Gospel Story Finder

Another example of unfairness stems from a situation my wife, Ruth, encountered as a child. One day Ruth learned that her mother was taking a younger sister, Merla, to buy new shoes. Ruth complained, “Mom, it’s so unfair! Merla got the last new pair of shoes.”

Ruth’s mother asked, “Ruth, do your shoes fit?”

Ruth replied, “Well, yes.”

Ruth’s mother then said, “Merla’s shoes no longer fit.”

Ruth agreed that every child in the family should have shoes that fit. Although Ruth would have liked new shoes, her perception of being treated unfairly dissipated when she saw the circumstances through her mother’s eyes.

In closing may I share with you an example of one who determined early in life what his goals would be. I speak of Brother Clayton M. Christensen, a member of the Church who is a professor of business administration in the business school at Harvard University.
When he was 16 years old, Brother Christensen decided, among other things, that he would not play sports on Sunday. Years later, when he attended Oxford University in England, he played center on the basketball team. That year they had an undefeated season and went through to the British equivalent of what in the United States would be the NCAA basketball tournament.
They won their games fairly easily in the tournament, making it to the final four. It was then that Brother Christensen looked at the schedule and, to his absolute horror, saw that the final basketball game was scheduled to be played on a Sunday. He and the team had worked so hard to get where they were, and he was the starting center. He went to his coach with his dilemma. His coach was unsympathetic and told Brother Christensen he expected him to play in the game.
Prior to the final game, however, there was a semifinal game. Unfortunately, the backup center dislocated his shoulder, which increased the pressure on Brother Christensen to play in the final game. He went to his hotel room. He knelt down. He asked his Heavenly Father if it would be all right, just this once, if he played that game on Sunday. He said that before he had finished praying, he received the answer: “Clayton, what are you even asking me for? You know the answer.”
He went to his coach, telling him how sorry he was that he wouldn’t be playing in the final game. Then he went to the Sunday meetings in the local ward while his team played without him. He prayed mightily for their success. They did win.
That fateful, difficult decision was made more than 30 years ago. Brother Christensen has said that as time has passed, he considers it one of the most important decisions he ever made. It would have been very easy to have said, “You know, in general, keeping the Sabbath day holy is the right commandment, but in my particular extenuating circumstance, it’s okay, just this once, if I don’t do it.” However, he says his entire life has turned out to be an unending stream of extenuating circumstances, and had he crossed the line just that once, then the next time something came up that was so demanding and critical, it would have been so much easier to cross the line again. The lesson he learned is that it is easier to keep the commandments 100 percent of the time than it is 98 percent of the time.

But finding religious peace had its price: “It was soon reported that I had become a Mormon; and I was ridiculed and called old Joe Smith and old Brigham Young, and they were accused of many things as well as myself.” Friends, relatives, customers, and former Sunday school teachers tried to “show me my error.” During most of 1855 he accompanied another new priest (later to be his father-in-law), Samual Gentry, to conduct open-air preaching services in surrounding villages. William’s relatives sometimes attended these meetings to hear, as they said, “little Billy preach,” although Brother Gentry did the preaching and William assisted by giving prayers. Some relatives ridiculed him openly, but such treatment only made William “cling with a stronger tenacity to the principles of truth.”

May I just offer one or two more thoughts. One of our Latter-day Saint men during World War II was over in England. He had gone to an officer’s club where they were holding a riotous kind of celebration. He noticed off to the side a young British officer who didn’t seem to be enjoying himself at all. So he walked over to him and said, “You don’t seem to be enjoying this kind of a party.” And this young British officer straightened himself a few inches taller than he was before and replied, “No, sir, I can’t engage in this kind of a party, because, you see, I belong to the royal household of England.”

As our Latter-day Saint boy walked away he said to himself, “Neither can I, because I belong to the royal household of the kingdom of God.” Do you realize that, you young people? There are things that you cannot and must not do if you remember your heritage.

A few years ago, a returned missionary who served in one of the Mexican missions shared with me a classic experience that illustrates the “diligence” principle in the acquisition of faith and sacred knowledge. I had conducted the stake president’s interview before his mission and sent his papers to Church headquarters. I remember that interview with him. He was 6 foot 5 inches tall and 255 pounds. He was one of the first two young men recruited from my children’s high school to play football at Brigham Young University. He was a fine young man, clean-cut and worthy in every way. I remember being impressed with his potential. I could tell from the answers he gave to the questions I asked that he was honest, but there was one crack in his armor. I knew that his testimony was based on the faith of others rather than on his own witness. However, he related the following story to me during his release interview at the end of his mission.

As his mission began, Elder Stone worked energetically with his companion. Frequently he was called upon to give the first lesson. In the lesson it was necessary for him to tell the investigators about the appearance of the Father and the Son to the boy Joseph in the Sacred Grove and then bear witness of its truthfulness. After bearing testimony a number of times, his conscience began to bother him. Although he believed the story, he did not know that it actually happened. He had not been there, nor had he received his own witness. How could he tell others that the First Vision really happened? As doubts began to multiply and replace his belief and as the pains of conscience increased, he told his companion that he could no longer be a missionary. He was going home. He could not serve as a witness to something he did not know. His companion responded, “Elder Stone, why don’t you follow the counsel given the investigators? You need to study and pray more diligently. Put Moroni’s promise to the test. Exercise your faith, and you will receive an answer. Stay with me for a few more weeks.”

Elder Stone agreed to stay and put Moroni’s promise to the test. A few weeks passed, the missionary worked harder, prayed more often, was more attentive in his reading, but no witness came. Finally, during an interview with the mission president, Elder Stone expressed his frustrations and indicated his desire to return home. He could not continue. A wise mission president counseled, “Elder, do not give up! You have a desire to believe. If you continue faithful in your calling for a few more weeks, the Lord will answer your prayers. I promise you!”

Elder Stone agreed to return to his proselyting area for a few more weeks. Again, days and then weeks passed with no change in his feelings. It was difficult. One morning as they were knocking on doors, a woman answered and invited them to return when her husband and children would be home. As they left the small house, Elder Stone said to his companion, “I’m not giving the lesson!”

His companion responded, “Elder, I’ll give the first portion of the discussion, but I want you to tell the Joseph Smith story.”

Finally Elder Stone agreed, even though that was the part that bothered him. From the time they left the woman’s house until they returned a day or two later, the missionary used every spare minute to read and pray. He wanted a witness before entering the home. But when the appointed hour came, he still had not received a witness. He had read diligently, he had prayed almost continuously, but there were no special feelings. How could he bear witness when he did not know?

The father answered the door and ushered the missionaries inside. There on a dirt floor sat nine children, and the father and mother took their places behind them. Elder Stone reported that the size of the home was not much larger than his bedroom in Utah. The humble circumstances only added to his discomfort. The senior companion began the lesson, telling the family that there is a God, that we are his children, and that he loves us. He then explained the mission of the Savior, how God sent his Son to earth to atone for our sins and to make possible our return to our heavenly home. He explained the role of prophets and bore witness that God works through prophets today. He then turned the lesson over to Elder Stone.

My missionary friend began the story of the 14-year-old Joseph. He told the family about the religious confusion that existed in Palmyra in the 1820s, how Joseph listened to the various ministers proclaiming different versions of Christianity. He told them about Joseph’s experience in reading James 1:5, where James states unequivocally: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”

The missionary related the impact that the passage had on Joseph—that it struck him with more power than had any other scripture, and that this caused him to reflect on it again and again. Finally, Joseph decided to put James to the test. He selected a grove of trees near his father’s farm and went there on a beautiful spring day to pray. Being alone, he knelt down and offered up the feelings of his heart. The elder told the family how a dark power came over Joseph, almost choking the life out of the young boy. Exerting all of his powers, Joseph continued to pray, and then, suddenly, a pillar of light descended out of the heavens directly above him. The darkness was dispelled, and in the midst of the light were two personages. One called Joseph by name and, pointing to the other, said: “This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” (See JS—H 1:1–17.)

At this point in the story, Elder Stone said that a warm feeling began to stir his soul—one he had never felt before. The warmth was deep inside and soon enveloped him. Tears welled up in his eyes. His throat became full, and he could hardly speak. He was embarrassed and ducked his head until he could regain his composure. When he looked up, he noticed tears in the eyes of the parents and the children. They were experiencing the same feelings and warmth of Spirit that he was feeling. He finished the lesson with a conviction born of a spiritual witness that Joseph Smith saw the Father and the Son. Elder Stone’s testimony had shifted from one of belief to a knowledge of the First Vision. As Elder Stone finished sharing his experience with me, he said: “President, I know that Joseph saw the Father and the Son. I did not have a problem in the mission field after that experience. I have my own witness.”

As I listened to the story’s conclusion, I thought how efficient God is: he got 12 birds with one Stone! The parents, the nine children, and a missionary were all touched by the Holy Ghost, and a desire to believe was transformed into knowledge. More than that, God is efficient in another way. If a person has a witness of the Father and Son’s visit to young Joseph, he or she has a foundation for believing and accepting other gospel principles. The Word of Wisdom, tithing, the law of chastity, and all other principles revealed through the Prophet Joseph Smith are true. Once one feels the good seed growing and swelling inside, one has a small amount of knowledge that forms the basis for further growth.

While getting ready to leave the house for a four-week summer vacation, my family and I set out to make the house completely spotless. That meant it was the time of year again for me to clean everything out from under my bed—the accumulation of a year’s worth of junk that I had put out of sight and subsequently forgotten. I dreaded the task, but it had to be done. So after cranking up my music and setting it on “shuffle,” I got to work.
I spent the next few hours on my stomach, reaching as far as I could underneath my bed and pulling out handfuls of old school papers, Halloween candy wrappers, my sister’s doll accessories, and countless other knickknacks. I dragged everything out onto my bedroom floor. When I was satisfied that not a crumb was left under my bed, I turned and found I had thoroughly trashed the rest of my room.
Exasperated, I began the seemingly impossible task of sorting the trash from the keepsakes. Near the bottom of the pile, I found three papers stapled together and folded into fourths. I unfolded the bundle to see if it was something I wanted to keep or something I wanted to toss into the recycling bin.
Immediately I recognized the letter I was holding. I sat on the edge of my bed to read it. The date at the top of the first page was my 12th birthday—the day I became old enough to enter the Young Women program, the day I became old enough to go to the temple and perform baptisms for the dead. My dad had written the three-page letter and given it to me along with my presents. At the time I received the letter, I didn’t even read the whole thing through, I admit. But now, reading it five years later, I knew that it was the best gift I had been given that year.
Lately I had started to feel a decline in my desire to read the scriptures and to go to Church activities. Sometimes at night I would collapse on my bed and go right to sleep rather than take just a minute to pray. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in the gospel; I did believe. But I wasn’t acting on my beliefs. I wasn’t going out of my way to serve others or to do the things I had been taught to do. I was struggling in my decisions, in limbo between following the world’s ways and following God’s ways.
Finding my dad’s letter again made the pathway clear. Two things about the letter really jumped out at me. First, after expressing his own love and testimony of the gospel—and adding that he knew I loved the gospel too and wanted to live righteously—my dad shared this advice:
“You become what you think about. If you spend your entire day thinking about the things the world thinks about, you will become like the world. It’s impossible to become anything that you don’t think about. If you want to become a righteous daughter of God who understands the Savior and His mission, you must study and think about those things.”
When I read that passage, it hit me that I hardly spent any of my time thinking about the eternal plan. I would think more often about what was going to happen in the next chapter of the novel I was reading than about the words of the scriptures. When I daydreamed, it wasn’t about the celestial kingdom or about serving others but about what I would do with my friends that weekend.
The next thing my dad wrote also hit me:
“The captain on the biggest ship in the ocean needs three things if he wants to get his cargo to the port: he needs to have a reliable map that shows him the way; he needs to believe that the map is reliable; and he needs to actually drive the ship in the direction indicated on the map. It’s the same for you. You have the map already. You need to have faith in Heavenly Father’s plan for achieving eternal life (belief in the map), and you need to work every day toward your destination (follow the map).”
At the moment that I finished reading those words, my music, still set on “shuffle,” switched to an Especially for Youth album. The lyrics to one song, “Stand in Holy Places,” brought tears to my eyes.
The song and the words of the letter, combined with the sudden sense of the Spirit, made me realize that, just as I needed to clean the junk out from under the bed, I needed to clean out the worldly things in my life and live in the uncluttered, spotless ways of the Lord. Like my chore that day, it would be difficult and would take time, but in the end it would be worth it.
Who knew that such a spiritual awakening could occur because of housework? The Lord works in mysterious ways. As I went back to cleaning my room, I made a silent covenant with the Lord that I would clean up my life, too, and strive to live how he would have me live.

The next day Kipp and I rode out to Carlos’s place again. He was working in his garden. Kipp and I gave him a hand. He told us stories of when he was a young man. He had left home when he was twelve years old to work as a ranch hand, first in Mexico and finally in Arizona. At noon we went into his little house and ate beans and tortillas again.
Kipp and I made at least one visit a day to Carlos’s place. Sometimes we’d help him work around his house. Other times we’d just sit in the shade and he’d talk. Two days before Christmas, I asked him, “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“I’m too old for Christmas. It is for children and families.”
Kipp and I were quiet as we rode Bill back to the barn. As we stripped off the bridle and saddle, I said, “Carlos can’t spend Christmas alone.”
Kipp nodded. “We thought things were rough for us. He doesn’t have anybody. And he won’t have any presents.”
“Aunt Clara,” I asked as we burst through the front door, “do you suppose we could invite Carlos over for Christmas?”
Aunt Clara sighed. “We used to invite him every year, but the last few years he hasn’t come. He says he doesn’t care for Christmas anymore.”
“Can’t we try?” Kipp pleaded. “Spending Christmas in that little hut can’t be any fun. Christmas is for everybody. This year we can be his family, and he can be ours.”
Uncle Hank thought our idea was a good one, so the next morning we went to Tucson. It took us most of the day, but when we had finished, we had two blankets, a pair of work boots, a new hat, and a basket of fruit and nuts for Carlos.
“Now, how are we going to get him to celebrate with us?” Uncle Hank asked as we drove down the dirt road to the ranch.
“Kipp and I will worry about that,” I said with a grin.
It was turning dark, but there was a bright, full moon when Kipp and I saddled old Bill and headed for Carlos’s place. As we rode up, we saw a little light from his two windows. When he opened his door, we shouted, “Merry Christmas, Carlos!” I added, “Grab a jacket—we’re going to be late.”
“Late? Late for what?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. The party’s ready to start.”
“I thought I told you that I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore.”
Kipp said, “But we can’t celebrate Christmas without you. This year we don’t have family except you, Uncle Hank, and Aunt Clara. You have to come! You can ride old Bill. We’ll walk.”
Kipp and I had to do some more fast talking, but we finally got Carlos out of his house and onto Bill; then the three of us left for the ranch house.
Aunt Clara had a stocking for each of us, bulging with candy and nuts. We sang Christmas carols, read the Christmas story from the Bible, and snacked on popcorn, candy, and apple cider. Toward the end of the evening, we gave him our gifts.
Carlos was like a little kid! He admired the blankets and fruit basket. Then he tried on his new shoes and hat and marched around the house, studying himself in the hall mirror. Big, happy tears trickled down his cheeks.
When Kipp and I took Carlos back to his place, he paused in the doorway and said, “Maybe I am still a child, because Christmas feels good tonight. Or maybe it is because I was with family.” He grinned. “Feliz Navidad, muchachos. Y muchas gracias! (Merry Christmas, boys. And many thanks!)”
Kipp and I rode Bill back to the ranch house in silence. “You know, Jacob,” Kipp said quietly, “a week ago we thought that this was going to be our worst Christmas ever.”
“Yeah,” I answered, “but this Christmas was special, and I’m going to remember it more than any other.”

I hope each young man who has been ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood is given a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling, as well as opportunities to magnify that calling. I received such an opportunity as a deacon when the bishopric asked that I take the sacrament to a shut-in who lived about a mile from our chapel. That special Sunday morning, as I knocked on Brother Wright’s door and heard his feeble voice call, “Come in,” I entered not only his humble cottage but also a room filled with the Spirit of the Lord. I approached Brother Wright’s bedside and carefully placed a piece of the bread to his lips. I then held the cup of water, that he might drink. As I departed, I saw tears in his eyes as he said, “God bless you, my boy.” And God did bless me—with an appreciation for the sacred emblems of the sacrament and for the priesthood which I held.

A friend of mine named Bret went to a local ski resort with some friends to ride the Alpine Slide, a hillside attraction patterned after a toboggan run. There were two parallel tracks on the slide, and one of Bret’s friends wanted to race. They waited until no one was in front of them, then pushed off down the mountain.
Halfway down the slide they came to a sharp curve with a warning sign, “Caution, Slow.” Bret thought this was his chance to pull ahead, so he approached the curve at full speed.
The toboggan jumped the track. Thrown free, Bret slammed into the hillside, then slid a long way over tough, rocky terrain. He wasn’t dressed for protection, and his entire right side was scraped from his ankle to his wrist.
That evening his dad soaked Bret in the bathtub so he could peel the clothing away from the torn skin. Bret fainted from the pain. He spent the next three days in bed taking medication, wondering if the agony would ever end.
“I learned a lesson I’ll never forget,” Bret now says. “I couldn’t believe how bad it hurt and how long it took to get better. The people who put up those warning signs knew what they were doing.”
Bret had started out doing something that seemed safe and fun. And that’s exactly what it should have been. But then he deliberately ignored the warnings, got going too fast, and before he knew it, the situation took control of him.

Several years ago in a temple in Central America, the wife of one of our now-emeritus General Authorities assisted a father, a mother, and their children in receiving eternal covenants in the sealing room, where the temple mirrors are located. As they concluded and faced those mirrors, she noticed there was a face in the mirror that was not in the room. She inquired of the mother and learned that a daughter had passed away and accordingly was not physically present. The deceased daughter was then included by proxy in the sacred ordinance.27 Never underestimate the assistance provided in temples from the other side of the veil.

Midalys
Some people used to treat Abner poorly because he is a member of the Church. They also said, “You shouldn’t run a business with your wife.” But I say, “Of course we can do this together!” In truth, this has been a great opportunity for the two of us. He helps me with the house and the children, and I help him run the shop.
God loves and guides us. Returning to Puerto Rico was the right thing for our family. This was Heavenly Father’s perfect plan for us.

A mother overheard her son, four, tell his brother, six, “I don’t believe in Jesus.” The brother responded, “You have really hurt my feelings.” Sensing a need, the mother reinforced the younger boy’s understanding of the Savior. She placed a picture of the Redeemer in his room and continued to teach all of her children more about the Master. Sometime later, the younger son commented, “Mom, you’re my best friend—next to Jesus.”

However, just because we have a spirit of gratitude, faith in the Savior, and pray sincerely does not mean we will not have trials and hard times. We learn and grow from the experiences we have here in mortality. I grew up with wonderful parents that exemplified the gospel. My mother taught Spanish and my father was a civil engineer. My father was big and strong. When I was young I loved to have him throw me up in the air then catch me laughing. He carried me on his shoulders and showed me the world. Later he carried his grandchildren the same way.
When I was about six I realized that he was one of the kindest people in the world. One day as we stood in line for an ice cream cone he left me with my sister and walked past the angry customers to the front of the line. He quietly told the frustrated clerk that he would pay the difference between the handful of pennies a messy little boy had spread on the counter and the food the boy had ordered. It was a small thing really, maybe a few dollars, but it made a huge impact on me. I first began to understand the love of the Savior because of the love my father showed.
About a month ago my father died. We had 12 hours from the time that the Life Flight helicopter landed at the hospital for my family to gather. Machines surrounded his bed in the critical care unit. They buzzed and cried out while they traced the electronic patterns of his failing body. At the end, I stood at his bedside with my mother and my sisters, my husband and my children, and we wept. At that moment everything else fell away—all concern with pretense, or positions, or possessions did not matter. The only things that remained important were the covenants that held my family together and the Savior's victory over death.
The next Friday, after work, I walked along the snow-packed streets of Rexburg. I would like to thank the many BYU-Idaho students who stopped to offer me a ride. I'm sure I looked cold walking in the snow and slush, but despite the skirt I was wearing I just felt the need to walk and think. No one could see the invisible hurt and sorrow I was carrying. When I looked up through the swirling flakes I could see the temple, creamy white in the snow. But instead of peace, questions machine-gunned into my mind, not because I doubt, but because I hurt. Where was my father? Is the gospel real? Can these covenants really keep us safe? How will I help my mother? Where is hope? Will this winter ever end? By the time I got home I was numb, even more in my heart than in my toes. I talked, walked, made dinner, and slept numb.
In the morning the sun rose. Outside, as I ran past the snowfields, answers came. Past the despair and pain that seemed to hang in the air, I could breathe in the hope given through the Atonement. Through the Savior's sacrifice my heart could beat, my lungs could fill, and blood could circulate without collapsing under the weight of forever losing someone I loved, because of the Atonement; because of the covenants my father and mother made and spent their lives keeping; because of the covenants I have made and am striving to keep, we can be united as a family again. The Savior and Redeemer knows perfectly how to succor us.

I used to listen to music at every possible moment. It got me up for seminary and then on to school. I couldn’t drive unless I had a CD to play. The thing was, the music I used to listen to was not happy. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it didn’t make me feel good.
I listened to it because it was cool, and because I always listened to it, I never felt good. It changed my attitude about everything I did, the way I saw the world and the people in it. I didn’t know how to get out of this cycle of negative emotion. It was a part of my identity, and there seemed to be no way out.
When my brother left on his mission, I was impressed by his willingness to adhere to the strict lifestyle so readily. He wouldn’t be able to choose whatever he wanted to read or listen to for two years. I thought about my music, and how I could be doing so much better. I decided that if he could go two years only listening to hymns and Primary songs, then I could at least reconsider my own listening habits.
It was hard, but I immediately gave away some CDs and threw away others. The music that I was so attached to was part of my high school identity, but thinking about my brother’s example gave me courage and resolve to change.
For nine months straight I listened to nothing but classical, instrumental, and easy listening. I noticed very quickly that I was happier, I thought more clearly, and my days seemed to go smoother. I was more prepared to feel the Spirit and learn in seminary each morning. My entire outlook on life changed for the better.
After my brother returned, I gradually started listening to some popular music, but I gravitated to positive, upbeat, and clean songs. Going through that musical cleansing period made me more sensitive to how music affected the way I thought and felt. I chose music that made me feel good instead of what was considered popular or cool. I know that these choices brought the Spirit back into my life, and because I have the Spirit with me, I feel lighter, happier, and I am able to enjoy life more fully.

Mrs. Burton always makes the VIP announcement at school the very last thing on Friday afternoon. “VIP” means very important person, and you have to turn in all your work and be a really good citizen all week long if you want to be the VIP.
I thought I would explode when she said, “Our VIP for next week is Margie Martin.” Me! I was VIP! My face must have turned as red as my hair when she said that. Everyone looked at me, my best friend, Susan, grinned at me, and I felt great.
The VIP of the week gets to be class leader and has lots of responsibilities. On Monday morning I got to school early, just in case Mrs. Burton had any special jobs for me to do. As I went to hang up my jacket and put my lunch box in the back of the classroom, I saw Mrs. Burton talking to a new boy. He didn’t look like much. His hair stood up in back like a rooster’s tail, and he almost didn’t have a chin. He was wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt, and his sneakers were all holey. Besides looking kind of grubby, he looked mad.
I stood by my desk and waited for Mrs. Burton to notice me.
She saw me and said, “Margie, I’m glad you’re here early today. This is Delbert Wiggins. He’s new to our school, and since you are this week’s VIP, he is your responsibility.”
“Hi,” I said.
Delbert Wiggins didn’t say anything. He just looked at the floor.
“First,” said Mrs. Burton, “please take Delbert around the school. Show him where the cafeteria and the rest rooms are. The bell will ring soon, so hurry back. We have a lot to do today.” She started listing assignments on the chalkboard.
“Come on, Delbert,” I said, trying to sound friendly.
We started down the hall, and Delbert muttered, “There’s no way I’m going to be your responsibility!”
“What?” I asked.
He stopped and glared at me. “I said I’m not your responsibility. I’m going outside, so buzz off, hotshot.”
“But I have to show you the cafeteria and—”
“No way. Get lost.” He looked around, and when he saw the exit door at the end of the hallway, he ran for it.
“Wait!” I yelled. “You’re not supposed to run in the halls.”
But he went out that door like a horse bolting. I stood there a minute, then went back to the classroom.
Mrs. Burton was still writing on the chalkboard. She saw me and asked, “Where’s Delbert?”
I felt terrible. I had failed my first job as VIP. “He said he wouldn’t be my responsibility, and he went outside.”
“All right, Margie,” said Mrs. Burton, sitting at her desk and scribbling a note. “Thank you for trying. Please take this message to the office. Wait for an answer, then hurry back. It’s almost time for the bell.”
I got back to class just as the bell rang. And there was Delbert Wiggins in the desk behind mine! Being VIP isn’t so wonderful after all, I thought. I put the note from the office on Mrs. Burton’s desk and sat down without looking at Delbert.
Mrs. Burton introduced him to the class. Then she announced, “Today we will have the classroom spelling bee to determine who will represent the fifth grade in the school spelling bee on Friday. I hope you’ll all do your best. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the fifth grade won? It’s never happened before.”
Susan raised her hand. “Mrs. Burton,” she said, “why don’t we save time and choose Margie? She’s the best speller in the class.”
“The rules say that there has to be a classroom spelling bee, Susan. Everyone, stand, please. If you miss a word, sit down.”
We spelled words for nearly an hour, and finally everyone was sitting down except—Delbert Wiggins! He beat me, I thought. And just because I mixed up the e and the i in foreign. I felt sick. This awful, new boy was going to represent the fifth grade on Friday!
Well, it was a terrible week. Delbert wouldn’t be my responsibility. He wouldn’t let me help him study the spelling list for Friday. Every time I tried to help him, he said, “Buzz off, get lost.” He called me “birdbrain” because my last name is Martin, and he made fun of my red hair.
Finally I got mad. I stamped my foot and yelled at him, “All right—I’ll get lost. But I hope you lose! You don’t deserve to win!” Then I went to the girl’s rest room and hid in a stall and cried.
On Friday the whole school was in the auditorium for the spelling bee. It lasted forever. But for the first time, the fifth grade won! That Delbert Wiggins spelled down everyone, even the eighth-graders!
Our class went wild. Everyone crowded around Delbert as if he was a movie star, and said things like, “You’re really great!” “Terrific job!” “Boy, can you spell!” Everyone but me. I just stood against the wall and watched. I thought, I won’t tell him he’s great. I’m no fan of his.
“Margie,” said a quiet voice beside me. It was Mrs. Burton. “I expect it’s hard for you, but try to be a good sport. Maybe this success will help Delbert to be a nicer person.”
Ha! I thought. But all I said was, “I don’t think it will.”
After a minute I had another thought. I asked, “Am I still responsible for him?”
“Till the new VIP is announced,” said Mrs. Burton.
“OK,” I said. I took a deep breath and squared up my shoulders the way I do when I have to give a speech in class. I went over to where the kids were still bunched around Delbert, and pushed my way through them till I was in front of him. I said, “Congratulations. You did a good job.”
He looked surprised. His face got all pink. He rubbed his hand over his hair. Then he scowled and said, “Thanks.” He looked at the floor and turned away a little bit, then sort of looked sideways at me. And he smiled! “Thanks,” he repeated.
“You’re welcome,” I said. And for the first time since becoming responsible for Delbert Wiggins, I was glad I got to be VIP.

Brothers and sisters, I need to start with a little confession. My wife, Ann, and I are tyrants. We want our three children to play the piano, and we stop just short of shackling their ankles to the bench to make sure that happens. The other night as we were driving home from an especially dismal piano lesson, I was haranguing my two sons over their sad performance and obvious lack of preparation. As soon as I took a breath, my 11-year-old seized the opportunity to adjust my thinking.
“Okay, Dad, I had a bad lesson tonight. But, do you know what? I don’t care.”
Where had he learned to express himself so clearly? My firstborn apparently possesses not an ounce of desire to excel at the piano, in spite of years of coaxing and persuasion from his parents. Can any of you relate? Does “You will thank me later for making you practice” sound familiar to you? Or “You will be grateful you learned to play the hymns when you hit the mission field.” Ever heard that?
I am counting on Adam’s heart softening toward the piano as he matures, because he is actually quite talented. I have the feeling that he will go through the same cycle of change that I did, eventually developing a very personal, internal desire to master the piano for the love of music and what it does for his soul. But, for now, my wife and I accept the fact that he will need steady external motivation if we expect to see any progress. Adam will practice the piano because we force him to.

The boys in the back of the bus chanted mean words as Amanda and her brother Hyrum stood to leave. The chanting wasn’t loud enough for the bus driver to hear, but the other kids heard and started to laugh and point.
Amanda’s face reddened. She could feel the anger rise within her. Those older boys were always making trouble. She turned around and told them to stop it, but they laughed and continued saying mean things. Hyrum nudged her to keep moving toward the exit.
When Amanda and her brother finally got off the bus, Amanda thought the teasing would stop. Instead the older boys kept yelling through the windows. Amanda wanted to yell mean things back, but Hyrum whispered, “Just keep walking.”
When the bus was finally out of sight, Amanda turned to her brother and exploded. “Didn’t those boys make you mad?”
“Of course they made me mad,” Hyrum said. “But they act worse if we show how much it bugs us.”
“It does bug me. We should tell Mom and Dad,” Amanda said.
“We will as soon as we get home,” promised her brother. “Did you know this sort of thing happened to me last year? When I was in middle school and you were still in fourth grade, some boys at school were saying rude things to me. Mom told me to hear the hidden message.”
Amanda wrinkled her face. “What hidden message?”
“Those boys are saying one thing with their mouths and hands, but Mom says the real message they’re sending is they don’t feel good about themselves. So they try to feel more powerful by being mean to others. My teacher said the same thing. She said people who bully others are really insecure.”
“I guess those guys are really, really insecure then!”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Hyrum said. “They announced it to the whole bus!”
Amanda thought about Hyrum’s words as they turned onto their street. Hearing the hidden message may not have changed the situation, but it helped her not feel so angry about it. “Come on, I’ll race you to the house!” she challenged her brother, and she sprinted down the sidewalk. She wasn’t going to let the boys ruin the rest of her day.

“Father grew up on a farm, the oldest of eleven children. He has always taught us the value of hard work. He tells us of the fun they used to have on bobsled rides when he was a young boy and about how beautiful his mother was, especially her long hair which she brushed every night. She never came out of her room in the morning until she was immaculately dressed. He said his mother never raised her voice, as far as he could remember, except one time when Father caught his finger in the wringer washer and she ran outdoors shouting for his father to come in quickly to help.”

Illustration by Wilson Ong
I was watching TV when my mother called to tell me that her brother, my 92-year-old Uncle Floyd, and his wife, Aunt Millie, were sick with the flu and had no food in their house. Neither was well enough to go to the store to get anything. Uncle Floyd and Aunt Millie had no other family nearby, so they had no one to help them.
My mother wondered if I could help. I am the only member of the Church in that part of my family, and I had been called on in situations before. The problem was that I lived in Utah, USA, and my aunt and uncle were in Hemet, California, USA.
I told my mom to give me a few minutes to think about what to do. I had a friend who lived near Hemet, so I called and asked if she knew anyone in Hemet. She told me about a lady she served with at the Redlands California Temple named Sister Dunn who was a Relief Society president there.
When Sister Dunn answered the phone, I began, “Hi, Sister Dunn. You don’t know me, but my name is Nancy Little, and I live in Utah. I’m a member of the Church, but my aunt and uncle who live in Hemet are not. They are ill and have no food in their house.” I told her where they lived, which was far from where she was, and explained that I just wanted to get information about a restaurant near them that might deliver food.
Instead, Sister Dunn insisted that she and her husband would take food to my aunt and uncle. They happened to have some homemade soup and bread, and her mother had just made cookies. I protested but she persisted.
A few hours later, Sister Dunn called and assured me that all was well. My mother called later to tell me what Uncle Floyd had said of their visit. He said, “Angels arrived at my home named Mr. and Mrs. Dunn. They came with armloads of food: fruits, vegetables, homemade soup, bread, and cookies. They were the best cookies I have ever eaten.” The Dunns visited with my uncle, helped them with their needs, and then Brother Dunn carried my frail Aunt Millie, who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, from her bed to a chair in the kitchen so that Sister Dunn could feed her.
When Uncle Floyd called my mother to tell her about the visit, he wept. He said he had never met such kind and caring people. He told my mom that I was lucky to live in Utah and be surrounded by “all those Mormons.”
Four days after the visit, Uncle Floyd walked out to his mailbox and slipped and fell. He hit his head and died four days later. With the exception of a homecare nurse, Brother and Sister Dunn were the last people my uncle saw before he died.
I am grateful for the Christlike example of one of my Relief Society sisters who lived hundreds of miles away, someone I have still never met, who helped my aunt and uncle.

One of the reasons Kristi liked working at Lake Susan each summer was because of the fantastic selection of green growing things there. That’s what she always did on her day off—go after more specimens for her collection.
This afternoon was no different at all. She was nudging her little trowel around the delicate roots of some Houstonia caerulea (or if you prefer, some bluets) when she noticed the pair of boots. Lifting her eyes she followed the boots until they joined the jeans, and the jeans joined the shirt, and the shirt opened into the most tooth-filled grin she’d seen. This was all crowned by a flop of sun-blonde hair that was being flipped back as the grin turned into a laugh.
“Hi there, Flora. What do you have there?”
“Flora? My name is Kristi; these are some Houston … some bluets. Who are you?” she added, as she suddenly realized she’d never seen him before.
“Yeah, Flora, like flora and fauna. My name is Nils. Hmmm, Kristi.” He speculated for a moment and then pronounced, “Flora fits better.”
By dark she had found out that he worked down at the marina giving water skiing lessons, that his whole name was Nils Frederick Cramer IV, and that he had a Piper Cub airplane he planned to take her flying in next week. He was also in law school and had an opening in his family’s firm when he finished his degree next spring.
They had a beautiful summer. He taught her to water ski and she taught him about her plants. For Kristi summer had always been a period of timelessness. She had never been able to relate anything that happened in the summer to the rest of her life. This year was even more a fairy tale. With Nils at her side she skimmed across the waters of Lake Susan. She soared above the mountains in his plane. Sometimes they went down to the village to attend a dance or a movie, and with him she never got too tired to run, laughing through the moonlight, back to the resort. Sometimes they just hiked around the silent forests by the lake, drinking in the verdant magnificence. It was perfect, almost.
One Sunday evening when she had just returned from sacrament meeting in the village, they were sitting on the dock, watching the fish play with the flies.
“Flora,” Nils began, “there’s one thing about you I’ll never understand. How can a girl of your intellect and awareness be such a religious fanatic?”
Kristi had been carefully avoiding the subject of the Church for most of the summer. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her membership, she just felt that it wasn’t something she could successfully discuss with Nils. It was odd, actually. She had always been an aggressive member-missionary. But Nils was one person whose life she didn’t want to start tampering with. Besides, she was going to enjoy this summer and not clutter it up with the Church. They would never see each other again after August, and so it didn’t matter. As long as she kept herself in tune, then what Nils believed was irrelevant. And she was doing a fairly good job of it, if she had to say so herself.
“Well, Nils, it’s just something I’ve always known to be true, and I can’t really explain it. I’ll never change because I can’t deny the truth.”
“But Flora, it’s so immature. It’s out of character for you to cling to such a silly little-girl thing as Sunday School. I used to go to a church when I was a kid too, but it’s all over now. I grew up. I don’t believe in Santa Claus anymore, either. So what?”
Kristi just changed the subject so she could think for a while. It never did occur to her to really try to explain the Church to him. She just kept thinking that things had been going so well until he brought up the Church; so she just arranged to keep it out of any conversations they had after that one. It was a strain trying to be a good member while still avoiding it, but she thought she was doing quite nicely. Besides, summer was ending fast, and when she got to school, she could forget Nils and really get back into things again. In the meantime she meant to enjoy the little paradise they had created.
Fall came with a jolt. They both knew it would eventually; but it was hard getting used to the idea that they had come to the end. Nils kept insisting that this wasn’t the end and that he’d write or call—he did want to see her again. Kristi silently figured she knew his type. Besides, it really couldn’t be continued once they left this setting. She couldn’t define it, but she knew it would never work.
School gathered her in with the familiar excitement of stepping into the new routine of different classes and different roommates. Carma and Gail, two old standbys from last year, were living next door in the dorm, and the three of them often did things together. One night they attended a movie that Kristi had seen with Nils that summer. It wasn’t even a very good one, but she became so moody that Carma insisted on being told the whole story. When Kristi finished, Carma said,
“Look, Kristi, you’re right. It couldn’t have lasted at all. I really think you should have taken him to church or maybe had the missionaries see him, though. But that’s all behind you now. We have to cure you and get your old cheery self back. What you need is a date with my cousin Del. Now I’ll call him up tomorrow and …” They walked home scheming, but Kristi was silent, thinking about how disappointing school was and how perfectly boring this winter was beginning to be.
She went through the motions of living and eventually decided that she was quite normal but that she had matured a little and was able to see how foolish all the enthusiasm she’d exhibited before was. When she came home from school one afternoon and saw the roses on her desk, she never even suspected Nils. The card read, “To my lovely Flora. Happy Anniversary, four months ago today. Love, Nils.”
He called that night, and she couldn’t believe that they had forty-five minutes worth of things to say to each other. He called her every week after that and sent her all sorts of ridiculous mail. Once she told him that he had to stop the phone calls because they must be costing him too much.
“Flora, my love, money doesn’t matter where you, my sweet, are involved.”
“Nils, be realistic. Your vocabulary is straight from the fourteenth century. You cannot possibly afford it.”
“But Flora, realistically, I can afford it, and besides, I think I love you, and how will I ever find out if I don’t talk to you?” And then, as usual, “When can you come and see me?”
And, also as usual, “Never; you have to stop calling; you have to stop writing; you have to stop missing me; you cannot love me. It won’t work, Nils; we’re too different. Please.”
He never believed her, though. She wondered what she’d have to do to convince him. After she hung up the phone, her roommate Jill offered to pray and fast with her for a solution. Kristi politely, but coldly, made some remark about being perfectly capable of solving her own problems. Once in a while she found herself thinking that it was rather comforting to know that somewhere out there someone cared that much about her. Someone as unique as Nils thought about her often.
One afternoon she decided to go next door and visit Carma and Gail. As she started around the corner, she heard Gail’s voice coming through the open door.
“I have noticed, Carma. I really have. She’s just different. You know how fervent Kristi always was about her testimony. It seems faded or something. We definitely need to help …” Kristi just slipped back into her own room, bitter thoughts filling her mind about fickle friends minding their own business.
Her birthday came on a Thursday. Nils hadn’t called for two weeks and no mail had come for nearly a month. To add to her depression, it had snowed all day. The only thing she wanted to do was to go back home where the sun shone and no one had even heard of snow. She was getting tired of reality. Summer seemed so far away, and she was so depressed by the way this winter was turning out. There seemed to be nothing in the world that could cheer her up that evening. She had just resigned herself to homework when the phone rang. A voice told her that she had a special delivery package at the dorm office and asked that she and several friends come down to claim it. The several friends and Kristi managed to get the 3-by-4-foot crate back to her room with much difficulty. They struggled with the cover, and when they finally pried it off, she couldn’t believe it. An orange tree, with tiny, greenish oranges on it, stood in a pot in the middle of her floor. Tied to one branch was a card that said:
“Happiness is: California for your birthday. I love you, Flora. Nils.”
At eight-thirty he called.
“Pack your bags, my dear. The flying ace is coming tomorrow to take you back for a wonderful weekend in the sun. And now for the big surprise. You know that television game show you like so well, ‘It’s Up to You’? Well, a friend of mine gave me two tickets for the Friday afternoon taping session. You’re sure to get on the show with these seats. What do you have to say?”
“Nils, you want me to spend the whole weekend with you? The whole weekend?”
“Good grief, you accuse me of living in the fourteenth century! So what? What could it hurt? Aren’t you just a little sick of the snow by now anyway?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. This is a chance in a lifetime. I’ll never be able to get such good tickets again. I know how well you like that show. Come on. I’ll be up at eight-thirty in the morning. It only takes two hours to fly, so we’ll be back here in plenty of time to go have a nice little lunch somewhere and then be at the studio … Florie, are you still there?”
“Nils, stop and listen to me for a minute. I cannot come down to spend any time with you, especially not an entire weekend. Now will you just stop planning and—”
“Not another word. I’ve heard it all before, but this time I am going to win. Tomorrow at eight-thirty. You’ll love it. And I love you. See you!”
She stood there holding the silent phone in her hand and hearing in her mind, “It couldn’t hurt, it couldn’t hurt.” Placing the phone gently back onto its cradle and sitting down, she began to think. “Could it really be so bad just visiting him? It probably wouldn’t hurt. In fact, it will be a good time to clear this up once and for all.”
She puttered around the room, packing a bag and muttering to herself how sane and innocent her decision was, but she avoided looking up when Jill asked where she was going.
She got ready for bed, and it occurred to her how long it had been since she had really prayed. She didn’t pray that night either. It just seemed that there was nothing to say lately. She wasn’t all that interested in what He had to say to her, anyway. She assumed she already knew and she pretended not to care. The thought crossed her mind before she went to sleep, “I’m a big girl now, perfectly capable of making decisions without everyone’s interference and assistance …”
Jill was shaking her, “Kristi, Kristi, wake up, honey. What’s wrong? You were shouting. What happened?”
It was 2:30 A.M. Kristi sat up and shook her head. “I almost lost. I really almost lost everything! How could anyone be so stupid? Oh, Jill …” She sat crying for a few minutes while her roommate held her, and then Kristi, the former Flora, picked up the phone to call Nils.