progress program because it was there. When I got to be a Laurel, I did it because I wanted to,” she said. “I wanted to do the new program because I knew I would be doing it for the right reasons.”
Chanelle was proud of her first award, but she understood that personal progress isn’t something you need a book to do.
When her stake president introduced the changes to the Young Women program, Chanelle picked up a copy of the new Personal Progress book and headed straight home to plan.
Her mom, Evelyn, said Chanelle stayed up well past midnight that night mapping out how she could earn the new award and how many hours per week she could work on it, starting the next day.
“I told her you could just pay and get the other necklace instead,” Chanelle’s mom said, “but she said, ‘No, I want to really earn it.’”
Chanelle didn’t want another necklace, she wanted a chance for growth. She would be graduating from high school soon and wanted to be prepared for the future. But she didn’t need a book to get what she wanted.
“All the things I did were things I needed to learn for the future anyway. I used the new program because I knew something that came from the prophet could give me good direction,” she said.
Her projects included attending the temple several times a week to do baptisms for the dead, volunteering at an elementary school, writing poetry about the Savior, recording songs with her guitar, hand stitching a temple quilt, serving at a rest home, making family home evening files for her future family, and learning to cook.
Chanelle said the cooking project didn’t turn out so well. She made some pies that were more of a learning experience than a gourmet dessert. She’s going to keep trying anyway.
As it turns out, Chanelle makes a better writer than a chef. Her favorite project was writing poetry. She also loved writing about her experiences in her journal because it helped her realize how much she actually learned from doing the projects with the right attitude.
“Putting my feelings down on paper helps me recognize what I believe in and makes me more grateful,” she said.
To earn the second award, Chanelle did 70 hours of projects and completed 42 other value experiences, on top of school and work.
“It took a lot of time, but it was worth it,” she said.
It isn’t her two medallions hanging around her neck on the same gold chain that light up her face, though. Her glittering smile reveals how much she’s grown. She said doing both programs strengthened her testimony, helped her recognize her potential, made her aware of all her blessings, and prepared her for the future.
“I think I try harder now to keep the Spirit with me and recognize what I do in my life really does affect me,” she said.
Chanelle has a lot of goals for the future, including an education, a mission, and getting married in the Salt Lake Temple. She said she’s grateful for the chance she had to earn the Young Womanhood Award—twice, because it prepared her to accomplish those goals.
Perhaps one of Chanelle’s poems said it best:
“The simple things you do
Determine what the future will bring to you.”
Now, Chanelle is always looking for new ways to grow. Earning both awards helped set a pattern of personal progress that will last her a lifetime.

Several years ago, I attended a training meeting in Utah for BYU-Idaho Online Employees. We had a full day of meetings and activities, and one of the activities invited us to leave the Church Office Building where we were meeting and go walk around Temple Square or the surrounding grounds and figure out what the Lord wanted us to learn that day.
That idea sparked my interest. I had always looked at revelatory learning experiences in retrospect—an “after the fact” assessment—but, with that particular activity, the idea was that the Lord did, in fact, have something to teach me, and I needed to go find it.
I walked around and eventually made my way to one of the Church’s buildings and found a display that turned out to be meaningful to me; as I looked at the display, the Lord did reveal to me, through the Spirit, some insights that I didn’t even know I needed. It was a wonderful experience.
How often do you go to “the mount” to seek out the Lord and invite Him to show “unto [you] great things”? [14] What does the Lord want you to learn today? I invite you to make a plan and find out.

Christopher found his job using another technique he learned in the workshops at the fair. He applied for a job, but at the time there were no openings. When he followed up a few days later he said, “I know that it costs you something to train new employees. I will volunteer to come in and learn whatever you would like me to learn on my own time and then if you think I can do the job to your satisfaction I will be trained and ready to go to work when you have an opening.” This initiative impressed his employer enough that he interviewed him and hired him on the spot. Although the restaurant is open on Sunday, Christopher’s employer respects his beliefs and has not required that he come in and work on that day.

It was a big deal when our high school basketball team advanced to the state championship game. Basketball was my passion; I was always looking for an opportunity to play in a game or shoot hoops with my friends. I was among the starting five my senior year.
We were in the locker room getting ready to warm up for the big game when I opened up my gym bag to pull out my jersey. My heart sank; where was my jersey? Did a teammate hide it? Was this some kind of joke? I looked around the locker room hoping someone’s body language or actions could confirm it was just a tease, but to no avail. Reality sunk in. I knew I had left my jersey at home.
My teammates started to realize something was wrong. Everyone’s attention was on me when I uttered the words, “I don’t have my jersey.” Months and months of practice and training were about to be washed down the drain because of my mistake.
Just as I was about to accept my fate, I heard a quiet yet familiar voice from the other side of the locker room. “Here is my jersey.” It was the voice of my younger brother. I could play after all! What a sacrifice for my younger brother to make as part of the championship team. Instead of being able to receive recognition for his hard work and practice, he sacrificed so that I could play.
My brother injured his knee the following year and was not able to play again during high school. He felt that he hadn’t accomplished much in basketball, but his sacrifice means so much to me.

Paper stars. I am half Thai and half American. I spent three years living in Laos, next to Thailand. For the first two years we were in Laos, my parents hired a pileang, or nanny, named Rojana, who took good care of me. Since she was Buddhist, I didn’t expect a gift from her at Christmas.
On Christmas morning I found a jar filled with at least a hundred tiny paper stars, folded so they were three-dimensional. They were blue and pink and glittery. Rojana had no money to buy me anything, so she spent hours folding those stars for a child who wasn’t her own.
It was a wonderful Christmas gift, a gift of time and dedication.Faye H., Virginia, USA

When I was a child, my dad made decisions that hurt our family. After years of prayer, counseling with church leaders, and other resources, my mom filed for divorce.
Despite her struggles, my mom remained faithful in the gospel, and three years after her divorce, she remarried in the temple to my stepdad. They are two of the most Christlike people I have ever known, and I was lucky to be raised by them.

Another young woman had great plans for her life. It’s the story written by Ardeth G. Kapp about her sister Shirley. Shirley said:

“I want to help the world turn, and I want to help it turn sharply. I want to make a mark in life.”

With enough successes already to give her considerable confidence, her goals could be lofty. As she spoke of far-away places and exotic endeavors, her father posed a simple question with a not so simple answer. “Shirley,” he said, “why don’t you become great like your grandmother?”

. . . She excitedly asked, “What did she do?”

. . . He replied, “She kept a beautiful home and raised a fine family.”

Often during the following years her father’s counsel would come to mind for Shirley at the most unexpected times, such as during a psychology class at college, or when she was organizing the election campaign for a student body candidate. It would come during a piano recital or when she was camping or learning first aid. It would seem logical when she was preparing for a Spiritual Living lesson, but why right in the middle of an economics class dealing with the gross national product? Why in the middle of a heated discussion with a roommate about the budget and the laundry? And especially why during general household responsibilities? [In Ardeth Greene Kapp, Miracles in Pinafores and Bluejeans [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1977], pp. 2–4]

The time came when Shirley married and had 11 children. Her husband was serving as stake president in Canada when a General Authority came to stay in their home while he was on a conference assignment. Upon his return home from the assignment, he called Shirley’s sister and reported on a grand experience. He said these words: “Your sister keeps a beautiful home and is raising a fine family.” This was a direct quote from Shirley’s father’s advice to her as a girl. All the preparation she had made to make a mark on the world truly paid off. With her skills and talents, she has blessed a family, and the ripple effect of that will go on forever.

Let me illustrate: Several years ago, while teaching a course in American literature at Brigham Young University, I assigned a famous novel, a book familiar to many students, a book that I found to be, when I first read it after my mission, a thought-provoking, stimulating, uplifting, and essentially spiritual book, a book of “good report.” I had read and studied the book without feeling my delicate relationship with the Holy Spirit bruised in the least. I was surprised, then, when a lovely young female student approached me after class, with tears in her eyes, to confess that the first few pages of the book had so upset her that she could not continue reading what she felt to be indecent literature. Although it was not what I considered an “indecent” book, by any standard, I saw that her relationship with the Holy Spirit had apparently been harmed by exposure to this book, and I promptly asked her to read, instead, another book by the same author. Still concerned about the assignment, I queried other students. At their various levels of development they had found the book generally unobjectionable. Indeed, one of the students, a returned missionary, thanked me for the opportunity of reading the book, for he had met many people in his missionary experiences who resembled characters in the book, and the novel had opened to him, he insisted, new insights into those people and new vistas regarding life in general. The occasionally earthy (not obscene) language had not troubled him, for he had heard such language and dismissed it; instead, he had thrilled to the portrait that the author had penned of children of God on a troubled journey through a life full of wrong turns and dead ends that arose because the characters were having to learn, the hard way, of the need to be in harmony with eternal principles. The young man was ready for the book. In fact, when I told him of his classmate’s response to the novel, he asked, “Have we both been reading the same book?”

The book was as different as the experience that each student brought to it. The young lady was on a level of development that prevented her from seeing beyond some of the rawness described in the work; the alternate selection was more suited for her personal development, and she was delighted by her insights into that novel. Perhaps there would come a point when she would be ready for the other book. There had surely been a point in the returned missionary’s life, as in mine, when we, too, would have been unable to see beyond some of the rawness of life as depicted in the book to the genuine beauty and truth of the work. The young lady was right in rejecting the book. The returned missionary was right in reading it. Finding that self-understanding which enables us to make careful and proper selections which will not discourage the Holy Spirit from remaining with us is part of reaching for spiritual maturity. Enroute to such maturity, most of us make some mistakes, along with a lot of right decisions.

“It’s a neat day for a crosscountry tour to Clear Falls!” exclaimed Randy.
“The snow’s great,” agreed his older brother Tom.
“Looks good to me,” said Randy’s friend Boyd.
Turning back to their car they pulled their skis and poles from the trunk. “I’m glad we waxed our skis last night,” said Randy. “Did you wax for powder conditions, Boyd?”
“Yeah, mine are doing great,” said Boyd as he tested them on the light, powdery snow.
Tom bent over to adjust his bindings and secure his gaiters. The colored tubes of sturdy nylon around his ankles would help keep snow out of his shoes.
Boyd handed canteens and day packs to Tom and Randy. They had packed matches in waterproof containers, goggles, a small candle, compass, pocketknife, extra mittens and socks, snack food, and a small first-aid kit.
“Every time I go on an all-day outing I pack all this stuff,” said Boyd disgustedly, “but I’ve never had to use it.”
“In this kind of terrain and weather, it’s not safe to take chances,” said Tom emphatically. “It’s clear and sunny now, but we have to be ready to meet any kind of trouble.”
Boyd nodded. “Which way to Clear Falls? This is my first time in this area.”
“We’ll cross this field and head toward Twin Peak. The falls are at the base of the peak. It’ll take us about three hours to get there,” explained Tom.
The three boys set out, their skis gliding smoothly and quietly. After traveling uphill for a couple of hours, they rested by a snow-covered stream. “It sure is peaceful here,” said Boyd as he sat on a bark-stripped log.
Tom reached into his pack and pulled out a plastic bag. “Who wants some gorp?”
“I do!” said Randy and Boyd together.
“What did you put in it this time?” asked Randy.
“Raisins, peanuts, coconut, dried fruits, and bits of candy,” replied Tom.
They ate a couple of handfuls of gorp, sipped the cold water from their canteens, and relaxed a few minutes. “Are you guys ready to go?” asked Boyd anxiously.
The others nodded. Then they all put on their skis, checked the bindings, and set off toward Clear Falls.
After skiing a short distance, they stopped abruptly when Tom said, “Look! There’s a skier heading this way.”
“I wonder where his partner is,” said Randy. “It’s not safe to ski alone.”
“Hello!” called Boyd.
The man looked at them in surprise and skied toward them. “I didn’t know there was anybody else in this area. I’m heading toward Summit Ridge by way of Left Gully.”
But the gulley’s a common avalanche trail, Tom thought. “You can see the sunballs rolling down the slopes from here. There’s a lot of loose snow because of the afternoon sun. It wouldn’t take much to set off an avalanche,” he cautioned.
“Why don’t you come with us?” asked Boyd. “We’re heading for Clear Falls.”
“It’s a neat place,” added Randy.
“Thanks, but I’m going to stick to my route,” said the man, and he skied away.
“What are we going to do?” asked Randy. “We can’t force him to stay away from Summit Ridge.”
The boys reluctantly turned away from the retreating skier. But as they moved forward slowly, they kept glancing over their shoulders toward Summit Ridge, trying to keep the foolish skier in sight. His bright orange day pack looked like a small dot against the white snow. “He’s almost in the middle of Left Gully,” said Randy quietly.
Just then they heard a roaring sound from the direction of Summit Ridge and knew what was happening before they even turned around. “Avalanche!” whispered Boyd hoarsely.
Although no one mentioned it, they knew their own lives could be in danger from other slides that might be set off from the main slide. While Randy tried to watch and listen for secondary slides, Tom and Boyd turned back toward the main avalanche. Its initial force spent, the snow billowed high into the air as it swept into Left Gully.
After several seconds, Boyd yelled, “I see some orange on the north side of the gully!”
Three pairs of eyes strained as they tried to follow the orange spot sweeping downward—sometimes on top of the snow and sometimes below its surface.
“It’s stopping!” they all cried together.
“Remember where you think the orange stopped. I think it’s safe enough to check now,” directed Tom.
The boys skied quickly toward Left Gully, and in less than five minutes they reached the avalanche trail. Breathing heavily, Randy gasped, “I hope the man made an air space for breathing when he went under.”
“It’s a good thing the snow is light and powdery instead of wet and slushy. The air space won’t seal as quickly. Take your hands out of your pole straps. If another avalanche starts, we don’t want anything to drag us under. If we get caught, try to stay on your back and keep an uphill swimming motion,” said Tom. “Boyd, where did you see him last?”
“To the right where that pine tree stood.”
They glanced at the splintered remains of the tree. The avalanche had bent or shattered everything in its path. “Where did you see him last, Randy?”
“About ten feet below where Boyd saw him.”
“The same area where I saw him,” replied Tom. “Let’s start there. Turn your poles upside down so we can probe.”
They quickly removed their skis and began searching for the buried skier.
“How long has it been?” Tom asked, breaking the silence.
“Almost nine minutes since the avalanche began,” answered Boyd.
They shouted, then listened carefully as they searched, hoping to hear a noise from the buried man.
“I found a ski!” called Boyd excitedly.
Several minutes went by as the boys searched slightly uphill.
“I’ve found him!” Boyd said as he pointed to a gloved hand he had uncovered in the snow.
The boys dug frantically to uncover the skier.
“Is he alive?” asked Randy when Tom uncovered the man’s face.
Tom quickly checked. “He’s breathing OK. Looks like he made an air pocket. He has a bad cut on his head, though.”
“No sign of compound fractures,” said Boyd.
Tom bandaged the victim’s head wound while Boyd and Randy quickly treated him for frostbite and shock.
The man began to rouse and tried to lift his head. “Oh! My head,” he groaned. He looked at the three boys in surprise, then relief. “How did you find me?” he asked weakly.
“We’ll tell you later. Right now, we need to find out how badly you’re hurt,” said Tom.
After more questioning and checking, the boys were satisfied that the man wasn’t too badly injured. “Looks like we’ll be able to get you out of here ourselves,” said Randy. “It would take four or five hours for a rescue party to reach you.”
Tom glanced around warily. “We’ll have to get out of the area as soon as possible. Another avalanche could start anytime.”
The boys hastily constructed a stretcher from their ski poles and jackets and carefully started down the snowy trail. Several hours later, after slow and difficult travel, they finally reached their car.
“We’ll soon have you taken care of,” said Tom. “I’ll bet this has been a pretty painful trip for you.”
“It has. But it would have served me right if you’d left me up there in that snow hole when I didn’t pay any attention to your warning about an avalanche. I’m grateful to you, boys.”
“I can’t believe it’s still Saturday,” said Boyd. “So much has happened since morning.”
“It’s a Saturday we’ll never forget,” Randy added.
“And neither will I,” said the injured skier quietly. “Thanks to you.”

Manasseh Byrd Kearl, born in 1870 and raised near Bear Lake in northern Utah, tells a wonderful story that might be instructional to his descendants, of which I am one. Let me read from his journal:
“That fall father bought some cattle for John Dikens, a very large herd. Dikens had a large ranch on Bear River. … I remember Jimmie was down north buying cattle and he sent father that he needed more money. So father toled me to take some money to him. Mother sewed six hundred dollars in my under clothes, and father put me on a horse and said, ‘Now Byrdie my boy, don’t you get off this horse till you find your brother Jimmie, and keep your mouth shut, and if any one asks you questions don’t reply or tell them where you are going, and do not give this money to any one but Jimmie, no matter what any one tells you.’ Well, when I got to Dingle-Dell, I was toled Jimmie was in Montpelier. So to Montpelier I went to Joe Richs, a friend of father’s, he toled me that Jimmie had gone home. Brother Rich wanted me to go in the house and get something to eat. I toled him no, that father toled me not to get off this horse till I found Jim, and here I stayed. I turned around and headed for home. When I got to Bears Valley, … I could hardly walk. Mr. Potter tried to get me to stop and rest, but I could not stay. At last I got home. Jimmie took me off the horse and carried me into the house. Mother cried to think I had been in the saddle while the horse went over eighty miles.”

In September 2004 I traveled to the Netherlands with two of my grandchildren, Jim and Arianne, to commemorate the 60th anniversary of Dutch liberation during World War II. We had been invited by the Dutch Historical Group to participate in the commemoration because my brother Evan, a co-pilot of a B-24 bomber, had died while helping with the liberation in 1944.
While there we traveled to Hommersum, just over the border into Germany, to attend a ceremony dedicating a plaque where my brother’s plane had crashed. Father Gerard Thuring, one of the event organizers, and I spoke during the ceremony, after which 17-year-old Arianne sang the U.S. national anthem, “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and Jim, 15, helped raise the U.S. flag.
Afterward I told Father Thuring that we would like to attend the special liberation Mass the following day at his church in Oosterhaus. He welcomed our interest and invited us to attend. I then summoned the courage to suggest that Arianne, with whom I had consulted earlier, would be willing to sing at the meeting.
Surprised, he asked, “What will she sing?”
“ ‘I Am a Child of God,’ ” I told him.
This good and kind man thought for a moment and then said, “We are all children of God. Let’s do it.”
When we arrived for the liberation Mass early the next morning, the church was full. Partway through the program, Father Thuring invited Arianne to come up and sing. After escorting her to the front, he said, “We will now hear a song from a Mormon girl from Utah.”
Without the benefit of music or accompaniment, Arianne began. As her voice echoed from the church’s high ceilings, tears began to flow as parishioners comprehended the hymn’s comforting message.
At the close of the meeting, many in the congregation expressed appreciation and love to Arianne for singing the hymn. The experience was a powerful reminder that all of us—regardless of race, religion, or language—are children of God.

“You’ll go up with Fritz,” the gliding club commander says. He looks me in the eye. “You nervous?”
“Nah.” A little white lie for bravado.
I am still in college at the time. Well, actually I’m working the summer before my senior year as an intern on an Alberta daily newspaper. On Friday a call comes into the editorial offices looking for someone to give the gliding club a little publicity. I volunteer.
Fritz arrives. He is dressed simply, in a golf shirt and slacks. I had expected a dirty leather jacket and goggles.
He raises a finger, checking for wind. “Get in,” he says to me. We strap ourselves into the glider’s belly. The clouds are gray and thick above us. Fritz looks at them with stern concentration. He seems to want to chase the clouds from the sky.
The gliding club doesn’t have a tow plane, just a winch with a long cable that catapults us upward. Suddenly we are being pulled with frightening velocity into the sky. In seconds we are two, then three thousand feet above the wheat fields. The cable breaks loose and there is nothing holding us up except balsa wood and fiberglass. I’m holding my breath. My fingers are white from gripping my seat.
I release my fingers and breathe deeply. The sound of the wind rushes by, the creak of the rudder as we turn. “Relax,” says Fritz. He’s looking for lift in the warming day.
I can’t see my pilot, but I know he’s there. I feel him controlling the plane. Mustering my bravest voice I ask, “How do you find the thermals?” Thermals are warm air currents that rise, allowing birds and gliders to gain altitude.
“You just know where they are,” he says from behind me. “I’ve done this a million times.”
We’re circling. I watch the horizon, perpetually tilted. Then a bump. “Ha,” says Fritz, “watch this.” The warm air lifts us, we circle faster, in a tighter loop. The ground passes by, round and round. The lift comes from nowhere. We are alone, soaring on air, climbing higher, circling faster.
From my seat I get an ever increasing view of the world. I forget my nerves. My pilot has given me a rare thrill, to be lifted on nothing more than air currents, to new heights.
The tilting earth levels, and Fritz and I prepare to land. Green, brown, asphalt gray rush below as we descend. Above, the clouds have parted. There is only blue sky where we have been.

I would like to share a story of how I was like Laman and Lemuel in my childish pride and patience:
I was getting ready to go to high school. Mom and I were out in the family lot gathering fragrant leaves and seeds to make Tongan oil. I kept questioning mom whether it was worth all the hard work we were going through. I was not too enthusiastic about crawling through the shrubs and bushes looking for the ingredients.
At one point as I took every step with murmuring. Like Laman and Lemuel, I complained that we could easily buy a bottle in the market for only 10 cents. Being desperate and fed up with my complaining, mom threw the basket on the ground and said.

"If you do go to school without a shirt, people would acknowledge that you must come from a poor family; but if you don't have any oil to anoint your hair and to keep your skin fresh, people would say you don't have a mother. It's OK for people to know that you are poor, but it's a shame that your mother is considered dead when she is still alive. I am dead in the face others if my role is NOT fulfilled respectfully."

Here I learned that Mom's aspiration to fulfill her dreams and her duty to her children finally humbled my pride.
Almost twenty years later, while in graduate school in Provo in 1982, Mom had a chance to come up and stayed with us. Sheila and I had only one child then and it was Auguste. Every night I came home from school, I made it a habit to walk in the baby's room and check on Auguste. I could not wait to come home to see this new addition; one of my dreams.
Quite often I found the baby missing from the crib. Whenever the baby cries, I guess, grandma would pick him up and rock him to sleep on her bed. However it happened too often and I decided to talk to her about it. I was concerned that it would become a bad habit for the baby. It would be better, I presumed, to let him cry himself to sleep and not get used to being pampered at all times.
Mom was willing to do that for awhile but didn't last long. A few nights later I found the baby missing; he was again in grandma's bed. The baby was sound asleep as if grandma's arm was made for him. The baby was sleeping peacefully with her. For the first time, a silly thought crossed my mind - my son would probably be more attached to grandma than to us as his parents.
Finally one day I talked to mom about it again, and she knew from the tone of my voice that I was serious. She turned to me with a stern look on her face and with an emphatic tone in her voiced and said:

"Viliami, listen to me and listen closely. I will do it, if you promise me one thing. If you promise that you will not do this to your son's child, someday. You may not understand why I do this to the baby. But I want you to promise me that!"

I could not say a word; evidently she got me off guard. I stood there for a while dumbfounded. I was translated momentarily in time as if I was seeing a vision. For a while I was lost and unfamiliar with myself as to who I was.
Perhaps I was too preoccupied with everyday chores of life that my vision was blinded by my ambition and I could not see beyond the wall of our little basement apartment, and the screaming sound of the baby every night. It was too far advanced for me to imagine my infant son being a father to his own child; it was beyond my dream and I could not see myself as a grandpa then, especially when my son was still an infant. For the first time I finally could see the Lord's Plan of Salvation from my Mom's perspective.
I'm glad that Auguste is here and his wife; Elsie is expecting their first child. I think I have enough courage not to go into the baby's room some day, a promise grandma could not get out of me twenty three years ago. At least, that's what I think, since the baby is not here yet. However, if I pick up the baby from the crib some day, Auguste and Elsie, it will be to see how grandma felt when she was holding you in her arm and rocking you to sleep

When the Gonzales family of the Santa Maria (California) First Ward decided to visit their homeland of Argentina, young women in the ward wanted to do something to strengthen feelings of individual worth in their Argentine sisters. They wrote letters, made scripture bookmarks, and beaded YW value-colored friendship bracelets for young women in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Sister Gonzales delivered the gifts to the young women of the Ramos Mejia Ward, who in turn sent letters and candy to the young women in California. Girls in both countries realized that the gospel and the Young Women values are the same no matter where you go.

“One evening while I was visiting Grandpa Snow in his room in the Salt Lake Temple, I remained until the door keepers had gone and the night watchmen had not yet come in, so grandpa said he would take me to the main front entrance and let me out that way. … After we left his room and while we were still in the large corridor leading into the celestial room, I was walking several steps ahead of Grandpa when he stopped me and said: ‘Wait a moment, Allie, I want to tell you something. It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me at the time of the death of President Woodruff. He instructed me to go right ahead and reorganize the First Presidency of the Church at once and not wait as had been done after the death of the previous presidents, and that I was to succeed President Woodruff.’
“Then Grandpa came a step nearer and held out his left hand and said: ‘He stood right here, about three feet above the floor. It looked as though He stood on a plate of solid gold.’
“Grandpa told what a glorious personage the Savior is and described His hands, feet, countenance, and beautiful white robes, all of which were of such a glory of whiteness and brightness that he could hardly gaze upon Him.
“Then he came another step nearer and put his right hand on my head and said: ‘Now, Granddaughter, I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior, here in the temple, and talked with Him face to face.’”

A year ago at Flagstaff, Arizona, a special banquet for Eagle Scouts was held. There were 1,150 Eagle Scouts. John Warnick, the director of Mormon Relationships, invited all those who would commit to go on a mission to stand. All 1,150 stood.
Later, one of the young men, a Catholic boy, went to the bishop and said, “I am not a Mormon, and I committed to go on a mission. What do I need to do?”
The bishop said, “Let’s talk to your parents.” During the visit with the family, it was decided that the family should hear the discussions. The family, including the Eagle Scout, are all members of the Church now.

We would certainly still need to negotiate when we disagreed, but our negotiations would take a very different turn. I saw two such men—changed men—negotiate for a place in a cafeteria waiting line a few years ago. One, the younger man, tried to get the older man to go ahead of him, because he thought the older man’s time was more valuable than his. But the older man refused. They were negotiating their disagreement as I watched, both determined that the other would go first. I remember that the older man won his point. His name was Spencer W. Kimball. The younger man must have thought that the time of the president of the Church was more valuable than his. But I suppose President Kimball thought that the younger man’s stomach needed something in it sooner than his did. There was disagreement and negotiation. But think of what a disagreement that was, and think of the smiles on their faces as they found, together, a path of peace.

A very different experience occurred in a later game in which I was totally committed. At one point I ran with real intent into a contact; immediately I felt some pain in my face. Having been taught by my father that I should never let the opposition know if I was hurt, I continued to play out the game. That night, while trying to eat, I found that I couldn’t bite. The next morning, I went to the hospital, where an X-ray confirmed that my jaw was broken. My mouth was wired shut for the next six weeks.
Lessons were learned from this parable of the fat lip and the broken jaw. Despite my memories of unsatisfied cravings for solid food during the six weeks when I could ingest only liquids, I feel no regrets about my broken jaw because it resulted from my giving my all. But I do have regrets about the fat lip because it symbolized my holding back.

Some years ago, I had some responsibility for the open house and dedication of the San Diego California Temple. One Saturday afternoon, one of our committees for the open house was holding a meeting in a stake center adjacent to a large sectarian chapel. The parking lots for these two buildings are contiguous, resulting in an immense expanse of asphalt between them. I thought it was quite remarkable that our committee meeting was so well attended at a time when most people are outside playing—especially in San Diego! Then, I walked into the foyer of our building. Through the glass doors I had a panoramic view of that large parking area and the other church’s meetinghouse. To my surprise the parking lot was filling with cars as people arrived for a meeting at that other building. They were coming as families mostly—fathers, mothers, and children—carrying their scriptures. They were more casually dressed than are we customarily in going to church. But they were flocking to a meeting in that other church much as our people flock to meetings in our buildings. As I watched, the thought forcefully impressed itself upon my mind that this is just the way it was in 1820 when a 14-year-old and his family flocked to religious assemblies—looking for something. The impression continued that for these people—as for those in Joseph’s day, as for us—there really is more to life than “news, weather, and sports”!

These people in that San Diego parking lot were also searching for something. But what? Many have so searched in vain.