Gospel Story Finder

It was just a year ago next week when the telephone rang in my office and I answered it to hear the voice on the other end of the line say, “This is Doug Snarr speaking.” My mind turned back some fifteen or twenty years to the time when Doug first came to my office. He had recently moved from Idaho Falls to expand his sign business into Utah. I had difficulty communicating with him at that time because he stuttered quite badly. But now, on the phone, he said without any stutter, “I want you to come over to the Salt Palace tomorrow afternoon at 4:40. I’m sending a ticket to you.”
I knew that it was important to Doug, or he would not have asked me to come; I said, “I’ll be there.”
The following afternoon at 4:40 I sat in the Salt Palace on the second row. My seat had been reserved. As I looked around, I estimated that there were approximately ten thousand people present. Again I looked at my ticket; it read fifteen dollars. Noticing that I had a better seat than some of the others in the audience, I reasoned that the average cost of a seat for one day was about twelve dollars. I multiplied twelve dollars by ten thousand people and I was impressed.
Don Hutson had been speaking when I arrived; he was an excellent speaker. He finished at five o’clock, and the person who was conducting the session came to the podium and introduced Doug Snarr. The lights went out, Doug stepped to the podium, and the spotlight came on. There stood Doug to give his talk. He told the audience that he had been raised in Idaho Falls; his father owned a potato farm about five miles west of the city. When he was young, he said, he stuttered so badly that he could not communicate. But while hoeing spuds he used to talk to the potato vines. As long as he talked to the potato vines he could get along quite well, but when he tried to talk to people he stuttered so badly that he could not be understood. As he stood in the field one day he looked to the east at the city of Idaho Falls and said to himself, “I must get into that city and meet people or I will never overcome my stuttering.”
One day he read an ad in the newspaper for a custodian in one of the stores in Idaho Falls. He knew that he could not get that job unless he offered something more than others would offer. Doug was quite a good artist, so he told the store manager how badly he wanted that job and said that if he got the job he would not only keep the store clean but would paint the display signs and thus save the cost of one employee. What employer could resist such an offer? Needless to say, Doug got the job of cleaning the store and painting the signs.
At the same time, Doug was going to high school, and there was a young girl in his class who he thought was the most beautiful creature that he had ever seen. He did not have the courage to ask her for a date, so he got one of his friends to set him up on a blind date with her. On the big night when he was to keep the date, he paced back and forth in front of her house for thirty or forty minutes, until he just about wore a path in the concrete sidewalk. Finally he got up the courage to knock on the door. The girl’s father answered the door and said, “Who are you?” When Doug tried to answer he could not say a word—he just stammered and stuttered. Just at the moment when he was ready to sink into oblivion, the young lady came tripping down the circular stairs. Seeing Doug, she called out to her father, “Daddy, meet Doug Snarr,” and saved the day.
After graduating from high school, Doug came to BYU. He registered for a class in religion; and on the first day, wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible, he slipped in the door and sat in one of the back seats. But the teacher looked down the roll, put his finger on one of the names, and asked, “Will Doug Snarr please come up and offer the invocation?” Doug walked to the front of the room and completely failed—he could only stammer and stutter. It was a disaster. After the class was over the teacher stopped him and said, “Doug if you will continue to come to my class, I promise that I will never ask you to pray before the class again.”
Doug said to himself, “That is not the answer. I must learn how to stand before a class and pray without stuttering.”
One day, while sitting in the barber shop waiting for his turn for a haircut, he opened a magazine and saw an ad about a school in St. Louis, Missouri, that taught people how to speak and to overcome stuttering. He jumped from his chair and, taking the magazine with him, hurried to his room. He packed his bags, took the next bus to Idaho Falls and, showing the ad to his father, said, “I want one thousand dollars to go to St. Louis, Missouri.”
His father said, “I’ll check it out first.” Three days later he said, “Doug, it’s a hoax. They can’t do it.”
Doug responded, “Nevertheless, I’m going to that school.”
His father said, “If you go to it, you’ll do it at your own expense.”
Doug had a friend who could talk. Since his friend could talk but could not paint signs, and since Doug could paint signs but could not talk, they made a good combination; they went into the sign business together. The traditional way to advertise with signs is to put a picture on a rectangular board. Doug discarded the rectangle and instead used the shape of the object he wanted to represent. It was a unique approach, and they were very successful. Within a few months—by September of that year—Doug had saved enough money to go to St. Louis, Missouri. As he boarded the train and they bid him goodbye, his family and friends said, “Don’t come back until you overcome your stuttering.”
Upon arriving in St. Louis, Doug went to the school and met the man who was in charge of it. He learned that the man had recognized that when stutterers sing they do not stutter. Therefore, he reasoned that if a stutterer could get a rhythm into his speaking he could overcome his problem. To get the rhythm, the stutterer swung his arm and spoke with the rhythm of his arm.
After several weeks Doug, feeling that he was not making enough progress, became despondent. He knelt and prayed to his Heavenly Father for help. While dong so, he suddenly realized that if he was going to expect help from the Lord, he had to do what the Lord had asked him to do. He got off his knees, called a cab, and went to the nearest branch of the Church. He arrived and found a sign on the meetinghouse door that announced the time for sacrament meeting—it was over for the day, but the sign also gave the name of the branch president and his address. Doug had the cab driver take him there. He knocked on the door; and the branch president’s wife answered. Doug said, swinging his arm in rhythm, “My–name–is–Doug–Snarr.” A little girl who had also come to the door ran into the other room and said to her sister, “Come see; there’s a man at the door that talks with his arm.”
Doug became a very good friend of the branch president, and his family, and they invited him to live with them. One day they invited Doug to go with them to visit the wife’s sister in a distant town. When they arrived and the sister met Doug, she said, “What you need to do is give a two-and-a-half-minute talk in Sunday School.” She picked up the telephone, called the bishop, and said, “Bishop, I have a young man here who needs to give a two-and-a-half-minute talk this Sunday. Can you arrange it? It was arranged.
The following Sunday, Doug stood at the pulpit holding on with both hands for fear of falling over. Then he realized that he could not use both hands to hold on the pulpit; he needed one of his arms to establish his speaking rhythm. He raised his right arm to the square to begin—then he realized that he could give that talk without the use of his arm. He put his hand back on the pulpit and gave his talk without a single stutter. Can you imagine how much that meant to him? He knew that he could overcome his problem of stuttering.
When Doug completed his schooling and returned home to Idaho Falls, the first place he visited was his girlfriend’s house. He knocked on the door; the father answered. Using his arm to establish the rhythm he said, “My–name–is–Doug–Snarr.” He married the girl; he said that it was the best thing he ever did.
Doug returned to the sign business and plastered Idaho with his unique signs. Then he came south to do the same on the highways of Utah. He also made it his goal not only to overcome his stuttering, but to go on tour and speak with the best thinkers in America. After preparing himself he noticed one day that a Positive Thinking Rally was being held in Dallas, Texas. He flew down to attend the rally and when it was over visited with Paul Harvey and his associates. He told them he wanted to be on their circuit. After two hours he finally convinced them.
“We’ll give you thirty minutes,” they said.
Doug responded, “No, I won’t settle for thirty minutes. I want just as much time as Paul Harvey or Don Hutson or Art Linkletter or Zig Zeigler or Ira Hays or any of the others, or I won’t go on.”
Finally, after another two hours, he convinced them that they should give him a full fifty-five minutes. They said “Be in Charlottesville, North Carolina, Wednesday of next week.”
So Doug made his debut in Charlottesville, and the morning following his talk the newspaper headlines read, “Charlottesville, North Carolina Adopts Doug T. Snarr.”
Back in the Salt Palace on the second row, I felt that this was really Doug Snarr’s homecoming. It was the first time that he had spoken in his own area. His friends and family were there, and the spotlight was focused on him. I have never in all my life heard a more dynamic speaker. He stole the show from Paul Harvey, Art Linkletter, Zig Zeigler, Ira Hays, and the others. Now, if any of you are called to serve a mission in Alaska, he will be your mission president in Anchorage—that is where he is today.

I've stood at the bedside with many great teachers of medicine. I was commended by a few and corrected by many. I was deeply influenced during a family medicine rotation many years ago. He was quite possibly the smartest physician I have met. He loved to teach in those few moments between and during patient visits. When we would walk to lunch, during our brief break, he would say something like, "Mike, what should I teach you about today? I think I'll tell you about acid-base balance." He proceeded to explain more about the physiology of acid-base regulation in the body than I had learned--or at least understood--the previous year. And this was all on our walk to the lunch counter. Years later I have forgotten the information but not the impression of his concern for me or his bright teaching.

History is filled with numerous examples of men and women who wore out their lives in service to others. One such person was Florence Nightingale, the founder of the modern nursing profession. Born in 1820 in Florence, Italy, where her well-to-do parents were temporarily residing, she grew to womanhood in England. A child of privilege, she could easily have spent her life in the mindless pursuit of pleasure. But she felt deeply that God had a mission for her to accomplish. She trained in Germany as a practical nurse and became the superintendent of nurses at a hospital in London. It was not an easy task. Nursing at that time was a profession with little prestige.
In 1854, when war broke out in the Crimea, Florence took a party of nurses to work in the military hospitals in Turkey. When she arrived she found that wounded men were being kept under appalling conditions of filth, degradation, and gross overcrowding.
Blessed with an iron will and unflinching courage, Florence fought the hostility of the medical establishment and the army bureaucracy to obtain supplies needed for proper nursing of desperately wounded soldiers. Prodigious efforts were made to clean the wards and bring to the injured some of the amenities of civilized life. The wounded began to receive nourishing, well-cooked food and the comfort of clean linen. Wounds were dressed regularly, and the men were bathed and given clean clothing.
Florence drove herself hard. She worked 18-hour days, making her rounds through the wards late at night, a lamp in her hand, giving comfort and solace to thousands. She became idolized by the soldiers, who called her “the Lady with the Lamp.” Her unstinting service paid off. In a few months the mortality rate among the wounded fell from more than 40 percent to just over 2 percent.
The justly honored position held by the nursing profession today throughout the world has resulted in no small measure from the example of Florence Nightingale’s extraordinary life of unstinting service. I believe she would have agreed with King Benjamin, who knew that “when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).

Third, sleep. Even this basic desire can be temporarily overridden by an even more important desire. As a young soldier in the Utah National Guard, I learned an example of this from a combat-seasoned officer.

In the early months of the Korean War, a Richfield Utah National Guard field artillery battery was called into active service. This battery, commanded by Captain Ray Cox, consisted of about 40 Mormon men. After additional training and reinforcement by reservists from elsewhere, they were sent to Korea, where they experienced some of the fiercest combat of that war. In one battle they had to repel a direct assault by hundreds of enemy infantry, the kind of attack that overran and destroyed other field artillery batteries.

What does this have to do with overcoming the desire for sleep? During one critical night, when enemy infantry had poured through the front lines and into the rear areas occupied by the artillery, the captain had the field telephone lines wired into his tent and ordered his numerous perimeter guards to phone him personally each hour on the hour all night long. This kept the guards awake, but it also meant that Captain Cox had scores of interruptions to his sleep. “How could you do that?” I asked him. His answer shows the power of an overriding desire.

“I knew that if we ever got home, I would be meeting the parents of those boys on the streets in our small town, and I didn’t want to face any of them if their son didn’t make it home because of anything I failed to do as his commander.”

What an example of the power of an overriding desire on priorities and on actions! What a powerful example for all of us who are responsible for the welfare of others—parents, Church leaders, and teachers!

As a conclusion to that illustration, early in the morning following his nearly sleepless night, Captain Cox led his men in a counterattack on the enemy infantry. They took over 800 prisoners and suffered only two wounded. Cox was decorated for bravery, and his battery received a Presidential Unit Citation for its extraordinary heroism. And, like Helaman’s stripling warriors (see Alma 57:25–26), they all made it home.

For Aaron Curley from Wallsburg, Utah, prayer became a source of comfort and inspiration after he incorporated the prophet’s counsel into his life.

“When President Hinckley gave us the talk for the youth I really did not know for myself that praying has a comforting spirit. I started to think that the only way I would know that prayer works would be by trying it out. Now I know that I have the Spirit with me during my day. On top of that I find that it is easier to resist temptation. For me it has changed my life to the point where I am going on a mission, and before I did not know if I wanted to. By living these simple things I now have a stronger testimony of Christ. I know He lives and will come again.”

“I feel uncomfortable; let’s get out of here,” Autumn whispered to me in the dark theater. I had never walked out of a movie before, and by normal standards, was this PG-13 movie that bad? Besides, we weren’t even 15 minutes into the show.
Two seats down, I could almost see our friend John rolling his eyes as he said, “Don’t be stupid. This is nothing!”
Autumn persisted, “Dane, this isn’t good; let’s leave.” What I should have done at that point is admit she was right and get up and walk out. Instead, I sat and thought about what to do. This had never happened to me before. I felt like everybody in the theater was watching me. They weren’t, of course, but two good friends were. John was planning on a mission. He was the one who chose the movie in the first place. If it were that offensive, wouldn’t he feel it too? I wondered what would happen to our friendship if I decided to walk out.
Then there was Autumn. We had been close friends for a few years, and I really didn’t want to offend her—not just because she was my friend and fairly sensitive, but at the time, she was also investigating the Church. I felt a bit guilty that she was the one asking to leave.
Autumn was right. The movie made us both feel uneasy, but she had been the one to speak up. Her quiet but firm resolve was admirable, even though it sent me packing for a guilt trip. The fact was I didn’t want to watch the movie either. As I continued to decide what to do, Autumn became more agitated. She then sent me an unforgettable look. I knew exactly what that look meant. It said, “Dane, you are one of my best friends, but with or without you, I’m leaving this movie!”
She didn’t care what others thought. Why should I? For all the right reasons, Autumn and I stood up and walked out of the movie theater. We walked right past John, and right past my notions that it is the member of the Church who always sets the example. It felt great. There was no regret, but so much more respect for Autumn, and for all those who stand up and walk out. I vowed never again to risk offending the Spirit for entertainment’s sake whether I was alone or with a friend.

“I know why they’re going to tear the old Bently place down,” Troy announced late one afternoon as night was starting to creep around us. “It’s because it’s haunted!” he said in a whisper.
“Everybody knows that,” Shane muttered, swallowing hard and glancing down the street toward the Bently house.
As long as I could remember, we had all been afraid of the old Bently house. Nobody had lived in it for years. Most of the windows were boarded up, the paint had peeled off, and the doors that were left sagged and squeaked on their hinges.
Dad said that he could remember when there had been tall oak trees, green lawn, and trimmed bushes all around the house. The oak trees were still there, standing like big bushy giants around the old house to guard it and keep snoopers away. But the lawn had been taken over by weeds, and the bushes were nothing but tangles. Every time I had to pass the Bently house, I shuddered and tried not to look as I sprinted past it.
“Do you figure any ghosts live there?” I asked, glancing first at Troy and Shane and then at Justin, who was sitting beside me.
“The place is packed with them,” Shane answered.
“Once, I walked up on the front porch and peeked in the window,” I bragged.
Troy, Shane, and Justin looked at me. I could tell that they didn’t believe me. “It was afternoon, though,” I explained, shrugging my shoulders, “and I was with my Uncle Dan. But it was still kind of scary.”
“What did you see, Jimmy?” Shane wanted to know.
“Nothing. It was too dark, and something started banging on the side of the house. I was halfway home in about three steps. I didn’t want to go back, even with Uncle Dan.”
“I wouldn’t just go up on the Bently porch,” Troy said in his cocky way. “I’d go right inside!”
We stared at Troy. He was the biggest kid in the neighborhood, the strongest and the bravest too. If anybody would dare go into the Bently house, Troy would.
“I would too,” Shane boasted.
I licked my lips and added, “Me too.”
We looked at Justin, waiting for him to make his brag. He just sat there, his eyes wide and his face looking a little white. He swallowed and rasped uneasily, “Mom and Dad told me to stay away from the Bently house.”
“Don’t blame your mom and dad,” Troy scoffed. “You’re just chicken.”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t believe in ghosts. My dad said that I could get hurt in there because it’s falling apart. And that’s why they’re going to tear it down—not because of ghosts.”
Troy jumped to his feet, stuck out his chest, and put on his toughest look. “Jimmy and Shane and I are going in there right now,” he said. “If you don’t come, you’re just chicken.”
I felt my heart flip-flop in my chest, and it felt like someone had sucked all my breath away. Mom and Dad had told me to stay away from the house too. I just didn’t know how to tell Troy and Shane that. I slowly got to my feet and stood next to Troy, and Shane followed me.
We looked at Justin, who was looking at the ground. For a long time he didn’t say anything. Finally he looked up and said, “I’m not afraid—well, maybe a little—but the main reason I’m not going is that Mom and Dad told me not to.”
Right then I was wishing that I could tell Troy and Shane that I couldn’t go either, for the same reason, but I didn’t have the nerve.
“You’re just a chicken!” Troy sneered at Justin. “But if you want to hang around with us any more, you’d better come with us.”
“You could get hurt in that old house,” Justin insisted.
Troy laughed, and Shane and I joined in. “What a chicken!” Shane gave Justin a little shove. “Go on home to your mommy so that nothing will get you.”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing that my mouth wasn’t so dry and my heart wasn’t beating so fast. “Go home and let your mom tuck you into bed.”
Leaving Justin standing there, the three of us started toward the Bently house. We laughed and bragged all the way, telling each other that we weren’t afraid of anything. But every time I laughed, I got a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach.
Outside the Bently house we stopped. Shadows were lurking everywhere, making strange, scary shapes.
“Do you think we ought to get a flashlight?” Shane asked. His voice cracked, and he coughed to cover it up.
“We don’t need a flashlight,” Troy muttered. “Flashlights are for sissies like Justin.”
I wanted a flashlight. I wanted one bad! But I didn’t want to be called a chicken, so I just looked over at Troy and asked, “How are we going to get in?”
“In back. Just to the side of the big oak tree, there’s a window that we can squeeze through. The boards have fallen off.”
We found the window that Troy had told us about, and we had to pull off two more boards to make a hole big enough to climb through. Shane and I helped Troy through first; then he helped pull us up into the house.
A few gray bars of light streaked across the room from cracks in the windows. It smelled musty, and when we moved, the boards under our feet creaked and groaned. And when we just stood still, the house made creaking, groaning noises all by itself.
“Well, we’re inside,” I squeaked. “Now we can say that we’ve been in the—”
“We’re not going to just stop here!” Troy broke off my sentence with contempt. “Just coming in the window’s nothing. We need to explore.”
“Shouldn’t we have a light, though?” I asked.
“Are you chicken like Justin?”
“Yeah,” Shane joined in, “are you chicken too?”
I shook my head—not that they could see it—and wished that I was with Justin.
“Let’s go,” Troy ordered.
We started shuffling forward. I could barely see Troy and Shane as we left the first room and tiptoed down a long, dark hall. Cobwebs brushed against my face, and dust filled my nose. Suddenly the flooring beneath our feet began to shudder. We all froze, not knowing which way to go. Then the floorboards buckled. Before we knew it, we were falling into a deep, dark hole with dust and boards tumbling about us. I heard somebody scream. It seemed like we were going to fall forever. Then my feet jarred against something solid, and I sprawled forward on my face.
I lay still, wondering if I was still alive. My arms felt like they’d been scraped half off, and my side burned like it had the time I fell off my skateboard onto the pavement. I was just getting ready to try to move, when I heard a groan.
“Oh, my arm!” someone whimpered. “My arm’s killing me. I can’t even move it.”
“Is that you, Troy?” I heard Shane ask.
The only answer from Troy was more moaning and groaning.
“Where are we?” I called out. “I can’t see anything.”
“Probably in the cellar,” Shane answered. “We shouldn’t have come into this creepy old house,” he sobbed. “I didn’t really want to come here. It’s all your fault, Troy. It was your great idea!”
Troy’s only answer was, “Oh, my arm. I think I broke my arm.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked, sitting up. I was sore, but I didn’t have any broken bones.
“I hope somebody finds us,” Shane whimpered.
“Who’s going to find us?” I snapped. “Nobody even knows we’re here.”
“Justin knows,” Shane said hopefully.
“But we sent him away,” I reminded him. “He won’t know we’re missing until tomorrow. Besides, after calling him a chicken, he won’t want to help us, anyway.”
Shane and I managed to get to our feet, and we started yelling, hoping that someone would hear us. But the sound seemed to stay down in the hole with us.
Finally we sat down quietly, breathing hard and staring into the blackness. Then we heard footsteps. They were faint at first, and I wondered if I was just hearing the creaky sounds of the house. Then they got louder and louder and closer and closer.
“What’s that?” Shane rasped.
“Can you hear it too?” I whispered.
Even Troy stopped his moaning as the footsteps came closer. Then a dim, yellowish light shone above us, and Justin called out, “Jimmy! Is that you?”
“Justin!” I started to breathe again. “How’d you find us?”
“I waited. When you didn’t come out, I ran home and got a flashlight.”
“Get us out of here,” Shane whimpered. “We’re stuck.”
“And Troy’s hurt,” I added. “He thinks that his arm’s broken.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get help.”
It seemed like Justin was gone forever. But finally we heard voices. Justin’s dad was there, and so were Shane’s dad and Brother Richards and Rusty Hammond and my dad and Troy’s dad. They had ropes and a ladder and had us out of there almost before we knew it. Everybody was pretty sure that Troy’s arm was broken, so his dad hurried him off to the hospital.
That very night our dads boarded up the Bently house tighter than ever. Shane, Justin, and I just stood out by the curb and watched them work.
“I’m sorry for calling you a chicken,” Shane mumbled to Justin.
“Me, too,” I said.
Justin shrugged. “It’s OK.”
“No it isn’t,” I added. “We were wrong. We said that you were afraid because you wouldn’t go into the house with us, but we were the ones who were really afraid. At least I was. I was the real chicken.”
Justin stared at me, not quite understanding.
“I was afraid to say no. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to go into that old house, but I was afraid to tell Shane and Troy no. I was afraid that they would call me a chicken too. I was afraid to do what was right.”
Shane nodded his agreement.
I thought a moment. “I guess a lot of times it takes more courage not to do something than it takes to do it.” I smiled over at Justin. “Thanks for saving us. I don’t know what Troy or Shane think, but you can be my friend anytime.”

We are grateful President Dallin H. Oaks will be our concluding speaker. When I was a new freshman at Brigham Young University and President Oaks was the new president of Brigham Young University, we spoke together on a panel for parents and prospective students. As I waited nervously for the program to begin, President Oaks leaned over to assure me. With a warm smile, he said he was wearing a red tie because he was celebrating his 40th birthday and was feeling old. To me, as a new freshman, 40 did seem pretty old!

Alison touched her hair. Still wet, she thought, smiling. She gazed out the window of the car as it left the church parking lot. The Saturday afternoon looked brighter than usual. The trees seemed greener, the sky a deeper blue. I’ve done it! she told herself. I’ve been baptized.
She closed her eyes and relived the baptismal service in her mind. Dressed in white, she and her father sat on the front row of the chapel as the bishop spoke. “You will come out of the water cleansed from all your sins,” he said. “Then you can be confirmed a member of the Church and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. If you keep the commandments, the Holy Ghost will be your constant companion and help you choose the right.”
Later, Dad stood waiting in the baptismal font. He took her small hand in his large one and guided her down the steps. The water was warm and clear. She looked up and saw her family and friends watching reverently. Mom smiled. Alison grasped Dad’s wrist with her left hand while he held her right wrist and raised his right arm to the square. She listened carefully as he said the baptismal prayer. Then she held her nose and her breath as he placed his right hand in the middle of her back and immersed her gently but completely under the water.
Warmth and peace surrounded her a moment before she was brought up out of the water by her father. Streaming water dazzled her eyes like diamonds. Through the glistening drops, she saw blurry faces smiling at her, and she smiled back. She felt so good, so clean—like a new person. She looked up at Dad. He smiled and hugged her close. She wanted to feel like this always.
After Alison changed into dry clothes, the family met in a classroom with the bishop. He and Dad put their hands on her head, confirmed her a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and gave her the gift of the Holy Ghost. Now Alison felt not only new and clean but strong, too, as if she could always do what was right, no matter what.
“So how do you feel?” Dad asked, breaking into Alison’s daydream.
She opened her eyes and grinned. “I feel good. I’ve never felt this good in my whole life. I’m never going to do anything wrong again. I’m clean now, and I want to stay this way.”
“That’s a wonderful goal,” Dad said, “but I’m afraid that we all make mistakes.”
I won’t, Alison thought, settling back into her seat. I don’t ever want to lose this feeling.
A couple of weeks later, Alison sat on the couch, studying the baptismal certificate the bishop had given her.
Tyler climbed up beside her. “Let me see it!” he demanded, grabbing the paper.
Alison held him off with an elbow. “This isn’t a toy. This is important.”
Tyler laughed and grabbed the paper as Alison jerked it away. With an ugly ripping sound, the certificate tore in half.
Alison stared a long moment in disbelief. Then a furious anger gathered around her like a storm. How could he destroy this precious thing! Tyler’s eyes were wide with fear and dismay, and Alison had a strong feeling that she should walk away before she did something bad. But she didn’t want to walk away. She wanted to get even. She let the anger rush in, filling her to overflowing, and she gave Tyler a push.
He tumbled off the couch. Before he could even catch his breath to let out his first angry howl, she jumped up and gathered him into her arms. The anger was gone, replaced by remorse and a sick guilt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Tears ran down her cheeks.
Mom and Dad came running in to see what was wrong. “I pushed Tyler on purpose,” Alison said. “I’ve only been baptized a couple of weeks, and I’ve spoiled it already.” She ran to her room, where she fell on her knees by her bed and prayed and cried a long time.
Finally the door opened and Tyler came in. “Don’t be sad, Alison,” he said. “I’m all right.”
Alison held him tightly. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ll try to do better. I’ll try to be a good sister. Will you forgive me?”
Tyler gave her a huge, wet kiss on the cheek and a big hug. “I forgive you this much.”
Mom and Dad came in and sat down on either side of her.
“Alison,” Mom said, “your certificate can be replaced. That is important, of course, but that isn’t what is upsetting you, is it?”
“No—it’s that this time I messed up big time.”
Dad nodded. “We all do. The important thing is that we repent.”
Alison brushed away a tear. “How do I know for sure that I’ve repented?”
“Heavenly Father made it pretty simple,” Dad said. “First we need to recognize that we’ve done wrong and feel sorry for it. I think you’ve already done that. Then we need to ask forgiveness from the person we’ve sinned against and from Heavenly Father.”
Alison sighed. “I’ve been doing that.”
“Then we must try to make up for the wrong we’ve done.”
“I’m going to do something nice for Tyler every day,” Alison said. “I don’t want him to ever be afraid of his own sister. Is that all?”
“There’s one more thing,” Dad said. “We must try as hard as we can not to do the wrong thing again.”
Alison put her head on Dad’s shoulder. “I think the Holy Ghost tried to tell me not to push Tyler, but I wouldn’t listen. If He ever talks to me again, I’m going to listen.”
“He’ll talk to you,” Dad assured her.
“And I’m going to write down some ways of controlling my temper better, and work on them every day.”
Dad hugged her. “Good for you. If you do all those things, the Lord will forgive you and the Holy Ghost will be your Companion. Heavenly Father has promised it.”
“But I’m not clean anymore, and I wanted to stay clean forever. Can I get baptized again?”
“Well, no, but you don’t need to. The Savior knew that we’d make mistakes even after baptism, so He provided a way for us to be clean again. It always starts with sincere repentance, followed by something we do each Sunday in the chapel. Do you know what it is?”
Alison thought for a moment. “The sacrament?”
Dad nodded. “Right. When we’re baptized, we make covenants, or mutual promises, with God. One promise is that we’ll keep His commandments. Each Sunday when we take the sacrament, we renew those covenants. If we’ve repented of our sins, we become clean again.”
“Just as clean as when we were baptized?”
“Just as clean.”
The next day, Alison eagerly waited for the sacrament. She had followed the steps of repentance faithfully. When the sacrament came, Alison quietly put a piece of bread in her mouth. When the water came, she drank it reverently. A sweet peace filled her heart. Dad was right. She felt good again. Clean again.
Smiling, Alison reached up and touched her hair. This time it wasn’t even damp. But that didn’t matter—she was clean.

Sister Atistosgbui shared her thoughts on being an instructor. “Volunteering as an instructor over the past few weeks has been challenging, yet an eye-opening, learning opportunity for my students and me. My desire to see the YSA succeed motivated me to sacrifice my resources to transporting mannequins, pressing iron, and sewing machines among other things from my workshop to the gathering place and back twice every week. Although the cost of transporting the equipment to class was high, I knew the Lord always blesses the cheerful giver”, she said.

I remember the day my father died; my mind was somewhat in anxiety and turmoil. I returned home, sat in my favorite chair, and picked up the scriptures to meditate and find peace. I read a little, then closed my eyes, and in my mind’s eye I saw my father as a young man, and he was dressed in white. Although he had never become a member of the Church, I knew I would see him in the resurrection, and furthermore, I had seen him as he would appear. My mind was at peace again. When we rely on the Lord, we can have fulfillment of his promise, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: . . . Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27). He is “The Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6).

“Circle up!”
The wagon master signaled the wagon train of Danish immigrants to form their evening circle. It was a bit early to make camp, and it was sunny there in the valley, but black clouds had been pouring their rain on the Rocky Mountains rising grandly before them for a good while. The storm seemed to be moving toward them. It would be miserable to make camp in the rain, so everyone quickly began their assigned duties.
Maren dropped her last armful of limbs onto the pile of firewood. As she brushed at the bits of bark clinging to her dress, she heard happy laughter, then an impatient exclamation from her mother. Turning, Maren felt like laughing, too, as her mother tried to brush away the dust that made a squirming little boy look more like a coal miner after work than her four-year-old brother.
“Maren,” Mother pleaded, “please take Rasmus down to the stream and clean him off as best you can.”
Wearily Mother turned back to her cooking, only to see six-year-old Jens poking a handful of dry grass into the fire. Too late, the curious boy dropped the flaming grass and shook a burned finger in the air.
“Mother,” Maren quickly said, “I’ll take Jens down to the stream, too, while you finish supper. I’ll watch them there, and you can call us when it’s ready.”
Mother’s face softened. “Thank you, dear. It shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”
On her way across the circle of covered wagons, Maren saw Annie sitting on an overturned bucket, idly scratching lines in the dirt with a stick. Maren had been thrilled to find another 11-year-old girl in the company of covered wagons. Together they shared their dreams of what they thought Zion would be like. They had become close friends despite being very different. Maybe Annie would like to go down to the stream too.
“Yes, Annie may go with you,” Sister Christensen said, eyeing Maren’s two brothers. “It looks as if you could use some help, anyway. Be sure to stay together, and don’t be late for dinner.”
The climb down the high bank of the ravine was steep. Years of spring flooding from the great mountains beyond had slowly cut deeper and deeper into the rolling plain, carrying the dirt far away to some distant river valley. But it was midsummer now, and only a thin trail of water wandered down the streambed. The ravine would probably be completely dry by fall.
“Surely there’s deeper water than this!” Annie made a face at the shallow stream. “Maybe there’s a pool around that bend.” She headed downstream. Whooping, Jens slapped his make-believe horse and galloped out of sight behind her.
“Wait for us!” Maren shouted. She hoisted little Rasmus up onto her hip and struggled along as fast as she could. But her brother and her friend weren’t just around the bend when she got there. They weren’t around the next one, either.
When Maren finally found them, Annie was joyfully wading through a lovely pool. Jens was staring at frog eggs he’d found clinging to the grass at the edge of the water. Annie splashed water at Maren and laughed. “Come on, slowpokes. There’s even a sandy bottom.”
In no time, there was no dirt at all left on the boys. Rasmus’s cheeks were pink from the scrubbing, and his hair was shiny in the sun.
Contented, the two girls sat in the soothing quiet and watched the boys toss pebbles into the pool, making ripples that rocked leaf boats across the crystal surface. If it hadn’t been so quiet, they never would have heard the whistle. It drifted ever so faintly down to them—two shorts and a long.
Annie looked up curiously. “What kind of bird was that?”
At once alert, Maren stood up. “It sounds like Father. In Denmark that was his signal for me to herd the cows back to the farm. We’d better go back now.”
“But it hasn’t been near an hour since we left camp,” Annie protested. “Just think how long it’s been since we’ve been able to enjoy water like this!” Annie’s pretty mouth was beginning to pout.
The whistle came again—two shorts and one long. Maren searched the top of the ravine. She put her fingers to her lips and blew a piercing whistle in reply. “I’m sure that’s Father. We need to go and find out what he wants. Come on, Rasmus,” she coaxed. “You, too, Jens. Father must have some reason for us to come now.”
Annie’s face was as dark and cloudy as the western sky. “No!” she protested again. “You go if you want. I’ll stay here a while longer. Your father has work for you to do, not me.”
“But your mother said we must stay together. I can’t leave you here alone. We must go. Please come, Annie. Please?” Maren’s kind eyes begged Annie.
They heard the whistle once more. It was closer now.
Annie could not resist Maren’s worried expression. “Very well,” she finally said with a sigh. “You’re probably right. You usually are. Let’s go.”
With a relieved smile, Maren led the way to the wall of the ravine. With some difficulty the four children scrambled up the steep bank. At the top, they could see three men running toward them along the edge of the ravine.
As the children paused to catch their breath, even above their own puffing, they could hear a grating roar. Frightened, they looked everywhere but could not tell where the terrifying sound was coming from. Seeing that two of the three men hurrying toward them were their fathers, they ran to meet them.
Then they saw what was making the strange noise. Rushing and crashing down the ravine was a 10-foot-high wall of water! The heavy rain of the mountain thunderstorm had funneled into the ravine and tumbled trees and boulders before it as if they were feathers. Ripping out sagebrush and whole chunks of earth from the steep banks of the stream, the raging torrent swept up everything in its path, roaring past them and around the bend to where the cool, quiet pool lay with leaf boats floating on its glassy surface.
Father knelt to gather his shivering children into his strong arms. “I thought we’d never find you,” he choked, blinking his eyes to clear the wetness.
Annie tearfully hugged her own father closely and whispered, “It was Maren who saved us. She heard and obeyed.”

While I served as bishop, one of the Mia Maids in my ward came in for her annual interview. It was a bright summer day, and the rays of the afternoon sun reflected off the dust floating in the air. She and I talked about the significance of the small things in life versus the highly visible parts of what we are doing.
Without any warning she suddenly burst into tears and wept and wept. I left the chair behind my desk and walked around to where she was seated and sat down next to her. I attempted to comfort her.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I am so awful!” she cried out.
“What have you done that you think is so awful?” I asked.
“I am so cruel to my best friend. I deliberately play jokes on her to embarrass her in front of other people. I am just awful.” Then she cried some more.
“Could you give me an example of how you treat her?” I asked cautiously.
She described several situations that really were vicious, well-planned attacks on this other young woman that she claimed was her best friend.
“What am I going to do, bishop?” I remember her asking me.
As kindly and gently as possible, I explained to her that she must repent.
“How?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “you have recognized that you are doing wrong toward your friend. That is the first step. Now you have to decide if you really want to repent. Do you really want to go all the way with this decision?” She nodded her head that she did.
Through the following days and weeks, this fine young woman worked hard at learning how to stop being quietly vicious. She changed her plans to hurt into plans that would help and lift.
She confessed her sins to me, as her bishop. Then kneeling together in prayer I listened while she confessed them to God. Finally, she went to her friend and made peace. In an attempt to make restitution, my young friend went out of her way to make life easier and less complicated for her true, understanding friend. I learned firsthand how it is equally as important to forgive as it is to seek forgiveness. Fortunately, these were two special young women.
Within a few months my young Mia Maid friend had forgiven herself—her friend had forgiven her weeks earlier—and she had been forgiven in heaven.
Her heart and mind are now at peace. I am certain that she still remembers how she treated her friend. That will help her remember not to ever do it again. However, she feels no heartache or torture of mind because she has fully repented.

My husband, Yves, was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1989. I was an atheist and had no understanding of the gospel. And even when I heard all the discussions with my husband, the teachings of the missionaries didn’t touch me in the least.
I soon realized that my husband was serious about the gospel. He had quit smoking and drinking alcohol; I waited to see how long it would last. Several years earlier he had tried to quit smoking, but he made it only three months before he started again.
After Yves’s baptism the missionaries came to our home every week to try to teach me the gospel and to read the Book of Mormon with me. But they didn’t have much success.
Then one day I was reading the Book of Mormon by myself. I was smoking at the same time. Because I wasn’t able to concentrate, I put my cigarette down and gathered my thoughts. I began reading again, and this time I was able to understand what I was reading. Not only did I understand, but I wanted to know more.
That night I had a strange but marvelous dream. I believe the Savior was inviting me to join His Church. When I woke up I had a smile on my face and I felt very good.
The months passed, and my husband continued to live the Word of Wisdom. I told myself he must have a good reason to do so, but I didn’t make any changes in my own life.
At the beginning of 1990 I became close to two sister missionaries. They fasted and prayed that I too would be able to quit smoking. It was extremely difficult for me because I had smoked for 22 years and smoked about 40 cigarettes a day. Finally I told them that when I finished the pack, I would quit and would be baptized.
I quit smoking on 1 April 1990, and I was baptized a week later. I am very happy to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am grateful to my husband who changed his habits for good and showed me the way.

Anne and Kara were both new in their ward when Anne was assigned to minister to Kara and her young family. A friendship quickly developed between the two of them. Anne, a newlywed, enjoyed helping Kara with her four young daughters, who ranged in age from newborn to seven years old. One day, Kara’s baby sustained a skull fracture that required surgery.
Anne jumped in and watched the other children until their grandmother could arrive to take care of them. Once their grandmother arrived, Anne checked with her to see what help she might need, then brought dinner to the family that night. She also arranged for neighbors to bring meals for a few days.
The next day when she checked in on Kara’s family, Anne noticed that one of Kara’s daughters was worried about her baby sister, so Anne invited her to come make cookies to give her some personal attention. Anne also texted the ward council to let them know what had happened and told them she would keep them updated about the situation. During the next week, while the baby received treatment, Anne kept the ward council up to date and saw to the family’s needs. Anne’s help allowed Kara time and peace of mind as a parent in a difficult, scary situation.

Aaron Story, a priest from Baldwin, Kansas, is a talented artist. On a recent school trip with his art class to Spring Hill, Kansas, Aaron teamed up with three other artists to participate in a chalk-drawing contest. Although the other three members of the team are not LDS, they were so taken with the image of the St. Louis Missouri Temple which Aaron had in his sketch book, they insisted on including it in their drawing.
The judges loved the image, too. They awarded Aaron and his fellow artists first place for the boldness and originality of their drawing.

“One day in my religious instruction class at school (in South Africa, where I live, students study the Bible daily) we were allowed to study the scriptures on our own. I decided to do a home-study seminary assignment. As I was doing it, my teacher came past my desk and asked me what I was doing. I explained to her what it was, and then told her about the seminary program. I told her that my seminary classmates and I met with our teacher once a week and then studied the rest of the days on our own.
“She returned to her desk, but a few minutes later she called me over to her desk. She asked me if I would be willing to give one of the lessons in the seminary book to my class. I said I would be happy to do it.
“Now I have the opportunity to not only teach my teacher but my classmates as well. I have a very strong testimony of seminary and the things it teaches me. I hope and pray that for the next two years that I have left in seminary, I will become even stronger in the gospel and have more opportunities to teach others about it.”—Lucille Kruger, Carletonville, South Africa

“I was twenty-eight years old when I joined the Church, and I wanted to have my father’s permission. I went to him and asked for his blessing, and he said, ‘Let me think about it.’ The next morning, he said, ‘I have two questions for you. Number one: Have you really investigated this church?’

“‘Yes sir.’ I answered.

“‘Question number two: Are you really convinced that it’s true?’

“I said, ‘Yes.’

“‘Then you have to be baptized,’ he replied. ‘If you are convinced that something is right, you must do it.’

“His integrity was a strong influence in my life. I personally believe that everything has its roots in honesty.

Sometimes Mutual night can be built around a fun activity, such as having a game night, playing sports, or doing service projects. And sometimes it can be more serious, with discussions on standards. But what comes out of these weekly activities is something more important: experiences that strengthen testimonies and friendships. For example, one ward planned a combined Young Men/Young Women activity of Dutch oven cooking. “We each prepared a dish, and while the dishes were cooking, we played games,” remembers John E. of Idaho, USA.
“It was a great experience,” says John, “because everyone was involved and had fun. I learned what I could do better next time, including giving better instructions on how to do Dutch oven cooking.”

The day just didn’t start out right. The weather was supposed to be warm and sunny, but this particular Saturday morning in Mexico was cold, windy, and overcast. The dust was everywhere in Tijuana and our car, chameleon-like, had changed color to match the weather and the city.
Trying to find the LDS chapel was no easy feat. Everyone in the car had his own opinion of where it was, as had every Mexican we asked. As we tried to decipher the street signs, we read one that said, “Un Sentido.” By the time we found out what it meant, it was too late. Our whole caravan was on a one-way street—going the wrong way.
We had made the trip from Los Angeles that morning in a couple of station wagons, two huge vacation trailers, and a two-ton truck crammed with over 100 used suits, 150 dresses, 600 shirts, blouses, trousers, and sweaters in all different sizes and shapes. We had nearly 100 pairs of shoes and loads of underwear, ties, and odd pieces of clothing. Add to that over 300 gift-wrapped toys and gifts, several bicycles, a rocking horse, 10 pairs of roller skates, and 30 to 40 boxes of canned goods and food. All of it had been collected in Los Angeles for the benefit of an orphanage and some of the needy Saints in Mexico.
In less than a month an idea for a Chatsworth Second Ward (Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake) Aaronic Priesthood MIA service project had grown into a major undertaking.
After a few “No comprende” answers to the grinning Mexicans, we found the attractive little Mormon chapel on a hilltop overlooking the city.
There to meet us were all the children just coming out from Saturday morning Primary. But before long children from neighboring streets were on hand, too, to help carry half of the clothing and supplies into one of the classrooms for later distribution to the needy. After handing out some of the gifts for the children, we were off again, this time in a downpour, to an orphanage across the city.
It was quite an experience.
Recalls Randy Hansen, who spearheaded the project: “When we first came to the orphanage, the children’s eyes were really wide, and they weren’t sure why we were there or what was happening. When they helped us unload and carry in all the packages and supplies, they loosened up. We were then able to be more friendly. When we played ball with them you could see that they didn’t do much of that type of thing. They probably didn’t have any supervised activities. It was really touching when they sang to us because I have never studied another language. When I heard them trying to sing in English and then I tried to sing in Spanish, I knew how much they must have practiced to get it just right.
“I would like to have had more friends and members from our ward go down there,” he added. “It would have been a good experience for them. A lot of people come to church on Sunday and feel the Spirit, but they sometimes lose the Spirit during the week. This trip made me feel that we need to have this kind of spirit with us no matter what we are doing. It really touched me because I have never really felt like that at any other time.”
Kathi Regas feels much the same way about the project: “It was a good experience for all of us and made us appreciate all the things we have at home. I needed to give of myself to others and in the process I became much more thankful for what I have.
“The children seemed to need so much love. We brought them clothing and toys, but they needed love. When we began to play with them, you could tell by their expressions they appreciated our caring. I was really grateful that I could do something for someone else. I found that the children down there are especially grateful. We take so much for granted,” she said.
“I also became more thankful for everything that I have, especially my parents,” adds Marlene Yeates. “When we went into the nursery, I felt like taking all the children home with me. It is a feeling I probably will never forget. It was really a good experience, and I am glad I had the opportunity to be part of it.”
Mark West echoes the same feelings. He says, “I thought it helped us all get together. It helped us personally to see how other people live. We are too accustomed to our warm little beds. For example, when I saw the children in the little nursery it really hit me.”
Debbie Webb comments: “They just wanted us to hold them and give love. This one little boy was sitting stiffly in the windowsill all alone when everyone came in. Then I held him and he started acting like a person. When it was time to leave, we put him back in the windowsill and he stiffened up again.”
It didn’t matter that it rained miserably on the way home. Our hearts were full of sunshine.