Gospel Story Finder

Our youth activities should reflect our belief that “men are, that they might have joy,” and we should be willing to share that joy with others. Not long ago I met a woman from the East who is now living in the Salt Lake Valley. She is a devout member of another Christian church, and I asked her how she enjoyed living among the Latter-day Saints. She said: “My husband and I get along fine, but I worry about our teenage daughter. Each Wednesday evening about seven o’clock, several girls in our neighborhood walk right past our home headed somewhere together, and not once have they stopped to invite our 14-year-old daughter to go with them.”
I said, “My dear, this is your lucky day; I am in a position to get that problem fixed.” She readily gave me her daughter’s name and address, and we made contact with both the stake president and the seminary principal.
Our friends and neighbors are children of a loving Father in Heaven, who desires that all of us return to Him. Can we be content when not all the members of our quorum are in attendance Sunday morning? Surely we can extend ourselves to the less active and those of other faiths and warmly invite them to our Young Men and Young Women Mutual activities, seminary, Sunday School classes, and sacrament meetings.

Singing Their Testimonies
About 60 children sang with their families in the Saturday afternoon session of conference. Croydon D., age 8, wrote about this special experience in his journal:
“When it was almost time to start, everything quickly went silent as President Monson and his two counselors walked in. You could tell the Spirit was there. I looked at my Mom, and her eyes were watering. It was pretty neat to see President Monson right in front of me.”

Shifting and squirming in his chair, Frankie whispered to Clarissa, “These chairs are hard. I’m bored.”
Sister Peterson, the Primary teacher, asked, “What did you say, Frankie?”
“Oh, nothing,” Frankie answered. He continued squirming.
Sister Peterson smiled. “It’s almost time to go home.”
“Home,” Frankie thought. He had been in so many homes he had to stop to remember which one he was in now.
After the closing prayer, Frankie sprang from his chair and raced into the hallway. As he skidded around the corner, he ran right into Mr. Adams—or “Dad,” as he was trying to remember to call him.
“Hi, Frankie, I was looking for you. Let’s go home.”
There was that word again—home. Frankie climbed onto the back seat of the van. Most of the foster families he had lived with drove vans. If he sat in the back, everyone usually forgot he was there. Then no one asked him questions. Questions made him nervous because he didn’t always know the answers. Then he felt—well, slow. The kids in the other places he had lived had made fun of him and called him names. Even the adults usually got annoyed when he didn’t understand everything right away. So Frankie chose the back row. It was safer that way. The problem was, it wasn’t working with this family.
“How was Primary, Frankie?” Mrs. Adams asked.
Frankie thought hard. He wanted to be honest. “Well,” he said slowly, “I tried to listen, but it was really hard.” He felt his whole body tense up. He was afraid that Mrs. Adams was going to be upset with him for not understanding. What she said surprised him. “What did the teachers say? Maybe we can help you understand.” She sounded very gentle, like she really wanted to help.
She listened patiently as Frankie tried to tell her what he heard in Primary. “Well, it was about God being my father, or something like that,” Frankie mumbled. The idea sounded strange to him. He thought for sure it would sound silly to Mrs. Adams. (“Mom,” he silently reminded himself.) He figured the other kids would tease him for giving the wrong answer, but they didn’t.
“That’s what Sister Robbins said in sharing time,” Taylor said. “She talked about how we’re all children of God, and about how He loves us—just like you do, Dad—and how that should help us to be good and to choose the right. Then we sang ‘I Am a Child of God.’”
Ashley waved her hands in the air and said, “That’s my favorite song!”
Frankie listened closely. They had heard the same thing he did, but they seemed to understand it. And he could tell by their faces that they believed it. Mom must have seen the confusion in his eyes because she said, “Frankie, we’ll talk more later about what it means to be a child of God.”
After dinner, the kids all plopped down on the big rug in front of the couch. Reaching for his scriptures, Dad said, “Let’s talk about what it means to be a child of God. Here is a scripture that might help. It’s in 1 Nephi 17:36, and it says, ‘Behold, the Lord hath created the earth that it should be inhabited; and he hath created his children that they should possess it.’” Dad paused. “What do you think that means?”
Ashley’s hand flew up. “It means that Heavenly Father is the Father of our spirits. He made this beautiful earth for us and sent us here to grow.” She nodded her head, as if agreeing with herself.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to come back to Him, because we belong to Him.”
“Even me?” Frankie asked timidly. “Do I belong to Him?”
“Absolutely, Frankie. He loves you and wants you to come back,” Dad said. “He wants you to come back so much that He will help you in any way He can. One way He has already helped you was by sending you to us, so we can teach you about Him. If you will pray and ask Him, He will bless you and help you.”
Later that night as Frankie snuggled under the covers, he thought, “I have a Father in Heaven.” In all the foster homes he had been in, no one had ever told him about Heavenly Father. It felt good to know that there was someone in heaven he belonged to, someone he could always talk to. He had never felt like he belonged anywhere—until now. In his heart Frankie knew that Mr. and Mrs. Adams—Mom and Dad—loved him.
“Maybe that is why I am in this home,” he thought. “Maybe God wanted me here.” For the first time Frankie slid to his knees and started to pray. It felt funny at first, but he felt like it was the right thing to do. “If He is my Father, I bet He would like to hear from me. I bet He’s missed me,” he thought as he bowed his head.

I would like to tell you about the St. Charles Ward and how they friendshipped and nourished Brother Jim Hueston. Jim belonged to another church, but he found it was hard to obtain transportation to attend meetings. No one picked him up. I had the good fortune to meet Jim. A Book of Mormon was given; a commitment was made to read and pray. Our members provided transportation for Jim to come to the St. Charles Ward. The missionaries taught the discussions, and Jim read and prayed.
At Jim’s baptism, he asked me, his bishop, “What do you want me to do?” I took Jim to my office and talked about the Church, teaching him about the priesthood and what the Lord would have him do as a member of the Church. He received the Aaronic Priesthood and was assigned to serve as a home teacher. The elders quorum president assigned a strong, faithful, diligent home teaching companion. Brother Hueston, as the newest member of the St. Charles Ward, made sure that his home teaching was completed. Not only for that first month but for the past 20 years he has completed his home teaching every month. He has served in many different callings, and serving as a stake missionary was one of his favorites.
Ward members wrapped their arms around Brother Hueston and made sure that he was a fellow citizen “with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). Jim learned to drive and bought himself a car so that he could do his home teaching and any other callings he received. We are not sure if we kept him or he kept us “in the right way” (Moro. 6:4). We know that what President Hinckley is asking us to do now was accomplished then with Brother Hueston.
I talked with Brother Hueston this summer. He told me how he and his home teaching companion were helping a less-active member come back into activity. He said, “She is looking forward to taking the temple preparation class and going to the temple.”

One morning long ago, Kookaburra sat high and solemn in his gum tree, looking down on the rain-washed world. He had heard the strong night wind uproot a tall tree near the pond, so he flew down to take a look. Lying on the earth where the tree roots had been were two tiny eggs. The falling tree must have disturbed a bird’s nest. But whose?
Kookaburra thought he knew almost everything there was to know about anything. But he didn’t know who had laid the eggs. Mrs. Kookaburra agreed to sit on them to keep them warm while Kookaburra tried to find their owner.
First he flew to his friends in the trees. He asked Cockatoo about the eggs, and Cockatoo asked Parakeet. Then Parakeet asked Parrot. But none of them knew whose eggs Kookaburra had found.
Next Kookaburra searched out his friends who lived on the ground. He found Bowerbird decorating his nest with flowers, berries, and pieces of brightly colored material. Bowerbird came proudly down his mossy path and greeted his guest. Unfortunately, Bowerbird had never seen any eggs like Kookaburra described. So Kookaburra said, “Bowerbird, Bowerbird, come with me. Come see the eggs by the fallen tree.” And off they went.
Then Kookaburra and Bowerbird went to see Lyrebird, who was easy to find because he was putting on a show that very minute. What a sight he was! He danced around on the little stage of earth and vegetable matter that he had built, mimicking the song of one bird after another. His very long tail feathers fanned out in the sun in the shape of a lyre.
Kookaburra and Bowerbird politely waited until his act was over before asking about the eggs. But Lyrebird didn’t know whose eggs they were. So Kookaburra said, “Lyrebird, Lyrebird, come with me. Come see the eggs by the fallen tree.” And off they went.
Beyond the trees, Kookaburra and Bowerbird and Lyrebird saw the Mallee Fowls in a clearing. Their eggs had been laid, and Mallee was putting a big pile of sand over the vegetation that covered the eggs. As the visitors watched, he next scratched away earth in the center of the pile to make a little hole to let in warm air. His beak worked just like a thermometer, testing to see that the eggs were not too warm or too cool.
Kookaburra said, “Mallee Fowls, Mallee Fowls, come with me. Come see the eggs by the fallen tree.”
Mrs. Mallee explained that her mate could not leave their eggs, but she would go with them herself. So Kookaburra, Bowerbird, Lyrebird and Mrs. Mallee returned to the edge of the pond.
Mrs. Kookaburra was still there, sitting on the eggs. Kookaburra thought that if they would all hide behind the gum tree and wait very quietly, the mother bird might still return. So they did.
They had sat still for only a few minutes, although it seemed like a very, very long time, when they saw the strangest sight! Up the bank toddled a furry creature. It had a bill like a duck, but it had no wings. Its long tail was wide and flat like a beaver’s tail. And its legs were very short with webbed feet.
Kookaburra recognized Mrs. Platypus. She was returning to the place where she had dug her home under the ground. Mrs. Platypus had thought her eggs had been lost during the storm, and when she saw the two little eggs, she waddled from side to side and clattered her giant bill. Then she cuddled up to her eggs.
Because Mrs. Kookaburra had kept the eggs warm, they were all ready to hatch. One began to crack open, then the other. Out popped two tiny platypuses. They crawled right up onto their mother’s tummy and held on with all their might.
Kookaburra and his friends watched every move. Mrs. Platypus scooted right back down into the pond and flipped over onto her back in the water. She gave one big splat with her tail and floated away just like a big log, with her babies riding on top of her.
Mrs. Kookaburra said, “Well, I never!”
Mrs. Mallee ruffled her feathers and said, “Unbelievable!”
Lyrebird fanned out his tail, danced around in a circle, and started to sing.
Bowerbird picked up a feather to take to his bower, and Kookaburra blinked his eyes. He shook his head and stared in amazement. The eggs had not belonged to any bird at all, but to Mrs. Platypus. The joke was on him!
Kookaburra’s solemn look vanished, and he began to laugh. He flew back to his high branch in the gum tree and laughed louder and louder until his laugh rang out clear across the Land Down Under, where his laugh can be heard to this very day.

Last summer we took our family to the San Diego Zoo, the largest zoo in the world. Our twelve-year-old son, Craig, had never been there, and he was delighted with the variety of birds and reptiles and other animals. But the part of the zoo that especially interested Craig was the area where the lions and the tigers were kept.
It was a sunny day, and the big cats were all fast asleep. My son thought that they should be up growling and stalking around. All the people there seemed to think so too. They were clapping their hands, shouting, and whistling. But their noise didn’t wake up the animals at all. So my son nudged me in the ribs and said, “Dad, give them your whistle.” I have a very, very shrill whistle, and, to please my son, I whistled as loudly as I could. But the lions still didn’t move.
Then I said, “Craig, listen to this.” I imitated the quiet growl of a tiger. Grrrrr!
Those lions perked up their ears and started moving about. The yelling and whistling hadn’t even disturbed them, but the quiet growl of the tiger reached through all the noise of the crowd. I put my arm on Craig’s shoulder and said, “Now you can see why Heavenly Father speaks to us in a still, small voice in such a noisy world.” We’ve referred back to that experience at the zoo a number of times.

Kim has consistently worn modest clothing. The other day I asked for her opinion on what she considers to be a modest skirt, a modest blouse, and a modest swimsuit. Instead of coming up with exact measurements for hemlines and necklines, we discussed the principles surrounding modesty and the challenge of finding modest clothing that looks attractive. We had fun brainstorming ways to creatively lengthen a skirt. Finally Kim said, “If I’m not comfortable when I first put something on, it usually means it’s immodest and I won’t be comfortable wearing it. I’ve learned to never buy it. I just put it back on the rack.”

When I was speaking to newly called missionaries, I asked for all who were twenty-four years of age to stand, because that is the age Joseph Smith was when the Church was organized. Five stood at this meeting, and I asked one of them to come up and tell us how he happened to come into the Church, and to bear his testimony. He said he was in the armed services in Vietnam, and that while there he met some of our young men, one in particular who was living and teaching the gospel, and as a result this young man is now a member of the Church. He explained the great difference it had made in his life, how he had repented of what he had done, and how he came to understand the purpose of life. And then I asked the other four. Two of them told the same thing in bearing their testimony—that they had joined the Church while in the armed services. It was a thrilling experience to realize the effect of young servicemen who were devoted, who had testimonies of the gospel and the courage to live and teach the gospel and bear testimony, while in the armed services.

As if being a kid isn’t bad enough. I had to grow up next door to the girl with the All-American teeth. Allison (“two ls”) Adamson had the straightest, whitest teeth in the history of orthodontistry. Adults always commented on this. You could count on them to say, “Doesn’t the Adamson girl have lovely teeth?” every time they got together.
As for me, I was more interested in the fact that Allison took tap, tumbling, ballet, baton, and hula lessons after school. She also played the piano and collected dolls from different countries. Best of all, she had her own dog—a white poodle named Hercules. Me, I just had a goldfish named Ralph. You can probably see already how things were for me growing up next door to someone like Allison Adamson.
Because we were neighbors who happened to be LDS, Allison and I ended up doing things together all the time. During the summer we went to the pool with Allison’s mom, and during the winter we watched cartoons after school together. This made everyone think, of course, that we were best friends, and we were. Sort of.
The problem was that underneath all my smiles I was jealous of Allison. I wanted all the pretty girl things she had that my parents couldn’t buy for me so badly that my chest literally hurt at times. I wanted her dolls, her canopy bed with the foamy pink bedspread, her play makeup case with the play makeup. I can remember sitting in her white wicker rocker one day and telling her I’d trade my shoebox of Bazooka bubble gum wrappers for one of her bendable Barbies. She wasn’t interested, of course.
Our eighth birthdays were coming up in April, and one day on the way home from school Allison asked who was going to baptize me.
I hadn’t thought about it much. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “Who’s going to baptize you?”
“My dad,” she said proudly.
“Well I guess my dad will baptize me, too, then,” I told her. I’d never seen anyone baptized—I’m the oldest in my family—but I figured my dad could probably do it if someone showed him how.
Allison looked at me with wide disbelieving blue eyes. “But he can’t!” she exclaimed.
This was news to me. “Why?” I wanted to know.
“Because my mom says he can’t. My mom says he isn’t worthy.”
I didn’t know what the word worthy meant, but I didn’t like Allison’s tone.
“Yes he is too worthy,” I said.
“No he’s not.”
“Yes he is.”
Allison stopped and stared at me the way our third-grade teacher always stared at stupid Stewart Lufgren. “Your dad is not worthy, Brenda, because he doesn’t go to church and he smokes. I know he smokes because I can smell it when I go to your house.” She wrinkled her little button nose in distaste. “Don’t you know anything?”
My throat suddenly felt very tight. Blood was pounding in my ears. “I hate you, Allison Adamson,” I said finally. Then I turned and ran home.
Our house is so busy with people that no one noticed how miserable I was at first. At dinner, though, Mom squinted her eyes at me and said across the table, “Are you okay, Brenda honey?”
I nodded yes.
She came into my bedroom that night before I fell asleep. “Did something happen to you at school today, Brenda? You can tell me about it if you want to.”
“No, nothing happened,” I answered, as tonelessly as a telephone operator.
Mom just sat there on the foot of my bed for a minute. Then she said, “Do you want to talk to Daddy?” Sometimes I told him things I wouldn’t tell anybody else. But this time I shook my head. Hard.
“No!”
I lay awake in bed for a long time that night watching shadows skip across my wall. Yessir, Allison had it all—extra money for Weekly Reader paperbacks, a locket with pictures inside, a father who could baptize her.
That was the first time I realized that my dad was different. I mean I always knew he didn’t go to church, but that hadn’t added up to anything—you think your father is just like everybody else’s dad when you’re a kid. But Allison had opened my eyes. The day we were baptized, Allison, looking like she had just stepped out of a fairy tale in her long white gown, was taken into the font by her smiling father. I was baptized by my Uncle Bill. Dad sat in the congregation looking uncomfortable in a suit. His rough brown worker’s hands were folded in his lap.
Things changed some between my father and me after that. Not that you could tell by looking at us—he still teased and tickled me and called me Sport and I still begged him to take me to baseball games. For sure we loved each other. But I didn’t tell him private things anymore. And then, too, I started noticing all the ways he wasn’t worthy. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help myself.
If things changed between my father and me then, they changed even more between Allison and me. By the time we were freshmen in high school, we had pretty much gone our separate ways. Allison went from honors class to honors class while I wore an Army jacket and hung around the library with this nice but weird group of kids who all wanted to be science fiction writers when they grew up. Although she thought my friends were bad enough, it was the Army jacket that really got to Allison. “Only our boys in the armed forces should wear khaki,” she used to say.
And now this year, the girl with the all-American teeth and I are taking early-morning seminary together. There are two teachers—Brother Marshall and Brother Phillips. Brother Marshall is Mormondom’s answer to Robert Redford. All jawbone and blond hair, Brother Marshall is gorgeous. He also lettered in about a million sports when he was in college, so you can see he’s athletic, too. Besides this he’s young, nice, smart, and very funny. All the kids love him. Brother Phillips, on the other hand, is old enough to have fought in World War II. He’s small and stooped, just like a little gnome, and when he talks he whispers.
Funny thing, though, I like Brother Phillips best. I like the way he listens carefully to your questions, then thinks for a while before he answers. And lots of times he’ll answer, “I don’t know.” This drives Allison crazy. “If he wants to teach seminary then he should know,” she says. Maybe he should. I can’t say. I just like the way he seems so thoughtful about things.
The reason I’m even telling you all this is that I have a problem. I’m not talking about your typical teenager problems—losing books, being ambushed by a gang of pimples the night before a dance, dropping lunch trays. No. This one is a red-alert problem. Next Tuesday morning, I have to check into the hospital for a series of tests. They say I’ve got a tumor of some sort.
Frankly, I’m scared.
I thought some sort of blessing might help. I don’t mean a blessing that promises I’ll get better or anything like that. Just one that makes me feel like I’m not going through this alone. I thought maybe I’d ask Brother Phillips if he’d give me one: there’s something fatherly about him.
I feel pretty silly, actually, standing here at Brother Phillips’s office door. This is not the sort of thing I usually do. But I want a blessing.
I knock.
“Come in, come in.” Brother Phillips opens his door and greets me. When he smiles, his cheeks turn into small apples.
“How are you, Brenda?” he says.
“Okay,” I reply, looking around his office. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside. It’s filled with books and old family pictures of people who look like characters on Leave It to Beaver reruns. His children, I think, must be all grown up and gone away by now. Did they ever ask him for blessings?
“What can I do for you?” he asks after inviting me to sit down.
Now that I’m here, I feel really stupid. I don’t know how to ask him for what I want.
“Well,” I begin, “I’m going into the hospital Tuesday morning.”
Brother Phillips draws his bristle brush brows together in concern. Encouraged by his silent sympathy, I go on. “Anyway, I want to know if you would mind giving me a blessing or something. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy.”
Brother Phillips looks at me for a moment, then presses his fingertips together and leans back in his swivel chair.
“I could do that,” he says slowly.
I wait. He doesn’t move.
“Brenda,” he says finally, “have you asked your father to give you a blessing?”
This is certainly a ball of the curved variety. I’m taken totally by surprise. “Well, no,” I confess.
“I see.” Pause. “Do you think perhaps you ought to go to him before you come to me?”
I can’t believe this. Brother Phillips knows that my father isn’t active in the Church.
“I don’t know,” I begin to stammer. “I guess I just thought that—” The memory of Allison, her perfect little mouth forming the words not worthy, jumps up like a puppet before my eyes, and with it the same old feelings of shame and rage return for an encore. “My father can’t give me a blessing!” I blurt out.
Brother Phillips shrugs. “Well, maybe not a formal blessing. But every parent has a prayer for his child. Go home, Brenda. Ask your father to tell you what’s in his heart for you. I know your father. He’s a good man.”
I leave feeling embarrassed, even a little angry that I didn’t get what I came for. All the same, though, I feel oddly comforted. Brother Phillips’s words “I know your father” play reel-to-reel through my mind.
Yes. And I know my father, too. I’ve lived with him for 16 years. I’ve seen him talk silly to the babies, play Candyland with my brothers without looking bored, scream at me to stay away from a live wire. I think he’s the kind of man who would have a prayer for his children.
Allison is standing at the bus stop looking perfect. I’ll say this for all those baton lessons—they sure gave Allison good posture.
“Hi, Allison,” I say, joining her.
“Hi, Brenda.”
We don’t say anything for a minute. Then she says, “I’m really sorry that you have to go to the hospital.” I can tell by looking at her face that she does feel bad. I smile at her.
“Me too.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
I think about this for a minute. Then I shake my head.
She drops her voice so none of the other kids will hear. “I’ll say a prayer for you, at least.”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “A prayer would be nice.”

The story is told how Brigham Young, driving through a community, saw a man building a house and simply told him to double the thickness of his walls. Accepting President Young as a prophet, the man changed his plans and doubled the walls. Shortly afterward a flood came through that town, resulting in much destruction, but this man’s walls stood. While putting the roof on his house, he was heard singing, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet!”

My dear brethren and sisters, since our last general conference, my sweetheart—my beloved wife for 59 years—passed away. While I was at home on a rare Saturday with no assignment, we had worked together. She had washed our clothing. I had helped to carry it, fold it, and put it in place. Then while we were sitting on the sofa, holding hands, enjoying a program on television, my precious Dantzel slipped peacefully into eternity. Her passing came suddenly and unexpectedly. Just four days earlier, our doctor’s report at a routine checkup indicated that her laboratory tests were good. After my efforts to revive her proved fruitless, feelings of shock and sorrow overwhelmed me. My closest friend, angel mother of our 10 children, grandmother of our 56 grandchildren, had been taken from us.
With deep gratitude, I acknowledge the tremendous outpouring of love from dear friends across the world. Countless letters, calls, cards, and other messages have been sent. All tributes expressed loving admiration for her and sympathy for us whom she left behind. Those messages came in such large numbers that we, regretfully, were unable to respond to all of them individually. May I thank each and all for your great kindness toward us. Thank you so very, very much. Your expressions have brought much comfort through this time of heartache for our family. We really love dear Dantzel! We miss her!

As I got closer to completing my years in Young Women, I was struggling to know whether the Church was really true. I went through a difficult time, which challenged me but also answered my question whether or not The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true Church on the earth.
One day I was alone at home, and I had been instructed by my mother to clean the house and wash the windows. However, when my mother returned, the things she had asked me to do were not done. My mother started to scold me, and the more I was scolded the more stubborn I became. Some of the words she said were said in anger. Some bad thoughts came to me, and the adversary’s influence became very strong. I then wrote a letter to my family and made plans to leave the following day.
After I had hurriedly packed my stuff, I suddenly remembered a talk by Elder Kenneth Johnson of the Seventy. We had read it in our seminary class, taught by our cheerful teacher, Sister Leone A. Aiono. I picked up the seminary book that lay next to me and read the words I had written: “There’s no place like home.”
I took the letter I had written and threw it in the trash. Although at that time of spiritual immaturity I was not fond of praying, the temptations that I faced urged me to pray often. I became convinced that the lessons I received in seminary are true and honest. I am grateful for my parents, for raising me in the gospel filled with good lessons that slowly change my life. The Church is true.

Just about everyone has heard the story of a proud little grandmother who, watching her grandson on parade with the other soldiers, exclaims: “Look, everyone but Johnny’s out of step!” It’s an old joke used to show how a dear lady refused to notice her grandson’s imperfection, and after I heard it, I filed it in the back of my mind and forgot it. Forgot it, that is, until one day when I was playing bass drum in the cadet band of University School in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.
The bass drum player wears a shoulder harness to carry his instrument. As he marches along, he walks just as a person normally walks, so that his right hand is forward to strike the drum when his left foot hits the ground (and vice versa). This is important because the left foot-right hand position marks the beginning of each measure of music.
One other thing—the bass drum is big. The one I was playing was so large I could just barely see straight ahead over the top of it. But I could not see the feet of the band members ahead of me. I depended on the music and the left foot-right hand position to keep me in step.
We were rehearsing for our annual inspection. The cadets always marched along the school driveway and out onto the playing field to assembly for review. The band would lead the parade, followed by the platoons in ranks three abreast. Everyone followed the beat to keep their steps in cadence.
Mr. Genge, a veteran from the British Army’s North Africa campaign in World War II, directed the maneuvers of the entire parade. But the band members paid particular attention to the drum major. We called him Brown I (we had four fellows named Brown at the school, so we labeled them Brown I, II, III, and IV, and the nicknames stuck). Brown I was tall, about six-foot-six. He carried the big silver baton, or “mace”; he decided which tunes we would play; and by twirling and pointing the mace in different directions, he gave the band its instructions.
The morning sun dazzled its reflection from our polished instruments. Our newly pressed uniforms made us look crisp and sharp.
Mr. Genge called out in his high voice an oft-heard command: “Parade: move to the right in column of threes; To the right, quick MARCH!”
This time, however, something went wrong. Brown I stepped off on the wrong foot. He had never done it before, but now, there he was, in front of the whole band out of step!
A chain reaction quickly swept through the ranks. The front row of musicians, realizing they were not in step with Brown I, figured they must be out of step, so they changed to match him. The other rows rapidly did the same all except the bass drum player. Remember, I couldn’t see over the drum far enough to know that I wasn’t in step with the others. I was just listening to the music and following its beat.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” the snare drummer on my left whispered.
I marched on a few paces, feeling the rhythm of the music. I could tell I was in step with it. “No I’m not!” I whispered back.
“Birley, you’re out of step!” This time it was Price, on my right. “No I’m not!” I insisted. I cringed as I heard Mr. Genge’s voice say, rather softly, “Birley, change step!”
“But sir,” I protested, “I’m in time with the music!”
Mr. Genge seemed shocked for a moment. It’s not usual for a cadet to talk back to a superior, much less to refuse to follow a command. But he listened to the music as he watched me continue, and in a moment exclaimed, “You’re right!”
Then he issued the strangest order ever heard on that parade ground: “With the exception of Birley, parade CHANGE STEP!”
All of the cadets had to change to match my step and the beat of the music.
I don’t suppose many of those who were there would still recollect that event without being reminded of it. It might have slipped from my memory, too, if it hadn’t been for another incident a few years later, one that taught me something else about being out of step.
Kent and Colleen Ockey were definitely different from other families I had met while selling photography. Not only were they genuinely friendly to me, but they showed great love to each other as well. I remember how happy they seemed, how comfortable and at peace I felt in their home even though I couldn’t find an ashtray. These people seemed completely out of step with others I had encountered in my work.
On a side table in their living room, I noticed a large copy of the Book of Mormon. I had read a few chapters of it earlier in my life, and now it attracted my attention again. The Ockey’s answered my questions freely, and invited me back. They introduced me to the missionaries. I began studying, praying, and searching. Twenty-three days later, I was baptized. I finally felt that I was in step, and I’ve tried to keep in step with the Lord and the guidance from his appointed leaders ever since.
As I grew in my knowledge of the Church, I learned that the history of the gospel is a history of people (often classified as misfits by their peers) who marched in step with the Lord and out of step with their contemporaries.
Moses could have lived a life of luxury in a palace, instead, he faced persecution, battling to free the Hebrews from bondage. Daniel refused to bow and worship idols, even though it was the practice of nearly everyone else in his community. Mormon, even though encompassed by the hopeless corruption of his society, refused to succumb to its degradation. These prophets listened to the Lord rather than listening to the influential powers of their day.
In our dispensation, we find another good example in Joseph Smith. For a while, he was the only one in step. Then there were three witnesses, then eight more, and simultaneously many others joining the Church, all marking their step from the one man who began by being in step all alone. Now there are more than four million Latter-day Saints marching forward in the truth.
But though we may be in step with each other and with the Lord (or are at least trying to be), we are still greatly out of step with the trends of the world. We will be increasingly noticeable because we are not like all the others.
We are by no means perfect, but you and I know that in truth we are the only ones in step. There are many other sincere truth-seekers listening for the music, but only in the true Church is the true cadence marked.
There are many others who will whisper (or shout) at us that we’re out of step, but if we stand firm, we can look forward to the day when a great master, the supreme leader of mankind, will say in effect what Mr. Genge said to my group of cadets:
“All the world, with the exception of those who are true to the faith, CHANGE STEP!”
And what a wonderful feeling it will be to know we helped prepare the world for his coming!

Once I was playing basketball with classmates at school, and one of the boys used the basketball to hit another classmate. I tried to stop him and help him understand that his behavior was wrong, but he didn’t listen to me.
Later my bishop asked me to give a talk in church about virtue. I didn’t know what virtue was and if I had it or not. Then my mother reminded me that because I tried to be a peacemaker among my friends at school and tried to help the weak, I had the attribute of virtue.
David S., age 10, Taiwan

Derek saw paw prints in the snow. What animal made them? Derek followed the paw prints down the sidewalk. He looked around and saw Mrs. Lawson walking slowly across the ice. Derek held her hand and helped her into her house. The paw prints kept going, and Derek followed them. He spotted Mr. Russell shoveling snow. Derek stopped to help him shovel. Then Derek saw more paw prints! He followed them and peeked into Mr. Russell’s backyard. There was Cloudy, Mr. Russell’s cat! Derek likes following things. Most of all, he likes following the example of Jesus by helping others.

For McKinzie Mower, going to the temple helped her testimony develop at a time when it could have easily wavered. She remembers attending church and praying regularly, but “I was just going through the motions.”
“Then one day, Brother Hatch told me they were going to the temple and said I would be welcome if I could come,” she continues. “I didn’t really want to do it, but then I thought about it and decided to go. After that first time, I just started going as often as I could, and as I did, spiritual things became more important in my life.”
McKinzie says the best part of going to the temple is the good feelings she gets from serving others. “I love doing something for people that they can’t do for themselves,” she explains. “Temple work is the ultimate example of that.”

One of these intrepid souls was Emma Batchelor, a young English girl traveling without family. She started out with the Willie Handcart Company, but by the time they reached Fort Laramie, they were ordered to lighten their loads. Emma was directed to leave the copper kettle in which she carried her belongings. She refused to do this and set it by the side of the road and sat down on it, knowing that the Martin Company was only a few days behind. When the Martin Company caught up, she joined the Paul Gourley family. A young son wrote many years later: “Here we were joined by Sister Emma Batchelor. We were glad to have her because she was young and strong and meant more flour for our mess.” At this time, Sister Gourley gave birth to a child, and Emma acted as the midwife and for two days loaded the mother and the child into the cart, which Emma helped pull.
Those who died traveling with the Martin Company were mercifully relieved of suffering from frozen feet, ears, noses, or fingers, which maimed others for the rest of their lives. Emma, age 21, however, was a fortunate one—she came through the ordeal whole.
When a year later she met President Brigham Young, who was surprised that she was not maimed, she told him: “Brother Brigham I had no one to care for me or to look out for me, so I decided I must look out for myself. I was the one who called out when Brother Savage warned us [not to go]. I was at fault in that, but I tried to make up for it. I pulled my full share at the cart every day. When we came to a stream, I stopped and took off my shoes and stockings and outer skirt and put them on top of the cart. Then, after I got the cart across, I came back and carried little Paul over on my back. Then I sat down and scrubbed my feet hard with my woollen neckerchief and put on dry shoes and stockings.”

Missionaries in El Paso, Texas, know the Spirit can teach you how to do anything—even how to cut hair. The elders wanted to help a local homeless shelter by giving haircuts to the people there, but they didn’t know how. A few ward members volunteered to show them the basics and then the elders went to work.

They aren’t professionals, but they believe the Spirit guides them as they serve so they can do a good job. Word has gotten out about the missionary-barbers, and now the elders are greeted with long lines of clients when they go to the shelter. And not only do they give good haircuts, like most good barbers, they also give their customers an earful—about the gospel of course!

It was at Dixie that Kalin was first introduced to the Church. He became friends with some Polynesian players who were returned missionaries. Kalin says, “They welcomed everybody. They were so friendly and nice. I felt comfortable around them.”
One of his new friends, Jack Damuni, tells what happened. “I was in my room doing some homework. A Catholic friend came in and started asking me questions about the Church. Kalin walked in, sat on my bed, and just listened. We were talking about the Godhead and how the Spirit lets you know if things are true, and about our purpose here on earth. Kalin wasn’t saying anything. I turned and looked at him, and he started crying. I knew what was happening.”
Of course, Kalin remembers everything about that day. “Religion had always interested me. I listened to what both of them were saying. I was really struck by a lot of things Jack said. It was a good feeling that I had.”
They were an hour late for a team meeting. The coach bawled them out for being late until they told him they had been talking about the Church and were too involved to think of anything else.
As they were walking back to the dorms, Kalin started asking more questions. “Hey, Jack, what was that I felt back there? I felt something that really touched me. It made me cry.”
Jack said, “Remember when we were talking about how the Holy Spirit lets you know when things are true? That’s what it was.”
Kalin said, “It’s a good feeling. I felt calm.”
As Kalin began taking the missionary discussions, some strange things started to happen. Jack had warned his friend that once he started reading the scriptures and became interested in the Church, people would try to convince him that the Church was wrong. It happened just as Jack said.
“People started being involved in my life who never had been before,” said Kalin. “They were telling me how racist the religion is. To me, the black and white thing has never been an issue—never has been and never will be. I can’t honestly see anyone entering the celestial kingdom if they are prejudiced. Christ said we are all his children.”
Jack Damuni baptized his friend and watched him grow and progress as he became more and more involved in the Church. Two years later, Jack was Kalin’s teammate on the Brigham Young University football team. They are still very close, like brothers. Jack has seen a big change in Kalin. “He’s focused. Everything he does is focused on the gospel.”

Sometime after our mission, we felt prompted by the Spirit to leave our home in Minnesota and to move to Utah. There, I started a new business with two of my friends. We decided to buy some land to develop into lots for homes that we could sell. It had been an excellent real estate market. We were quite happy with how the business was going. But it was short lived. The great recession came. Land values crashed. We were in debt and I had no good way to resolve the situation except to go back to my old field of consulting. It was not a good time as the whole economy was in deep trouble.
I was not sure what to do. But I had learned in my life that I could turn to my Heavenly Father for guidance, no matter what the situation might be. Not long after, an opportunity came to me to move to Abu Dhabi in the Middle East. I did not want to move there, but it seemed that it was the only way out of my current difficulties. We took the opportunity and left Utah. Just before departing, I was called to be an Area Seventy in the Middle East. Once again, though I did not understand at first, I was grateful to have kept trusting the Lord—to let Him prevail in our lives.