Gospel Story Finder

It was just past noon when we returned from a spectacular tour of the Acropolis and Mars’ hill where Paul preached to the Athenians. The young people had assisted their not-so-young associates along the rugged terrain among the ancient ruins, not only giving their physical strength, but sharing their excitement and wonder as well. When we returned to the hotel, we were stunned by the news that Greece was at war with Turkey. Cyprus had been invaded by Turkish troops. All of the Greek men between the ages of 18 and 45 were to be mobilized within the next few hours. Suddenly the streets were filled with people. Young men carried small tote bags; neighbors gathered for brief farewells; a woman stood in her doorway weeping as she saw the men leave. She told us her children were too young to go, but she had five brothers who would have to fight.
This was not just a disruption of the afternoon-scheduled tour to Corinth. This was not just the temporary inconvenience of having no other bus at our disposal. Greece was at war! Greece’s borders were sealed. Her harbors were closed. Her airports were shut off. No commercial transportation was allowed in or out of the country. With the shortage of help in the hotel, we were informed that we would receive no further clean linen, there would be no room service, and the waiters from the dining room were gone. Making our own beds would be no problem. Hanging our towels to dry was no inconvenience. But what kind of chaos would the dining room be in without anyone there to help?
Dinner time arrived, and we walked into the dining room. To our delight there seemed to be plenty of help. John seated me at our table, and Jerome filled our water glasses. Carolyn was serving the rolls to other hotel guests, while Virnell followed up with butter. Bonnie was laughing and joking with some of the tourists as she and Diane served them cool beverages. Shelly was clearing dirty dishes from the tables and refilling glasses with ice. Melvin did anything that might have been overlooked—clearing tables, bringing a salad where one was forgotten, or resetting tables for the next group. They had not been asked; they had volunteered. For the duration of our stay in Athens, their service made the dinner hour something to look forward to.

We are the parents of six rambunctious boys. Over the past 17 years, we have learned that the Spirit often uses our own experience as parents to teach us how Heavenly Father works with His children.
Several years ago, Jessica heard our boys playing upstairs. As she listened more closely, she heard the distinct sound of a writing utensil scribbling on a wall.
She called, “Boys … is someone coloring on the wall?”
After three seconds of silence, the culprit called back, “Nooooooo.” She then asked him to bring down the writing utensil.
“OK, Mama,” he said, skipping up to her and willingly, even happily, giving her a pencil.
He kept his other hand, which was holding a permanent marker and was in plain view to Jess, hidden behind his back.
After sitting with this little boy, listening to him, correcting him, and trying to help him, she had this clear impression:
“Why do I sometimes try to hide my own sins and shortcoming from an omniscient, loving Heavenly Father?”

It was too late to stop. As I crashed into the car in front of me, the splinter of glass and crumple of metal dimly registered, an echo of my own shattered breathing.
I started to cry, and my brother Rob said, “It’ll be okay, Alanna. Everything will be all right.” But everything was not all right. I had caused a four-car accident.
Minutes later, a policeman told me no one was seriously hurt. Fortunately, everyone involved was wearing seatbelts. A paramedic treated me for minor cuts, and after I complained of a sharp pain in my neck, I was put on a stretcher.
On the ride to the hospital, a paramedic said, “Alanna, you’re a very lucky girl.”
Lucky? I was strapped in a stretcher with my neck immobilized in a brace. I had totaled my dad’s car, and was responsible for the damage to three other cars. How could he say I was lucky?
“The only reason you’re still alive is because you were wearing your seatbelt,” he added.
For as long as I can remember, my parents stressed the importance of wearing seatbelts. Because of my parents’ example, I wore my seatbelt without fail. This one small act may have literally saved my life.

In 1982, my wife and I had talked about how blessed we had been as a family. We knew several others who had gone through adversity, and wondered when our day would come. It came at 6:00pm on December 28th, 3 days after Christmas. It was a life-changing wake-up call. Our oldest son, Brian, who was a deacon at the time, was playing on the snow machine we had purchased for Christmas. He had gone on his last ride, taking his cousin along. It was getting dark. He was killed instantly as they hit a sprinkler line on wheels, which was not visible because of its height and its silver color against the snowy field. The impact knocked Brian off the machine and broke his neck. His cousin was not injured. Every fast Sunday, Brian, had been the first one to bear his testimony and express how much he wanted to go on a mission. We envisioned he would receive a call like most young men at the age of 19. Our lives were changed! Our hearts were broken! Our spirits were more contrite! Our empathy for others was more pure! The following month, on the 26th of January, my wife and I went to the temple to do his work. I felt his presence with me as I was ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood and received the endowment for him. It was an emotional experience at the veil, and I wept as I felt him quickly leave, and knew he was happy to begin preaching "in the great world of the spirits of the dead."[22]

Julie could see her grandmother sitting in bed. Mom and Dad said that Grandma had to live with them. She was sick and needed their help to get better. But Julie didn’t like seeing Grandma sick.
She remembered that her grandmother used to be a happy person. Every time Julie would visit, Grandma would make a treat. They would take long walks, dance and sing, and play together. Now, Julie’s house smelled funny and Grandma didn’t walk or sing. She hardly ate. She was sad. It scared Julie. She didn’t know what to do. Mom and Dad helped Grandma a lot, but Julie just watched. Sometimes she even felt sad because nobody seemed to have time for her anymore.
Julie had been talking to Heavenly Father every day in her prayers. She told Him how scared and sad she felt. She asked Him to bless Grandma. She asked Him to bless her too. Julie wanted to help Grandma, but she didn’t know how.
One day while she and Mother were shopping, Julie saw something. It was high on the shelf, but she had a feeling that she should take a closer look. She asked her mother if she could see the toy dish set. When it was handed to her, Julie felt a warm peace.
The dishes were beautiful. They were shiny and pink. Julie was excited to share them with Grandma. Pink was Grandma’s favorite color!
It took Julie two weeks to earn the money to buy the dish set. On the day she brought it home, she started her plan.
First, she went to her room to make an invitation for Grandma. She drew flowers and birds and hearts all over the paper. Then she asked Mother to write the words “You’re Invited” on the outside. Inside Mother wrote, “To a party in your room at one o’clock today.”
Julie took the note to her grandmother. It felt good to see Grandma smile when she read it.
At one o’clock Julie carried a tray into Grandma’s room. She set it over her lap. Then she climbed onto the bed and sat beside Grandma. Julie poured Grandma some juice. She offered Grandma toast and jam, apple slices, cubes of cheese, and cookies. Together, they had a party.
Grandma talked and smiled. She ate the food Julie served her on little pink plates and sipped juice from a shiny pink cup. When it was over, Grandma thanked her. She patted Julie’s hand and said, “Let’s have a party again soon!” Julie hugged her and promised that they would.
The feeling of happiness and peace stayed with Julie all afternoon. She had made Grandma happy. And Julie felt happy too. Heavenly Father had listened to her prayers and helped her find just the right thing to do.

Several years ago, President Henry B. Eyring foresaw what could happen at BYU. He shared with me in a very sacred setting that there would eventually be a spiritual quality on this campus that we previously thought only possible in the very strongest areas of the Church of Jesus Christ. He said that this would happen only as we turn to the Savior and let the Savior change us.
As President Reese described earlier today, our exit survey measures whether BYU positively impacts students’ faith in Jesus Christ.38 Looking at this data from the last three years, the aggregate response has increased from 78 percent to 87 percent—a nearly ten-point gain. Of course this is only one measure of the spiritual strength of the university. But as someone who tracks institutional data closely across the Church Educational System, this is remarkable progress. It is an outward expression of the spiritual quality that President Eyring believed was possible.

The operations that followed, the plaster casts, and the awkward crutches are but a few of the memories of that tragic experience. However, the greater memory is not one of pain and hardship, but rather one of gratitude to the young men in an LDS priests quorum whose service in a moment of misfortune was remarkable.
Recognizing that I wouldn’t be able to return to my carpentry job of building a house, the priests quorum, whom I serve with as an adviser in the Mendon (Utah) Ward, responded with the ambition of youth, determined that they could provide the manpower to complete the house-building project if someone with experience would offer the direction.
“It didn’t matter how big the job was,” commented Michael Anderson, one of the organizers of the project, “we knew we could do just about anything if we had the cooperation of the quorum.”
And so, with some help from Bishop Stanton Barrett, who is also a building contractor, a spirited quorum of priests, armed with hammers and saws, undertook to finish the framing of a 1,200-square-foot home.
“As fast as the bishop laid it out, we’d nail it together,” Michael stated in explaining afterwards how the group succeeded in framing the complete house, from foundation to roof trusses, in only two days.
“Of course it took some organizing,” he added, “We called each quorum member, told him our plans, and got a commitment from him. The commitment was important.”
The owners of the home in progress, Mr. and Mrs. Bob Findlay, helped out too. “Bob was in there working with the rest of us, and his wife brought us lunch. That kept a hungry crew going,” Michael said. “Sure, there were a few bruises and some thumbnails got whacked, but there was just a special spirit there despite the hard work. The guys planned it and came out because they wanted to help, and that made it fun,” he added. “It was something I’ll remember all my life.”
Bishop Barrett suggested one reason for the success of the undertaking when he said, “The young men were working not because their adviser had planned a service project for them but because they had planned one for him … and that made all the difference.”
As the last nail went into the roof late Saturday, the physical work was done, but the surprise in announcing their accomplishment was still to come.
An unusually quiet quorum of teenage boys greeted me as I met with them the first Sunday after being released from the hospital. A shy and somewhat out-of-character member of the quorum stepped forward and said, “We’ve got something for you … because we wanted to help.” He handed me a homemade, booklike get-well card consisting of a set of photographs that documented their construction work. The room was silent as they anxiously watched me thumb through the pictures.
In the powerful moments of silence that followed, my mind went back to the many times before, when, in the same classroom, I had unconvincingly talked from the lesson manual on the subject of service. Suddenly we were experiencing that joy which before was only a subject of discussion. The lesson that day wasn’t expressed in words.
Finally, I broke the silence by saying, “Now you know the real joys of service—but let’s leave the hay baler out of the next project!”
What began as a tragedy was suddenly forgotten. Long after the plaster casts and crutches are gone, the memory will live of the young men who wanted to help and did.

Kris liked the sport from the start. She won her first tournament at eight and has been playing in singles, doubles, and mixed doubles competition ever since. During the winter months of her Primary years, Kris played at 5:00 A.M. on a makeshift court—a tennis net strung across a BYU basketball practice floor. Getting up early became a habit, and Kris attended early morning seminary in order to schedule her other classes and leave school at noon for more tennis practice.

Having spent the past five summers traveling, she’s gathered recognitions and friends across the nation and finds the social advantages of tennis as appealing as the game’s challenge. Playing in tournaments has also given Kris good opportunities to talk about the gospel. “Most people know something about the Church but are generally reluctant to bring it up. Many know friends and neighbors who are members, often converts. They know that we don’t swear and that we believe in the Word of Wisdom.”

She’s also noticed that people watch more than her game when they find out she’s LDS. “I’ve realized that I’m observed by other tennis players and tournament officials when they find out I’m a member of the Church, and a bad show of temper doesn’t impress new friends. A lot of kids get away from their homes and want to party. Many of them lack direction in their lives and are very unsettled. The gospel gives my life such purpose that I find I’m respected for my beliefs.”

Match victories are as much a ribbon for her parents as for Kris’s exacting backhand. Her mother has been a faithful chaperon, sideline supporter, and confidant; and Kris calls her dad “my sponsor.” Her scrapbook is a two-volume collage of pictures, newspaper clippings, tournament programs, airline tickets, and autographs of tennis stars.

Kris feels working with the BYU women’s team, an opportunity given her by Ann Valentine, BYU women’s coach, has been the greatest boost to her game. Playing on the school’s indoor courts has allowed her to practice year-round, while the school’s televised replay of games has let her see her weaknesses. “People can tell you repeatedly you’re doing something wrong, but there’s a chance you may not grasp the concept. Once you see your mistakes, you can improve. The errors become really obvious on television.”

As the first girl to play on a varsity sports squad at Provo High, Kris found the tennis team a fun experience and good practice. But it was often hard on her opponents who were ribbed by friends for competing and losing to a girl. She graduated a semester early so she could devote more time to her game before entering BYU this fall.

For people taking up the sport Kris says, “I would hesitate learning from a book. Private lessons are the best, but make sure the teacher is good. Group lessons can also be a good start, but many don’t teach the basics. Some teach too much at once; others confuse the order of importance.”

Garage-door tennis has its strong and weak points. “It helps concentration, form, and consistency. It can also strengthen your wrist and help you train your eye on the ball, but as a regular practice routine it may get monotonous. After a while you learn to anticipate backboard returns. You also don’t have to run as much and this will slow you down in a real court situation. There’s nothing as good as playing with a tough opponent.”

Almost as important as good instruction in the basics is equipment. Beginners often overlook some essentials, says Kris. Foot blisters and cramped muscles won’t improve your game. Keep the following in mind:

When selecting a new racquet, test your racquet grips. They are generally 4 3/8 or 4 1/2 for women and 4 1/2 or 4 5/8 for men, depending on hand size. Not all 4 1/2 grips have the same feel. There may be some variation in the actual measurement.
Leave your racquet out of a press unless you don’t plan to use it for long periods of time. Use of a press also depends on the area you live in. Humid climates require the use of a press more frequently.
Playing with gut strings is more expensive but gives you a better hold on the ball. If they get wet, however, they are ruined. Nylon is slicker, with less control, but is not affected as much by water.
Squeeze balls to see if they’re dead. The more you are able to squeeze a ball, the less bounce it has. (Dead balls make good service practice balls.)
Wear extra pairs of socks if your feet blister, plus a good shock-absorbing innersole.
In considering the comparative qualities of wood versus metal racquets, personal preference prevails. Kris feels that placing precision shots is easier with wood racquets. Aluminum racquets, because they are more flexible, provide more power and speed.
With beginners there are some common problems. Males often attempt overpowering shots that inevitably end up outside the baseline or in the net. Some girls tend to be slow and indecisive in their footwork. Both men and women will watch the ball attentively until it’s about three feet away and then take their eyes off it. Keeping your eye on the ball at all times will mean more accurate shots.
“Tennis is becoming an increasingly popular game because people are realizing the importance of individual sports. You can play the game for a lifetime, and you don’t need to have a team,” says Kris. “It’s great exercise, both mentally and physically, and a fun way to socialize and meet new people. The clothes are becoming more attractive, especially for women. And it’s no longer strictly associated with country club types—more and more young people are taking up the sport.”

When Kris attended a Pancho Gonzales tennis school and played with the tennis great, he commented, “There’s another woman who’s coming up to beat the men.” But Kris says her real match will be with children. She wants to teach the game to children. Their energy, enthusiasm, and stick-to-itiveness are what tennis takes—and what Kris has had for years.

1. Don’t walk across the back of a court when others are playing. It’s very annoying to them.
2. Don’t applaud the mistakes of others at a tournament. Applaud only fine plays or shots.
3. Take turns bringing the balls so that your partner isn’t the one to always end up with dead balls.
4. If you don’t know whether the ball is in or out when you are receiving, give your opponent the point.
5. Call the shots on your side of the net and let your opponent call the ones on his side.
6. If you disagree with his call, ask for a re-serve.
7. Retrieve balls hit into your court from another. When you hit one into another player’s court, wait for him to return it. If he doesn’t, do not go onto his court to pick it up until a stop in his game.
8. When playing doubles, don’t hog the court; play your side.
9. If a ball comes between doubles players and there is a doubt as to who will hit it, call your shot. It should preferably go to a player’s forehand.
10. Volunteer to play doubles when others are waiting for a court, or cut down your singles playing time.

“Class, please pass your papers to the front.” Heidi reached behind her to pick up Molly’s paper. She loved to look at Molly’s beautiful writing before she passed it forward. Her letters seemed to flow together perfectly. Heidi looked at her own paper and was embarrassed for anyone to see the poor handwriting. She slid her paper under Molly’s and passed it forward.
“Mom, will you write my homework for me?” Heidi asked as she walked in the door. Her mother had beautiful handwriting too. Maybe if her mother wrote her homework, she wouldn’t feel so embarrassed.
“Why do you want me to write your homework? Are your arms broken?” her mom teased.
Heidi told her mother about Molly’s beautiful writing. “I wish I had practiced my handwriting more last year.” Heidi sat down at the table and plopped her face in her hands.
“You know, Heidi,” her mom said, “if you work hard enough at it, your handwriting can be as good as anyone’s. You just have to put your mind to it.”
Heidi wasn’t so sure. She pictured Molly’s writing and thought there was no way hers would ever look like Molly’s.
“Do you remember the prophet Heber J. Grant?” Mom asked.
Heidi looked up. “Yes. We learned about him in Primary.”
“He had bad handwriting when he was young. He really wanted to improve, so he practiced and practiced until his handwriting was so good that he received an award for his penmanship.”
Heidi was amazed! She looked up to the prophets, but she had never realized they had problems just like hers when they were young. She decided that if Heber J. Grant could work to improve his handwriting, so could she.
The next day at school Heidi worked hard on her handwriting. It was difficult at first. She had to stay late to finish writing her assignments, but the story of President Heber J. Grant motivated her to continue.
It was weeks before Heidi began to notice any improvement. It still took her a long time to do her assignments, but her writing was getting better.
One day Molly noticed. “Heidi, you have really nice handwriting,” she said.
“Thanks.” Heidi blushed. She couldn’t help but let a smile creep across her face.
That night Heidi left a note on the refrigerator for her mother. It was in beautiful handwriting.
Dear Mom,
Thank you for telling me the story of Heber J. Grant. I probably won’t win any awards, but I finally feel like I have nice handwriting. Following the prophet wasn’t as hard as I thought!
Love,
Heidi

When he was fourteen years old, Elder Kikuchi was attending night school and arising before four o’clock in the morning to make tofu at a nearby factory. Tofu or bean curd is a staple of the Japanese diet, and he had to prepare the tofu and have it ready by 6:00–7:00 A.M. so that customers could buy it for their breakfast. Finally, he fell ill from exhaustion. While he was resting, and trying to recuperate at his uncle’s house in Muroran, two Mormon missionaries knocked at the door. Elder Kikuchi, in recalling the occasion, said, “In those days missionaries wore hats, heavy rubber boots, and overcoats. They seemed so big compared to me, and yet their eyes were sparkling and pure. I was very impressed by their courtesy and invited them in for a few minutes.”

After this brief introduction to the Church, Elder Kikuchi was baptized thirteen days later. “It was manifest to my spirit” he said, “that the story of Joseph Smith was true. I had really searched for the truth through all the years of my boyhood, but I never had any knowledge about the true church.”

His knowledge of us is illustrated in a journal entry of pioneer Joseph Millett, who with his large family was suffering through some very difficult times.

“One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks was out of bread, had none that day.
“I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came.
“Says I, ‘Brother Hall, are you out of flour?’
“‘Brother Millett, we have none.’
“‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.’
“Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.
“‘Well Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don’t owe me for it.’”
That night Joseph Millett recorded a remarkable sentence in his journal:
“You can’t tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett.”

Nara is also the home of another kind of spirit, a spirit typified by a young group of Latter-day Saints who met on the way home from school at Nara’s Kintetsu train station. Their bishop, Tatsuo Taura of the Nara Ward, Osaka Japan Stake, had invited them to meet him on their way home from school for a walk in the park.
“When I was small, I used to come to the park often with my parents,” said Akie Tanaka, 17. “But now I’m so busy with school I don’t get many chances. When the bishop asked us to come, I thought it sounded fun.”
It’s only a block or two from the train station to the park. As we walked up the hill, the bishop explained that he just wanted to spend a little bit of time with the youth, some time in a relaxed situation, time to become better friends.
“I talk to you all individually during interviews,” Bishop Taura said. “Today let’s just have some fun together.”
He stopped to buy some wafers to feed the deer, then passed the wafers out to the teenagers. As if on cue, the deer trotted over. So many swarmed around Akie that it seemed they were welcoming back an old friend. Overwhelmed, she started giggling and found it hard to stop.
“I wasn’t scared,” she said. “I like deer. But I was holding some food, and they mobbed me to get at it. It was funny to see them all sticking their tongues out at me!”
Akie wasn’t the only one pestered by a persistent deer. One doe kept staring at Seiji Nakanishi even when the food was gone. “Finally she licked my hand, then turned and walked away,” Seiji said. Quickly the herd moved on, although one or two of the animals turned and paused before bounding off into the woods. “It was almost as if they stopped to say good-bye,” said Masatoshi Hirata, 17.
Masatoshi and Seiji, 16, are making friends with Yuji Oki, 15, who was baptized a week ago.
“I’m a deacon,” Yuji said. “I’m proud to be a Latter-day Saint, excited to hold the priesthood. And I’m glad that the others in the ward are my friends. There is strength in associating with other priesthood bearers, a reassurance that God will help us meet our responsibilities.”
As we left the deer behind and headed for a shrine, all three young men were talking about missions—about preparing for them, earning and saving money for them, about seeking the Spirit even now so they would know how to follow it later.
Masatoshi, who is a priest, said, “Soon I will be in the mission field. But right now I have lots of missionary opportunities here. Just think, if everyone in Nara would become a Latter-day Saint, what blessings it would bring! They could strengthen their families, work toward everlasting life, prepare to live together as families forever. Can you see why going to church is my favorite thing?”
We walked far. We saw the reflection of the Kofukuji Pagoda in Sarusawa Pond. We looked at the tombstones, the bright red gates and columns, and the thousands of brass and carved stone lanterns of the Kasuga Shrine. We climbed steep wooden stairs to buildings where samurai warriors used to live. We marveled at the immensity of Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, which Japanese ancestors built with sincerity and faith. The young Japanese Saints talked again about their own faith, their own hope for the future.
“There’s a girl with us today who is not a member,” Akie explained. “It’s the first time I have met her. I’d love to tell her about my experiences with the gospel—good things, testimonies that people bear. I wish I could tell her all about these things. I wish I could tell everyone.” And a few minutes later, Akie was talking with Satomi Fujioka, 18, the new girl in the group. They were laughing, telling stories, and fast becoming friends. And becoming friends, as Akie will tell you, is the first step toward sharing anything.
Yuji stopped for a minute and sat on a bench to rest. Our loop through the park was complete, and it was time to head back to the train station. But first we all decided to drink a carton of mandarin orange juice to cool off after our hike.
“You know,” said Yuji, looking back at the enormous wooden gate that is merely the entrance to the more enormous Todaiji Temple, “perhaps someday there will be as many Mormon temples as there are shrines in Japan. It’s exciting to know I can play some small part in spreading the gospel in this land.”
Seiji nodded his head in agreement. “There are many monuments here,” he said, “many treasures. But the gospel is a bigger treasure. After all, it is the most important thing in my life.”
Mariko Tange, 18, a Laurel who joined the Church just four months ago, also nodded her head. “I get so busy I forget sometimes how important the Church really is,” she said. “I’m really glad we came here today.”
There was less conversation on the way back to the station than there had been on the way to the park. Maybe we were just tired. Maybe we were all talked out. But it seemed more like we were thinking, thinking about the spirit that unites us as members of the Church. That spirit will grow in the hearts of the Saints in Nara, the same way it grows in the hearts of Saints everywhere. It is a spirit that makes all men noble, a spirit that makes all men free. And as it is shared with friends, families, and neighbors, the Nara said to be “home of Japanese spirit” may also become known as a place where the Spirit of God is at home.

Time to pick your amigo secreto*! You’ll give a gift to the person you choose. But do not tell them until Christmas!
Hmm. What can I give to Margo? Maybe a stuffed animal.
And I’ll be extra nice to her! That would be a good gift for Jesus too.
The next few weeks …
On Christmas Eve …
Here, Margo! I was your amigo secreto.
Really? You were mine too!
Thanks! I love it! And thanks for being so nice to me.
Thanks for being the best sister ever!
Feliz Natal!
Illustrations by Katie McDee

I did not appreciate fully memories and self until I, with the help of others, compiled my oral history. I gave my wife a rough copy of my life story and asked her to edit it. My instructions were: “You know me better than I know myself, so please read it carefully and polish the manuscript.” A half hour later, when I returned to see how she was doing, she was crying. I said, “My goodness, is it that bad?” “No,” she answered. “It is that good!” “Have you made any changes?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “It is you speaking, and I don’t want to erase or edit you out of the record.”

Later, we gave bound copies of my history to our children. Both of us knew that the thing would probably be placed on a shelf and read only sometime. A few weeks ago, however, one of our daughters said to me: “Dad, I love you so very much.” I wondered what was wrong and I asked: “What brought this on?” She explained, “It was your oral history; I have been reading about your life.” She added: “I did not realize that you had done. … I didn’t know that you had experiences such as. …”

What a pity it would be if your children and grandchildren were denied that part of you that really should be recorded. Make certain that you are transmitting to your posterity, along with other graces of life, your innermost thoughts, your poignant feelings, and your sincere testimonies. You owe the rising generation this blessing and more.

I will never forget a lesson that my dear wife, Sister Mutombo, taught me on the first day of our marriage. I remember that Sunday as if it was yesterday. We had no food in our home and no money to buy food. As a newly married husband, I truly wanted to provide for my new wife, but I had no means to do so. I felt very alone.
I looked at my wife lying on the mattress that we had put on the floor because we had no money for a bed. She was exhausted and hungry. I decided to visit a good friend of mine to find a solution to my trial. I left my wife alone in our small two-square-meter room and went to see my friend. He told me that he had no money to help me but gave me one dollar to use for transportation to get home. I saw this as an answer to many sincere prayers to my Heavenly Father, asking for His help and support. I decided to walk home and use the dollar to buy food for my wife because that is the only money I had.
On the way back home, I used the dollar to buy a small piece of meat and some bread and put it in a black plastic bag. I was so excited that I now had food to give to my wife and walked home quickly. It was after 9 p.m. when I got home, and my dear Nathalie was tired, exhausted, hungry, and probably wondering about her future. Can you imagine going without food on your first day of married life? When I arrived home, I proudly presented food to my wife, saying, “darling, I got some food for you, please wake up.”
She woke up and took the plastic bag and saw the piece of meat and bread. She asked, “where did you find the money to buy this food?”
I told her. She looked at me and asked an unexpected question. “Have you paid tithing on the one dollar you received?”
I replied, “Nathalie, this is just one dollar, do you think we need to pay tithing on it?”
She took the piece of meat and bread that I brought home to her, put it back in the bag and said that she would not eat the bread of a man who does not remember his covenant with God. I weep when I remember this experience. I repented immediately and promised my wife that never ever again would I make such a poor choice. She taught me what it means to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ who keeps his covenants with God. I have since found great joy in paying an honest and full tithing. As President Russell M. Nelson said, the Church was not any different because I paid a full tithe, however becoming a full-tithe payer changed me as my faith in my Savior Jesus Christ increased.

One morning we woke up to find the ground covered with snow—in New Mexico, imagine! Enough to make angels, or play fox and geese, but not enough to stop work on the barn. The snow melted during the day, and that night when we got home Mama showed us where the water was running down inside the dugout. The next day Papa went to town for something to seal the leak.
Mama went with him and left Caroline in charge. Ed and I thought we were old enough to take care of ourselves and didn’t like her bossing us around, so we went out to the barn to plan our day.
“Let’s go see the Indians,” Ed said. His curiosity was pulling him like a magnet. I liked to talk about danger more than I liked to experience it, so I wasn’t so eager.
“Caroline won’t let us,” I offered as an excuse.
“Pooh! She can’t stop us. Come on. Let’s go.”
I followed obediently, but slowly.
“Hurry up,” he urged.
“W-what if they ch-chase us?” I whispered.
“They won’t chase us, and even if they do, we can run faster. And you don’t need to whisper. No one can hear you.”
“What if the braves are there?”
“They won’t be. They come in the middle of the night.”
“I’m scared.” I couldn’t help whispering, even though Ed had told me not to.
“That’s all right. It’s fun to be afraid.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Go back then, scaredy-cat, and I’ll go by myself.” Ed started off. He knew I’d follow. Frightened as I was, I couldn’t stand to miss a chance to be with Ed.
I followed slowly. Ed picked up a stick.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You could hit with it if you needed to,” I suggested.
“Yeah, but I probably won’t,” he replied. Even so, we both felt better now that Ed was armed.
We walked more slowly as we approached the first hut, and Ed put his finger up to his lips to warn me to keep quiet. The air was still except when a small breeze whispered through the grass. Our bare feet left silent prints in the damp ground. No sound at all came from inside the dugout, and we could see only a black square where the door was ajar. We tiptoed closer and closer, trying to see inside.
Suddenly a voice came from the darkness, gentle and coaxing. “Come on,” it encouraged.
We stood in the doorway and gradually out of the darkness emerged a great shape, a woman who seemed large enough to half-fill the room. No wonder she didn’t want to move. She was beckoning to me with her finger. “Come on,” she invited again.
Ed gave me a little push. “Go on,” he said. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
When I got close enough, the squaw grabbed me, lifted me onto her ample lap, and nearly took my breath away, hugging and kissing me. She touched my hair gently and murmured, “Palomino, Palomino.”
When Ed said we had to go, it was hard to pull away, but I did. As we left she said, “Come back. I want to be your grandma.”
We checked the other dugouts, and what Mr. Talbot said was true. Each had an old squaw in it. We were never welcome in any of the houses but the first, however. “Grandma” became our first and best friend in New Mexico. Until she died, she loved my golden hair and called me Palomino.
When we got back home that day Papa was already there and fixing the leak.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“To see the Indians,” Ed answered.
“Not clear up on the reservation?”
“No, just those old squaws over there.” Ed pointed to the dugouts.
“I thought you heard Mr. Talbot say to stay away and not to bother them.”
“They don’t mind. They’re lonely for little kids.”
“One likes me,” I said. “She calls me Palomino.”
“Palomino’s a horse,” Papa said.
“I think she means my hair,” I explained.
“Maybe so,” Papa agreed. “A palomino is a blond horse.”

My next example is Carol McAdoo Rehme of the Loveland First Ward, Greeley Colorado, who spreads happiness among the elderly with a weekly sing–along at the neighborhood nursing home. She found they needed a pianist and immediately volunteered. Twice weekly, she played music in the dining room during the lunch meal. It was a low–pressure opportunity to practice hymns and sight–read new music. But one day an elderly resident recognized “Bicycle Built for Two” and sang along as she played. Others spontaneously joined in, so when the song ended she checked in her music book for other old favorites.

That was all it took. She had a new program: a weekly sing–along that moved to the comfortable confines of the lounge room. Her bag of music expanded to stacks of sheet music and pounds of books. The repertoire grew, ranging from Gay Nineties melodies to wartime songs, from familiar hymns to show tunes, from patriotic marches to nursery songs. As word spread, both the program’s popularity and resident attendance increased.

What a revelation it was to hear their chorus of memory–to see eyes light up, toes tap, and hands clap. Ninety-eight-year-old Gladys couldn’t recall what she ate for lunch an hour earlier but knew the words to nearly every song Carol played! Eleanor, limited to her wheelchair because of a degenerative disease, kept rhythm by nodding her head, the only part of her body she could control. Betty, a double amputee unable to do but able to tell, was instrumental in explaining phrases like “tootsie wootsie” and “wiffle tree.” And Carol? She witnessed the pleasure the songs brought. She listened to venerable voices ringing out. Her voice lifted with theirs as they all joined together to “make a joyful noise” (Ps. 66:1).

When I was asked to sing in general conference, I was worried because I play football and I was afraid I couldn’t do both because of scheduling conflicts. So I went home and prayed to Heavenly Father that it would work out. Then I called the Primary president to say I would do it. The next week my football coach handed out our game schedule, and I was so happy! None of my games would conflict with my singing practices. I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers and that saying yes to singing was the right thing to choose.
Braden G., age 10

My life has been different than most youth in the Church. In fact, I’m not even a member. I’m 17 years old and have been waiting to be baptized for a year and a half. My parents told me that I had to be able to make that commitment without their permission.
But that love didn’t come right away. In the Book of Mormon, Alma compares the word of the Lord to a seed. The seed was planted at girls’ camp. I thought the seed was good so I nourished it. I went to seminary. I took the missionary discussions. The seed swelled, sprouted, and began to grow. When things were going so well, I decided to carry out the challenge that the missionaries gave me and talk to my parents about baptism.
It hurt me so much when my parents said no. I had no choice but to abide by their counsel. I was 15 then. Eighteen seemed so far away.
After a few months, I got used to the idea of being an “eternal investigator.” The members treated me as a member, and I gave my first talk in sacrament meeting after four months of going to church. I completed my first year of seminary. But then when school started again, things started to go downhill.
I was moody most of the time. Discouragement caused most of my depression. I wanted to be baptized so badly it hurt. I’d attend baptisms and I’d leave crying.
I began to wonder about my testimony. I tried talking to people, and they’d say that I was just going through a hard time and to “hang in there.” What bothered me the most was that I wasn’t sure if I had my own testimony or if I was living off “borrowed light.” After those few months of confusion, I finally realized that I had talked to everyone but the one I should have gone to first, my Heavenly Father.
I asked him to help me through this trial. I needed to get back on my feet again, and I couldn’t do it alone. I continued to try to live as I had before all of the confusion started.
A short time later, I received a witness that my prayer was answered. I didn’t have that burning sensation, but I did have a calm, peaceful feeling. The confusion was no longer there. I knew then, as I know today, that the Church is true. I have a testimony; I’m sure of it. I know it’s true with all my heart, and I’ll make sure with all my power that I never lose sight of it again.
Editor’s Note: Kim was baptized December 31, 1991, on her 18th birthday.

Suddenly Jody’s muscles tightened. From out of the sky darted Sir Lancelot, his satiny black plumage glinting in the sun like a feathery jewel.
Sir Lancelot was the name Jody had given the big raven the first time he had seen it, nearly six months before. Any bird that could appear so regal had to have an important name, he’d decided.
He stood and hurried to the rock where he’d laid the brass button, picked it up, and sat on the rock with it in his open hand. This time the bird would have to come to him for his prize.
Jody had come up to Raven’s Roost nearly every week since he had moved with his family to Tucker Springs, and he’d gotten to know Sir Lancelot quite well, at least from a distance. “If you want this button to add to your collection of shiny things, you’ll have to take it from my hand!” he told the bird.
The huge bird alighted on a limb of the scrub oak. He cocked his glossy black head and eyed the lustrous object. “Come on,” Jody encouraged.
The raven cawed noisily, his high, harsh cry echoing off the red rocks. At length, he hopped to the ground, advanced a step or two, and came to a stop.
“That’s the best you can do?” Jody questioned. “All right, but next time it’s all the way or nothing, understand?” He tossed the button a few feet in front of him. The raven, cawing at Jody and eyeing the treasure, stretched forward and plucked the button up in his long bill. Then he flew back to the limb.
He regarded the boy a moment, as if saying thanks. Then, just as Sir Lancelot was about to fly off with the precious gift, Jody heard a whizzing sound, followed by a soft thud. The raven toppled lifeless to the ground, the brass button rolling from his slack bill and disappearing into a crevice in the rocks.
For an instant Jody just stared, disbelieving. “Sir Lancelot!” he choked out. Then his attention turned to the direction of the sound.
Hollis Fletcher stepped out of the brushwood about a hundred yards away, a rock flipper in his hands. “I told you I’d get even, Farnsworth,” he sneered. “You should have dropped out of that spelling contest, like I told you. Outside of the Fourth of July and the county fair, it’s the biggest thing that happens around here. And I would have won.
“I’ve lived in Tucker Springs all my life,” Hollis went on. “Every time I earned a hundred on spelling at school, I rewarded myself with getting a new marble for my collection. I probably have the best marble collection in the whole state, but there aren’t any trophies for that, like there is for the spelling contest. I worked hard to win it—it wasn’t right for some nobody from nowhere to come into town and take the trophy that should have been mine. Especially some kid two years younger than I am.”
“I won fair and square,” Jody retorted through his tears, dropping to his knees beside the dead bird and touching its blood-spattered plumage. “Besides, you won the trophy in last year’s contest.”
“I could have had two, Farnsworth!” Hollis growled. “Around here, two is better than one, especially at my house. With one, it can be just luck. Nobody questions or forgets a two-time winner—especially my father! He would have given me a horse, Farnsworth, just like he did my brother for his two-year win at the county fair for his Jersey cows!”
Hollis turned and started down the path, then paused and burned a look over his shoulder at Jody. “Maybe now you’ll know how it feels to lose something.”
Jody scooped up a rock, jumped to his feet, and hurled it at Hollis’s retreating shape. “I hate you!” he screamed, his face twisting with grief and rage. “I hate you!”
Hollis turned back toward the screaming youth and smiled. “That’s good, Farnsworth. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
At home, Jody poured out the story to his father. “He killed Sir Lancelot to get back at me!” he sobbed. “Sir Lancelot was just a good old bird who didn’t do anything except make music.” Jody wiped at the tears that burned his eyes. “It wasn’t the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard, but it was music to me. I hate Hollis for what he did.”
His father sighed. “It was wrong what he did, Son, no doubt about it. But you can’t go around with all that hate in your heart. For one thing, it isn’t healthy; for another, it’s—”
Jody pulled away from his father. “I hate Hollis Fletcher, Dad. I wish he’d move away!”
In the weeks that followed, the resentment and bitterness in Jody Farnsworth’s heart grew.
“You can’t tell me that you’re happy, Jody,” his father commented one day as they walked down the dirt road toward Hennesey Lake, their fishing poles over their shoulders.
Jody didn’t look at his father. “Is it wrong for a kid not to be happy all the time?” he blurted, kicking at a pebble in the road. “Even Jesus got mad at the moneychangers in the temple. And when Lazarus died, He wept. Is it wrong to be like Him?”
“No,” his father returned, “but this is the first time we’ve gone fishing that you haven’t been happy.” After a long silence, his father continued. “You know, Jody, if harboring all that spite for Hollis was right and proper, you’d be feeling pretty good inside. But I’ve never seen you look so poorly.”
Jody’s eyes fired up like smoldering coals rekindled. “I’m just supposed to forget about what he did, is that it?”
“It would be hard to forget what happened,” Jody’s father admitted. “But you can forgive him for what he did.”
Jody’s eyes widened. “What? Forgive Hollis Fletcher for shooting Sir Lancelot? How am I supposed to do that?”
His father stopped and eyed the boy. “You have to want to. That makes it a whole lot easier.”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
Jody’s father set his fishing pole aside and squatted down to the boy’s level. “There are a lot of things in this life we don’t like doing that need doing. Your mother dreads wash day, especially in the middle of July. It’s a hot, exhausting, all-day job. But what do you think would happen if our clothes didn’t get cleaned on a regular basis? We’d go around looking and smelling like Amos Twigg’s cow barn. And last fall I dreaded having to shoot Jack. That old horse was in constant great pain, and nothing more could be done except put him out of his misery. It was the hardest thing I had to do in my life. But it needed doing. And that brings me to you, Jody.”
“Me?”
“For the past month you’ve been carrying around such poisonous thoughts that I worry about your soul.”
“I just can’t forgive him, Dad,” Jody said angrily.
Later that morning, as they sat fishing, Jody accidently snagged his finger on his hook while baiting his line. “Shall we leave that hook in your finger?” Jody’s father questioned.
“Of course not!” Jody winced, at the smart.
“Why not?”
“I want to get the hurt out so it will heal, of course.”
“It might be a good idea to let that other, bigger, hurt out, too, Jody.” His father helped dislodge the small hook from the boy’s finger, then dug in his fishing box for some ointment and applied it to Jody’s finger. “The best medicine for resentment is forgiveness. It lets out the poison so that the wound can heal.
“You know,” he added, “I was thinking about what you said earlier today about being like the Savior. There’s a lot to that. He loved everybody, didn’t He? Even His enemies. Don’t you suppose He was the best example of forgiveness, too, Jody?”
Jody’s eyes fell, then lifted. “You mean, while He hung suffering on the cross He forgave the soldiers who crucified Him?”
“Yes. And in Gethsemane He suffered for all our sins.”
Jody was silent a long spell. Then he stood up. “Can we go home now, Dad? There’s something I need to do. Something I want to do.”
Jody was halfway up the little rutted lane that led to the Fletcher farmhouse, when Hollis spotted him. Jody’s heart was pounding. He never imagined that something he wanted to do could be so hard.
Hollis met Jody a short distance from the house, his countenance as dark as a storm over the tablelands. “You came to tell my father what I did, didn’t you, Farnsworth?”
“No,” Jody answered. “I just came to tell you that I forgive you for what you did. I’m not saying it was right; I’m just saying that I don’t hate you.”
“What?”
“Staying mad isn’t going to change anything,” Jody said. “It just makes things worse.”
After an awkward silence, Hollis wondered aloud, “Why are you doing this?”
“It was just something that needed doing. Well,” Jody concluded after another uncomfortable silence, “I still have a few chores to finish up at home, so I guess I’d better be going. See you later.”
A few days later he returned to the mesa and searched the skies for another raven. “I know there are more of you up there somewhere,” he said out loud. “I don’t have any shiny stuff to give you—I’m all out—but—”
“I do,” a voice behind Jody said. Hollis stepped out of the brushwood. He pulled out a leather pouch he’d brought with him and displayed its contents to Jody. “Now we have a lot of shiny things to give those ravens!”
Jody stared at the multitude of shiny aggies, taws, glassies, cat’s eyes, and other bright-colored marbles. “Why are you doing this, Hollis?”
The older boy’s smile grew as big as Jody’s wonder. “It was just something that needed doing.”
Hollis set a bright yellow glassie on a rock, then sat next to Jody beneath the scrub oak, where the two boys waited and watched.