Gospel Story Finder

Tying shoes? Well, try doing it one-handed.
His drive to excel was magnified by the fact that he had to overcome unusual obstacles, like learning to tie those shoes.
“That took forever,” he says. “I didn’t tie my shoes until I was about 10. I’d just walk up to people and say, ‘Will you tie my shoe?’ Now I can do it pretty easily.”
Of course, his parents offered him an incentive. They told him that if he wanted the new pair of sneakers he was so eager to get, he would have to learn to tie them. So, though it wasn’t easy, he did it.

A young adult woman had a gift for writing and some personal experience with depression. When her teenage sister was dealing with a difficult situation at school, she was able to recognize that her sister was slipping into despondency. Heeding the Spirit’s promptings, she wrote her sister a series of beautiful notes, expressing her love and confidence, one for each day of an especially trying two-week period. In that small choice to meet her sister’s need, this young woman was living her mission.

Brothers and sisters, I did not grow up with these teachings. I didn’t always understand who God was or my relationship with Him. Growing up in Las Vegas, I was surrounded by negative influences. Some of my closest friends and family became involved in drugs, gangs, and criminal activity—some even lost their lives.

Hope was not easy to hold onto—and it was sometimes hard to find. My bedroom became my safe place—a space in which I could escape the chaos around me and reflect on my life. It was the place that led me to know who God was. There was a turning point in my life when one night, feeling confused and discouraged, I opened my heart completely to Him, sharing all my fears and questions with Him.

Suddenly an overwhelming feeling of peace and hope came over me. It was as if I heard Him say, “Jamal, things will be okay. Have hope in me. It will all work out.”

I felt that the darkness that had filled my room and my mind at the time was taken over by a bright light of hope and by the love of God.

That moment changed my life. It was that light of hope that prepared me to choose BYU over all the other universities.

When I arrived at BYU, the light here felt familiar to me, and it continued to get brighter in my life. My hope became greater, and the love of others became deeper and more meaningful. This led me to my baptism into this wonderful Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And my life has become anchored in Jesus Christ ever since.

Just about everybody says, “Don’t go visit Mrs. Brocklebank, or you’ll get chased out of her yard with a broom.” Well, that’s fine for everybody else to say, but not so fine for me, because Mrs. Brocklebank is my grandmother!
She lives down the street in a little house that’s surrounded by trees. My family visits her every Sunday afternoon, and I usually hide behind my dad and try not to say anything, except when she speaks to me, and even then I hardly dare raise my voice above a whisper. It’s not that I don’t like her. I don’t know her well enough to not like her. The real problem is that I’m too afraid of her to know her.
Mrs. Brocklebank came to Alberta, Canada, from Germany many years ago. She was already pretty old, Mom told me, when she met Mr. Brocklebank and got married and had my father. Grandfather Brocklebank died when Dad was still young, and my grandmother had to raise him all by herself. Maybe that’s why she’s so feisty.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I’m in a real fix. Last week in Primary Sister Little told us that by next Sunday we have to bring our completed four-generation program to class. My family have only been Latter-day Saints for three months, so I didn’t know what she meant by “four-generation program.” When she explained it to me, I was dumbfounded. After church I took the problem up with my parents.
“Oh yes,” said Dad. “They explained the program in priesthood meeting last week.”
“I’ve heard about it, too,” Mom said. “It’s something that I was planning for us to start on in a family home evening next month.”
“But I have to have it next week!”
“Well, that’s no problem,” Dad said. “Mother has all that stuff.”
“Mother?” I said, looking at Mom.
“No, no. Not your mother—my mother.”
“You mean Mrs. Brocklebank?”
“Grandmother Brocklebank,” Mom said.
“That’s who I mean,” Dad said.
The situation was turning into an insurmountable problem. Mrs. Brocklebank had started to take the discussions with the rest of us, but she had quit before finishing them. She had argued with everything that the missionaries had said. I could tell that I was licked even before I started.
Later, when we went to visit Mrs. Brocklebank, I sat quietly in a corner and looked at the floor. Finally Dad pushed me forward and said, “Mother, Kenneth has something to ask you.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Brocklebank’s eyes fixed on me like two steel drills.
“Mrs. Brock—Grandmother,” I began, clearing my throat and staring at her long nose and thin lips, “I need some family history information.”
“Family history information? Whatever for?”
I told her about the four-generation program—how it included me, Mom and Dad, her and Mr. Brocklebank, and their parents, and how if we went to the temple and got the work done, we could be together forever.
“Together forever? What makes you think that I want to be together with anyone forever?”
“Come now, Mother,” said Dad. “You’re just being difficult.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Brocklebank, folding her arms and pinching her lips together, “that’s what I’m best at!”
I took the blank Family Group Record Sheets out of my pocket. They were kind of wadded up and wrinkled, but I straightened them out with my hand. When Mrs. Brocklebank wasn’t looking, I left them on the dining room table by a vase of red carnations.
The next Sunday came fast, and I wasn’t ready for it. I had said several prayers that week about the four-generation program, but I didn’t have much hope that Mrs. Brocklebank would help me. I figured that Heavenly Father must get pretty tired of people asking for things all the time, so mostly I just thanked Him for things. I thanked Him for Mom and Dad and my best friend, Peter, and for my Primary teacher, Sister Little. Sometimes I even thanked Him for Mrs. Brocklebank.
I got up Sunday morning and put on my suit. I always have trouble with my tie, so I went to see Dad. While he was tying it, he said, “Mother called and wants you to go over to her house on your way to church.”
I pleaded with him to go with me, but he said that he had to be at priesthood meeting early.
My knees were shaking and my heart was pounding as I knocked on Mrs. Brocklebank’s front door. She stood behind the screen, looking down at me. “Come in,” she said.
I went in. The house was quiet, and I could hear her electric clock making a little whirring sound. I stood still with my arms at my side.
“I have something for you,” Mrs. Brocklebank said. She went over to her dining room table and came back with the Family Group Record Sheets.
They were folded—not all crooked, like when I fold papers, but neat and straight. I opened them up. Every space was filled in with a name, even mine. Every name had places and dates written next to them. Mrs. Brocklebank had completed my four-generation program! I opened my mouth to thank her.
“Take it and go before you’re late for church,” she said gruffly. “And don’t say anything. I dislike people who snivel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And come back later. I want to hear more about being together forever. But don’t get any ideas about me being interested in the Church. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
I looked back at Mrs. Brocklebank. She was frowning and trying to look annoyed, but I suddenly realized that she wasn’t, not really. I smiled right at her. “I understand, Grandma Brocklebank,” I said.
(To be concluded.)

One member learned how easily an unchallenged lie can snare us in the web of sin even if we believe we have personally kept ourselves at arm’s length from it. He bought a motorcycle from a man who told him, “Pay me [U.S.] $600, but I’m writing out the bill of sale for [U.S.] $400. That way we won’t have to pay as much in taxes.” The buyer fully intended to report the price of the motorcycle honestly; if the seller chose not to do so, the buyer reasoned, he could do nothing about that.

But as he prepared his own tax return, reporting the price of the motorcycle correctly, he realized the problem might not be as simple as he originally had assumed. What if the names of the buyer and seller were somehow linked on tax records? What if he had to back up the information on his tax return with a bill of sale? There was little likelihood of ever being challenged, he reasoned, but that was not the point. He could not live with the idea of sustaining a lie, even though it was not his own.

The buyer of the motorcycle returned to the seller and asked for a legitimate bill of sale. He went away having learned a valuable lesson: if we tolerate lying to any degree, we are accessories to deception.

Jack was in trouble. He had poked his little sister, Harper. Mom told him to stop. He dumped his toys in the kitchen. Mom asked him to pick them up. He pulled out all the plastic cups to build with. Mom told him to put them away. Then he got in a fight with his little brother, Adam. And that’s when Mom yelled at him. Jack yelled back. Then Mom told Jack to go sit outside.
Jack ran through the kitchen and out to the balcony. He slid the door shut as hard as he could. He walked back and forth and back and forth. He was mad!
And he was sad. He wished Mom hadn’t yelled at him.
He stopped and looked down at the cars far below the apartment. He watched small cars and big buses drive by. He wished he hadn’t yelled at Mom. He shouldn’t have teased Harper. Or fought with Adam. He hadn’t made very good choices today.
Jack sighed. He looked back at the street and counted cars.
Soon the balcony door slid open. It was Mom.
“Jack?” she said softly. She stepped outside and slid the door shut behind her. She stood by Jack and looked at the cars with him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” Jack said. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t very nice. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course.” Mom gave Jack a big hug. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m still learning just like you are, and sometimes I make mistakes.”
Jack hugged Mom tight.
“Let’s go try again,” Mom said.
She followed Jack back inside. She helped him pick up the cups. They helped Harper find her blanket. Then they played a game with Adam and Harper. When Adam got mad about losing, Jack didn’t get mad back. Mom gave him a big smile. They were learning and trying together.

Notwithstanding, answers to our prayers may come from reading the scriptures, from listening to the speakers. And occasionally when it is important, some will come by very direct and powerful circumstances. The promptings will be very clear and unmistakable. Let me share an experience with you:
It was one of those days when the tracking seemed endless with no success and no contact. The days were getting hot. My senior companion and I walked almost mindless in an area called Shaukeiwan, search for something, but did not know what.
All of a sudden we heard sirens and commotion around the corner and decide to find out. There was a gathering of 100 people, along with firefighters working feverishly setting up a safety net, also in search of something up in the air. It seemed to us that all the attention was focused skywards.
We turned our heads upwards and saw a woman sitting on a window edge 12 stories high.
The window edge was about 2 feet long and two feet wide and she could barely sit on it - her feet dangling in the air. Apparently she had locked herself from outside so no one could reach her. She was going to jump and kill herself. Down from her, the noise of the onlookers grew louder and louder and people began to loose patience watching her and started to jeer and laugh at her
Someone noticed us: two white shirt, young missionaries standing in their midst, also looking up. In a mocking tone, one of them said, "Hey, you represent God; why don't you go up and save her?!..."
My companion looked at me and said, "Well, why don't we do just that!"
So we waded through the crowd and went to the 12th floor where this woman lived. Once inside that dinky little apartment of 100 square feet, we found ourselves stood out even more: the room was packed with policemen, firemen, paramedics and the tenants of the apartment. All looking at us with query eyes. We explained that we're from the Church and wanted to know if there was anything we could do...
Someone told us the situation: the women had a big argument with her husband hours ago over family matters. Desponded and confused, she attempted to kill herself. She climbed out of the window, locked herself UP from outside, and had been sitting there on that tiny window edge for hours. Despite all the persuasion from her husband, children and even the servicemen, she remained sitting out there and threatened to jump if people move any closer. It is now an impasse. Meanwhile, she's getting weaker and tired by the minute. And her limbs were turning stiff and blue from the wind sheer and the constant sitting.
I said to my companion: "Why don't we have a prayer?" He agreed. We looked around: there was simply no room to pray in that tiny apartment packed with people and with all the commotion going on. All, except the bathroom: it was not much of a bathroom, simply a smelly wet floor with a hole in the middle of the room that could barely fit two people. We walked in, closed the door behind us and knelt in that wet, soggy unpaved floor and began to pray.
My companion started first, pleading with the Lord if it be His will that this woman's life be spared, then allow her to come back to her love ones. Then it's my turn: we poured out our hearts earnestly pleading with our Heavenly Father for the Spirit to guide this woman in her behavior so she could be saved. We knew the TIME was running out and asked the Lord to intervene with saving this woman's life.
Suddenly, we heard a loud roar and cheer. We finished our prayers and got up from the wet floor and walked out of the bathroom. To our surprise, the cheering came from the servicemen. After all the impasse, the woman had suddenly changed her mind, reached in and handed over the keys to the locked windows and wanted to come back.
It was an emotional scene: the husband hugging and crying with his wife with the children hanging onto the parents. There were similes of content in the faces of the policemen, policewomen, the firemen and the paramedics. Everyone began to pull out from this apartment and my companion and I were amongst some 15 others all jammed into the elevator.
On our way down, one fireman spoke, "I wondered what happened there?
She's was so adamant to kill herself..."
He went on, "I bet it must be the sound of the 'jaws of life' that we're about to pry open the window that changed her mind..."
"Yeah, right..." Everyone else ECHOED and chimed IN their own version of rationale.
Then they discovered us:
two missionaries wearing white shirts and ties standing in their midst.
All eyes focused on us.
All of a sudden, no one spoke and there was dead silence in the elevator.
I turned and looked at my companion, who turned and looked at me, smiled and nodded knowingly.
We knew at that moment it was the Spirit of our Heavenly Father that had touched this woman. It had made her changed her mind and be united with her family once again.
Our prayers were answered. Right there and then.

A week or two later we met a man while street contacting who agreed to an appointment. We set a time, and he gave us his address in Bückeburg, a picturesque little town several miles from our assigned city of Minden but still in our area.
It was winter, and on the Sunday morning of our appointment, we mounted our bicycles and pedaled the entire distance, bucking a strong, cold headwind. Cold and panting, we pressed the doorbell on the man’s apartment building, and he buzzed the door open. We climbed the stairs to his apartment, and he let us in. Immediately we recognized a contentious spirit in the room—the same spirit we had felt a few weeks earlier in the home of the minister.
Our host did not invite us to sit down. Instead, he left the room for a moment. He returned carrying several editions of the Bible, dropped them on the table, and said in a very loud and defiant voice, “So you want to talk [religion], do you?” Then, pointing to the window, he bellowed, “Good, but first throw your Book of Mormon in the Weser [River]!”
A couple of weeks had passed since our experience with the minister, and I was now able to say a sentence or two in German. I attempted to do so. Once again, my senior companion simply bore a strong, quiet testimony of the Book of Mormon and politely thanked the man for his time. Then we excused ourselves and rode back to Minden, this time with the wind at our backs.

I knew we are all supposed to share the gospel, but I had never had any success. Then, during a Spanish course I was taking, I met a young man named Tiago. We became friends and often walked home from school together. One day we passed an LDS chapel that had recently been built.
“I have been a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for several years,” I said. I shared with him some of the things that we believe, and told him how much my family and I have been blessed because of the gospel. I invited him to attend meetings that coming Sunday at 9:00 a.m.
Sunday arrived and I anxiously waited, but he did not come. During the week, I invited him again. This continued every week for two or three months. He always gave me a reason why he hadn’t shown up: “I slept late,” “I was tired,” “There were problems.” But I kept asking him anyway, and he didn’t seem to mind.
One Sunday morning I sat down on one of the benches toward the back of the chapel. There were still a few minutes to go before the meeting began when someone quietly called my name. I looked toward the door, and there was Tiago!
“Didn’t I promise you I would come one day?” he said. He attended sacrament meeting, and to my surprise, stayed for the rest of the meetings and seemed pleased when I introduced him to the missionaries. He began meeting with them regularly. Tiago and I continued to talk as we walked home from school, but our conversations were about the truths he was learning. I was able to answer questions and bear my testimony. Finally, he gained a testimony of his own and joined the Church.
Today I am a full-time missionary in the Brazil Santa Maria Mission. Before I left for the mission field, Tiago also submitted his application to be a full-time missionary, and he is now serving in the Brazil Manaus Mission.
I recently received a letter from him. “Thank you for inviting me again and again to come to church,” he wrote. “I will be eternally grateful.” I am happy not only to share the gospel each day but also to know that Tiago is doing the same.

The tall yellow weeds in the big field behind Grandpa and Grandma’s place look pretty. When the wind blows they’re like a yellow sea that rolls and whispers. I like to lie in them, especially when it’s windy. Especially with my dad. He said that when the weeds are all rustling, it’s like they’re telling a story. He listened to those stories and passed them on to me. He called them his tall-as-a-yellow-weed tales.
Sometimes we played hide-and-seek in the field. I liked that, too. Dad closed his eyes while I hid. Then he had 10 minutes to find me and tag me. If I won, he took me to the soda fountain in Hadley and bought me a milk shake. I usually won. I think he let me sometimes. He knew how much I like chocolate shakes.
I miss those times. I still like Grandma and Grandpa’s place, but the yellow field isn’t the same. It looks the same, but without Dad, it’s just … different. It’s just a field.
Mom and I live with Grandma and Grandpa now. At least for a while. Until Mom can make enough money at her new job, or until Dad gets better. Dad has a drinking problem. It got pretty bad, and he wouldn’t get help. We prayed and prayed for him, but Mom said Heavenly Father can’t help us if we don’t try to help ourselves. I know she’s right, because once I asked Him to help me on a school test that I hadn’t studied for. I failed it anyway. Mom said that if we do all we can do for ourselves, then ask Heavenly Father for help, He will then assist us.
One day my friend Barry said that if his dad were like mine, he wouldn’t love him anymore. Because if my dad cared about us, he wouldn’t keep drinking.
I couldn’t sleep too well that night. My mom came into my room and asked what was wrong. When I told her, she explained some things that helped me to feel better.
The next day when Barry and I were looking for arrowheads in Baker’s Canyon up behind the yellow field, I told him I still loved my dad. When he asked me why, I said, “Remember when your brother didn’t tie up the chain that was hanging way down from the siren on his bike?”
“Yes,” Barry said, “and I told him it could cause an accident if it got caught in the spokes, but did he listen to me? No!”
Last month Barry borrowed that bike. He was flying down a hill when, sure enough, the chain got caught in the spokes of his front wheel. All of a sudden the bike stopped, but Barry kept going, right over the handlebars. He banged himself up pretty badly. In fact, his arm was still in a cast.
“Do you still love your brother?” I asked.
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“Well, because … because he’s my brother. He didn’t want me to get hurt. He was just being careless.”
“I’m sure your brother feels bad about it,” I said. “My dad feels awful, too, after he sobers up.”
Barry and I sat down on a rock to drink from our canteens. Grandma’s cold lemonade tastes so good that it makes getting thirsty fun. Dad always said, “On a hot day your grandma’s lemonade takes all the discomfort out of being alive!” And he was right.
I looked at Barry seriously, trying to get the deep down inside of him to listen. I had written down some of what Mom said the night before so I wouldn’t forget. Now I read it to Barry: “‘God loves all of us, even when He doesn’t love all of our actions. It’s called charity—the pure love of Christ, and we need to try to love like Jesus does.’”
Barry nodded his head and smiled. I could tell that he knew my mom was right. Her words made me feel good inside, too. About my dad. About a lot of things. It was as good a feeling as Grandma’s lemonade going down on a hot summer day.
Mom and I kept praying for Dad. He stopped drinking, and he’s in a special program that’s helping him. He’ll be coming home in a few weeks. He says he wants to play hide-and-seek with me in the tall yellow weeds. And he wants me to win, because he misses those chocolate milk shakes as much as I do!

After a particular surgery, I fell into a deep depression. I understood the symptoms and tried to handle it alone. One evening I found myself sitting on a chair in our bedroom, unable to walk the few feet to the bed. When my dear husband entered, I explained to him about depression. I said that I would not likely make it till morning as I had so little energy and felt I was sinking fast. He replied softly, "You will make it. I will help you to the bed and stay right by you until morning, when we will call the doctor." And he did.

Like most of us, Matthew and Judy Morrise of the West Hills Ward, Beaverton Oregon Stake, are always looking for new ideas for family home evening lessons and activities. The Family Home Evening Resource Book (item no. 31106) is the mainstay, but other ideas are also welcome. While looking through the resource book, Judy Morrise came across an idea calling for the use of a suggestion box.
“This seemed like a good way to find out how our children felt about family home evening,” says Sister Morrise. “I made the box and placed it on a shelf where I knew the children would see it. Imagine my delight when after a few days I found notes from my six-year-old and eight-year-old daughters. They wanted to use the family home evening ideas they saw monthly in the Friend magazine. We gave it a try, and within the next two months each girl gave a short lesson that included an opening song, scripture references, a story, and an activity. Of course, we ended with treats.”
The suggestion box worked for the Morrises. Following is a “suggestion box” for you, full of family home evening ideas and testimonies gathered from readers. As you read these suggestions, choose some that best fit your situation and give them a try.

About four years after the First Vision, the angel Moroni appeared to young Joseph several times, telling him about the book written on gold plates and preparing him for the work that lay ahead. Lucy Mack Smith tells how her 18-year-old prophet-son shared the wondrous news of the Book of Mormon and the Restoration with the Smith family.
By sunset … , we were all seated, and Joseph commenced telling us the great and glorious things which God had manifested to him. …
He proceeded to relate … particulars concerning the work which he was appointed to do, and we received them joyfully. …
From this time forth, Joseph continued to receive instructions from the Lord, and we continued to get the children together every evening for the purpose of listening while he gave us a relation of the same. I presume our family presented an aspect as singular as any that ever lived upon the face of the earth—all seated in a circle, father, mother, sons and daughters, and giving the most profound attention to a boy, eighteen years of age, who had never read the Bible through in his life: he seemed much less inclined to the perusal of books than any of the rest of our children, but far more given to meditation and deep study.
We were now confirmed in the opinion that God was about to bring to light something upon which we could stay our minds, or that would give us a more perfect knowledge of the plan of salvation and the redemption of the human family. This caused us greatly to rejoice, the sweetest union and happiness pervaded our house, and tranquility reigned in our midst.
During our evening conversations, Joseph would occasionally give us some of the most amusing recitals that could be imagined. He would describe the ancient inhabitants of [the American] continent, their dress, mode of traveling, and the animals upon which they rode; their cities, their buildings, with every particular; their mode of warfare; and also their religious worship. This he would do with as much ease, seemingly, as if he had spent his whole life among them.

An acquaintance of mine used to live in a ward with some of the highest statistics in the Church—attendance was high, home teaching numbers were high, Primary children were always well behaved, ward dinners included fantastic food that members rarely spilled on the meetinghouse floor, and I think there were never any arguments at Church ball.

My friend and his wife were subsequently called on a mission. When they returned three years later, this couple was astonished to learn that during the time they were away serving, 11 marriages had ended in divorce.

Although the ward had every outward indication of faithfulness and strength, something unfortunate was happening in the hearts and lives of the members. And the troubling thing is that this situation is not unique. Such terrible and often unnecessary things happen when members of the Church become disengaged from gospel principles. They may appear on the outside to be disciples of Jesus Christ, but on the inside their hearts have separated from their Savior and His teachings. They have gradually turned away from the things of the Spirit and moved toward the things of the world.

Once-worthy priesthood holders start to tell themselves that the Church is a good thing for women and children but not for them. Or some are convinced that their busy schedules or unique circumstances make them exempt from the daily acts of devotion and service that would keep them close to the Spirit. In this age of self-justification and narcissism, it is easy to become quite creative at coming up with excuses for not regularly approaching God in prayer, procrastinating the study of the scriptures, avoiding Church meetings and family home evenings, or not paying an honest tithe and offerings.

My dear brethren, will you please look inside your hearts and ask the simple question: “Lord, is it I?”

Chad heard the crack of Rocky’s bat as it connected with the ball. Even before he saw the ball shooting straight to right field where he was, he knew what was going to happen—he was going to duck. He always did.
“Catch it!” shouted Pete, the first baseman, but he didn’t sound very hopeful. The whole sixth grade knew how it was with Chad.
“Raise your left arm,” Chad whispered to himself. “Catch the ball.” But his traitorous body was already crumpling.
He ducked.
The ball zinged past him, and Rocky pounced with a big grin onto first base. And the guy who had been there strolled happily to second while the outfielder chased the ball.
“Pop it to Chad the Chicken!” Rocky yelled to the next batter. “It’s a cinch he’ll miss it.”
The school bell rang, ending the physical education period. Chad took off his mitt and bent down, pretending to retie a shoelace so he wouldn’t have to walk to the gym with the rest of the guys. It’s only a class game, he told himself. It doesn’t matter.
But it did matter. A name like “Chad the Chicken” hurt. Chad the Chicken, he tormented himself silently. Why am I afraid of a softball?
After school Chad walked alone toward home. How do people find the courage to do what they’re afraid of? he wondered. Where does a person look for courage anyway? Wouldn’t it be great if you could find it by eating a chewy candy bar? he thought, probably because he was in front of Mr. Slater’s candy store, where he just automatically seemed to drift these days. Candy didn’t give him courage, but it did make him forget his problems momentarily.
Chad was beginning to put on too much weight. But what does that matter? he asked himself. Maybe if I put on enough weight, I won’t be able to run and can sit on the bench during P.E. period. Wouldn’t it be better to be Chad the Chunk than Chad the Chicken? he reasoned.
There was a man standing in front of Mr. Slater’s store, and Chad could see his reflection in the store window. But behind the man’s reflection there seemed to be another reflection: a huge bird with white feathers and a bright red thing on his head—a chicken!
A fear suddenly gripped Chad. I’ve actually become a chicken, he thought frantically, a real, feathered, winged chicken! In panic he turned to go home. What would his parents say? Would they let a chicken come into their house?
“Chad!” Mr. Slater was calling him. “Come on inside.”
How can Mr. Slater recognize me if I’m a chicken? Chad worried. Do I look different? Then an awful thought struck him. Maybe I’ve been a chicken for a long time. He tried to remember the last time he had looked into a mirror. He usually combed his hair by feel, and he didn’t even glance at the mirror when he brushed his teeth.
“Chad!” Mr. Slater called again, and the boy turned and walked into the store.
“Hi, Chad,” Mr. Slater greeted. “How’s it going today?”
Chad didn’t say anything. He considered asking Mr. Slater how long he, Chad, had been a chicken. He trusted Mr. Slater to tell him the truth. He was always nice to everyone.
He cleared his throat and watched as Mr. Slater scooped into one of his candy bins and held something out to him.
Candy corn!
Chickens eat corn. Is Mr. Slater making fun of me? Chad wondered.
He turned and ran out of the store. It was probably a big joke with everyone, his being a chicken. Well, he’d show them. Mr. Slater and Rocky and all the others. Somewhere he would find courage and prove he wasn’t a chicken.
But where? Can I catch a falling airplane like Superman? Can I fight a raging tiger? Where can I find some courage?
Chad sighed. It was hopeless. He might as well face the fact that he would be a chicken all his life. He might as well go back and peck at Mr. Slater’s candy corn.
He turned around and saw that Rocky and the other guys were heading toward the candy store. He was about to hide somewhere when he saw a commotion inside. It looked as though Mr. Slater were fighting with another man. Chad saw the man hit Mr. Slater on the side of his head, then run away from the store. Mr. Slater staggered after him, shouting, “Help, police! That man robbed my store!”
The man was the same one Chad had seen standing in front of the store earlier. Now he was heading down the street, right in Chad’s direction. In one hand he carried a paper bag, probably full of Mr. Slater’s money.
Chad looked around frantically for help. But there was no one in sight except Rocky and the other guys, and they all jumped into a doorway to hide.
The man was coming straight toward Chad. I’ve got to do something. What can I do? he agonized.
Chad’s knees felt weak as he made his decision. He shifted his feet, planting them firmly on the sidewalk, and watched the big man hurtling toward him.
Chad caught his breath. “I’d better duck,” he murmured. No! he argued with himself. He has Mr. Slater’s money. “Stop!” he shouted, and somehow his voice sounded to him like a loud squawk. But the man kept coming. His bloodshot eyes glared at Chad hatefully. Chad felt as though he would faint.
Suddenly the man dodged to go around Chad. Almost without thinking, Chad threw himself at the man’s big feet. He felt the concrete sidewalk scrape the skin off his arm as the man’s toes struck him in the chest. He rolled away, getting clear of the wildly kicking legs. There was a dull thud as the man hit the ground, then the sound of running feet as Mr. Slater and Rocky and the other guys rushed over. They threw themselves onto the man, pinning him to the ground.
“I’ve called the police,” called another storekeeper. “They’ll be here in a minute.”
Other people came out of stores to help.
“Chad,” Mr. Slater puffed from his place on top of the man, “that was the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how to thank you.”
The way Chad figured it, the only thanks he needed was the way Rocky and the other guys looked at him when he got to his feet. He knew they wouldn’t see him as a chicken any more. Maybe they never had. Maybe he was the only one who had seen that enormous bird in his mind. It was all right. He knew now that everyone was afraid of something, sometime. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t courage down deep inside, ready to go into action when it counted.
“What I could really use is a Band-Aid,” he said modestly, and joined in with Rocky and the other guys as they rocked with laughter.

The San Diego Temple
In August, 1977 shortly after being called as a Regional Representative of the Twelve, I recorded the following experience in my journal:

"while driving on Interstate 15 into downtown San Diego, I passed La Jolla Village Drive, and looked to the east at a beautiful vacant parcel of ground, and had the impression that a temple should be located there. It was a profound thought that I could not shake off. I reasoned to myself that a temple in San Diego was none of my business - my regional representative assignment covered the Anaheim and Palm Springs Regions, not San Diego. Still, the thought persisted, and on August 6, 1997 I sent a letter to Elder Royden G. Derrick suggesting the Church might want to consider purchasing a site in San Diego as a future temple site. I included information on the site on I-15."

That led to a meeting in Salt Lake City with The First Presidency in President Kimball's office. Some weeks later I was asked to begin a search for a future temple site in San Diego.

Of course the first property considered was the one I had first seen driving down the freeway, but it was not for sale. In the 5 years that followed many sites were looked at. None seemed to be the right location.

In September 1983 President and Sister Hinckley flew to San Diego to look at potential temple sites and to speak to 14,000 Seminary and Institute students in the Long Beach Convention Center. My wife and I picked them up at the airport and drove by several possible temple sites, including the one first seen from the freeway.

During the April 1984 General Conference of the Church five new temples were announced, including one in San Diego, and still we had not found a site.

Within a few months, however, a beautiful site was identified overlooking Mira Mar Naval Air Station in Tierra Santa with views to the Pacific Ocean and the Mexican Border on the south.

President Hinckley, accompanied by Bishop H. Burke Peterson of the Presiding Bishopric, flew to San Diego to see the Tierra Santa site. We drove onto the property and he liked it. Then he said, lets drive over to the other site by the freeway - the very first site considered and the one I had shown him nine months earlier, the one not for sale. As we stood on the land, with cars racing by on the freeway below he asked, "Which of the two sites we've seen today is the best for the temple?" All those present said the one we were standing on. President Hinckley then said, "I agree. Don, please proceed with the purchase of this land."

It seemed an impossible assignment one that I had tried to do several times in the past. But on the following Monday I made a call and miraculously, within a few days, the property became available. Within days we had a purchase contract to buy the property. It seemed a miracle that only a Prophet of God could accomplish.

In retrospect I realized that my feelings in 1978 while driving to work were, in fact, a prompting from the Lord and His way of setting in motion the process for purchasing a temple site He had chosen long before.

My years in high school and my first year of college occurred during the Vietnam War. By the time I started college, the Church had entered into an agreement with the U.S. government concerning how many missionaries could serve. The agreement was that each ward could send out only two missionaries per year, and the rest of the young men would not be called and perhaps be drafted into the military. Despite my wanting to serve a mission all my life, it seemed very unlikely that I would be able to go.
I enrolled at the University of Utah in the fall of 1969. By the end of January 1970, I met and started dating my future wife, and by that spring we had fallen in love.
One hot afternoon in July, I came home and my mother said to me, “David, the bishop called. He wants to meet with you.”
I responded, “I’m busy.”
My mother looked at me and said, “If you are too busy to go meet with the bishop, you pick up the phone and you call him and tell him that.”
I knew that I wasn’t that busy, so I went to meet with my bishop in his office. He was sitting at his desk, which was unusually cleared off. I could quickly tell that this interview was not at all what I thought it was going to be.
“David,” he said, “there is another ward that can’t use one of their missionary spots. We’ve been given the opportunity to send one more missionary. As a bishopric, we felt impressed to ask Heavenly Father if there was someone who ought to go right now. What I can tell you is this: now is the time the Lord would have you serve your mission.”
I was stunned by what he said. I had thought that because of the war and the quota, I would never be able to go on a mission. I asked if I could take some time to think about it. He asked how much time I would need, and I told him that I would like a week.
We then ended the interview, and I walked out—still stunned—to my car. I started driving around Salt Lake City, letting the afternoon’s events sink in.
Within a few minutes, I drove back to the church, parked the car, and walked back into the bishop’s office. He was still sitting there with absolutely nothing on his desk.
I looked at him and asked, “Bishop, what are you doing?”
He kindly responded, “I’m waiting for you.”
I then stated, “Well, Bishop, if now is the time that the Lord would have me serve, of course I’ll serve.”
When I got home, my mother was in the kitchen. I was afraid if I told her everything I felt, then I would start to cry. So instead I said, “Mom, I can’t talk about it right now, but you should know that I’m going on a mission, and I’m going soon.”
Later that afternoon, I talked with my father about my decision. He gave me the sweetest, most encouraging counsel. Then I found my girlfriend (who is now my wife) and told her about my decision. We walked and talked and cried and talked some more. But there was no hesitation for either of us. If I could go, I should go, and I would go.
I received my call to serve in Japan in August, and on October 10, 1970, I left on my mission.

“I came home from a school concert and my house was on fire,” said a Laurel from Dingle, Idaho.
“The dogs barking woke us, and the house was full of smoke,” said another Dingle resident.
And still another, “When I went into the kitchen, flames were shooting out of the wall plug.”
The sight of flames devouring the homes of their neighbors became an all-too-familiar sight to the 200 residents of this southeastern Idaho community last winter. Despite the efforts of the volunteer fire department from the nearby town of Montpelier, three homes in Dingle burned to the ground within a few months.
The town members of Dingle were there with clothing, blankets, and food to help the victims, and right in the middle were the Young Women from the Dingle Ward, Montpelier Idaho Stake. Under the leadership of the Laurels, the girls tied a quilt for one family, held a surprise kitchen shower for another family, and gave the proceeds from a baked food sale to the third family. They also raised money to send to a former Dingle resident whose home burned in Utah.
In addition, they were always ready to help with any cleaning up and clearing out they were asked to do.
“You realize how much you need one another at a time like this,” softly spoke one of the fire victims. “Everybody’s been so good to us; I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to sacrifice more of my time and do more things for other people.”
The Young Women in Dingle have discovered the feelings of fulfillment that can come from doing just that. And while they hope they won’t have occasion to help in the same way again, they’ll be there if needed.

“The gospel makes evil minded men good, and good men better and women and children better than they have ever been before.”
So said the prophet David O. McKay. To illustrate I would like to share with you a conversion story. The account concerns Louis Novak, a Lutheran minister, and his wife, Alice, and their two children, Kurt and Kristin. Reverend Novak and his wife had been born, baptized, raised, confirmed, and married in the Lutheran Church. It was with a sense of pride on the part of his parents and a sense of duty on his own part that he went through two Lutheran private colleges and a Lutheran theological graduate school to become a pastor in the American Lutheran Church. For nearly fourteen years he and his wife served in the Lutheran Church and endeavored to find truth and spiritual peace. During that period, from all external appearances, they were able to attain a level of income, style of life, social stratum, and educational prestige which left little to be desired. With such stability and high approval from family, friends, and supervisors, it could be said “they had it made.” Yet they were not satisfied. They had haunting insecurity in their souls that something very basic and important was missing in their lives. They could not be satisfied.
The soul that is honest in heart must search.
In Reverend Novak’s words, “As I look back on my life and experience, I realize my dissatisfaction stemmed from a number of areas. [First] I had a deep and negative reaction to my association with my fellow pastors. The strong and seemingly overwhelming stress on church politics, self-advancement, personal glory, financial achievement, and congregational statistics made me feel that true spirituality was seriously lacking.
“[Second] I had deep theological concerns—the order of worship service seemed cold, impersonal, and unimaginative. The great stress on salvation by grace and minimization on works was to me a scriptural contradiction. On contemplating scripture I found that the ‘works’ passages far exceeded the ‘grace’ passages.
“I found myself recoiling at the indifferent reaction of my church leadership to the virgin birth, the creation, the wide acceptance and use of loose translations of scripture and the general lack of response to basic Christian morals.
“Was God really dead, or had He gone into retirement and ceased to care about His creation? Why did He sink into strange and sudden silence with the last word in the Bible?”
On September 1, 1968, Reverend Novak and his family moved to Broomfield, Colorado, where he was made pastor of the Lutheran Church of Hope, a very prestigious and desirable assignment. From all outward appearances it left nothing to be desired, but there was something desperately wrong. Something was missing: there was a feeling of spiritual hollowness in his heart and it was shared equally by his wife, Alice.
Alice was a music educator and in Broomfield she had a number of Latter-day Saint students. She could not help but notice something very special about them. She reported to her husband that she had asked one of her Mormon students if Mormons were Christian. Of course, Reverend Novak knew well the Lutheran position that Mormons were non-Christian. The little Mormon girl boldly stated that Mormons most definitely were Christian.
Alice had been touched by the young girl’s testimony. Next came an invitation from the family of one of the piano students to attend the Broomfield Ward open house. The young student’s family had resisted because they did not think it appropriate to send such an invitation to a Lutheran pastor. But this little girl persisted to the point that the parents reluctantly consented.
On the appointed day Alice was unavailable to attend the open house and Reverend Novak was hosting a regional meeting of the Lutheran Church of Hope. As the time for the open house arrived he had a strange and overpowering urge to leave the Lutheran meeting and attend. He yielded.
As he entered the Latter-day Saint chapel he said he was met by a friendly and concerned gentleman who talked with him and stayed by his side for fully two hours, answering questions, and “just being supportive.”
The Reverend continues, “As the program began, a member of the Seventies made a presentation on the doctrine of the Church which I am sure was inspired by the Holy Spirit. I shall never forget it. From the chapel we were led to the baptismal font by a young priest who explained baptism according to the theology of the Latter-day Saints. This mature presentation by such a young man made a great impression, because I had seriously questioned the Lutheran theology of baptism for years. I sensed that what this young man said was true.
“We then went to the Relief Society room where we were given a beautiful and intelligent presentation. To hear a lovely woman give such a positive and strong testimony was heartwarming to me. We were then ushered into a seminary room to view the film Christ in America. I could hardly contain my excitement as so many of my questions regarding church history were suddenly answered.
“I was currently pursuing a doctorate in religion. Here I was, my doctorate nearly complete and the answers to my quest for the truth coming in the Latter-day Saint chapel! It was probably at this time, at the culmination of so much presented so well, that I was actually converted. I knew that this had to be the true church. My heart was ready but how could I become a part of it all? How hard it is to give up physical security and comfortable tradition. I purchased a Book of Mormon that day and went home elated. I remember telling Alice later, ‘There is something special there. I really felt good at that church. They have something I have never known before.’
“The summer of 1974, after I had received my doctorate, I was in spiritual turmoil. The ward open house remained a haunting reminder that something better was available. One evening the mother of one of the Mormon students called regarding a musical question. For the first time I bared my spiritual turmoil to a patient and understanding ear.
“Not long after this our family was invited to their family home evening. We came away so warmed; yet how impossible it seemed for us to make such a change. My job, security, comfortable life, social standing, family ties, house, pension—it all flooded through my mind. Yet how does one in the name of Jesus Christ preach and teach that which he knows is not true?
“Finally in the fall of 1974, although things were still going well at my parish, I knew in my heart that a change was necessary. I knew I was spiritually starved and I was even more concerned for the spiritual malnutrition of my family.
“And so it was that on October 25, 1974, an especially beautiful day in Colorado, as I left the University of Denver where I was pursuing a second doctorate, a strange and overpowering urge came upon me to go to the Colorado Mission home. I had memorized the address long before and so, although I had many other pressing matters on my agenda, my automobile seemed to refuse to go anywhere except to 709 Clarkson Street. I kept telling myself I merely wanted to drive by to see what the mission home looked like.
“I remember, however, that I did stop the car in front of the house, my intention being only to look the place over from the outside. I remember sitting there for a moment intending not to shut off the engine. But somehow the engine did shut off and I sat there and looked at my watch. It was noon—12:35 p.m.—and I told myself it was inappropriate to call on anyone during the lunch hour. But I remember getting out of the car. I remember standing on the sidewalk at the base of the steps thinking, ‘This is a nice place and I’ll just turn around now and go back to the car. I have no business here. After all, I am a Lutheran pastor.’
“But instead I labored up those steps. I must have rung the buzzer because the door opened. There stood a bright-eyed missionary. He invited me in. I said, ‘I really shouldn’t be here today. Besides, it’s lunch hour.’ He said, ‘We are through eating.’
“I almost panicked. Why was I here? How could I get out of this one? So I said, ‘I want you to know something. I am a Lutheran pastor and I’m here because I’m interested in all the world religions. So I thought I’d stop by and see what the Mormons are all about. I don’t want to take too much of your time because it is the noon hour.’ The young man explained again, ‘We are through eating.’ One thing led to another; all the while I was reminding them that I was a minister of the gospel and, therefore, not a good prospect.
“Somehow we spent an hour or two. I apologized upon leaving that I had taken so much time and wished them well, reminding them again that I was a Lutheran pastor and therefore not a prospect. As I drove away I had a warm feeling in my heart and yet a nagging fear that these good missionaries just might believe that I wasn’t a prospect!
“One day later the bright-eyed missionary telephoned me at my office in the Lutheran Church of Hope, of all places! How glad I was he called! During the conversation he asked if he and his companion could come over and meet my family. The next evening two missionaries came to our home and the process of our conversion continued to develop step by step, logically and without hesitation. On January 25, 1975, three months and five hours exactly from the time I rang the door bell at the Colorado Mission home, our family entered the waters of baptism at the Broomfield Ward Chapel. After half a lifetime of searching, finally our joy was full.
“Kurt and Kristin relished the new challenge and associations of the Church. They grew and matured beautifully. It was a joy to see them blossom as they learned the ways of Christ’s true church on earth. Alice and I equally relished the joy of having found the truth. Our hearts were finally at peace.”

The home teachers had scarcely sat down and exchanged greetings with the family when their teenage son blurted out, “How can you say we’re the only true church when some of the best kids in school aren’t Mormons and they believe in their church just as much as we do?”
A quick glance at the young man’s father was met with a tired shrug, as much as if to say, “We’ve tried; now see what you can do with him.”
The older of the home teachers paused a moment, then said, “Well, Chris, that’s a fair question. It reminds me of something that happened when I was just a couple of years older than you are. When I first went away to college back east, I took certain notions along with me—prejudices, I guess. I thought I would be going from the shelter of simple farm life to a decadent city where my principles would be challenged every minute. But that didn’t really happen. I was surprised to find that most of my classmates were fine people. Some of them belonged to other churches, and some didn’t belong to any church at all. And as I observed their behavior, I sometimes wondered if I would have been as honest as many of them were if I hadn’t been raised in a Latter-day Saint family. Have you ever thought about that?”
Chris nodded, and the home teacher continued: “So when we say that ours is the only true church, we’re not saying that we’re superior to other people or that we’re the only people on earth who are concerned about doing good, but that this is the one church that the Lord has authorized through priesthood power to preach his gospel and perform the ordinances necessary for salvation. We want all people to have these good things. …”
The discussion continued calmly. After looking up “One Lord, one faith, one baptism” (Eph. 4:5) and a few other scriptures, Chris soon had a satisfactory answer to his question.